Daybreak on the fourth Sunday of Advent arrived with temperatures in the mid- to high-20s, and the winter’s first snow—a dusting that teased of snowfall to come, and spurred the hopes of Vermonters wishing for a white Christmas.
Under other circumstances, in the presence of a snow-bearing nor’easter, for example, I might have resisted attending the eight o’clock worship service, stayed warm by the morning fire, and gradually begun the events of the day. But no storm was in the forecast and my interest in attending the worship service was piqued by the unexpected gift of the memory of my father’s hands from the previous week—maybe there was more awaiting this reluctant disciple—and so I made my way back to Trinity Episcopal Church.
Sand had been scattered on the roads, and though there was little traffic those who did venture out drove cautiously, myself among them. I approach these times of structured worship with anticipation, if not an expectation that I will be privy to an epiphany or small miracle. I follow Jesse Jackson’s exhortation; “Keep hope alive!” My inevitable experience is a mix of wonderment and disappointment.
Awareness, let alone acceptance of a spiritual moment, is frequently dismissed by me when I put the experience to the test of finite senses and rational thinking. Neither allow room for the presence of the infinite, such as a longed for epiphany or a desired miracle—an Advent visitation.
The gift of the memory of my father’s hands raised my hope even as I questioned whether the fond reminiscence contained any spiritual meaning—an answer to my prayer: “Shed some light in the darkness, please.” Nonetheless, I continue the journey of keeping hope alive, anticipating that something special will occur. I’m a tough sell, but dogged in my fervent pursuit of a palpable and loving God.
The liturgy for the worship service, the one I rarely follow, became the scratch paper on which I scribbled free-associations or random thoughts for later consideration and, perhaps, spiritual enlightenment. I listened with one ear as the rector delivered the homily, and focused the rest of my attention on my soul’s meanderings. Among those associations and thoughts were the incredulity of Jesus’s virgin birth to an unwed couple, questions about where truth and myth intersect and faith’s role when they do meet, and how imperative faith becomes when considering the story of Advent, which, in short, is the anticipation and celebration of Jesus’s birth on four consecutive Sundays.
Other less intriguing advent facts were lost to me as I doodled and scribbled, until the rector mentioned Sydney Carter’s lyrics to “Lord of the Dance”—a song I’d never heard of. I reigned in my wandering soul and listened as he recited the lyricist’s words: “I danced in the morning when the world was begun. I danced in the Moon and the Stars and the Sun. I came down from Heaven and danced on Earth at Bethlehem.” The concept of a dancing Jesus captured my imagination.
I imagined Jesus dancing in the open field before the seated hungry men, women, and children he was about to feed. I pictured him swirling around the beached fishing boats as he enticed Peter, Andrew, James and John to give up their life work to follow him. I conjured up the image of a dancing Jesus as he hip-hopped across the waves of the Sea of Galilee beckoning Peter to join him.
This was a serious and fun-loving guy.
I wanted to get up and dance!
Mary Magdalene couldn’t resist the charismatic Jesus, nor he her—it defies comprehension that they didn’t dance! I think they did.
Songs of praise, liturgical readings, most of the rector’s homily, and the recitation of the Nicene Creed took place while my soul warmed to thoughts of Mary, Jesus’s mother. Luke, the doctor and author of the third gospel, describes her as the creator of “The Song of Mary,” which centuries later would become the inspiration for Bach’s “Magnificat.”
My worship, that day, ended with a smile as I envisioned a loving, musical mother and her precocious son, embracing and dancing.
Just as the dusting of snow precedes the first snowfall, I suspect there will always be a dusting of doubt before moments when light arrives in my soul, as on this occasion, inspired by visions of a carpenter, prophet, and miracle worker who loved to dance.
by 
I grew up knowing the Lord of the Dance – I think Peter Paul and Mary may have sung it. It is infectious and joyful and I am so glad it lightened your heart.
Giny,
It is infectious–lets keep dancing. Thanks for reading and commenting!
Cheers,
Roger
This post touched my soul. I know Jesus and Mary Magdalene danced, and I know it made his mother smile… I just know.
Thank you, Roger.
Beth,
I’m glad your soul was touched as well. I recall a man, standing in the shadows of the Hollywood Bowl, dancing without ceasing while performers at the Playboy Jazz Festival paraded on and off the stage. His soul-filled, freelance movements were often more captivating than the musicians.
Here’s to the dance!
Cheers,
Roger
How delightful to have the first dusting of snow to stimulate your visions of the here and now of Vermont, as you contemplate the biblical stories of miracles in the long ago and far away. May you dance with joy as you feel the light lift away some of the darkness, see and accept the miracles within your life, and write on as you seek your faith.
Colette,
There is a light ahead, however distant and faint, that draws us in–if we allow it to do so. Thank you for reading and commenting, and may you too dance with joy as the old unfolds into the new.
