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4/25/2016

Name That Tune . . . And Rate it From 1 to 5

“Worship music” has become the third rail of church politics in that no one dares touch it. But everybody—from the person or people who lead the singing on a Sunday morning to the guy who stands in back like a ventriloquist—has an opinion. It’s more complicated than hymns vs. choruses or old vs. new—although those are common battle lines. Nor is it only a matter of parishioners squabbling over preference, although that is often the case. And while it is a controversial subject, I don’t think that means we should avoid talking about it. As one who has waded—nay, plunged headlong—into this topic previously, allow me to attempt to do so with a modicum of dexterity.

First, let’s remember what we’re talking about. Worship. That word has come to be synonymous with singing, but that does worship a disservice. Singing is just a component of worship, which should encompass the entirety of our lives (Isaiah 29:13; Romans 12:1). Singing songs (be they hymns or choruses, be it while standing or sitting) is no more worship than sitting under the authority of a biblical preacher, giving a tithe or offering, serving as an usher or sound technician, or teaching children’s church. We need to be careful that we don’t place a special emphasis on singing as the worship portion of the Sunday morning service or of our lives in general. That being said, we are using song as a method of corporate worship as is the model laid out for us in Scripture (Psalm 30:4; 147:1,7; Ephesians 5:19). Therefore, we must be mindful of the purpose. We aren’t singing to hear ourselves sing (believe me), to be entertained, or to get a good feeling. Rather, we are lifting an “offering” to God.

So what does that mean for us? What makes “good” worship or “bad” worship? Is there any point or merit in judging the quality of worship songs? Does the style of music matter at all? How important is experience or emotion? Are either an indicator of good worship?

Let me break this down into two tracks. First, let me analyze the “technical” aspects of “worship through song.” I believe there are three criteria the songs we sing in church should meet.

1) Lyrically Accurate - I can’t recall ever being in a church where they were projecting heresy on the screen, but with an enemy who “masquerades as an angel of light,” (II Corinthians 11:14) we can’t be too careful. I have, however, sung and heard a number of songs with lyrics that have made me do a double-take. We have to remember that not all Christian musicians are theologians, and even the dearest and oldest of hymns are not canon. In theory, we’re singing to God. But we’re also, in a sense, singing for the benefit of each other and ourselves (see Colossians 3:16). The words we’re singing are being ingrained in our heads and hearts, and it’s imperative that they be doctrinally sound, according to Scripture. We could sing utter nonsense to God and He would know the truth, but if we express concepts that are even only a degree or two off, it could cause some of us to miss the mark in our application.

2) Situationally Appropriate – As a corollary to the accuracy point, I think we sing some songs in churches that are very relevant to some people but far less so to others. For instance, a songwriter has an incredibly powerful experience or work of God in his or her life, and, being a musician, puts it to song. It’s catchy, he or she is popular, and before you know it, the song is on the radio and then in the worship service. All that’s fine, until I’m singing that song in church, and I haven’t had that experience or God hasn’t worked in my life that way. It can still do me some good to sing that song, because in a way I am still extolling God’s character and actions. But, and this is simply my opinion, we would be better served singing about the nature of God, the death and resurrection of Christ, and the hope of glory—things that are “true” for every believer as opposed to specific workings of God that may not be. There’s also something to be said for the song being understandable. I balk when people complain about hymns because the language is too hard to understand. However, when I sing something like “Here I raise my Ebenezer,” I have to admit that I’m a little lost. Similarly, I’ve never quite understood exactly how we’re in “The Days of Elijah.” Maybe I’m just a dope, but I doubt I’m alone in questioning exactly what I’m singing sometimes. That’s not to say we can’t sing such songs, but we should be careful that folks in the pews aren’t just mumbling words with no idea what they mean. (Please do not get me started on trying to Google translate “El Shaddai” on my phone before a recent Sunday service.)

