Play It, Sam

Psalm 98

I listen to a lot of jazz. Jazz is a music some folks do not like because it seems to go nowhere--a band will play the basic melody then each player will take a turn improvising on that theme, soloing for as many choruses as they can keep ideas flowing. For some, all that is is self-aggrandizing, self-absorbed noodling that is nothing less than petrifying so boring is it. For me, it is endlessly fascinating to see what can happen.

The great alto sax innovator, Charlie Parker, once described the bebop he pioneered as finding the melody between the notes. John Coltrane, the giant of tenor sax, called it prayer. Miles Davis said it was the art of finding the silences between the notes. Someone else said it was seeing what to do with mistakes--the missteps became the art. The pianist Keith Jarrett said it was just the blues. The pianist Bill Evans said it was more about the greens. Improvising will do that.

Whatever it is, it requires imagination to hear something, then hear what it implies, where it might lead, and the journey to get there.

Which may explain why I spend so much time with these musicians as I study, read, or just sit still. What they do seems analogous to what I do. Ministry is hearing God’s tune for life, then realizing God left it up to us to write the rest of the song. As a pastor, I try to help others hear that tune. I lead others into the journey, but then turn them loose to solo on it, not leaving them alone, but providing the backbeat to keep them going. 

At times, that means there will be frustrations.

Mr. Davis once got entirely fed up with Mr. Coltrane because when they played together, Mr. Coltrane would solo for bar after bar, spinning out seven, eight, TEN minute long explorations. Mr. Davis famously asked him, “Why do you play so long?” Mr. Coltrane responded, “Because I have so much I need to say.” 

Sometimes engaging in communal faith practice means, if you are like Mr. Davis, you will get frustrated with those who seem to go on and on and on about something or some project or some theological idea. But they, in turn, have so much they need to say.

Mr. Parker once directed his fellow players about song length, “Anything over three minutes is practicing.”

Yes, there are times to keep it short, simple, and sweet. If someone asks a question, answer the question, not what you think they asked, or thought they were getting at, or what you feel they need to know along with what they asked for--just answer the question. 

But, sometimes, we need the practice. We need to explore, think, ponder, and wonder without the confines of a fixed schedule, set moment, or list of directives. It took Mr. Parker a long time to get to that melody between the notes. 

However, we need to know the difference, too, between what is learning and practice, and when it is just time to do what needs doing. Again, when the person appears at the door needing food, they do not want a colloquy on world hunger, they want to be fed--practice gets you to the place where you can feed them what they need, but they can skip all the theological, biblical, and faith rationales for why you feed them. Later--give them time. 

Mr. Jarrett listens for the heart of the music he plays. Listening to him in concert, you cannot help but hear him singing along with his piano. He loses himself in the feel, funk, and fathomless depths of emotion in the music. 

We need those moments, too--times to feel completely claimed by God, allowing our mind to get led by our hearts. My dad loves old hymns because they have “soul”--they tap into something unreasonable within us, stirring us, carrying us to another time or place. We need that. We need to know the power of love to break through all of our carefully wrought shells and defenses. Then we see God.

Mr. Evans, though, tells us that there is more than feeling we can name. Hence, the blues become the greens. What he means is that there is a transcendent piece to music. It is our work, our art, and our expression, but at the same time, it sends us a place we cannot otherwise reach. 

Faith will do that, too. As we enter the presence of God, we enter a presence that is not ours. God is God; we are not; thanks be to God. Faith is realizing that we need to let go of all we want, all we assume, and all we project onto God, allowing ourselves to open to the presence of God that leads us to places we would never otherwise be. That means ceasing to clean up the Bible as if it had no self-contradictions, R-rated moments, or abject human failures in its pages, nor does the God within the pages stay consistent with our expectations. It means realizing that Jesus was not kidding when he said to sell all that we have and give it to the poor, nor was he kidding when he said that loving our enemies was essential to faith, nor was he exaggerating when he said a cross awaits all who follow him. His statements liberate us from all we assume we know, and actually free us to discover the tremendous depth and breadth of love. 

So, faith is jazz--improvised art. God sets us going, but then waits to see what we do with it all. 

So, play something.