The 100-Year-Old Tweet

In the 1920s, saxophonist Frankie Trumbauer was the cat’s meow.  Along with other early jazz musicians like the awesomely-named Bix Beiderbecke, Trumbauer enjoyed a brief stint of popularity that earned him a permanent place in jazz history.  His most notable tune, “Singin’ the Blues,” has recently captivated my attention in an inexplicable way.  I strongly suggest you listen to the song (by clicking here) while reading this post.  Not only will it set the tone and give more meaning to my meandering musings, but it will also get your toe tapping.

While Trumbauer’s music may sound lovably quaint and vaguely predictable to our modern ears—which have soaked in a musical atmosphere that is both more developed and less refined than that of the 1920s—it was rather edgy in its time.

As a fan of early jazz, I often wonder about the musicians that wrote and performed this bouncy and light-hearted music, and the young people who absorbed it as the “cool” music of their day.  Working with such old audio, it is difficult to imagine that this was all real.  The grainy recordings, with their muted articulations, poor balance, and general “over-the-phone” impression, seem to me the faint and fading transmissions of a distant and alien people—no less vivid and human than I am—but sadly unable to convey that humanity fully on account of impotent technology.

However, there is a bright side to this heretofore melancholy discussion, and that is simply this: We’re talking about music, and music can be resurrected like the Phoenix by any interested musician.  And that is perhaps the greatest way to forge a connection with these long lost musicians and listeners that I’ve been referring to.  Play the music again, here, now.

Today I was transcribing (i.e. listening to and figuring out the notes to a song) Trumbauer’s “Singin’ the Blues” on alto saxophone.  After blowing through Trumbauer’s first chorus, I was grinning with delight to be playing such outrageously outdated music in the 21st century.  But in truth, music is never outdated—as long as someone is still playing it.  As long as it resonates in someone’s heart and echoes back in their humming, strumming, blowing, or plunking, the sound gap has been bridged, the era barrier toppled.  A connection has been made across time, and the experience and energy of our ancestors is retweeted for a new generation.

The word “tradition” comes from the Latin verb trado which, devoid of any connotations, literally means “to hand over.”  Tradition is precisely that, the handing over of some treasured knowledge, wisdom, or practice to those who come after.  Obviously, not everything can be handed down from one generation to the next.  Rod Stewart (whom, trust me, you do not want to Google image-search) wisely reminds us in “Forever Young,”

And when you finally fly away, I’ll be hoping that I served you well
For all the wisdom of a lifetime, no one can ever tell.

Nonetheless, it is the duty of every person to hand down to their successors all that they needed to survive and thrive, and hopefully whatever they learned along the way—for by way of persistent regret or contented nostalgia, the most important lessons of life have a way of sticking with us to the end.

Christians know all about tradition.  Catholics even like to capitalize the word, and they are wise to do so.  Tradition (thus capitalized) refers not merely to teachings that are written in books or spoken by sages; Tradition is the entire life of the Church, the acts of liturgy, the works of service, and the mysterious but unmistakable presence and personality of Christ that remains in the heart of every genuine Christian.

Think about this: how is it that most anyone who believes in Christ can, with little difficulty, answer the question “What would Jesus do” in a given situation?  The answer is that we have been taught who Jesus was, how he acted, what his presence was like, by our elders.  And where did our elders receive this precious information?  From their elders.  If we continue the inquiry, the chain continues backward through history until we bump into the Apostles, hastily preaching the Good News to anyone who would listen, and finally we reach Christ himself—the source and ever-present life of our Church.

Open up the Bible to the Beatitudes (Matthew 5:3-12), and go live one of those out today.  Put that written word into practice.  Retweet the love of Christ through your own actions.  Those who come after you will appreciate it.

The Church is the Agent of Christ

Blessed John Henry Cardinal Newman.