3) Musically Accessible – I am not a singer. Sure, I do a mean Johnny Cash in the privacy of my car or the shower, but nobody has ever clamored to hear my voice in a crowd (although it would beat hearing it solo). I don’t know an alto from a soprano from a bongo. When it comes to reading music, I know that half notes are longer than quarter notes (only because a half is longer than a quarter in football), but I get lost somewhere between upside down hats and that thing that looks like the Planters Peanuts mascot at the beginning of each bar (or is it measure?) of music. All this to say, I am musically challenged. As beautiful as they may be, there are some songs I cannot sing (at least in a way distinguishable from a half-butchered hog). There are other songs I can pick up quite easily. That doesn’t mean we should limit our in-church singing to simple choruses that can be mastered by a five-year-old, but we do need to be mindful that the majority of people in church on a Sunday morning didn’t get a music scholarship to Juilliard.

I’ll be clear, these are my views. I can’t point to chapter and verse to back up each point, although I think Paul’s exhortation to the Ephesians to sing “together with Psalms, hymns, and spiritual songs” (Ephesians 5:19) would suggest that A) a diverse selection of music should be employed and B) everybody should be able to sing along, making a joyful noise to the Lord. I also think his instructions to the Corinthians on orderly worship (I Corinthians 14), while not directly applicable across the board, do advocate a standard or order and group participation. And Jesus, while conversing with the Samaritan woman (John 4:20-24), pointed out that worship should be centered on spirit and truth.

Let’s move on to what I call the “emotional” section: Let’s say the singing on Sunday morning is lyrically accurate, situationally appropriate, and musically accessible. And let’s say it does nothing for you. No emotion. No experience. Just twenty-five minutes of singing and “you may be seated.” Is that a bad thing? Is the inverse—half an hour of intense, passionate, swaying and hand-raising singing that seems to transport you to the throne room of heaven—automatically a good thing?

I would point out that doctrine is sometimes dry. It isn’t meant to stir us, but to steer us. But there’s also a reason why we sing with instruments instead of reciting in monotone. (Some of us sing in monotone, but that’s neither here nor there.) Namely, it would seem there is to be a balance. All the emotion in the world doesn’t do you a lick of good if it doesn’t have doctrine to back it up. It’s just fluff. But if that doctrine isn’t at some point generating something of an emotional response, it is fair to ask if that doctrine is penetrating the heart.

To be fair, a lot of this comes down to personality. Some people raise their hands and dance at the least provocation. Others superglue their hands into their pockets and won’t even raise their hands at the second coming, unless it is to shield their eyes. Personally, I’ve often felt compelled to raise my hands, but it’s been while listening to Bon Jovi singing “Livin’ on a Prayer” or Katie Perry belting out “Roar.” For me, the urge to raise my hands has little to do with doctrine and plenty to do with a feeling created by the music itself. And maybe there’s nothing wrong with that, but people will think I’ve lost it if they see me “worshipping” to the Dixie Chicks or CCR (Google it, kids). I can’t speak for the people who raise their hands in church—is it because they are deeply moved by the words they’re singing, because the tune “fires them up,” or some combination of the two? And unless they’re standing directly in front of me during a new song (with a tune I can actually carry) so as I can’t read the words, it doesn’t much matter to me.

The point—yes, there actually is one coming—is that our worship needs to be authentic. If you’re just getting a feeling because the music moves you, I would suggest you could just as well be listening to Switchfoot or U2 with me in my car (in which case keep your hands down so I can see to drive). But if your heart and mind are engaged with the words and the tune, and it compels you to raise a hand or a celebratory fist or finger pointed to heaven, that’s great. Conversely, if you’re focused on the words, singing along or in quiet meditation, and you wish to keep your hands folded or pick lint in your pockets, that’s fine too. But if your mind is also shut off, and you’re just counting down the minutes till you can leave and go listen to some Bob Marley, mon, it might indicate a heart problem.

One last point. My old Sunday school teacher (my Sunday school teacher from years back, not my elderly Sunday school teacher) said something that stuck with me. The essence of it was that if your “heart” isn’t in worship, you can still offer a meaningful sacrifice to God with your will. That is, singing or reflecting on the words when you don’t feel like it, when you don’t get an emotional buzz, is legitimate, sincere worship. Essentially, it is heartfelt worship. And I would say that applies to more than just worship through singing, but worship in every aspect of life.

