Everybody, Always

kid, scared to start playing again and terrified I’d stop if I did.
Nevertheless, I decided I’d make another run at “From the Lighthouse
Window.”
I sat up straight, curled my fingers like Greg had, and started playing.
And you know what? I nailed it. I hit every note perfectly. If it had been
the Olympics, there would have been confetti everywhere and people
would have been lighting torches, doing flips off bars, and spiking
themselves into the mats while judges held up double-digit numbers. I bet
a picture of me sitting at a huge piano probably would have ended up on a
box of cereal.
It had been more than ten years since my fateful piano recital. I had
no sheet music. I hadn’t even thought about “From the Lighthouse
Window” or played a piano in as long. Yet still, I played it flawlessly.
Finishing the last few stanzas, I pounded out the last chord, bringing both
of my hands crashing down on the keys like I was a Viking. My fingers
landed with undeniable power and authority and passion. Slowly, I lifted
my clawed fingers over my head and then held them there for a really
long time.
I wondered, How could this be?
Simple.
No audience, no spotlights.
And a lot of finger memory.
The difference between great improvisational jazz and great classical
recitals is simple: in the first, there are no wrong notes. If someone
makes a mistake, nobody cares or even notices. Everyone just keeps
tapping their feet. In recitals, however, everyone expects perfection.
We spend a lot more time doing recitals in our faith communities
than I think Jesus had in mind. Stages, audiences, and platforms change
us. People who are becoming love don’t need any of it. It’s not inherently
bad to have all the stages, but we can end up playing to the wrong
audience.