The power of music to inspire worship ~
Lumba reminds me of an ancient, almost mythical idea that lingers quietly in the minds of many Christians, which is the belief that the devil was once heaven’s choir leader. The story goes that he was so gifted and so radiant in beauty and talent that the angels adored him. His music stirred the heavens, and in their admiration, they began to revere him almost as they would God Himself. Gradually, admiration turned to worship. That adoration, they say, made him proud, proud enough to imagine he could overthrow the very God who created him.
Although this story is not stated directly in the Bible, several symbolic passages have given rise to it. Verses such as Isaiah 14:12–15 (“How you are fallen from heaven, O Lucifer, son of the morning”) and Ezekiel 28:13–17 (which speaks of a radiant being adorned with timbrels and pipes) have been interpreted to describe a celestial musician whose beauty and pride led to his downfall. The Bible doesn’t explicitly name the devil as heaven’s music leader. Yet this interpretative, extra-biblical idea has endured, possibly because it reflects something profoundly human: how adoration can turn into obsession, and how talent can blur the line between the divine and the mortal.
When I think of Daddy Lumba and Michael Jackson, I see a reflection of that story. Both men reached such a height of reverence that they seemed almost godlike.
When Michael Jackson took the stage, the crowd reacted in a frenzy. People screamed, fainted, and cried. Security struggled to hold back those desperate to touch him.
When you observe artists like Lumba and Jackson, you begin to understand why this idea about Lucifer persists. Imagine Lucifer was even ten times more gifted, and I believe he was. It’s therefore not difficult to imagine that beings like the angels around him might have mistaken his brilliance for divinity. From a human perspective, that interpretation feels plausible.
In Ghana, Daddy Lumba evoked a similar kind of awe. His artistry transcended entertainment; it felt sacred. As I paid attention to some of his songs, I often concluded that his talent and depth placed him beyond the realm of a mere legend. To me, he was divine — a god of lyrics, melody, and emotion.
After his passing, that sentiment was echoed by many. I recall hearing Arnold Asamoah-Baidoo on UTV’s entertainment show describe Lumba as “a god” in bold terms. Across the country and among Ghanaians abroad, tributes poured in. Memorial events were held across various regions within the country and abroad. Crowds gathered, and every prominent figure in Ghanaian music and culture paid homage. It was as if the nation itself bowed in reverence, acknowledging not just a fallen legend but something larger: a spirit that once moved through us in song. Perhaps the myth of the fallen choir leader isn’t only about rebellion; it also warns us of how beauty and brilliance can draw worship — how humanity’s hunger for the divine often finds expression in those who move us most profoundly.
Even so, it is important to redirect such worship toward God. Every gift, ability, and grace that wins admiration ultimately flows from Him. The glory must return to its source, just as Paul and Barnabas demonstrated during their first missionary journey. In Acts 14:8–10, Paul healed a man who had been lame from birth, and the astonished people of Lystra mistook them for gods, calling Barnabas Zeus and Paul Hermes. They even prepared sacrifices in their honour (Acts 14:11–13).
Deeply troubled, the apostles tore their clothes and cried out, “We too are only men, human like you. We bring you good news, telling you to turn to the living God” (Acts 14:15–17).
That moment reveals not only the power of God but also the humility of His servants; a reminder that true greatness lies not in being worshipped but in pointing all glory back to the Creator.