In the end, remember this: Song leaders can please some of the people all the time and all the people some of the time, but they can’t please Abraham Lincoln. Or something like that. But if the music is accurate, appropriate, and accessible, and if the mind and heart of the worshiper are engaged, then the worship experience is “holy and pleasing to God.” (Romans 12:1)

- Nathan Birr is the author of The Douglas Files series and God, Girls, Golf & the Gridiron (Not Always in That Order) . . . A Love Story. (It’s as crazy as it sounds.) He learned long ago from his uncle that if you don’t know the words to a song, just repeat the word “watermelon” quietly and no one will be able to tell the difference.

(Unless otherwise noted, Scripture taken from New International Version, © 2011.)

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4/18/2016

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Decorum, Dignity & the Divine

There’s something of a battle going on in many churches, albeit perhaps an unspoken one. Lined up on one side are the “legalists.” They’re often well-dressed—ties and jackets for the men, modest and unostentatious dresses or skirts for the women. They’ve combed or styled their hair. Often times they’re older. On the other side are the “freedom” folks. They’re in blue jeans, shorts, shorter skirts with more colorful blouses. Their hair is often unattended or plopped into some sort of updo. Some of them even wear hats. They’re younger.

The legalists tend to look down on the more casual crowd. They find it appalling that they show up to church looking as if they just rolled out of bed. Torn jeans and shorts are seen as too disrespectful for worship. Wearing of hats is downright rude. “You wouldn’t show up to a wedding or dinner with the president dressed like that,” they claim, “so why do you come to worship God dressed like that?”

The freedom folks find the stuffed shirts to be, well, stuffy. They’re too focused on outward appearance, and remind them that “the Lord looks at the heart.” (I Samuel 16:7) Ties and jackets were a cultural fad that went out with adult Sunday school and overhead transparencies. They claim they can worship God just as well in a T-shirt and a pair of denims as in a suit or dress.

So who’s right? Either? Neither? Both? How important is what we wear to church? Should we “dress our best” to go to the house of the Lord? Or should we “come as we are” and worship with authenticity? Is it a cultural issue? Does it matter what others are wearing? Most importantly, what does the Bible have to say?

Unfortunately, even that last question doesn’t have an easy answer. In the Old Testament, we see a number of very specific commands as to how the Tabernacle and the temple (the equivalent of modern-day churches) should be built, right on down to the tapestries and the garments the priests were to wear. That might suggest how we dress and how we treat our sanctuaries is important. But those commands also fell under the old covenant, which has since been replaced (with the tearing of the temple curtain, no less). In the New Testament, we don’t read a whole lot about such matters, and what we do find would seem to indicate we should stray from focusing on the external over the internal (Mark 7:1-23) or being too focused on rules and rituals (Colossians 2:16-20). Even Paul’s admonitions in I Corinthians 11 and 14 address specific issues in the church in Corinth, so it’s hard to make direct applications from them. So where does that leave us?

I’ve heard it said that style of dress is largely a cultural issue. After all, the apostles didn’t wear silk ties or sensible heels to worship. They came in dirty sandals and cloaks that smelled like fish. I generally hesitate to go with culture anywhere, but there are some norms that we would do well to follow. It wouldn’t be terribly prudent to attend a black tie dinner in blue jeans and a T-shirt. If you show up in court dressed like, well, me on a Saturday, you’ll likely be admonished for it. A certain level of “nice” dress applies in those cases, so why not a worship service? Teenagers spend hours primping for a prom on Saturday night, then come to church in their pajama pants on Sunday morning. Why is that? Why has culture deemed anything and everything to be fair game to wear to church when we don’t hold that standard—casual as we are—at other events or locales? Should we then go along with this cultural revolution? Should we go to the other end of the scale and employ a dress code? How do we balance putting our best foot forward with putting on airs? And what of the outsider, the visitor who isn’t aware of it or chooses not to conform? Do we hire bouncers to bar their entry? Of course not.

