The hardest part of writing is getting your so-called final product past the inner, inspector-bully. Writing is bliss. My fingers tap away at the keyboard in a perfect heavenly accord, that is, until the proofreading begins. The inner inspector-general won’t let anything through. He won’t let anything past the gates of his own hell, unless it’s perfect, which is funny, because he deeply knows that he can’t bulletproof his vulnerability. He’s just being pretentious. The emperor doesn’t have any clothes.

I used to hate performances. I think I still do. I’m confessing, but I never feel my own organ-playing, my choirs, or my writing are ever “ready for public consumption.” Fredrick Swann, the famous, long-term organist at what used to be known as The Crystal Cathedral, would say before major performances, “Why do I do this to myself?”

It’s bad enough your inner critic isn’t satiable but allow me to introduce you to “the world,” the most insatiable leviathan there ever was. It won’t matter if you’ve poured your heart and soul into something creative. They’ll spit on it, tear it up, call it garbage, and put your inner critic on his knees, begging for forgiveness. The inner critic is Pollyanna compared to what’s to come, once you “share” your creative work. Public consumption? Fully consumed, devoured, and spit up like yesterday’s meatloaf.

Imagine, someone condemning the music of J.S. Bach as “dull and boring.” His own sons thought him to be washed-up. People still turn their nose up at his vulnerable, sublime, heavenly “trash.” The inner critic is a fool. An even bigger one? The outer critic. Just a blob of ignorance who thinks they know. Don’t forget who you are – an innocent child sharing love that you colored onto a piece of construction paper. Inner critic/outer critic – two stooges of the same ilk. Critics and artists, vulnerable twin babies, sharing a womb of ignorance. Ultimately, it’s just love. The critic loves to tear up. The creator loves to put it out there. Let the public love consuming it and love spitting it out. Love all around.

When you think your own vulnerability can be hidden away in something called perfection, let me call your attention to our communion anthem, which reminds us that we are abiding safely, in a wounded side. Percy Whitlock, who was a prolific, English composer, has crafted an elegant piece – vulnerable, lovely, exposed. Aren’t you glad he let it slide? Aren’t you glad he didn’t cover and hide himself, but put himself “out there” for us to consume? Sounds a lot like another, much more famous person, who gave himself for us 2000 years ago. Why should we escape such a fate?

No one gets away from the evil one, that is until you realize that your own, inner hell is created by misperception – that what others think of you is of any consequence. That what you think of yourself is of any consequence. Ultimately, it’s not about “the self,” in an individual sense. Had Bach not the courage to share himself with us, through his most vulnerable creations, how could we not see the very foundation of love itself? When you hold back what wants to be created through you, you are depriving truth, that you are a vulnerable child, sharing love with the world. Love is vulnerable and powerful. One could see the entire cosmos this way. It will be heavenly “trash” one day – gone forever. But sentiment remains. It seems to hurt if someone thinks your creation is garbage. But what hurts even more is keeping your creative work suppressed. “Why do I do this to myself?” Because I am unconditional love, and I must express that. I haven’t a choice, it’s my purpose to expose Truth, which ultimately sets me free to be who I am. Soli Deo Gloria!