CLICK HERE TO VIEW THE SHARP’S VIDEO

All I know for certain is that music was meant to be part of the story God was choosing to tell for me, whether I planned it or not.  I was just a college kid with a Biology Degree and firm sites set on absolutely nothing apart from medical school.  But I also wrote songs.  My own little “personal therapy sessions,” as I like to call them, were never really intended for use outside of my living room walls.  But thanks to a few close friends who quite literally forced me to face the possibility of “seeing what would happen” with music, here I am today.  A 1-year “experiment” before planning to apply for medical school has turned into a 15-year career of writing and playing songs.  I can say with all honesty that I have no idea how it happened.  People ask me all the time how to “get started” in music and I have to tell them that I quite literally don’t know.  I can say this.  It was not comfortable for me.  It was not my dream.  It was not my life’s ambition.  I was afraid.  I was insecure.  I was not up for the task.  But I believe that God was.  I believe that God saw something in me that I didn’t see in myself.  I believe there was a Spirit flowing in a certain direction and I knew only enough to not try to swim against it.  I’m actually excited to see where God takes me when music is done.  I am not nearly naïve enough to think that it will last forever.  And to be honest, I don’t want it to.  Because I know that music is not my life source.  It is not my identity.  Music is not who I am.  I have tried to run from it, even prayed that it would end at times.  What I know to be true is that, for whatever reason, God is for us and He chooses to use us.  And He wants to use us right where we are.  And this is where I am right now:  I am a husband and a father, a friend, a brother, a son, and yes, sometimes a musician.  It has been a beautiful story to watch unfold.

And then I imagine those very same angels contemplating the idea that that very same God would somehow choose to clothe Himself in humanity, in flesh, that first Christmas morning. And not only flesh, but the flesh of an infant, helpless and vulnerable, willing and planning to ultimately become the sacrifice for all sin on the cross. Why? Of all the ways to save mankind, why this? Who knows if the angels contemplated such things, but if they did, the weight and conflict of emotion, I can only imagine, would be overwhelming. Hard as it is from our own earthly perspective to understand the reality of what God did in becoming flesh, I imagine it infinitely more difficult from the perspective of heaven. And so that is what “Born to Die” is…a Christmas song from the perspective of heaven, best as I can imagine it. God, in all his glory, ruling the heavens for all eternity, choosing to insert Himself into time, into flesh, to become a living sacrifice for humanity…heartbreaking and heroic…baffling but so beautiful.

CLICK HERE TO LISTEN TO “BORN TO DIE”

http://www.bebonorman.com/2010/08/13/200/

Here’s a link to the first song on Ocean, ‘Everything I Hoped You’d Be’:

http://www.bebonorman.com/2010/09/27/everything-i-hoped-youd-be/

The title track of this new record is a song called “Ocean,” and it is, fittingly, a prayer. “You are an ocean, that I can get lost in, the first wind on my shore / You are the sunrise to open my eyes, and the dark night is no more / You are an ocean.” The overwhelming emotion that seems to rise as a theme to the surface of this record, and this song in particular, is the search for real identity – where we find it, who we are, where we draw life from. As I wrote in my blog from a few weeks ago, “Idols of Misdirection,” I have spent most of the seasons of my life drawing my identity from the gifts in life that I have been given, rather than the giver of those gifts – be it occupation, marriage, fatherhood, relationship, or even theology and intellect.  The irony is that I’ve always imagined that the older we get, the more comfortable we become in our own skin.  And although that certainly is true in a lot of ways – we begin to accept ourselves for who we really are, we recognize our weaknesses and begin to work our way through (or around) them, we come to terms with reality and “adjust” our dreams to fit within its more “realistic” parameters – on a more eternal scale, I find myself understanding less and less, and wondering more and more. Not wandering, wondering.  The thought of it would have frightened me into seclusion years ago, the not knowing, but today I feel comfortable there somehow – resting and reveling in the idea of wonder, of wonderment. Because wonderment has a direction, it is not an aimless search, but targeted awe. Brennan Manning, in his book Ruthless Trust, describes this as the kabōd, the glory of God, “the divine and terrible radiance…that no human can [grasp or] understand,” the “otherness” of God that when experienced exposes and allows the self-absorbed “human tendency toward projection – ascribing to God our thoughts, feelings, and attitudes about ourselves and others – [to be] unmasked in all its absurdity.”  He goes on to say:

The reality of kabōd shatters every delusion. As previous certainties desert us, we become vulnerable and open. The glory of God makes possible the primordial act of religion:  the realization that we are not sufficient unto ourselves, that we have received our life and being from another. In a decision that reaches the roots of our most intimate self and demands the renunciation of belonging to that self, we freely ratify our condition as creatures. Through this fundamental act of dispossession we acknowledge the illusion of control and open ourselves to the reality of God.