You may have figured out by this point that I’m not going to answer a lot of the questions I posed. Didn’t really intend to. More or less wanted to challenge you to think through them. But I do come back to something I’ve often heard, that if the heart of the worshipper is correct, then what difference does it make what they’re wearing? I’d largely agree. But that puts the onus on the worshipper to make sure his or her heart is right. So I encourage all of us, including this blogger, to do just that. I’d also say be wary that you’re not a stumbling block to others. If you’re the last guy in church to still wear a tie and jacket and it’s making people uncomfortable, maybe lose the tie. If your baseball cap and torn jeans are offending others, take them off (preferably replacing the jeans with other pants). Or, as Paul put it, “Therefore let us stop passing judgment on one another. Instead, make up your mind not to put any stumbling block or obstacle in the way of a brother or sister.” (Romans 14:13)

- Nathan Birr is the author of The Douglas Files series and God, Girls, Golf & the Gridiron (Not Always in That Order) . . . A Love Story. (It’s as crazy as it sounds.) He can be seen at his local church wearing anything from a plaid shirt and untorn blue jeans to a colorful dress shirt, tie, and non-pleated pants.

(Unless otherwise noted, Scripture taken from New International Version, © 2011.)

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4/11/2016

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The Cost of Compromise

I’ve noticed something in a number of churches, both those I’ve attended for varying lengths of time over the years and those I’ve only read or heard about: They employ a wide range of means to entice people to attend church or church-related functions. They swap out pews for more comfortable chairs. They provide coffee and donuts in the foyer or fellowship hall. They promote being a low-pressure, welcoming, open to anyone and everyone environment. They sing more contemporary and popular songs. They utilize alternate formats to present the gospel. They soften the edges of the gospel. They outright change the gospel.

Some of these changes are perfectly acceptable. The Apostle Paul wrote that he became “all things to all people so that by all possible means I might save some.” (I Corinthians 9:22) But some of these changes are downright dangerous. Paul also wrote “If anybody is preaching to you a gospel other than what you accepted, let them be under God’s curse!” (Galatians 1:9) Somewhere in there, somewhere between providing softer seats and a softer gospel is a line, a tipping point. But where exactly is it?

I want to be clear, I’m not condemning churches for offering coffee to parishioners or rearranging the seating in the sanctuary. Please don’t read that in this post. But I want to be similarly clear that I am condemning changing the gospel to make it more palatable. Unfortunately, there’s a lot of middle ground that gets confusing. I write this post not to tell you which shade of gray is whiter and which is blacker, but to get you to join me in asking the question.

As we do that, let me first offer this thought: The purpose of church (the traditional Sunday morning service) is not primarily evangelistic. After all, the church service is a gathering of Christ’s “church”—the body of believers. And a body of believers, by definition, doesn’t need to be evangelized. Now, admittedly, in almost any Sunday morning setting, there will be people in attendance who do not profess a faith in Christ—who don’t believe in Him. So I’m not saying that no “salvation message” should ever be preached. But, in my judgment, the primary purpose of the Sunday morning gathering of believers is to provide them a place to come together and worship through singing, giving, hearing testimonies, observing the sacrament of communion, and being taught from the Word of God, thus equipping them to go out and evangelize the world in the other 167 hours of their week. While the church should be instrumental in evangelism, both corporately and individually, I don’t believe that obligation should be the central thrust of the “worship service.” Therefore, if we significantly alter that time in order to appeal to non-believers, we are doing a disservice to believers. That’s my opinion, but one I believe is well supported. Consider the words of theologian J.I. Packer: “Doctrinal preaching certainly bores the hypocrites; but it is only doctrinal preaching that will save Christ’s sheep. The preacher’s job is to proclaim the faith, not to provide entertainment for unbelievers—in other words, to feed the sheep rather than amuse the goats.”1 More importantly, consider Scripture, where biblical references to a “church service” seem to be speaking about a group of—primarily—believers.

That being said, the gospel is more than just an altar call. The gospel should inspire us and impact us on a daily basis. The gospel should be at the core of every sermon. The gospel should be evident in the songs we sing, should compel us to give generously, and should be paramount in our interaction with one another. And yet, that gospel is constantly under assault, not only from without but also, I believe, from within. We are constantly, as individuals and as church bodies, seeking to convey that gospel to the world in a way that will appeal to them. We’re seeking to “be all things to all people.” And sometimes, in that effort, we unintentionally assault the gospel.

