God Is Jazz

(Read last week's Sermon, "Yield Up Your Answers")

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Epistrophe: \E*pis"tro*phe\, n. [L., from Gr.]

1. A turning toward, return.

2. A figure in which successive clauses end with the same word or affirmation; e.g., ``Are they Hebrews? so am I. Are they Israelites? so am I.'' --2 Cor. xi. 22.

3. A composition by Thelonious Monk (epistrophy)

I visited a friend in Washington D.C. this spring, and I took in a bit of the Smithsonian while I was there. Some of it was instantly regrettable – the exhibit on looms and loom work, for instance, seemed likes a form of pointed, conscious torture – and some of it was wonderful.

Most affecting to me was a simple glass case along the side of one of the museum’s many hallways. It faced across from one of Ben Franklin's suits and contained a small beanie-style hat with a “red cross/swiss army” symbol on its front, along with a single sheet of paper.

The paper was titled “4-in-1” at it’s top margin - handwritten in soft-lead pencil - and below it was a seemingly-haphazard scattering of penciled notes. Sheet music, for piano.

I spent a long time in front of that window. More time then I spent at any other exhibit. I studied that piece of paper without any hope of understanding it. I’m a life long lover of music; a songwriter, guitarist, and singer, but I can’t read sheet music to save my life; yet I pondered that paper like an archaeologist at Tutankhamen’s tomb.

This is because I’m a freak. Specifically, a freak for Thelonious Monk. "4-in-1" is one of his original compositions, and one of his most challenging.

Thelonious Monk was a genius. This is fact - much like gravity, the speed of light, or the record of the ’86 Mets. His compositions and recordings represent a way of thinking about music – not simply about jazz, but about music as a whole – that was revolutionary. Not surprisingly, no one I know has shared this opinion. Most people seem to find Monk, and jazz in general, unapproachable. Stodgy. Irritating.

Jazz is problematic for a lot of people, and it’s easy to understand why. 90% of all popular music is specifically designed to fade into the background – whether that’s at a club, a party, or in your car. And it's called popular music for a reason - people like music that fades into the background. It's simpler, and easier to listen to, and it won't confuse you. I'm an enormous pop music fan for all those reasons.

But Jazz is the polar opposite of that. It is specifically designed to engage, even frustrate, the listener. It demands that you pay attention or be lost (note that this comment excludes “smooth jazz,” which should be politely informed never, ever to exist again).

Listening to good jazz is like riding Universal Studios’ Hulk-coaster with your ears. A song might begin with a simple, repetitive melody; then jerk suddenly and split into three separate, competing melodies that somehow work cohesively. There may be no real melody at all. It veers from accessible to near-unapproachable and back.

You might say that religious folks can be divided into two camps: jazz fans and pop fans. For many folks, God is a pop song. Straightforward, clear, with a beat you can (reverently) dance to.

For others - a smaller group - God is jazz; complicated, confusing, beguiling, and elusive.

I rather like the notion of God as jazz, myself. This doesn’t help me sleep better at night, necessarily, but it seems right, somehow. When I approach my God, I find him to be like Thelonious Monk’s music – both melodic and discordant, welcoming and distant.

I do not hear in God the steady rhythm of the Rolling Stones, or the simple beats of 50 cent. I hear the hard bop of Sonny Rollins. I hear Coltrane’s “sheets of sound.” Most of all, I hear Monk’s atonal, beautiful, difficult compositions.

Maybe that’s why I stood staring at that piece of paper as long as I did. Maybe, in getting an all-too-brief glimpse of a musical genius’ hand-written work, I hoped to find some solid evidence of the hand of God. There was none, of course. Just hastily scribbled half-notes and strange time signatures.

I suspect I'll never be able to read music. I suspect, also, that I'll never truly "know" God. I will, in all likelihood, spend the rest of my life as if staring at that sheet of paper; without the ability to understand the meaning of what I'm looking at, but captivated all the same.

When I listen to Monk, I hear God. And when I listen to God, I hear jazz.