“Sometimes it is the artist’s task to find out how much music you can still make with what you have left.”—Itzhak Perlman
Our father shared this quote with us today. He used it in his homily reflecting on today’s readings. In it, he spoke in acknowledgment of the first and third readings; the first from Isaiah, and the third from Matthew. He spoke of the tasks for godliness listed in Isaiah, ones we, and he himself, often fall short of; and in the third, “we are the salt of the earth” and “light of the world” that should not be hidden, and how often we, and he, grow meek and rather than share, we hide our light.
With these reflections, he began before thoughts turned in focus on the second reading and words of Paul:
“When I came to you, brothers and sisters, proclaiming the mystery of God, I did not come with sublimity of words or of wisdom…I came to you in weakness and fear and much trembling, and my message and my proclamation were not with persuasive words of wisdom, but with a demonstration of Spirit…so that faith might rest not on human wisdom but on the power of God.”
From this, our father spoke of how very often, it is in our weakness that we find our gift. It is not in power that we find our gift, but in our acknowledgment of weakness—and trusting in a power greater than us to use it for a good—that we find a talent, or ability, we did not know we have and then are able to offer it for a Good.
From this, our father told the story of Itzhak Perlman, a concert violinist that, having survived polio, moved very slowly into place on stage before playing his beautiful music. In 1995—his most memorable performance—having taking place on stage with crutches, positioned legs by hand into place for concert, reaching his instrument, and having played; a string broke on his violin. He was center stage, unable to fastly, or easily, move; and as the crowd watched him, the auditorium silent, he sat in contemplation. Rather than move for a different instrument, or being brought aid from another with replacement string, he considered every piece in his mind, and once resolved, nodded to the conductor to begin again. With three strings, he recomposed every piece to fit the abilities of his changed and limited instrument, and in its weakness and difference, created sounds never before performed, imagined, made, and shared in the moment for the purpose of creating beauty within the limitations of resource and ability he had.
When questioned afterwards, Perlman spoke of his performance, “Sometimes it is the artist’s task to find out how much music you can still make with what you have left.”
Our father then moved on to speak how one of our purposes in life is to create music, something of a little spirit and beauty to gift to the world whatever our ability, time, brokenness, or gift; and often it is in our limitations, our brokenness, our forced examination to make the best with what we have for a good greater than ourselves, when we find our gifts and surprise talents.
All of this spoke to me in a pew as I sat beside my sons in a pew. I love writing stories, I love shaping something of a thought; but, most of my life, I’ve known very little about music. For a couple years, I’ve messed around finding sounds, can name a few chord grips, but couldn’t even name string letter names, let alone actual notes and where they are on a fret. Still, in my musical weakness, God gifts me a sound now and then; and when he does, I try to create a story and emotion to match and compliment what I hear in the notes.
Last night, I played and sang a version of something I’ve been tinkering with for a while. Sound came first; then story, imagined in attempt as compliment to spirit of the sound.
If one of the purposes of life is to make music—as father spoke—this is one from me: one I wanted to offer into light rather than hide away beneath a bushel basket.
I listened to the readings, to the homily, and—with the music I can make with what I still have left—am trying to live as father told.
I hope it is a beautiful Sunday for all!