Let me offer a couple examples. Let’s say your church sings primarily old hymns. Slowly. With an organ. But since most young people don’t walk around with “And Can It Be That I Should Gain” streaming on their Bose headphones, your church figures they can better appeal to young people by singing more upbeat, contemporary songs. If nothing but the style of music changes, then—unless you happen to love old, slow, organ-accompanied hymns—no harm, no foul. But what happens when the rich theology prevalent in many of those hymns gives way to shallower, repetitive lyrics prevalent in many modern choruses? (As an aside, this is not a hymn lover bashing choruses. In a future post, I’ll touch on what constitutes good “worship music” in church and get into the “hymn-vs-chorus” debate a little then. For now, it’s just an illustration.) Then, hasn’t your church lost something to appeal to culture? Taking this example to the extreme, I once heard of a church having what they called a “U2Charist,” where the church gathered together to sing U2 songs. Now, while I’m a fan of U2 and I’ve heard reports that the lead singer, Bono, is a professing Christian, and while I would enjoy singing “Beautiful Day,” “Vertigo,” and “The Miracle (Of Joey Ramone)” on a Sunday morning, I would question if we were maximizing the worship experience. (Plus, no offense to the worship team at my church, but none of them can play like The Edge.) I use this outlier to illustrate the point. There’s a line between singing songs that might appeal more to culture and singing songs that lessen the worship experience. But where is it? (Hint, just after the nearly two-minute intro to “Where the Streets Have No Name.”)

Or take the casual vibe you get in many churches these days. I’m not saying everyone has to dress to the nines on Sunday morning or sit with rigid posture and unblinking attention. But I do have to ask, when people show up to church on Sunday in the same clothes they would wear to do work around the house—or to go to the beach—on Saturday; when they load up with coffee, hot chocolate, herbal tea, donuts, and cookies on their way in; or when they are texting and updating Facebook statuses during the sermon, it almost feels like they’re showing up to a show instead of coming to worship their Creator. Lest I get bucked off my high horse here, let me point out I’ve “schlepped” to church in jeans before. I am the first to admit that I often trudge into the sanctuary as much out of duty as a burgeoning desire to worship. I’m pointing the thumb as much as the finger. And I’m not condemning you if you don’t wear a suit and tie or if you bring coffee into the sanctuary. But I ask, is there a line we cross in making church so comfortable that we lose a little of the reverence and sacredness? And, if so, where is that line?

One last example, one that is far more pernicious. What about the pastor who spends all his time preaching on God’s love and grace but neglects to mention God’s mercy, who promotes certain virtues but won’t rebuke certain vices, who calls people to receive God’s blessings in their life but not to recognize their sin and need for God’s forgiveness? Because a gospel that doesn’t address the problem of sin and God’s remedy for it—the blood of Jesus Christ—isn’t a gospel at all. It is a pile of hot, stinking crap. And the pastor who preaches it or the teacher who teaches it isn’t doing God’s work but the devil’s. That’s harsh language, I realize, but it is the same message Jesus delivered to the Pharisees (Matthew 23:15 and following) and Paul, as mentioned earlier, preached to the church in Galatia (Galatians 1:6-10). If we water down or change the gospel to make it more comfortable or welcoming, it is useless for its intended purpose. Winning people over is pointless if, in doing so, we compromise to the point that what we’ve won them to isn’t worth winning.

So where’s the line?

Lest you think I’m attacking modern songs (I’m not) or coffee (I’m definitely not) or change in general (only maybe a little) let me offer a final anecdote. A couple of years ago, the church of which I’m a member hired a new pastor. In these last couple years, I can’t recall a time when I saw him hold a Bible as he preached. Instead, he holds a tablet. I have to admit, when I first saw him do so, I found it a little unconventional. But, as he pointed out, prophets and rabbis used to teach from scrolls. Should he unfurl one of those each Sunday? The medium is not important; what is important is the message, whether it be delivered from a gold-leafed, onion-skinned print Bible or a smartphone app. Admittedly, I believe he does this because carrying a tablet is easier than carrying a heavy Bible prone to page-flipping, not because he’s trying to win the youth vote. But the point is the same. Becoming “all things to all people” needs to be balanced with a steadfast adherence to the truth of Scripture. In theory, that should be easy. But life is not lived in theory. And, as is so often the case in Christianity, the lines seem to be blurred. And we as Christians like to imitate the lead-off batter in a baseball game, digging into the sand in the batter’s box, kicking it over the freshly chalked outline.

