Sunday, August 27, 2006

Jazz Session

Jazz Session...the simple term causes a strange calmness to fall over me.

A few years ago, when I was a senior at BC, me and my good buddy Matt Snead would venture off the hill on Sunday mornings to attend First Christian Community Church, a small black church on the other side of the tracks. It was literally on the other side of the tracks, which also just happened to be the rougher side of Dayton. Of course, saying "the other side of Dayton" is sort of like talking about getting to the other side of your living room. It's not very far away.

First Christian was a tiny congregation that was always a very welcoming body to spend the 90 minutes between 11 a.m. and 12:30 p.m. with each week, and the pastor commonly came up with some memorable lines for each week's sermon that stuck in our heads like peanut butter to the roof of a dog's mouth. "God don't bless no mess!" and "Loose lips sink ships" stand out in my mind. He wasn't the greatest orator, and the sermons rarely delved into any real tough areas of doctrine and whatnot, but somehow I appreciate these things about First Christian after a week of heavy thinking in classes. There was a simplicity of faith in these people rarely seen and a genuineness that was contagious. The music was never boring. An older woman wailed away on an old organ from a selection of black gospel songs each Sunday, the pastor held his own on the bass guitar, the pastor's daughter took the piano and occassionally someone would show up to play drums. It wasn't just church; it was an experience.

After church we'd make it back for the later part of lunch at school, traditionally either roast beef or ham and mashed potatoes followed by a home-made banana milkshake, and then back to our suite for the jazz session.

The sessions were discovered early during our senior year. I was an RA, so I had a room to myself. On the window side, a soft, worn blue couch rested under the windows with an old ottoman seated at its feet, and most every Sunday for at least an hour, Matt and I, and whoever else wanted, would put on the Dave Brubeck cd, crank the air conditioning to a sub-arctic level and take up residence on the blue couch, each bringing his own blanket. The sessions would start with a kicking rendition of "Take Five," mellow with a slightly slower tune next and then just simmer until eyelids eventually caved in to the moody melodies of a tenor saxophone and Dave on the piano.

I miss those times, so today, as I prepared for my meeting with my RAs tonight, I threw on the old disc and found myself swimming in a euphoric feeling of Sunday afternoon memories with an old friend and an old couch. Thanks be to God for these mementos.