Part 1: I Wasn’t Good Enough. They Let Me In Anyway.

I started playing with Third Day when I was 16 years old.

At the time, I was a million times more passionate about being in a band than I was about developing real discipline on my instrument.

I played bass mostly on instinct. The same way I could pick up an acoustic guitar and find chords or sit at a piano and figure things out. I had some natural ability, but my extroverted nature pulled me toward collaboration long before it pushed me toward mastery.

Most of my early development happened in the trenches of my youth group band, playing sing-along songs with my middle school friend David Carr. So, when Third Day formed, I honestly couldn’t believe I got to be in a band with a singer as talented as Mac Powell.

(I still feel the same way.)

Fortunately for me, he lived far enough out in the suburbs that he didn’t know many bass players. I think I may have been the only one he’d ever seen. We bass players tend to be a little more exotic creatures than the dime-a-dozen guitar players you’ll find at your local Guitar Center!

I joined the band without an audition.

As our platform grew, though, something else grew with it…Impostor syndrome.

“Fake it till you make it” works for a while. But once you make it, you realize faking it isn’t a sustainable strategy for a career, or for your soul.

Instead of digging deeper into my musicianship, I threw myself into what came naturally to me: hard work, relationships, and the business side of the band.

I helped design stages. I worked on merchandise. I hired and fired crew members when needed. I threw myself into the operational side of what we were building together. It’s what the band needed from me for those formative decades of building the brand.

A few years ago, we interviewed Tim Tebow for our Personal & Professional BEST program at Supreme Lending Southeast Region. He repeated a quote I’d heard before:

Hard work beats talent when talent doesn’t work hard.

That could have been my life motto with the band. But underneath my drive was actually insecurity…the dreaded feeling that I was going to be exposed.

I never thought I would be as good as my heroes — Flea from The Red Hot Chili Peppers, Adam Clayton from U2, or Mike Mills from REM. So, I compensated by becoming the hardest-working guy in the organization everywhere else I could contribute.

For the last decade, I haven’t been on the road. Music has mostly been part of my life as a listener. A concert attendee. A vinyl enthusiast. A fan. Not a music creator.

So, when conversations began about a 30th anniversary tour celebrating the launch of our very first album, I decided something would be different this time.

I would show up as the BEST version of myself.

Physically. Mentally. Spiritually. And musically.

So, I got to work. I’m still no Flea, but I showed up ready for the tour, and ready to enjoy playing live music with my oldest friends.

I haven’t stepped away from my full-time role as Creative Director at Supreme Lending Southeast. I’m continuing to speak on marketing and AI disruption. I just finished the draft of my book Market Like a Rockstar.

My business instincts are getting PLENTY of exercise right now. And the band doesn’t need that from me at this point. The band needs a great bass player.

Our manager, JP Durant , is one of the most committed and capable people I’ve ever worked with. He has taken the lead on visuals, merchandise, and logistics for this tour. The result is world-class. However, those had always been the places I expressed my strengths. Dare I say it…my very identity.

Letting go of that wasn’t easy. But it gave me somewhere new to put my focus. The music.

The result: Imposter Syndrome Eliminated. My joy each night is on stun!

What I didn’t expect was what would happen next, seven shows into the tour…

Part 2: When My Work Became Worship

Seven shows into this tour, something happened I wasn’t expecting.

Before I tell that part of the story, I should say something first.

This next section is unapologetically spiritual. I realize that may not resonate with everyone on LinkedIn. But it is work-related. So, stay with me.

For most of my life, I’ve struggled to participate in worship music as an audience member.

I had no problem playing worshipful music onstage.

But sitting in the crowd was different.

I didn’t feel transported. I felt distracted.

When I attend services at Woodstock City Church, I often find myself analyzing everything:

• the lighting
• the camera shots
• the arrangements
• the musicianship
• the production flow
• the communication clarity

Everything that is part of my work as a creative director. All the things I spent 22 years helping shape as a touring musician.

For years, I assumed that distraction meant something was spiritually missing in me.

Why couldn’t I just get lost in the message of the music? Why couldn’t I simply participate in worship? Why did it feel easier to worship from the stage than from the seats?

Hard questions.

Over the last few years, a friendship with my tattoo artist-turned-Orthodox priest has changed how I think about worship and my connection with God.

Orthodox priests take the name of a saint they hope to emulate upon ordination. My friend chose St. Isaac of Syria.

Written on some of his icons are the words:

“Above all things, love silence.”

Father Isaac helped me understand something I had never fully grasped before.

Stillness itself can be a powerful expression of worship. No crowds. No music. No production. Just a quiet mind — not easily achieved in our busy world.

Quiet Attention = Connection

It also challenged me personally. For someone who uses a lot of words every day, simply being quiet and device-free can be an expression of affection in itself.

Maybe worship wasn’t something I had to produce. Maybe it was something I could simply enter.

Less performance. More presence. In the music. In my own musicianship.

I carried that with me into this tour. And I still wasn’t prepared for what happened next.

It happened in Houston. Smart Financial Centre in Sugar Land. Near the end of the show.

I got lost in the music.

The lyrics. The melody. The power of a band playing together.

And suddenly, six thousand people disappeared.

I dropped to my knees during the final song of our encore. Tears ran down my face. I played with one hand so I could lift the other in surrender.

This experience has only happened two other times in my life.

• Once at sunrise during a worship gathering with 10,000 people in New Zealand.
• And once in a room of about 50 people when we first played “Creed” for Rich Mullins.

As the final chorus built in Houston, I realized something I had never fully understood before:

My playing itself was an act of worship. Not singing. Not leading. Not producing. Just playing bass.

In that moment, there was no impostor syndrome. No concern about technique. No comparison to anyone else.

Just the quiet certainty that I was offering back to God the exact thing He had wired me to do.

After the show, I told the guys backstage that I had finally lived the line from Eric Liddell in Chariots of Fire:

When I run, I feel His pleasure.

That night, I felt His pleasure while doing my job.

It took me about ten days to put language around what happened.

Because what I experienced wasn’t just emotional. It was clarifying.

For most of my life, I assumed worship happened primarily in church services or large gatherings. Father Isaac helped me see that stillness itself could be worship. That night in Houston, I realized something even deeper.

Living out your vocation can be worship.

Music is just my vehicle. Worship is something deeper than the vehicle that carries it.

Have you ever felt that?

So, here’s my question for you.

Not in a concert. Not in a service.

But in your work?

If you’re a creative, maybe it happened while writing, editing, painting, or filming.

If you build things, maybe it happened with your hands.

If you lead teams, maybe it happened in a moment when everything aligned and you knew you were doing what you were made to do.

Have you ever sensed that doing your work well was itself an offering?

I’d genuinely love to hear your experience.

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Photos:  Evan Woodrum