All three of my kids are teachers, but not the classroom kind. One son taught 13,000 people how to hang glide, and at least as many how to sail. (He even taught me how to rollerblade, starting with how to fall.) My daughter is a computer guru, who teaches people how to use their software on their own computers on their time; she has a large, loyal, deeply grateful following. My oldest is a salesman. I’ve seen him in action: basically, what he’s doing is teaching the customer how what he has to offer can make their lives immeasurably richer and more productive.

For most pastoral musicians, teaching is an integral part of the job.

Think about it. We teach new music to the music ministry, of course, and to the assembly, which is a slightly different technique. We teach choir members to read music — a little bit at a time, so as not to overwhelm them. (“That’s a quarter note, not a half note, so don’t linger on it, please!”) We demonstrate the vowel sounds we want, and the phrasing, and the dynamics. Singing is physical, so we might have the choir stand up when rehearsing something vigorous and energetic. We teach posture by the way we stand, and respect for one another by how we treat people. And we are rewarded in the “Aha!” moments, when we can see a concept suddenly become clear or feel an assemblage of notes suddenly turn into music.

The authority part is a more slippery concept. It’s not about bullying: “I’m the boss, and what I say goes.” You can lose a lot of people with that attitude. It’s not about rubrics or dogma or laws, but about the spirit behind them. Probably the most useful definition of authority in this context is: power to influence or persuade, resulting from knowledge or experience; confidence derived from experience or practice.

Confident persuasion: that’s what teaching is mostly about.