The church can be such a small place. Numerically small, sure. But that’s not what weighs on me.
Our smallness runs deep, narrowing our imaginations, darkening our eyes to possibilities. We talk about God’s coming kin-dom (or Kingdom, depending on who you hang with), sing songs that speak to the wideness of God’s mercy, and devote ourselves to the study of a book containing passages like:
Is not this the fast that I choose:
to loose the bonds of injustice,
to undo the straps of the yoke,
to let the oppressed go free,
and to break every yoke?
(Isaiah 58:6)
Or even:
Blessed are the meek
Blessed are the merciful
Blessed are the peacemakers
(Matthew 5)
These are hardly the kind of practices one would expect from a people who seem to be so concerned with managing risk.
Of course, the church has always had divergent streams. Some carry us into wide open spaces, while others get us stuck in mud.
Many of us former Southern Baptists know this well. I have no memories of the fundamentalist takeover, but I have been dumbfounded by the stories of those who could fight so passionately for such a small vision.
Humanity, Humility, Openness, and Trust
As I think about this smallness, my mind turns to the late Wayne Shorter, whose birthday happens to fall this week. One of the greatest saxophonists and composers of the twentieth century, he shaped the modern jazz landscape through his work with artists like Art Blakey, Miles Davis and Weather Report.
Shorter could have retired in the 1990s as a legend. Instead, pushing seventy years old, he formed his “new” quartet with Danilo Pérez, John Patitucci and Brian Blade.
This group was radically democratic and exhibited a level of trust that would frighten most reasonable people. Their openness to one another fueled music that could feel disorienting—wafting between abstraction and groove.
Wayne once defined jazz as a leap into the unknown, a word that means “I dare you.” With this group, he took that call seriously. This is not the kind of jazz you would hear in an elevator.
It was a sound marked by fearlessness. In one interview, Patitucci explains that Wayne “didn’t want people to know the difference between when we were improvising and when we were playing some of the written material.” That’s an intimidating project to be invited into by any stretch. Yet, Patitucci goes on to say of the experience: “All I know is you can throw me down in any part of the world at any time of day with these guys right here and I’m not afraid of anything.”
In a conversation with Herbie Hancock and Daisaku Ikeda, Wayne observed that: “In a world where instant gratification is prioritized, the challenge for jazz is to open new pathways for people of diverse origins and cultures to interact with more humanity, humility, openness, and trust.”
His quartet models those pathways for us. It is a space in which interdependence is practiced, where love is embodied so fiercely that fear simply can’t hang with the jam. A place where we can hear what a community rooted in humanity, humility, openness and trust might sound like.
It is the antithesis of small.
Churches Tempted Toward Smallness
I find myself listening to a lot of Wayne as I watch what’s happening among churches in my corner of North Carolina.
Some are moving with courage, pouring their resources into affordable homes, showing up for vulnerable neighbors and building creative webs of mutual care and resistance. They are showing us that generous risk remains possible in a culture insisting on scarcity.
Still, many others shrink.
They abandon programs that serve their unhoused neighbors, dismissing them as “distractions” when the real issue is their fear. I meet church leaders consumed with protecting their traditions, refusing the gifts of ecumenical friends over differences in liturgical practices and ordination credentials. Generous confessionalism, it seems, is a bit too risky.
We choose to be small because it feels easier. We think if we stay in control, whatever scares us won’t be able to get to us. That may very well be true, but then nothing will be able to get to us—good or bad.
The temptation toward smallness will always be with us, but this is precisely why I find artists like Wayne Shorter compelling. His music offers us a type of sonic icon: something we can sit with, which could train our ears to catch even more expansive tunes. Much like the gospel, it does not invite us to manage risk. It tempts us with an invitation: “I dare you.”
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Chris Murphy is Director of Community Formation at Steele Creek Presbyterian at Pleasant Hill in Charlotte, NC. He is a Baptist minister connected to CBF and Alliance of Baptists.
