from my journal:
*
*
29 June 2007
*
The church should be like a jazz session in a coffee house. You have to get all the players in the right place. The trombonist shouldn't be playing piano. You have to wait for the pianist to get there. Then it just clicks. The whole universe just seems right sitting here in the coffee house. Even though I can't remember the name of this song, it still just feels right inside.
*
The first real rain shower in months is slowing to a drizzle outside, and it all just seems right. I came here to this coffee shop to study music business, not because I have to, but because for the first time since I started my major, I really REALLY want to. Yet, Mr. Brian McLaren and his "generous orthodoxy" have pulled me away from Passman's entertaining volume (only a little sarcasm there; it really is an interesting book).
*
But this pianist was playing the same chord progression for nearly fifteen minutes, and I thought I was going to have to rip my ears off and eat them. The pompous musician brat in me was getting frustrated that he was being allowed to annoy all of sitting around waiting for some good music to read/drink coffee by. And then I thought...oh, there is less than a dozen people in here, and I am probably the only person who is even paying attention to this man.
*
So I put away Passman and brought out McLaren because I needed a change of heart, and other than my dear friends Anne Fadiman or the Apostle Paul, Brian is the only person who can do that. (I mean, excluding Jesus...but I feel that's kind of obvious.) So there I am digging into McLaren's words as the chord progression barrels through when suddenly the music changes. Jazz is born from the ashes of monotonous tetra chords. I looked up to see the piano man pulling out a trombone and a woman (with really cool braids) tearing it up at the piano. Two others sat with them, an audience as well as partakers.
*
Jazz music is just a mood lifter. No matter what funk you find yourself in, all it takes is just that opening up. That flood of joy from an unknown reservoir. That rich tenor, one of the partakers, joins in and seals the deal, spinning his own words and notes that jive and crunch with the players. It's like a dimming fire on a cool autumn day.
*
And then my heart burst with uncontrollable joy as a large, older African-American woman joins in. Her high soprano is raspy and makes me feel heartache as strong as the overwhelming joy. Her notes waft over the others, just barely there, but they are the final emotions necessary to make the jazz complete.
*
It's like the church should be. Everyone has his or her place. The trombone player at the trombone. The pianist at the piano. The tenor filling in the warmth. The soprano tying it all together. Each person doing his or her part to make the whole, not perfect, but unresolved. Continually forming and growing.
*
It feels like home.
*
The church should be like a jazz session in a coffee house. You have to get all the players in the right place. The trombonist shouldn't be playing piano. You have to wait for the pianist to get there. Then it just clicks. The whole universe just seems right sitting here in the coffee house. Even though I can't remember the name of this song, it still just feels right inside.
*
The first real rain shower in months is slowing to a drizzle outside, and it all just seems right. I came here to this coffee shop to study music business, not because I have to, but because for the first time since I started my major, I really REALLY want to. Yet, Mr. Brian McLaren and his "generous orthodoxy" have pulled me away from Passman's entertaining volume (only a little sarcasm there; it really is an interesting book).
*
But this pianist was playing the same chord progression for nearly fifteen minutes, and I thought I was going to have to rip my ears off and eat them. The pompous musician brat in me was getting frustrated that he was being allowed to annoy all of sitting around waiting for some good music to read/drink coffee by. And then I thought...oh, there is less than a dozen people in here, and I am probably the only person who is even paying attention to this man.
*
So I put away Passman and brought out McLaren because I needed a change of heart, and other than my dear friends Anne Fadiman or the Apostle Paul, Brian is the only person who can do that. (I mean, excluding Jesus...but I feel that's kind of obvious.) So there I am digging into McLaren's words as the chord progression barrels through when suddenly the music changes. Jazz is born from the ashes of monotonous tetra chords. I looked up to see the piano man pulling out a trombone and a woman (with really cool braids) tearing it up at the piano. Two others sat with them, an audience as well as partakers.
*
Jazz music is just a mood lifter. No matter what funk you find yourself in, all it takes is just that opening up. That flood of joy from an unknown reservoir. That rich tenor, one of the partakers, joins in and seals the deal, spinning his own words and notes that jive and crunch with the players. It's like a dimming fire on a cool autumn day.
*
And then my heart burst with uncontrollable joy as a large, older African-American woman joins in. Her high soprano is raspy and makes me feel heartache as strong as the overwhelming joy. Her notes waft over the others, just barely there, but they are the final emotions necessary to make the jazz complete.
*
It's like the church should be. Everyone has his or her place. The trombone player at the trombone. The pianist at the piano. The tenor filling in the warmth. The soprano tying it all together. Each person doing his or her part to make the whole, not perfect, but unresolved. Continually forming and growing.
*
It feels like home.