Happy New Year,
Roger
Coincidently, I have looked into Lord of the Dance recently. I love that it is set to the Shaker tune Simple Things. To me it sounds Irish. I love the depth and heart of the Irish. They were an oppressed people who did not let the circumstances quench their spirit.
A line from the song, “I am the dance, and the dance goes on” reminds me that the dance is not so much an activity but a relationship with the “I am” that cannot be thwarted by others. I wonder if you Roger as a precocious child would have loved for your mother to “cut loose” and dance joyfully with you
Kay,
I appreciate your comments. I believe there was some “dancing” in my family of origin, and in the preceding generations as well–but it was secret listening and swaying to “the music.” I agree with you–the dance is a relationship as well as a physical manifestation of that. May we all find our way into the “dance,” and do so courageously.
Cheers to that,
Roger
Roger –
You and I have very different experiences on Sunday morning. Yours is intense and private and self-aware. Mine is ordinary, and in-and-out between private and being with others, and often thinking about what’s going on.
I arrive early for choir practice. I chafe at others’ being late. I get my books ready. I look over the service leaflet. Then others straggle in and eventually we practice. Then I set up my choir stall for what I’ll need. Then I vest. Then I go up to my place and sit. (I no longer process with the choir. I can’t process and sing at the same time – interstitial lung disease and a collapsed lung. I also sit throughout because I can’t stand for prolonged periods.) Once in place I look at the tiled floor. It’s composed of small, irregular, stone tiles, perhaps 3/4” square and some patterned stuff. I look and think – that’s like people, like the church, all these people bunched up one next to the other. And I think about other choir stalls and other floors I have looked at, and other congregations. And I think – it’s home. I’ve been here in many places. And in many circumstances, some not so hot. And I try to be quiet, but don’t do very well. Wandering mind. And then things begin and I sing with the others. And I watch the new rector. How he is doing things like me and unlike me. And I listen to the lessons, but my mind wanders. And I listen to the sermon, but my mind wanders. And we shake hands at the Peace. And I watch others. And I hope they won’t heave up the cash at the doxology the way Jane had them do – awful. And I try to be devout, but my mind wanders. And I say the great AMEN at the end of the canon. And then communion. And then the thanksgiving and those long long long long long repetitious announcements. I used to be very impatient for them to be over. Now I know they won’t be, and I approve of a congregation that has that much activity. So I tell myself to like them. I endure. And then we go out and I go home to be with Bert when she arrives. So I miss coffee hour.
How different can that be?
Oh yes, I can’t imagine my life without it. When I was a boy and later as a young priest I had intense experiences of worship. I don’t have them now. But I believe the reality of connection with God is there just the same. Or maybe I’m fooling myself, but I do believe it even without the experiences I used to have.
Warner
Warner,
Was it Jesus or Freud who said “timing is everything,” perhaps it was Leo Durocher–the feisty baseball player and manager. Jack Benny, who had impeccable timing, is a likely source of origin. Regardless, your comment was perfectly timed. I was sitting in a chair, head still after having read a devotional thought, and trying to meditate while a bout of vertigo sent me spinning. Saul might have experienced this when knocked off his ass on to his own while travelling the Damascus road. I got off my “bottom,” took my dizziness to the computer, and there were your thoughts. Thank you for writing them. I’ll let them sit [with me] because something palpable of kinship came to me between the lines or your words. Your regimen in worship is different from mine. That said, your meanderings sound familiar to me including impatience and forbearance, but with nuances and differing tones. Like you I am finding that I can’t imagine life without it–the worship, and for me the endless searching. If I’m going to fool myself I’m glad I’m in good company. I’ve never counted tiles, but I have numbered the designs on the ceiling. I suspect that whether we look up or down our soul’s direction stays on course. See you Sunday…
Roger
I hadn’t heard of the song, LORD OF THE DANCE, went on Youtube and found it to be one of most uplifting hymns I’ve ever heard. I love the image of Jesus dancing. A new spin, so to speak! To be so filled with His love and joy, we have to move our feet! Speaking of which, I went country dancing last night at a honky tonk in Chatsworth, CA. Something I haven’t done in over 20 years. It wasn’t church, but it was on a Sunday and I was spun around the dance floor doing the beautiful cowboy waltz and we two-stepped with the best of them with a smile that wouldn’t leave my face.
Dance then, wherever you may be
I am the Lord of the Dance, said He
And I’ll lead you all, wherever you may be
And I’ll lead you all in the Dance, said He
Jo Anne,
You are still smiling through your words–wonderful! Thanks for commenting and finding a miracle in the cowboy waltz! Roger
I remember the brief exercise in writing class, when stumped with an idea to write about something you had seen since you arrived you wrote about looking out the window outside your hotel on a warm summer night and spying an older couple dancing alone in the street to the rhythm of the arcing water from spigots… a downtown renovation project…weak in effectiveness but just enough to enhance the dance. Beautiful words from you then and now. Thank you.
Mary,
I remember that scene with fondness, and I hope the couple continues their dance! Thanks, Roger