My name is Jon Acuff and I’m a secret singer. I’m not proud of that. It’s not something I’ve ever told anyone, but it’s true. I like to sing at church, but only if the people singing around me provide enough sound for me to hide behind.
If they’re loud enough, if their collective voice creates a musical cover I can pull tightly over my head like a little kid hiding from a monster in bed, I’ll sing. I’ll sing loudly but always a few decibels lower than the people around me. When church is less crowded, like last Sunday because of the Atlanta gas crisis, I was able to hear how horrible my voice is. I told my wife later, “I sounded gross this morning. We need to sit deeper in the middle so we have a thicker amount of sound.” She agreed, because we’re both secret singers.
I know that’s not the purpose of worship. It’s supposed to be about God, not me. I completely get that, but I can’t help it. When I show up at church and find myself surrounded by quiet people, I feel like leaning over and telling them, “Could you please sing loudly today? I’d like to worship slightly quieter than you.”
Is that selfish? Probably, but I’m working on it. A few weeks ago I sang with my eyes closed, which for a secret singer is the equivalent of an arachnophobic wearing a coat made of excited tarantulas. And it actually felt pretty good. Everyone disappeared for a minute and I remembered that worship is about me and God, not me and what folks around me think of my singing. But then I forgot the words and started mumbling something like “Open the eyes of my Jesus grace hands” and I snapped right back into secret singer mode.
Baby steps, fellow secret singers, baby steps.
