Marci and I went to a concert yesterday evening.  We didn't understand a note of it.

It was our first time ever visiting the Muziekgebouw aan 't IJ, a beautiful modern theater situated along Amsterdam's harbor.  It was one of the rare occasions that we opted for a more high-brow form of entertainment on our night out.   After a lovely dinner together in Zeeburg, we made our way to the theater with high expectations.  And those expectations were totally dashed against the rocks.

When I had bought the tickets -- last-minute deals at half-price from the Uitburo on the Leidseplein -- I had specifically mentioned that I was looking for something light, something fun.  Nothing too experimental or dissonant.  I mentioned the fact that we had never gotten the opportunity to visit the Muziektheater aan 't IJ before, and that the tickets for that show were marked at a very reasonable price -- but I didn't want to experience anything too "out there."  The ticket lady looked at the vaguely worded description paragraph about the evening's performance -- the Nieuw Ensemble, playing works by Francesconi, Pesson, and Bellon grouped under the heading "Europe Today" -- and smiled at me.  She noted that the performance was categorized, "Contemporary Classical Music" and assured me that it would be a lovely evening, not at all experimental or dissonant or "out there."

But sitting in the theater, listening to the first movement of the concert's first piece, I felt suddenly red-in-the face, duped, trapped.  The music was exactly the opposite of what I had hoped for and expected.  There was hardly a discernible melody, harmony, or rhythm at all.  Nothing resolved.  Instead it was all seemingly random riffs, delighting in dissonance.  I could tell that the musicians were all incredibly talented -- masters of their instruments -- but they didn't seem to play together at all.  The music reminded me of the creepy soundtracks to those scenes from the movies where insects come crawling out of every crack in the room -- or when someone tumbles down the stairs, being chased by a psychotic stalker.  Do you know what I mean?  At times, the ensemble sounded like -- literally -- fingernails being scraped on a black-board.  At other times, it was more like squeaky markers writing on a white-board -- for minutes at a time.  Sometimes, the woodwinds simply breathed air through their instruments, kind of a Darth-Vaderish sound.  The musicians were hitting their fingers against the sides of their cellos and violas almost as much as they were using the bows to scratch out eerie, contrasting notes.  It was bizarre.  Totally out there.

Seriously, my favorite part of the whole concert was the intermission, where they served everyone free Cokes in the lobby.

Fortunately, Marci and I were able to laugh about it and have fun in the midst of the whole experience.  But we got to talking afterwards, and it was really perplexing to try and figure out the method behind the madness of that sort of music.  The musicians, conductor, and composers (two of which were actually in attendance for the concert!) were obviously not morons.  They had a high degree of pride and prowess in their chosen fields.  They certainly knew what they were doing.  The music must have meant something to them.  But Marci and I didn't get it at all.  It was more "noise" than "music" to our ears.  It made us tense and uncomfortable, rather than relaxed and entertained.

We found ourselves wishing that we had someone who could explain it all to us.  What is the beauty in this type of music?  Why should we sit up and take notice?  How do we decipher the music from the noise?

And as I've thought back on yesterday evening's concert, it's occurred to me that the Church could learn a lot from the Nieuw Ensemble.  Because really we're not all that different from each other.  Most Christians get really excited about participating in a worship gathering, where we get to hear someone preach about a section of the ancient Scriptures, sing songs of worship to the invisible God who sustains us, and other things like that.  Sometimes people raise their hands in ecstasy, or close their eyes as if they were getting a spiritual massage.  Every now and then a small, muted tone of assent rises in our throats.  It all makes sense to us and feels like home to us.  But we forget a lot of times that others do not have the same frame of reference that we do.  They don't know what it all means.  It just sounds like noise to them:  a bunch of crazy hoo-ha.  And without anyone to explain everything to them, they just grit their teeth until the end, take advantage of the complimentary cup of coffee -- just to redeem the very smallest part of the time they invested in the foreign experience -- and then they get the heck out of Dodge.  That's certainly what ended up happening with me and Marci at the concert yesterday evening.  We didn't stop to ask any questions or raise any concerns -- even though one of the composers was sitting directly behind us -- because we didn't want to sound like idiots, and we didn't want to hurt her feelings by suggesting that her music was not accessible enough for us.  And how often is this exactly the experience of others who can't understand or identify with the context of Christian community?!?

I don't know exactly what all this might mean for the Church -- or for my developing an appreciation for the music of "Europe Today" -- but it definitely seems like something to think about...