God tells me how the music should sound, but you stand in the

"God tells me how the music should sound, but you stand in the way." Thus thundered Arturo Toscanini, a master of the baton, whose passion for truth in sound was unmatched. His words, though sharp, are born of fire: the fire of one who believed that art is not mere craft, but revelation. For to Toscanini, music was not invented by men, but revealed by the divine. The task of the artist was not to distort, not to impose, but to uncover the sacred shape that already exists. To hinder this revelation, whether through laziness, arrogance, or error, was to stand between creation and its Creator.

In the ancient world, the poets spoke of the Muses—divine voices whispering inspiration into mortal hearts. The prophets spoke of songs given by heaven, sung not for man’s glory but for God’s. Toscanini, in his own age, echoed this eternal belief: that when he raised his baton, he was not conjuring something new but channeling something eternal. The music was already written in the heavens; his role was to let it shine forth on earth. His fury arose when those around him, through imprecision or pride, clouded that light.

Consider the discipline of his life. Toscanini was famed for his exacting standards, demanding perfection from orchestras, rehearsing relentlessly, and tolerating no mediocrity. He was feared by many musicians, but not because he loved tyranny—because he loved truth. He believed every note was sacred, every phrase a reflection of divine order. To play carelessly was not just error, but desecration. In this we see the meaning of his words: human weakness often stands in the way of divine beauty, and the artist’s duty is to fight until nothing obscures the vision.

History gives us countless parallels. Michelangelo, gazing at a block of marble, declared he saw the angel inside and carved until he set it free. But what would have happened if his chisel dulled, or his hand faltered? The form would remain trapped. So too with Toscanini: the score is the marble, the music the angel, and the performers the chisels. If they falter, the angel is imprisoned. This is why he cried that others stood in the way—not because he despised them, but because he feared the divine gift would remain hidden.

The lesson is not only for musicians. It is for all who create, lead, or serve. Each of us has moments where the whisper of God, or of truth, or of destiny, reveals what ought to be done. Yet we falter, distracted by ego, comfort, or pride. In these moments, we become like those players who dull the sound of heaven with their own noise. Toscanini’s fury is the fury of a man who would not let the sacred be cheapened by human weakness.

And yet, there is encouragement in his fire. For if God speaks through art, then each of us can be a vessel. The task is not to be flawless, but to remove the barriers within ourselves—fear, arrogance, complacency—that stand in the way. The divine spark is present, waiting to be revealed. We must train, discipline, and humble ourselves until we are worthy instruments of its sound.

Practical wisdom calls us to action: whatever your craft, treat it as sacred. Work not as though producing something of your own alone, but as though revealing something greater. Strive for excellence, not for applause, but for truth. And when obstacles arise—whether in yourself or others—name them, confront them, and overcome them. For every time you let truth shine more clearly, you echo Toscanini’s cry: the music is divine, and no one must stand in the way.

Therefore, children of tomorrow, remember the maestro’s wisdom: art is not possession, but revelation. The music belongs not to man, but to God. Let your task be to listen, to discipline yourself, to purify your work, so that heaven’s voice may be heard on earth without distortion. And when you live this way, your life itself will become a symphony, clear and unbroken, offered to eternity.