I am an instrument of exaltation And I was born to lift Your name above all names You hear the melody of all creation But there’s a song of praise that only I can bring
Who else is worthy? Who else is worthy? There is no one, only You, Jesus Who else is worthy? Who else is worthy? There is no one, only You, Jesus
You are the infinite God of the ages Yet You chose to make my heart Your dwelling place You healed my brokenness, showed me Your glory So I have songs of thanks not even angels sing
Lamb of God, anointed one Who was and is and is to come Seated on the throne above Holy, Holy Righteous one who shed His blood You proved to us the Father’s love Jesus Christ be lifted up Holy, Holy
Bored between football and hockey late this afternoon, my surfing led me to a documentary mid-air. It being about a piano, I paused and didn’t move the channel.
Piano to Zanskar is an award-winning British documentary film which tells the story of Desmond O’Keeffe, also known as Mr Gentle, a 65-year old piano tuner who embarks on an impossible mission.
Facing his future in retirement, “sitting in deck chairs and eating lemon drizzle cake”, Desmond decides instead to take on the most challenging and perilous delivery of his four decade career: transporting a 100 year-old, 80 kilo, Broadwood and Sons upright piano, from bustling London to the remote heart of the Indian Himalayas.
Setting off from his busy workshop in Camden Town, and enlisting the help of two young and eager apprentices, Desmond’s ambitious destination is a primary school in Lingshed, Zanskar. At 14,000 feet above sea level, it is one of the most isolated settlements in the world.
At 56 years of age, I continue to receive lessons on humility; they come faster and deeper. Watching this film, I faced several realities of extraordinary privilege my life has afforded that I must stop taking for granted.
Grew up in a home with a piano. (As of 2015, one in 3,788 U.S. families owned a piano. That statistic for the world isn’t known.)
As a musician, I’ve received many comments and opinions about my abilities, people’s taste, etc., over the years. Church folk love to “bless” musicians with unsolicited opinions.
The two most head scratching came as a result of listeners feeling like they needed to tell me something after being moved during a Sunday service or if they’ve not seen me in a few years and wanted to inquire “where are you now?”
The latter scenario has often included some version of “If you don’t use your talents, God will take them from you.” They, usually older ladies with a need to set me straight, mean well, I suppose. But their well meaning has yet to be motivational.
But the one that seemed most odd was this one: “You missed your calling.” More than once, I’ve been told this because my current job title didn’t include “Worship,” “Music,” “Choir,” or “Pianist.” There really isn’t a response to that comment worth offering, but it seems rather obvious that somehow in the last hour it’s possible I didn’t.
December 1st I got several comments that erased, or at least, countered such past comments. Interestingly, they didn’t follow a church service. The event was a Friday night Christmas fundraising dinner. Throughout the evening, four coworkers joined me to share songs-some familiar, some new, all celebrating the beginning of the season.
Three memorable conversations followed. One gentleman reminisced about his mother’s playing and how he wished he had learned to play. Another man wanted to introduce me to his wife, a long-time piano teacher, who noticed elements of our performance that only a pianist would commend. No judgment. Pure appreciation.
But the one that I’ll most remember came from an unexpected source. Another coworker that I had no idea had any musical past offered this response: “You have inspired me to get out my piano.”
Whatever talent you have, it’s inevitable your sharing of it will draw remarks. Let the judgments go. Cherish and hold those that encourage you to share again.
I had forgotten how much I liked playing that Yamaha grand piano. The lower octaves have deep, rich tones that feel human. If it weren’t for the occasion, I could have sat there all afternoon.
The occasion was a memorial service. They had asked for 15-20 minutes of prelude music, mostly hymns. Normal.
What wasn’t normal was no one was in the auditorium at that time. They were all in the lobby. So like on Sunday mornings when the worship team starts a service to 25% of the eventual crowd, I started playing thinking it was a cue. Nope. I pretty much played the entire prelude to an empty audience. Or so I thought.
Truthfully, I was glad it was empty. Back in the day, the situation would have annoyed me. But not on this afternoon. I just relaxed, sort of pretended I was in a studio or living room. Let the songs go wherever they wish. Play a verse here, repeat a chorus however many times I want, move around between octaves, just improvise freely. I think I must have stuck on a medley of “More Love To Thee” and “I Need Thee Every Hour” about five minutes. Wasn’t planned, but certainly flowed. Albeit late, the group gathered, and the service got under way.
Unbeknownst to me, the service was streamed, even the prelude. My friend who put the gathering together texted me that evening to say folks from Georgia appreciated the piano music prior to the service. I had no idea. I’m guessing had I known I might have approached things differently.
How often I’ve missed moments like this because of who’s in the room. Focusing on the wrong person or the wrong motive downgrades everything. So the challenge can be to always play as if the room is empty, at least of humans. Play from the connection that goes beyond the gut to full body, mind, and spirit in order to commune with the Giver of music.
I believe those moments are glimpses of eternity. I wasn’t expecting that glimpse when I sat down at that Yamaha. That’s something beautiful about how God relates. I believe he loves to catch us by surprise, when we aren’t expecting it. Since He placed eternity in our hearts, only He seems to know when and how to give us a peek. When He does, it’s a peek into so much more than an afternoon here on earth.
John Gregory 