Performing vs Praying Publicly

For the last 15 months, I’ve been deep in a creative rabbit hole—learning to make live electronic music. Not DJing, but creating with synthesizers, drum pads, and a software called Ableton in real time. It’s a form that merges all that I love about live, acoustic music with the infinite sonic possibilities of electronic music. Think: the improvisational spirit of jazz meets the pulsing vibes of electronic music.

The journey began as a technical one—I wanted to learn the gear, the software, the looping, the live setup. But as is often the case with a sincere creative pursuit, I ended up learning something much deeper.

What I’ve really been practicing is the difference between performing and praying publicly.

The Weight of Performing

I grew up learning classical piano. My first teacher, Mrs. Soyster, was warm and brilliant, and like most teachers, she organized recitals. That’s where I learned to perform: polish a piece, sit up straight, don’t mess up. It carried through into jazz camp, auditions, school bands. The message was implicit but clear: music was something you did for others. It was about impressing. Getting it right. Being seen.

And, like so many of us, that orientation extended beyond music. Most of my professional life—my creative life even—has been a performance. Build the thing. Launch the thing. Get the applause (or the funding, or the retweets). It’s subtle, but pervasive: this pressure to produce something impressive, something valuable in the eyes of others.

Performance is inherently outward-facing. It asks: How am I doing? What will they think? Am I good enough?

The Quiet of Private Prayer

But when I sit alone at my keyboard or drums, with no one watching, something else happens. I slip into this warm, floaty, meditative state. There’s no pressure. I’m not trying to impress anyone. I’m not even trying to make something good. I’m just following sounds, letting them guide me. Sometimes it’s clumsy. Sometimes it’s gorgeous. But always, it feels like I’m home.

That’s what I’ve come to call prayer.

Not religious prayer necessarily, but a kind of inward listening. A dialogue with something mysterious and alive. A space where I can drop the need to perform and instead just show up honestly.

The Experiment of Praying Publicly

A few weeks ago, after 15 months of learning, playing, and mostly keeping it to myself, I invited a small group of friends to my living room for my first live set.

But I didn’t call it a show. I didn’t market it or try to make it perfect. Instead, I told them what I was really trying to do: stay connected to myself in the act of making music, even in the presence of others.

I wanted to see if I could remain in that same prayerful state I access when I’m alone—but with witnesses. Could I stay in that honest, improvisational space, even as people watched?

It was imperfect. A few glitches at the start sent a wave of old fear through me. The inner critic—the one who grades and judges—came roaring back. But then I softened. I remembered why I was doing this. I re-centered.

And then something beautiful happened. I lost myself in the music. I got swept up in a melody, looked up, and saw that others were swept up too. Not because I was dazzling them. But because I was inviting them in.

What Makes Something Moving

When I think about the most moving performances I’ve seen—at Burning Man, or a small concert, or a friend dancing alone in the desert—they almost always share this quality: the artist isn’t trying to impress me. They’re just deeply inside their own expression. And in watching them go there, I get to go somewhere too.

That’s what I mean by “public prayer.” It’s when someone invites you into their most honest creative space—not by performing at you, but by being fully themselves in front of you.

There’s a paradox here: the best performances often aren’t performances at all. They’re prayers made public.

What Comes Next

I don’t know exactly where this musical journey will take me. But I do know that I want to keep exploring this territory: not how to perform better, but how to stay truer. Not how to impress more people, but how to stay in that place of creative honesty—especially when others are watching.

I’m even starting to wonder: what if this could be more collaborative? What if a “show” wasn’t me performing and others consuming, but instead a shared experience of prayer? What if people danced, or lay down with eye masks, or played instruments alongside me?

I don’t have answers yet. Just questions. And a sense that this is the edge worth walking.