2022 Jazz Communion
Sing to the Lord a new song, his praise from the end of the earth!
Let the sea roar and all that fills it, the coastlands and
their inhabitants.
Let
the desert and its towns lift up their voice, the villages that Kedar inhabits;
let the inhabitants of Sela sing for joy, let them shout from the tops of
the mountains.
Let
them give glory to the Lord,
and declare his praise in the coastlands.
The Lord goes
forth like a soldier, like a warrior he stirs up his fury;
he cries out, he shouts aloud, he shows himself mighty against his foes.
For a long time I have held my peace, I have kept
still and restrained myself;
now I will cry out like a woman in labor, I will gasp and pant.
I
will lay waste mountains and hills, and dry up all their herbage;
I will turn the rivers into islands, and dry up the pools.
I
will lead the blind by a road they do not know, by paths they have not known I
will guide them.
I will turn the darkness before them into light, the rough places into level
ground.
These are the things I will do, and I will not forsake them.
They
shall be turned back and utterly put to shame - those who trust in carved
images,
who say to cast images, ‘You are our gods.’
“Sing to the Lord a new song…” Here we go again! If there’s anything descriptive about jazz, anything demanding about jazz, it is the constant creation of brand-new music. This can be a common complaint, even among jazz fans. They show up at the concert, pay the ticket or cover charge, and then hear something they’ve never heard before. It happens even if they thought they new the music.
I think of the classic Miles Davis Quintet of the early 1960’s. The trumpeter had a stellar group. In the recording studio, they kept producing new music. On the bandstand, they mostly played the same old songs. Well, at least it sounded like them. Someone said, “Was that last tune, ‘My Funny Valentine’? Kind of sounded like it, but then something happened.”
Yep, that’s jazz. As I’ve said often, jazz takes perfectly acceptable songs and messes with them. So much so that they sound new.
It is an act of interpretation. The saxophonist plays a melody by making it her own. The bass player bends the note to infuse it with feeling. Old Miles Davis told his band members this is the way to make music. “Never play anything straight,” he said. Make it your own. Give it your own spin. Freshen it up. Bring it alive. Musically, that approach is as old as Louis Armstrong.
Spiritually, that’s as old as the Bible. One of the remarkable things about the Bible is that it keeps interpreting itself. Nothing is ever stated and then left alone. Moses said, “Love your neighbor,” and Ezra responded, “Does he mean the Gentiles?” The prophets elucidated, “Love the poor, welcome the stranger, befriend the foreigner.” Then the religious expert asked, “But who is my neighbor?” to which Jesus said, “Let me tell you about a generous Samaritan.” Faith is a conversation, a ongoing conversation that moves forward if it is alive.
Did you ever have a conversation that you thought was going one direction, and then it went somewhere else? If not, stop by and have coffee. Who knows where the conversation will go? That’s jazz, that’s Bible, that’s life with a future – it keeps unfolding and we have to make it our own.
Not only does a new song come from interpretation. It bubbles forth from imagination! This is the gift of God who has made us in the divine image. Who is the most creative person in the Bible? It’s the Creator. The One who makes everything. The One who calls on us to sing along with the new song.
Next in the creative line are the prophets of God. They regularly work the metaphors of imagination. Like the prophet Isaiah! In the poem we heard today, God “cries out like a woman in labor.” It’s loud, it’s forceful. It’s frightening. Have you ever been with a woman in the last minutes of giving birth? She might grab your wrist so hard she leaves a five-fingered bruise, and then she will yell at you. Birth is not gentle. It can take a while. yet in the end, you have something new – a new soul, a new hope. Or in our case, a new song.
What’s so astonishing about this newness is that it’s given to people who have been diminished for a good, long time. Isaiah speaks to those who are stuck. Their country is in a shambles, their smart kids have gone away, their treasured institutions have been shaken, and life as they known it has been on lockdown. And to them God shouts, “Sing something new!”
It’s amazing. God doesn’t say, “Sing something old. Sing something comfortable. Sing what you know. Sing ‘Rock of Ages,’ and ‘I Come to the Garden Alone When the Dew is Still on the Roses.’” And even if we did try to turn back the clock, to sing something familiar, it might come out sounding different. The reason is clear: God is not stuck. God is not sleeping. God is not afraid. God is alive. And God is ready to give birth.
We are in the realm of metaphors here, yet the meaning seems clear. In God, there is vitality. In God, there is abundant life, not constricted decline. That’s what we want. A spark in the air, a flash of light, a sizzle in the song. I realize sometimes we go through the motions to get through the day. And I will be the first to confess that church can be boring; ever notice that anything important can be boring? And yet, at the center of it all, we want that spark, that flash, that sizzle.
I remember the story of Charles Dickens, attending a meeting of church people. It droned on and on. People made long speeches. They repeated the speeches. There was a funeral pall in the air. Finally Dickens stood to say, “May I make a suggestion? Let us dim the lights, drape the windows, light a candle, join hands, and see if we can connect with the Living.” Because there wasn’t any life in that room!
Contrast this to how Isaiah hears the promise of God, “I will lead the blind by a road they do not know, by paths they have not known I will guide them. I will turn the darkness before them into light, the rough places into level ground.” The sea will roar. The desert will rejoice. The inhabitants will sing and shout.
Didn’t we perceive this during the covid-19 pandemic? It hit all of us hard, even those who wanted to deny it. Jobs changed. Families shifted. So many things shut down. Yet what happened? Life happened. Imagination happened. Old things were interpreted in a new way. We learned new skills. We took fresh approaches. We connected with those we were neglecting. It was hard, as difficult as a pregnancy that goes on too long. But here you are, carried through all of it somehow. And you’re now live on the internet. And you’re singing! Who would have thought during the pandemic that we would ever sing? Life happens because God is alive.
And today, I shake my head to realize we’ve been jazzing up Clarks Summit for thirty years. Who would have ever imagined it? Only God, I suppose. The church organist couldn’t find a substitute and gently leaned on me. What could it hurt? It’s the last holiday hurrah of the summer. Yet the sanctuary was full. And everybody said, “Can we do this again next week?” Oh my goodness.
But listen beneath the words. All of us want to be in the presence of something Alive. All of us want to be in the presence of God. All of us who have tasted the deep joy know in our hearts that the Holy Spirit plays jazz trombone.
So thank you for
being here today. Thanks to all who have been here before. We don’t do jazz every
week, lest it become stale and dull. But we do keep coming for the spark in the
air, the flash of light, and the sizzle in the song. And when we do, we affirm
God is here. Right here, always inviting us to sing the new song.
(c) William G. Carter. All rights reserved.
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