The following is a brief reflection on the role and purpose of the Church. I wrote it after digesting much material by Bl. John Henry Newman and Maurice Blondel, two Catholic thinkers whose theology was extremely influential on modern theology. Don't be scared off by the phrase "modern theology;" for anyone who doesn't feel much affinity to Karl Rahner, give these two gents a look--you will not be disappointed, I assure you. Anyway, this was written as the result of digesting the thoughts of these two intellectual giants, as well as the mentoring of one of my greatest Theology teachers at Loyola University, Fr. Peter Bernardi. I hope you enjoy it. Keep in mind that my thoughts are not authoritative representations of Church doctrine, but my own meanderings based on what I've learned. I do intend, of course, for all these writings to adhere to Catholic teaching. Enjoy...

Maurice Blondel, looking sharp.

 
One of the jobs of the Church is to preserve the Gospel (not referring only to the 4 books in the New Testament, but to the general "Good News" of Christ and his Resurrection), offering it to the present generation and handing it on to the next. However, Jesus was not a robot who acted mechanically according to divine laws, but a person who acted spontaneously according to divine Love.  Thus, the Church must view itself less as a preserver of information and more as the agent of a life-changing and earth-shaking message.  As the spirit of Christ is continually discerned and lived out by the institution of the Church and in the lives of its members, the Gospel is preserved, offered, and handed on.

St. Peter, the keeper of the keys.

 
The Apostles were profoundly affected by their experience of Christ: seeing the things he did, how he responded to daily occurrences, how he treated other people, and ultimately how he was willing to submit to the Father's will—and, of course, his Resurrection.  In being thus affected they were made able (with the Spirit's help) to gather their experience of Christ into a coherent Gospel message.  So, in every age, the present Church acts as the hands and feet of Christ, doing his work according to the needs of the present historical moment.  But always the Church must remain faithful to its Master and Founder.  Thus, the perennial motto of the Church truly must be: "What would Jesus do?"

Humbly yours,
Joezilla

Zero Mostel Was Right

There’s something to be said for tradition. In this case I am not speaking of Christmas trees and Easter eggs, but of the abstract concept of tradition. Take the Catholic Church, for example. The Church is an organization that has thrived for millennia, and shows no signs of letting up in the present age. One of the guiding forces of the Church is none other than our word of the day, Tradition (in the Church, we like it so much that we capitalize it). Tradition, as the preserved wisdom and practice of our predecessors on this ancient globe, provides generally reliable insight on how to address current problems. In fact, consulting tradition in this way almost allows those past men and women to return to the realm of the living, if only momentarily, to sound off on what must be done. G.K. Chesterton puts the idea forward quite beautifully in his book Orthodoxy:

Tradition means giving votes to the most obscure of all classes, our ancestors. It is the democracy of the dead.

Do not worry, dear reader (if, in fact, you exist): I am not going to bore you with a long treatise on Church Tradition. I am far too uninformed on the subject to do that. Instead, I wish to apply the concept of tradition to the wonderful practice of self-reflection.

I was looking over my inaugural posts in this blog today (in other words, consulting tradition to inform current action), and I couldn’t help but realize that it has changed a bit over the past year, perhaps a bit too much. The writing in the initial posts seems more lucid, more straightforward, than more recent endeavors. The content, too, seemed deeper and more insightful.

Does this reflect a deeper change in me, myself? Have I fallen off the spiritual wagon, or at least grown (metaphorically) fat and lazy so as to slow the wagon’s pace? I certainly hope not. However, I do sometimes find myself wondering at how a past version of myself would approach my present circumstances:

“Would Senior-Year-of-High-School-Joe have handled this situation better? If this had happened to me last year, would I have dealt with it more gracefully? Could my Kindergarten-self have addressed this problem more efficiently?”

As you can see, I sometimes go too far with this activity. Yet it is beneficial to look back on past problems, if only to recall the tools it took to solve them. I am the sum total of my life experiences. Everything I have overcome as an individual (granted: in my case, not a whole lot) required the cultivation and practice of a certain virtue or grace, which, though it may fall into disuse during easier times, remains in my soul. In other words, all capability and all wisdom which I have known in the past are still at my beck and call. The choice is simply whether or not to tap into them. I am my past selves; they live on long past their expiration date, and into the present moment. So the next time I find myself wondering what Senior-Year-of-High-School-Joe would have done if he were here, perhaps I ought to walk over to the mirror and ask him to his face.

Presently yours,
Joezilla