Where’s the line? I don’t know. If I did, I’d tell you. “Sing this but not that song, coffee but no donuts (and no cream, drink it like a man) in the sanctuary, and at least once a month preach against one of the seven deadly sins.” But my purpose isn’t to tell you what to think, but to inspire you to think. If you and I do that, I suggest we’ll be quite a ways down the right track.

- Nathan Birr is the author of The Douglas Files series and God, Girls, Golf & the Gridiron (Not Always in That Order) . . . A Love Story. (It’s as crazy as it sounds.) He can be found at his local church drinking black coffee in the foyer or sound room, but never ever in the sanctuary.

(Unless otherwise noted, Scripture taken from New International Version, © 2011.)
[1] Packer, J.I. A Quest for Godliness. Wheaton: Crossway Books, 1990. Print

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4/7/2016

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A Trip Unlike Any Other

Like many boys, I fell in love as a teenager . . . with The Masters. I don’t recall the exact moment it happened or what first fanned the flame. I just know that for the better part of the last twenty years, I have been captivated by the prestigious golf tournament. Come each New Year, my heart and mind turn to The Masters. I begin to dream of back nine charges, eagle roars reverberating up from the hollow, jumbled leaderboards, shots from pine straw carved around Georgia pines, blooming azaleas everywhere, and green jackets donned at twilight. No other sporting event holds the allure of The Masters, and no other venue compares to the Augusta National Golf Club.

As the years have gone by, my love for this spectacular tournament has only grown. Every year, I’ve religiously blocked out my time to make sure I caught every minute of TV coverage. Every year, I was mesmerized equally by the competitions that played out as by the course itself. Every year, I dreamt of someday being able to see the course in person. Just see it. I knew I’d never play Augusta National, and knew I never deserved to, but maybe I could one day be there myself to walk the grounds. So a few years ago, I entered The Masters ticket lottery, figuring it was a long shot, but worth the try. I was shocked last July when my name was selected.

I gobbled up two available tickets, made travel reservations, and began to envision my dream becoming reality. This time, as the calendar turned, as spring teased, as those first commercial clips aired images of the course accompanied by the famed Masters theme music, my heart beat a touch faster. I was going to The Masters! I would get the chance to watch approaches and tee shots at Amen Corner. I would see where Tiger hit his miraculous chip at 16 and where Phil launched his shot from the pine straw at 13. I would see the same view as Jack did before hitting the four-iron heard ’round the world in ’86. I would smell the azaleas and gaze up at the swaying pines. I would be there!

Finally, the time came. Monday, my dad and I boarded a jet in Milwaukee for Atlanta. We left snow and cold and arrived to sunshine and warmth. We drove the two hours to Augusta, checked into a motel, and took a quick tour of the city. It’s nothing out of the ordinary—a typical large Southern town. Augusta National is tucked away in a regular neighborhood surrounded by everyday restaurants and businesses, by homes and parks. If you didn’t know better, you’d have no idea that a national treasure was just behind the trees and fences. No idea, except for a brief tunnel of a driveway known as Magnolia Lane. In passing, we snapped a quick picture down the iconic drive and went to grab some dinner before returning to the motel and setting our alarms for bright and early Tuesday morning. The forecast called for abundant sunshine, the air a bit cool and touched by a breeze. In other words, practically perfect.

We woke at 5:30 and left the motel forty minutes later. The sky was still pitch black, but parking is at a premium at Augusta National, and we wanted to ensure a spot. Traffic was light, and we reached the course by 6:30, parking in an open grass lot adorned with 100-foot-tall Georgia pines. We joined the throng waiting outside the gates to the grounds. They were a mix of young and old, men and women, first-timers like Dad and me and veterans. At 7:00, the gates opened and we stepped onto the hallowed grounds of the Augusta National Golf Club. Patrons, as the crowd or gallery is called at The Masters, aren’t allowed onto the course until 8:00, so we browsed the gift shop (if you can imagine it, they sell it) and made a quick stop in the restrooms. (That’s right, there aren’t portable toilets at Augusta National; there are permanent restroom facilities, with friendly stewards directing “traffic.”) Then we ambled over to the practice range to see if anyone was warming up. As dawn lightened the eastern sky, we saw Phil Mickelson (my and many’s favorite golfer) warming up on the range. Then he came over to practice his putting stroke, mere yards from where we stood.

