We weren't the Temptations, but when we came out onstage, the

In the words of Curtis Mayfield, there is both humility and triumph: “We weren’t the Temptations, but when we came out onstage, the people always gave us a special respect because our songs were of an inspirational quality.” At first, this may sound as though he places his group in the shadow of another. Yet if one listens with the ear of the spirit, one hears a far deeper truth: greatness is not always measured by fame or comparison, but by the power of one’s message and the light it brings to others.

He names the Temptations, who were giants of their time, known for smooth harmonies and dazzling performances. Mayfield, with his group, may not have commanded the same universal renown. But when they stepped upon the stage, they carried something of equal, if not greater, weight: the flame of inspiration. For the true measure of music is not merely in its rhythm, nor in the glitter of its sound, but in whether it touches the soul, awakens hope, and strengthens the weary. And so the people, though they knew the difference in fame, gave Mayfield and his companions their respect.

This inspirational quality was not born of chance. Curtis Mayfield came of age in a time when his people carried the heavy burden of injustice and yearned for songs that spoke not only of love but of liberation. His music became the voice of struggle and dignity, a soundtrack for the civil rights movement. Songs such as “Keep On Pushing” and “People Get Ready” carried the weight of scripture, calling listeners not just to dance, but to endure, to fight, and to believe in a better tomorrow. That is why audiences honored him—not for spectacle, but for spirit.

History gives us many echoes of this truth. Consider the poet Homer, who may not have been the mightiest warrior among the Greeks, yet whose songs of the Iliad and Odyssey have outlasted the empires of kings. The warriors may have gained glory on the battlefield, but Homer’s words gave meaning to their deeds and carried their memory through centuries. So it was with Mayfield: even if he stood beside groups more famous, his songs held a power that lifted ordinary lives beyond the moment.

Mayfield’s words teach us that respect is not given only to the most renowned or the most outwardly impressive, but to those whose offerings bear truth and inspiration. A man may not command the largest crowd, but if his work uplifts the human spirit, the people will honor him. This is the essence of lasting greatness: not to chase the hollow shadow of comparison, but to give the world something that nourishes the soul.

For us, the lesson is clear. Whatever your craft—be it music, writing, teaching, or labor—do not measure yourself against the fame of others. Ask instead: Does my work inspire? Does it carry light into darkness? Does it awaken courage in those who hear or see it? If so, then your path is noble, and respect will follow, even if applause is not as loud. True worth is not in recognition, but in the quality of the gift you bring.

Therefore, let us live as Curtis Mayfield lived—faithful not to the chase for stardom, but to the calling of inspiration. Create not merely for entertainment, but for transformation. Speak, sing, or labor in a way that gives hope to others, for that is the root of lasting respect. And in doing so, you will discover that even if you are not counted among the greatest in name, you will be counted among the greatest in spirit, and your influence will endure long after the stage has gone silent.