I would love to make a real jazz album someday because I never have. But that's something I'm not in a rush to do.
The gospel gives me hope, and hope is not a language the dark voices understand.
Love is not a feeling in your chest; it is bending down to wash another's feet.
The burden God places on each of us is to become who we are meant to be. We are most fully ourselves when Christ most fully lives in us and through us. The mother shines brightest with her child in her arms, the father when he forgives his wandering son, and the artist when he or she is drawing attention to grace, by showing the pinprick of light overcoming the darkness in the painting, or the story, or the song. The world knows darkness. Christ came into the world to show us light. I have seen it, have been blinded by it, invaded by it. I will tell its story.
A thing resounds when it rings true, Ringing all the bells inside of you, Like a golden sky on a summer eve Your heart is tugging at your sleeve, And you cannot say why. . . There must be more
I want to use my gifts to tell the truth, and to tell it as beautifully as I can.
God gave music the power to carry his light into the darkness. That’s a mighty privilege. It means intentionally telling stories and writing songs that bear truth that outlasts the songs themselves. If I did this in hopes of thunderous applause and piles of cash, I would have quit years ago. But there are moments on the stage when I sense something magical, a connection with the band and the audience, when our stories intersect and suddenly we’re wading in an ancient river. Suddenly the song is secondary to the greater story being told through each of us.
I rejoice when I meet gifted young people. . . I feel the future is in good hands.
Times change so quickly that if you and I don't keep up with the times, we'll find ourselves with an umbrella in our hand, over our head, when the sun is out. Or we'll find ourselves standing in the rain, with the umbrella inside the door.
Had I the heavens' embroidered cloths, Enwrought with golden and silver light, The blue and the dim and the dark cloths Of night and light and the half light, I would spread the cloths under your feet: But I, being poor, have only my dreams; I have spread my dreams under your feet; Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.
When I was younger I decided I'd hop on the train to New York.