“For I am convinced that neither squawk nor squeak,
neither blare nor bleep, neither growl nor screech, nor any droning organ
prelude, neither Christian metal nor Pentecostal polka, nor any caterwauling
in
all creation, will be able to separate us from the melody of grace that is in
Christ Jesus our Lord.” ---Bert
The Atlantic Monthly printed a story entitled Wynton’s Blues by David Hajdu. The
author was present for a jazz performance by world-renowned virtuoso trumpeter
Wynton Marsalis at the Village Vanguard in New York City’s Greenwich
Village. Here is Hajdu’s eyewitness description of what happened.
Atlantic Monthly article: http://www.theatlantic.com/past/docs/issues/2003/03/hajdu.htm)
When you think about it, how could it have been any other
way? How could God have fixed our tune without playing our tune? How could God
restore the magic of heaven’s melody without acknowledging our ugly little
bleeps, without gracefully playing back to us our ugly little bleeps, and then
masterfully improvising on our ugly little bleeps until it transforms back into
melodious magic. What is the incarnation, the coming of God in the flesh, if
not grace improvising on the sour notes and discordant interruptions of human caterwauling?
Our weak flesh ruining the magic is embraced by God, and by becoming sinful
flesh Jesus condescends to play our tune and bring the discord back into tune.
God in the flesh plays our song, braving the dissonance, cradling our jangled
intonations. The disharmony of sin’s interruption is resolved by the creator,
but not without his joining in our song. There is indeed magic in the moments
of improvisational grace, when intonation is restored and the tone deaf are
made pitch perfect.
The crucifixion, the mother of all magic-killing moments,
became the high and holy moment of improvisational grace. Jesus took the
ugliest tune of all and sang it with all his heart, so that the depraved theme
of human violence and hate, sin and death, might not be the last note. The
cacophony of the crucifixion was sung by the creator, such that the most
strident noise imaginable was transformed into the song of angels: “Worthy is
the Lamb, who was slain, to receive power
and wealth and wisdom and strength and honor and glory and praise!” (Revelation 5:12)
Because magic ruined became magic restored by God’s
improvisational grace, we have real reason to hope and rejoice. When we cannot
get a wrecked refrain our of our heads and out of our lives, we have a God who
not only knows that refrain, but he sings it with us, and then coaxes us in new
directions until the wrecked refrain is transformed and our heartstrings are
singing in his key. He does not condemn our tone-deaf chorus. He joins the
choir. And look who is in the choir loft with us. Simon Peter, a brassy
fishermen whose song always seemed to fall flat, was handpicked by the Lord to
tune the orchestra. The Apostle Paul, a Wagnerian horseman breathing fire, and
an insufferable music snob to boot, was appointed as choir director. Jesus was
not looking for people with perfect pitch. What he was looking for were people
who would let him sing along and improvise with grace when they sing a real
stinker. For there is not just magic in the melody of the Lord, but there is
also magic in his improvisation on our ugly little bleeps.
My heavens, listen to the squawking coming from our
churches! And look at us. We sit around pretending that the sound is not like
fingernails on a chalkboard. We are in denial. Have we for so long been
preoccupied with patting our feet to the ugly little bleeps that we have
forgotten the music of the master? And yet . . . the master even squawks along
with the church to change her tune. For I am
convinced that neither squawk nor squeak, neither blare nor bleep, neither
growl nor screech, nor any droning organ prelude, neither Christian metal nor
Pentecostal polka, nor any caterwauling in all creation, will be able to separate us from the melody of grace that
is in Christ Jesus our Lord.
There is an unresolved element to the Wynton Marsalis story,
isn’t there. That is often the case in really good stories, like the Parable of
the Prodigal Sons. Did the older brother join the grace party for his little
brother? We do not know. I do not know what happened to the cell phone
offender, and I am worried about him/her. Let’s call the offender a “she,” for
the moment. I imagine her killing the call, running from the room in horror, crying
in the lobby, but then she hears what is happening back inside the hall.
Wynton is playing her ringtone on his trumpet. Wynton is saving the day.
Redeemed by the master, she reenters the venue with a smile, Wynton sees her
and points to her and blows her a sweet kiss, the spotlight swings around and
finds her, all heads turn, and the offender takes a bow to the renewed applause
of a grace-filled congregation. Oh how I do not want her to have missed the spectacular
beauty that her error occasioned! I hope to God that she did not miss grace
completely redeeming her.
We know by now that we are going to mess up the moment
sometimes. And by now most of us know our own graceless patterns, with
ourselves and with others. What we have not learned so well is to hear God
whistling our messy tunes, right there in our worst moments, showing us that we
are not alone, that the Holy Spirit willingly enters our messes with a longing
purpose: to show us how good things can come from bad mistakes, that we can
learn something, that we can grow, that we can let Christ transform our
graceless condemning choruses into something spectacular. If we can do that, we
know the next step. Having received grace, and having been transformed by
grace, we can improvise on the offensive tunes of those whom we feel have
ruined our songs. Who knows? Our enemies might sing along.
Marsalis playing I Don’t
Stand a Ghost of a Chance with You: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=y3ZUOxyxLZQ
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