The Old Composer's Trembling Hand

In March of 1808, the University of Vienna hosted a grand performance of The Creation, the oratorio that had made Joseph Haydn the most celebrated composer in Europe. Haydn was seventy-six and so frail he had to be carried into the hall in an armchair. Beethoven was in the audience. So were princes and diplomats. The hall was electric with admiration.

When the orchestra reached the thundering C-major chord on the words "And there was light," the audience erupted. They turned toward the old composer — applauding, weeping, shouting his name. It was the kind of moment most artists dream of: a lifetime of work distilled into one wave of adoration.

Haydn raised a trembling hand. Not to wave. Not to bow. He pointed upward toward heaven. "Not from me," he said. "It all comes from up there."

He was carried from the hall that evening. He never appeared in public again.

Here sat a man who had every right to soak in the applause. He had written over a hundred symphonies, composed music that shaped Western civilization. And in his finest moment, he redirected every ounce of glory to the Almighty.

Humility is not pretending you have nothing to offer. Haydn knew exactly what he had composed. Humility is knowing where it came from. As James reminds us, "Every good and perfect gift is from above" (James 1:17). The question for each of us is simple: when the applause comes, where does your hand point?