THE GREAT BETRAYAL: HOW THE SPIRITUAL ESSENCE OF MUSIC WAS HIJACKED

Let me begin by saying that what follows may invite criticism—but I offer it not as condemnation but as a heartfelt plea.

I feel a deep sadness when I look at what the world of music has become. In many places, what was once a sacred space for the soul has been reduced to something polished and efficient—but spiritually empty. Institutions that claim to represent the highest in culture often mirror a marketplace more than a sanctuary. And for those who have walked the path of music not merely as a profession but as a spiritual journey, this change is not just disappointing—it is wounding.

Because music, at its essence, is something sacred. Not metaphorically, not symbolically—but deeply, truly holy. It arises from the breath, the heartbeat, the human longing to echo the order of the stars, the rhythms of the cosmos, and the silence of deep contemplation. Music is a kind of inner alchemy. It can refine, transform, and elevate—not just the listener but the one who plays.

And yet, so many musicians today are trained not in reverence but in performance. They are pushed to play faster, cleaner, louder—to compete and impress. Once imagined as quiet spaces of inner growth, Conservatories often resemble factories. Their output is technically brilliant performers who may never have known what it means to truly listen—who move through a Beethoven sonata not as a sacred encounter but as a showcase.

Tone, depth, wonder, and patience are too often lost in the pursuit of spotless execution. The result? Musicians may achieve applause, but not necessarily meaning.

Competitions, in particular, can be harsh environments. Young artists—still fragile, still discovering—are under immense pressure to perform, win, and meet expectations. Judged by panels who may have had to compromise their truth to survive in the system. It's not the fault of any person—it's the shape of the system itself. But the cost can be high: a disconnection from the inner source, from the quiet voice that called them to music in the first place.

This loss echoes into teaching as well. I've seen it. Students begin their journey with awe in their hearts and a trembling beauty in their hands, but too often, they are reshaped, guided not toward truth but toward results. Teachers, often with good intentions, impose their interpretations, offer shortcuts, or teach formulas. Rare are those who gently accompany a student inward toward the soul of the music.

What's often mistaken for emotional expression in music is sometimes something else entirely. The true goal is not self-expression but alignment to become a vessel through which the music may speak. And to do that requires inner work, humility, discipline, and a long listening journey. It is not glamorous. It is not fast. But it is accurate.

The saddest part is that audiences have also been conditioned to respond to surface over substance. Dazzled by speed, production value, and charisma, few are taught how to truly listen—to feel the silence between the notes, to hear the breath of a composer's spirit. Critics, too, often speak in terms that miss the spiritual essence of what is (or isn't) taking place on stage.

I write this not with resentment but with grief and love because I have been fortunate to guide students who chose another path. They studied the Well-Tempered Clavier and Beethoven's 32 Sonatas—not as résumé items but as sacred texts. They took time, listened, faltered, and grew—not for prestige but for depth and truth.

There is another way—there always has been. It is quieter, slower, and less recognized by the spotlight. But it is true. It begins with deep respect for the score—not rigidity but reverence. It involves cultivating tone—not just as a sound but as a moral gesture. It asks us to step beyond ego—not to erase ourselves but to transcend the part that wants to impress, compete, and be praised.

This path is not easy, and it can feel lonely. But it is accurate. It is the only one I know that allows music to fulfil its highest purpose: to awaken, transform, and restore.

Let the world celebrate speed, spectacle, and popularity. Let it reward those who conform. But let there always be a few who remain faithful—those who bow before Bach in quiet rooms, listen for the soul of Beethoven in the long hours of study, and do not play until something inside says yes. These are the ones I write for. Not to comfort but to affirm the sorrow they may carry and the flame they still protect.

The world may forget the spirit of music, but if we are honest, music will never forget us. And it is the only path that allows music to fulfil its original function: a transformative act—a doorway, a mirror, a prayer.

Let the world continue its obsession with materialism, clean-fingering, and Instagram followers. Let it crown the compliant and silence the deep. But let a few remain—those who still bow before Bach, who still seek the soul of Beethoven in quiet hours, who dare not to play until the spirit is ready. These few, I believe, are the true keepers of the flame.

To them, I write this. Not to give comfort but to affirm the rage and sorrow they may feel. The world has betrayed music. But music, if you are honest, will never betray you.