Friday night, I attended a Keith Jarrett concert at Davies Hall. Jarrett is a jazz pianist. I had never heard his music, and in fact, I’d never even heard his name until a friend invited me to the concert. I had no idea what to expect, and there’s no possible way I could have imagined what happened.
Jarrett, a classically-trained former child prodigy, has been a jazz icon for many years, beginning in the 60’s when he played with Charles Lloyd and Miles Davis. For the last 40 years, his primary work has been solo concerts—completely improvised musical marathons. Friday night, he began his performance with a seemingly random attack on the piano. I listened intently, trying to understand what he was doing, but I began to think that it was going to be a very long evening. Then, after he had touched each key at least once and pounded on every part of the piano he could reach, something I recognized as music began to emerge from the chaos, and I became entranced. I had never heard anything quite like the music he and the piano were making. That’s when the coughing began.
First there were a few smothered coughs. Then, just as the music paused for a moment, a huge cough burst forth from somewhere in the front rows. Jarrett stopped playing, said the timing was perfect and that since the performance was being recorded the person who coughed would be getting a royalty. Everyone laughed and he resumed playing. The coughing resumed as well—breaking out in spots all over the huge hall. Jarrett stopped playing, went to the mic and said, “The problem is that we’ve forgotten how to concentrate. We’ve forgotten how to pay attention in such a way that we don’t notice that our body wants to cough right now. Think about it.” Things were quieter during the remainder of that part of the concert. There was an intermission, Jarrett returned to the piano, and the coughing began again. He played one piece then abruptly concluded a second piece and walked back to the microphone.
“This isn’t working,” he said. The audience applauded in response. He spoke of his early days working in clubs and said that he and his partners would sometimes tell an audience that the musicians would take a break until folks had finished their private conversations. He described what happened to his improvisation process when the audience isn’t quiet. He told us that he had recently played a concert in Yokohama where people know how to listen—where he didn’t hear a single cough—and he said he had played hundreds of concerts and somehow managed never to cough during any performance. There was more applause—and then a voice yelled out—“Just play the piano!” A barrage of voices volleyed across the wide hall—some of the voices denouncing Jarrett, others making excuses for the coughing and still others attempting to quiet everyone else. One person yelled out—“This is San Francisco—what do you expect?” Then someone called Jarrett an obscenity and a chorus of boos hailed the heckler as he and quite a few others stalked out of the hall. Quiet fell, and Jarrett said he was reminded that many Europeans hate Americans. He walked back to the piano, sat down, asked what we wanted him to play, listened to the responses and began to play. The hall was quiet, and the music began to enfold us again.
At 10 o’clock, Jarrett left the stage, and the curtain calls began. I believe there were twelve of them. During the next 45 minutes, he played four encores, and it was as though the real concert were finally happening. Each time he returned to the piano, silence filled the hall—the kind of silence that occurs when people are even breathing in unison. At some point in the encores, just as Jarrett was seating himself at the piano again, someone called out: “You like us—you really like us!” Jarrett smiled and nodded his head.
Jarrett understands that we are most completely alive in the moment of deep connection—with music, with our work, with another person—and that we need to greet and respect that moment with the full attention that’s often expressed in silence. He understands that, and he did his best to teach that understanding Friday night. He invited us into relationship with him and his music, and some of the people who were present didn’t know what to do with that. Perhaps they were not used to hearing such a forthright invitation; perhaps they were confused. They could only respond with anger. Most of us share Jarrett’s understanding at some level. We may not have put words around it, but we know that the moments of profound significance in our lives aren’t interrupted by those little coughs that mean I’m nervous—I’m bored—I don’t like what I’m hearing. We also know that those moments of deep connection are as precious and rare as the nard with which Mary anointed Jesus’ feet.
I doubt that either Jesus or Mary coughed during that moment in Bethany—during that moment of deep connection. We know that Jesus recognized the sanctity of the moment. When Judas interrupts with his complaint about Mary’s actions, Jesus rebukes him, saying that the world will continue, but that this moment will never come again.
Our lives are lived moment by moment—not in the stretch of years but in the moments when we are fully present to what’s going on in us and around us. Those moments when we show up—fully—completely—are the times that live on in our hearts. Showing up is the first part, and that’s where we sometimes run into trouble. Some of my deepest regrets are for those times when I didn’t show up—when I thought of a person I wanted to see or call—when I felt a longing to sit down at my piano or to write a note or to pick up my paintbrush—when I felt a need to sit still and be in silence—then decided that other stuff needed to be done, that I would do that tomorrow. My regrets teach me that my chores will wait but that the things my heart longs for need to be tended to today. My regrets teach me that tomorrow may not come and that I can only experience this moment today—right now.
There was a point on Friday afternoon when I looked around me at all the stuff that needs to be done and considered—briefly—that perhaps I shouldn’t go to the concert—that I should stay at home and work on the to-do list that lives in my head. I’m grateful for the moment of grace that helped me see that the list will always be there and reminded me that sharing Sabbath time—witnessing beauty in the company of a good friend—opening myself to the possibility of a life-changing moment—is a gift from God to be cherished.
I have no idea whether Keith Jarrett is familiar with scripture or if he knows the gospel story we’ve heard today. I don’t know if he’s a man of faith. What I do know is that his actions on Friday night connected me to the Good News. His persistent invitation into relationship—his invitation to be deeply in the moment connected me with that moment of connection for Jesus and Mary. He reminded me that Jesus continues to call us into relationship with him—calls us into moments such as he and Mary shared. Over and over, he invites us to be with him and to be with each other. No matter how many times we turn away or fail to hear the invitation, he continues to call. Over and over and over.
Thanks be to God.