Blessed Mediocrity

 

Moses said to God, “Who am I that I should go to Pharaoh…?” God said, “I will be with you.” (Exodus 3:11, 12)

 

        In Peter Shaffer’s Amadeus, a fictionalized account of the death of Mozart, a bitter Antonio Salieri sarcastically compares his ordinary talents as a composer to that of the genius whose star so totally eclipsed his own. “Mediocrities everywhere,” he cries, “I am your champion! I am your patron saint!”

         Muriel was a mediocre talent as a painter—too stiff, trying too hard to tell a story. But she knew some basic rules of painting (start the horizon one-third of the way up the canvas, paint the darker parts of the sky first, etc.), and she was willing to teach them to others for a small fee to help her eke out a living. So loyal students more average than Muriel carried brush and canvas into her borrowed studio week after week and gladly received her modest instruction. There they also found consistent encouragement. “Just try,” she would say. “Let’s see what happens!”

        Muriel was only mediocre too as a ventriloquist, a second career to try to keep life and limb together. Her beloved puppets, Candy and Andy, fooled no one, for she could neither throw her voice consistently nor keep her lips from moving. Yet somehow she found a way to get in front of thousands of kids over nearly forty years. In her eighties Muriel was still making children smile with her puppets’ corny jokes and old stories.

        She was, frankly, less than mediocre as a writer—too wordy, too saccharine. Yet she persisted in her search for a publisher, despite rejection after rejection. Along the way, she met other aspiring authors, praised their efforts, affirmed their work. More talented writers than she were published in part because Muriel insisted that they keep trying, keep submitting.

        Muriel died several years ago. At her memorial service, artists and writers and ventriloquism audiences rose up en masse to call her blessed. The encouragement and opportunities she had provided, the sweet optimism she had displayed toward life—and toward her modest talents—came back upon her in a rush of gratitude. She had become a kind of patron saint of ordinary people.

Humble like Moses, Muriel knew that her abilities were ordinary. Wiser than Salieri, she cherished her gifts, accepting their limitations. She knew it was not the degree of her talent but the commitment and love with which she exercised it which alone mattered. She knew that to ordinary people—to mediocrities—God says, “Just try. I’ll be with you.”

Copies of Mike’s book, You Are Rich: Discovering Faith in Everyday Moments, a collection of 60 faith-related reflections, can be ordered through Amazon or Barnes & Noble.