If those words rhymed they would be the words to the song “Ocean.” It is a feeble comparison, all wrapped and weak in human projection, but standing before the ocean is as small and humbled as I ever feel on this planet. I know that we are called, compelled even, to be in the world, exposed and engaging our culture, but I am the sort that can so quickly draw my identity from how that world responds (or doesn’t respond) to me. This song is my prayer that I be hidden in the identity of Christ alone or else, even if just for a day, I become an island unto myself, self-absorbed in self-sufficiency. However incomplete my experience of the kabōd, the absolute and unrivaled glory of God, may I drown in it, lost in my complete and singular identity as a child of such glory. You are an Ocean.

Here’s a link to the song “Ocean”

http://www.bebonorman.com/2010/09/23/ocean-3/

All the while, there was a successful counselor in Nashville who had given up his thriving private practice for the sake of a non-profit vision that he called Porter’s Call…a counseling service that he wanted to provide absolutely free to any full-time musician/artist in Nashville, along with their families.  He knocked on the front doors of all the major Christian Music Labels and helped them understand that while they were spending hundreds of thousands of dollars on their artists to promote the healthy development of their songs, records, and careers, they weren’t spending a dime or a second promoting the healthy development of their hearts.  Much to the credit of several of those major record labels, they allowed Al Andrews the privilege of beginning his vision for Porter’s Call.

Long story short, God used my friend Al Andrews and the ministry of Porter’s Call to open my eyes to the short-sited vision of the unintentionally self-absorbed.  Sitting with Al, I never felt more vulnerable in my entire life, and I never felt more loved.  I fell apart in tears and confession and humility in a way that I don’t know how to explain to you.  My heart was laid bare for the first time in years in a way that wasn’t meant to be performed in a song or spoken through a microphone.  And the ironic thing was that this renewal of my heart made me want to write new songs and sing them for people that might feel just the same way I had.  Every effort I made to quit became a very clear vision of why I should not – made clear to me through the lens of this beautiful ministry called Porter’s Call.  It was also clear to me that things had to be different…that I needed accountability and consistency, that God created us to draw life from community and good counsel rather than compliments and good opinions from even the most well intended stranger.

I had met a girl during this time who, in the most refreshing way, was not impressed with me…or rather, was not impressed with who I appeared to be on the surface, but was smitten with who I seemed to be underneath.  She was different than anyone I had ever met.  And even as I fell deeply in love with her, I inadvertently seemed to attempt to run and ruin the depth of our relationship…because I had grown accustomed to a mile wide and an inch deep, to arm’s distance, to touch and go.  But Al Andrew’s wouldn’t allow it be easy for me…he wouldn’t allow it be simple.  Because God doesn’t allow it to be easy and simple.  The hidden hand of love is risk.

Here I am nearly a decade later, still writing songs and playing music…and that girl is now my wife of 7 years (Al Andrews co-performed our marriage ceremony).  We have two beautiful little boys and I have tears in my eyes at this very moment thinking of what I nearly walked away from.  But for the grace of God and his work through Porter’s Call I dare say that I would not now be experiencing the richness and the goodness of these two precious things…my family and my songs.

Nearly every Christian musician that I know here in Nashville has been deeply affected by the ministry of Porter’s Call.  That’s seriously not an exaggeration…and the ministry has grown infinitely and has even broken into the realm of Country music.  I wish I could name to you all the marriages that have been saved and hearts that have been healed but in the interest of discretion and privacy I will not.  That’s why you most likely have never even heard of Porter’s Call…it is a private and safe place that rests by design outside of the spotlight for the benefit of those whose calling places them directly in the spotlight.  Needless to say, I am thankful to God right now for such a safe place, a refuge really, not only for myself but for countless musicians like me that all to often find themselves lost and undone even in the middle of something they feel God has called and compelled them to do.

**The primary reason I’m writing about Porter’s Call on this specific day is to raise awareness of the PORTER’S CALL AUCTION fundraiser that is taking place RIGHT NOW and will run for the rest of this week, until it closes THIS SATURDAY (9/18).  Dozens of artists and musicians like myself have donated instruments, memorabilia, and even private concerts to be auctioned off on eBay this week for the benefit of the non-profit ministry of Porter’s Call.  I am personally auctioning one of the guitars from my private collection – this guitar was originally auctioned for Haiti Relief and sold for an incredible $51,100.  AMAZINGLY, after the winner of the auction piad in FULL to the Compassion Haiti Relief Fund, they had only one request…that we keep the guitar and auction it again for another cause that was dear to our hearts.  The time has come, and that cause is the ministry of Porter’s Call!  For more info, click here:

http://www.bebonorman.com/news/guitarauction

Forgive me for my tending toward replacing the source of good things with the good things themselves.  What a selfish game to play, to put that on the narrow shoulders of the people and things that I love.  To put my joy, my rise and my fall, my very salvation – on the backs of the unequipped.  To bind them so carelessly to a weight that they could never carry, to a weight that they were never meant to carry.

