Many of us in the church love music. We value it. It plays a major role in our gatherings and worship. Yet many of our congregations and ministries are currently feeling a shortage of musicians. Fewer pianists. Fewer guitarists. Fewer people are confident enough to lead, accompany, or even try. (What would we do without the Beyond the Walls choir?)
This has made me wonder whether it is less a problem of willingness, or a shortage of people, and more a question of who had access to learn. Recently, I’ve found myself asking:
How many of us received some form of formal music education?
Among the people I’ve asked, access appears to be, unsurprisingly, limited. Even though singing is more common than learning an instrument, those opportunities are also increasingly rare.
Looking back, I’ve come to realise how fortunate I was to be around music education, even when I didn’t fully take up the opportunity myself. Paid lessons were out of reach. Yet growing up in a church community where music played a central role meant that music was present, visible, and possible. My sister, showing willingness, was blessed by Ruth Winterton of the Frankston Congregation, who invested many hours teaching her piano. Ruth’s piano was later passed on to her, and today my daughter plays Christmas carols on that same instrument. That story alone carries generations of generosity, continuity, and shared life — none of which had to be bought.
What mattered just as much as the lessons were the opportunities the church offered: the chance to practise regularly, to notice improvement, and to try again. The grace of the Ferntree Gully Congregation, where my sister practised the hymns, where music didn’t have to be perfect to be offered. The opportunity to play in front of others, not as a performance but as participation, learning to contribute, to be seen, and to grow.
I agree that in-person music lessons remain one of the most beneficial pathways for learning, offering tailored instruction and support. However, where this is not accessible, self-taught options such as apps and online resources can provide meaningful alternatives.
Recently, I took up learning guitar, and what I discovered was not a lack of ability, but a need to unlearn self-judgement. Progress still comes through the same conditions that support children: regular practice, encouragement, and permission to be imperfect. But as adults, our own minds often get in the way. Finding space to practise and staying with something long enough to see improvement can be difficult when time is already stretched. The discomfort of sounding bad before we begin to sound good, the fear of being heard, and the quiet belief that we “missed our chance” all compound that challenge. The temptation to give up during that awkward beginner phase — and turn on someone else’s music instead — is strong.
What I’ve come to realise is that learning music isn’t just about practice, it’s also about having somewhere safe to be heard. One of the most important parts of learning music is learning to play in front of others: to stumble, to try again, and to grow in confidence over time.
This is where something significant is often missing in secular spaces. Opportunities to practise, perform, and grow are often tied to paid lessons, auditions, or private instruction. What is harder to find are communal, low-stakes environments — spaces where learning is visible, supported, and safe.
By contrast, a life spent in a church community has long offered something rare: regular, shared musical experiences where participation matters more than polished performance, and where people are formed through doing, not just through achievement. Music is passed down informally through choirs, bands, shared worship, and intergenerational mentoring, creating space for learners to grow in public, with grace. When these opportunities weaken, it’s not surprising that we feel the impact later in worship planning.
Recently, I challenged myself to play my guitar in front of others for the first time at Victoria Community Camp. It was absolutely terrifying. The voice in my head was loud: " Get back in your lane, who do you think you are? You don’t belong here. I had to consciously quiet that voice. What made the difference was not suddenly feeling confident, but feeling supported. I was able to practise alongside Trevor Jackson, knowing he would take the lead while I simply strummed and worked on my chord changes underneath. That space where I didn’t have to carry the whole thing, where I could participate without pressure, made it feel safe enough to try.
It reminded me that confidence doesn’t come before participation, but through it, especially when others create room for us to begin.
This is one of the quiet strengths of church life. Music isn’t just something we offer in worship, but something we form together.
Perhaps this is also an invitation — for those who once played, those who have always wanted to try, or those with an instrument tucked away — to begin again. Not perfectly, but together.
Emma Ghazarian