Finally, at 8:00, as the sun began to peek through the trees on a crisp, cloudless morning, we were allowed on the course. My goal was to see it all, every hole, every corner. I had it all mapped out in my head, our plan set, of how to walk the holes in sequential order, almost as if we were playing a round. So we started up the right-hand side of the first hole—“Tea Olive”—already marveling at the slope of the terrain. I had always heard that first-time spectators are shocked at the changes in elevation, and we were indeed. As we glimpsed the first green, I couldn’t believe the undulations, the ridges and bumps, just in the green. I snapped a few photos (cameras are allowed on practice rounds) and waited as the first group of players hit approach shots. And what do you know, Mickelson was one of them. We stood and watched him chip and putt, talk with his caddie, and banter with the others in his foursome. Then we watched him walk to the next tee, passing just feet from us.

For several holes, we loosely followed Phil’s group. We also took in the aroma of the azaleas and marveled at the towering pines. Augusta National is indeed immaculate. Were no golf tournament ever contested, it would be worth the price of admission simply to walk and admire the grounds. Eventually (after watching Rory McIlroy and his group play the ridiculous—with all respect—6th green), we camped out beside the 7th green, giving us views of shots on several holes. Bubba Watson, J.B. Holmes, Rickie Fowler, Brandt Snedeker, and Jordan Speith played through as we stood in the shadow of a pine and one of Augusta’s famed manually operated scoreboards. Then we journeyed alongside holes 8 and 9, climbing to the green just as a group was teeing off on 1 (the proximity of tees to greens at Augusta is amazing). We peeked through the crowd to catch a glimpse of Tom Watson, preparing to play his final Masters.

Dad and I took a break to have our picture taken in front of the iconic Founders Circle before heading over to 10 tee. They say The Masters doesn’t really begin until the starters reach the back nine on Sunday, and I felt like our tour of the grounds didn’t really begin until we started down the 10th fairway. In addition to sloping drastically downhill, the tenth curves from right to left, with approach shots playing in over the gigantic MacKenzie Bunker. We veered into the pine straw in an effort to determine from where Bubba hooked his incredible second to win a playoff over Louis Oosthuizen in 2012. (I have concluded Bubba is a wizard.)

It was shortly after noon, and we took a break to use the restrooms and buy some lunch. You’d never know it watching on TV, but in the trees between holes at Augusta, there exists a small community of restrooms, concession stands, and gift shops. The lines were long, but moved quickly. We had to try the famed pimento and cheese (an acquired taste, but one worth acquiring) and egg salad sandwiches, each sold for only $1.50. We took them to the viewing stands behind 12 tee, giving us a view of 11 green, the par-three 12th (Golden Bell), and 13 tee—an area known colloquially as Amen Corner. We ate basked in sunshine, and I had to remind myself that we were actually sitting where we were sitting. After eating, I compared the flagsticks at 11 and 12. The old adage is that before hitting a tee shot over Rae’s Creek, which fronts the green at 12, a player should check the flag at the 11th green, as it provides a more accurate barometer of the wind’s direction. The flag at 11 blew left to right; the flag at 12 right to left. You can’t make this stuff up.

From there, we ventured along the 13th hole—“Azalea”—my favorite at Augusta National, if one may have the audacity to favor one hole over another. The green at 13 is the most photographed at the course, and for good reason: Fronted by the tributary to Rae’s Creek, the green slopes from back to front, making both a tantalizing and terrifying target for approach shots. Four white-sand bunkers encircle the back half of the hole, also sloping downward. They are surrounded by an abundance of flowering pink azaleas, forming a scene unlike any in golf. And the entire panorama is framed by the majestic Georgia pines and—on this day—azure skies.

We spent a few minutes resting in the shaded stands overlooking 13 green and 14 tee, then walked up 14 to a green with a false front that has to be seen to be believed. On our way, we chatted with a tournament staffer who informed us there was a ball a little ways behind us in the pine straw. We stopped to see whose it was and waited to have an up-close view of someone’s shot. That someone turned out to be four-time major champion Ernie Els, known as The Big Easy. The affable South African came over, brushed away a few pine needles, and, after consulting with his caddy, clipped his shot off the pine straw and threaded it through the trees. And we stood less than ten feet away.