Father, this morning I am reminded of my complete and singular identity as a child of God.  I am nothing more and I am nothing less.  I am neither husband nor father, brother nor friend, living soul nor beating heart but for the grace and the goodness of you.  Life lived and taken, love given and received, only at the hands of the goodness of God.

We are flying over the desert now.  I am on my way back home again.

My first car ever was a 1985 Ford Bronco. My father had bought it several years earlier off an Army officer in Ft. Benning. I remember driving down with him and my brother to pick it up…I’m not sure how he found it since there was no internet back then…come to think of it, how did people buy used cars back then?…hmmm…oh yeah, this crazy thing called the classified ads in this other crazy thing called a newspaper…yeah, I’m pretty sure my dad found it in the classifieds of the Columbus Ledger Enquirer. At any rate, I remember we turned onto a really shady tree-lined street down in Ft. Benning and in one swift and life changing moment my love affair with the Ford Bronco was born. It was a dark metallic gray standard 3-speed with maroon vinyl seats and no air conditioning. I was in love. I drove that Bronco through thick and thin all the way through college. It seems insane now to think that I spent summers in Georgia with no air conditioning but I remember burning my legs on those vinyl seats like it was yesterday. When I would make the 5-hour drive back and forth to college in South Carolina, it was like a Sunday stroll in a wind tunnel – every window was down going 70 on the interstate and I would literally have to change clothes upon arrival because of the “seat sweat” as I called it. Sounds glorious, huh? It really was…even though I did vow to never EVER own another car without air conditioning. I honestly could write an entire book on the memories I have in that old Bronco from first dates to first wrecks (not much difference between the two in my experience), but I think any of us could probably say the same about our first car. The point is, after college I had to get more practical to drive myself around the country playing shows, so I bought a Subaru Outback station wagon that could fit all my gear and still get good gas mileage. I seriously think that Bronco probably got about 11 miles to the gallon, but I also remember being appalled when gas got above 99 cents back then. That thing had a MASSIVE gas tank (probably close to 30 gallons) and I remember being riled up if I had to put more than a 20 down to fill it up. Anyway, after I wore out my Subaru, I splurged on a 1997 Land Rover Discovery that I put 150,000 miles on in just over 2 years. I had a brief affair with a Toyota Tacoma pickup somewhere in there but the point is this: they all paled next to my Bronco. And even though my first one was of the 80’s OJ Simpson variety, I have especially always loved the early model Ford Broncos (1966-1977) because they were the originals built to compete with the Jeep CJ-5 and the old International Scouts – the 3 grandfathers of the modern SUV. So after briefly owning and totaling a ’74 Bronco (another story for another day), I found this 1976 about 6 years ago. It was in pretty bad shape when I bought it but I drove it for about 2 years with the idea that I would be it’s savior and friend and do all the work myself. I successfully completed a whole host of small jobs, but long story short, my first big rebuild project started one Saturday afternoon and my Bronco didn’t run again for 2 years (enter Toyota Tacoma). So after conceding the fact that I am not the man’s man I’d always hoped I’d be and that I would NOT in fact be my Bronco’s messiah (although we are still friends), I began the long search for someone to undo what I had done. Fast-forward another 2 years and the stone has finally been rolled away and my Bronco has emerged from its Bebo-induced cryogenic chamber.

The blessing (if you ask me) and the curse (if you ask my wife) is that when you own a restoration, the restoration is never complete…there is always more to restore. So as I often do on weekends or days off, I spent yesterday working on a few Bronco projects – installing rear seatbelts and building a pulley lift in my garage to hold the hardtop when I take it off on sunny days. I really do love that sort of thing. It’s hard to understand how little projects like that, mindless in so many ways, can also really give me life. But the reality is that something good happens in my spirit when I work with my hands to repair or rebuild something. As tempted as I may be to get all melodramatic and draw some comparison between a restored Bronco and restored soul, I shall not. Instead, I’ll just give you a few pictures I took this morning. And although her curves look nothing like my wife’s, she is indeed a beauty. And she (now) has air conditioning!

My 3-year old son, Smith, just came out on the porch with me because he wanted me to “hold you” for a few minutes before he went down for his nap. And as I looked out at our old silver wood docks running out from a beautiful lawn thick with St. Augustine and shaded by fully grown Maples, I kept thinking how much I hope he can come here someday and tell stories about the things that he built and the things that he planted with his father.