Thoughts from a Musician's Heart
Last year, I had the joy of teaching multiple students a milestone piece in the violin repertoire:
the Bach Double Violin Concerto. As I spent numerous hours navigating students through its
unique challenges, I began to ponder just how much sacrifice is required to master this piece.
After all, one does not learn the Bach Double, or any piece at all, by accident.
As Bach consumed my teaching days, the music often played in the background of my
mind—even during times of prayer. At one point, my imagination led me to contemplate a
completely unexpected scene: Jesus and I performing the Bach Double together.
To imagine Jesus playing the violin intrigued me. I imagined His ease and joy. His striking
attention to detail. His deep attentiveness to me as we collaborated.
But as I sat with this image, I ultimately found myself drawn to the most ordinary visual focal
point—His hands. And yet, for Jesus, one cannot look at His hands without encountering His
wounds.
I began to ponder: What does it mean that even in His resurrected body, Christ’s wounds remain
visible? And what does this mean for the wounds I bear as a violinist?
As I meditated on Christ’s wounds, I was drawn to contemplate the unique inner wounds of the
classical musician’s heart: the temptation to place your worth in your technical ability; the
constant battle with comparison; anxious perfectionism; and the voice of shame bred by
internalizing demoralizing critiques.
Christianity ruthlessly proclaims that our identity lies not in our skills or in the approval of
others, but in our belovedness as sons and daughters of God. Before Jesus performed a single
miracle, the Father proclaimed, “This is my beloved Son, with whom I am well pleased” (Mt
3:17).
And yet, the environment of classical music training can seem to proclaim the opposite—a worth
rooted in ability, accomplishment, and esteem of others. Without the security of the Father’s
unconditional love, our good desire to pursue excellence for the sake of glorifying our Creator
morphs into a desire to secure our worth. Our music may even become more objectively
beautiful as we drift further away from hearing the voice of truth from the Source of all beauty.
But here is what I believe the Lord was revealing in joining the image of His wounds to the
image of the fingerboard: He desires that all these wounds be wed to His proclamation of our
unmistakable belovedness.
Through the Incarnation, Jesus entered fully into human suffering, including the pain we have
carried in our lives as classical musicians. Isaiah 53:4 says, “Yet it was our pain that he bore, our
sufferings he endured.” He knows every particular insecurity, humiliation, disappointment, and
shame you have endured in order to make lifeless wood, horsehair, and ebony vibrate with
beauty.
Jesus has been in every practice room, every private lesson, every rehearsal, every performance,
every audition—every single moment you have held your instrument. He has been there. He has
been attentive to the joys, yes, but also to the sorrow.
Through His wounds, Jesus boldly proclaims that no aspect of our suffering is foreign to His
redemption. His Resurrection promises that suffering will not receive the final word and that our
humanity will be brought to glory. He invites us to trust Him with every broken part:
“Yes, the Lord shall comfort Zion,
shall comfort all her ruins;
Her wilderness he shall make like Eden,
her wasteland like the garden of the LORD;
Joy and gladness shall be found in her,
thanksgiving and the sound of song.”
(Is 51:3)
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