We circled the 14th green and headed down 15, pausing to admire the view of the green from the top of the hill, from whence it appears little more than a sliver between two ponds. We utilized the crosswalk midway down the hill, hit the concessions stands hidden in the trees, and took seats in the viewing stands above the Sarazen Bridge. While savoring Georgia peach ice cream sandwiches and lemonade, we watched approach shots fail to hold the green, rolling back the shaved bank into the pond, just as they’ve done in heartbreaking fashion at so many critical moments in tournaments past. From our vantage point, we could also see 16 green and players at the par-three skipping balls over the pond in front of it, a practice round tradition that educed “roars” evocative of those that will be heard come the weekend. Later, we circled around to view the green from every angle. All the while, I heard the voices of David Feherty and Verne Lundquist in my head, their legendary calls helping secure The Masters’ place in my heart.

Leaving “the hollow,” we walked up 17, guessing where the Eisenhower Tree had stood for so long. The only downside to our tour of the back nine was the absence of players, as most of them were finished for the day by the time we reached the last few holes. We did catch one final threesome and followed them back down 15, through 16, and up 17 to its open, wind-swept green that has tripped up so many players over the years.

Then we walked up 18, and I do mean up. As we climbed the left side of the fairway, I tried to imagine that I was a Masters champion greeted by the adoration of thousands of fans. But the natural spectator hill around green was almost vacant of patrons. Instead of holing out to rousing applause, the last group on the course hit several practice shots and rolled putts at imaginary holes in preparation for the coming tournament. Even so, as the sun dipped into the western sky, the rest of which was bathed in blue, with those incredible Georgia pines casting long shadows across the grounds, the scene was magical.

I took one last, sweeping, panoramic look down 10, across 18, down toward the hollow, over 7 green, across the 8th and 9th holes, and down the 1st fairway. Then Dad and I bid farewell to Augusta National. I don’t know that I’ll ever be back. I don’t know that I need to be. To paraphrase Julius Caesar, “I came, I saw, I appreciated.” Augusta National is indeed everything I had ever been told.

In fact, it was more. Having seen so much of the course on TV, I somewhat knew what to expect. I knew from years of viewing what the slopes on greens were like, where players should miss, how beautiful the flowers along the fairways were. Don’t get me wrong, it was still spectacular to see all that in person. But it didn’t blow me away, because I was prepared. However, I was blown away by the hospitality. There had to be thousands of men and women working the concession stands and gift shops, providing security, maintaining the course, and shepherding patrons. I’m guessing many were volunteers. And every one of them greeted me with a smile, with a warm welcome, with an invitation to enjoy my day. Even in the restrooms, where the gentlemen had the least desirable jobs imaginable—directing patrons to open urinals and stalls or cleaning said stalls after use—I was greeted with a “How are you doing today, sir?” I knew the course would be immaculate and beautiful. I knew the “golf” experience would be amazing. I didn’t know that I would be made to feel more welcome at The Masters than at any other place in my life. Of all that I witnessed on Tuesday—seeing my favorite player joke with the fans, eating lunch at Amen Corner, climbing the 18th, and so much more—my ultimate takeaway from this trip will likely be the incredible warmth and kindness of the people who make the tournament what it is.

No, let me correct that. The ultimate takeaway will be that I got to share the entire experience with my dad—with the man with whom I’ve shared so many sports memories—either playing or watching—in the past. The experience would have been spectacular with anyone, or even had I gone solo. But being with a friend who gets my love for The Masters and who appreciates my fascination with its nuances makes it that much sweeter.

We finished our day by dining at Golden Corral (a favorite) and watching a documentary on Jack Nicklaus’ remarkable victory at Augusta in 1986. Wednesday we flew home, with a connection in Washington, D.C.—the flight into which gave us glimpses of half a dozen iconic landmarks. Now it’s Thursday. I’ve just watched the first round of The Masters, marveling that “I was there!” or “I saw that!” a dozen times. The budding, building excitement I feel every year at this time has been amplified by my visit to Augusta, and I can’t wait to watch the rest of the 2016 competition play out. When it concludes Sunday, I’ll again be overcome with a bittersweet sentiment as I look forward to future Masters, and to the renewal of memories they will bring . . . memories of a trip unlike any other.

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