A new poem: The Dance

A celebration of dance and prayer and how the two relate to one another...




I slouch

Knees inverted

My back against a wall

That is tall

In a hall

That is dim.

A wall flower

That is dying

And crying

And vying

For a chance to be noticed by Him.

My palms sweat

Brows wet

For someone I’ve rarely met

Who I’m sure won’t remember me.

He is well known

Well liked

Well loved

Well received

And I am

Well

No One.

The wallflower

A girl who is dying

And crying

And vying

For a chance to be noticed by Him.

He enters

I listen

My pulse races

As he paces

Closer to my side of the wall.

The girls he passes

Are more lovely than anything

I could dream

With skin made of cream

And eyes that gleam

Burst of blue, brown and green

And hair with glimmering sheen

And a body that seems

More schemed

Than natural.

He passes

These splashes

Of perfection

And glides closer to my side of the wall.

He sees me

The wallflower

That is dying

And crying

And vying

For a chance to be noticed by Him.

My palms sweat

Brows wet

For someone Ive rarely met

And he sets

His hand on mine

Pulling me onto the floor

Which is no easy chore

He powerfully whisks me into his arms

I blush

As a rush

Of adrenaline

Takes my feet into the air

Others stare

As we soar beyond time and space

I see only his face

When the ground crumbles beneath us.

We continue our dance

Until every circumstance

And the sorrow

Of tomorrow

Fade into oblivion.

In his arms

I am supported

No longer contorted

And defined

By my spine

Against a wall

But a fall

A fall into my lover’s arms

That disarms

Every fear

And tear

bringing cheer

As my dear

Pulls me in closer to his heart.

He calls to me

And I speak.

In his presence

I am no longer weak

And I finally reach my peak

I am who I want to be

I am who He made me to be

I laugh out loud

In the clouds

That shroud

The crowds below us.

The crowds yell at me from the valley.

They reach for me there.

I want to let go

I feel myself falling

But He is holding me still

He takes me to the mountain

And we dance on a fountain

Walking on water

My feet fodder

Making splashes

As I crash and

Bask in

All that He is.

I love this day

And the way

That we play

And we dance

And I say

Why can’t it always be this way

I hear him say

It is always so

When you pray

Because to pray

is to open the door

to the floor

where the one you adore

stands

waiting for a dance.

The Theologian

During a recent visit to the Midwest, I was sitting with a friend as she was telling me about her husband. As newlyweds often do, she went on and on, recounting every AMAZING detail of her lover’s persona. Then she said the strangest thing. Something that unwittingly made my stomach shift uncomfortably. As if reporting “the icing on the cake” trait in her beloved, she triumphantly stated “and he’s obsessed with theology too”.

Im not sure why it is, but every time I meet a Christian who is obsessed with theology, my spirit rolls its eyes. Something about that statement absolutely stupefies me. I have no doubt it’s me who’s to blame. Im not very holy. I daily border on the corner of irreverent and impatient. I am an admitted ragamuffin who’s untidiness makes it difficult to shuffle along from one day to the next. Theology has little tolerance for untidiness. Theology has no patience for loose ends.

Now I enjoy a good book every now and again that shows us a new aspect of God. I applaud authors who can take old scriptures and make them burst from the page. But in my short Christian life, most of the people who are excessively passionate about theology are like those who arrive at the theatre and miss the show.

I liken such individuals to my third grade English teacher, Ms. Mimms. I remember three things about Ms. Mimms. She had incredibly oily black skin and she spit when she spoke. The third thing I remember is that she was a by-the-book grammatical teacher. Ms. Mimms was very memorable to me because she helped me understand proper grammar and sentence construction. Most of what I know about grammar today is based on the exercises she taught me so long ago. Ms. Mimms taught me how to put a sentence together, but she couldn’t teach me how to make it memorable. With what she showed me, I was able to construct a story, but she did not teach me how to give it meaning. The only thing she could offer me was structure, but she could not take me to beauty. Good writing transcends grammar, transcends rules. It sends you to a new world, where images are turned inside out, rules are often broken, and sends you diving into a new experience.

Theology is a system that can help create meaning, but it is no end in itself. I believe truth is a person, and that person is Jesus. He dies again and again when he is dissected and put into jars. Though we appear to “understand” Him better, we are just looking at parts soaked in formaldehyde. He is alive. He is breathing. He is pursuing us and I want an encounter. I want to continuously experience Him on a human level. A level of true living and spiritual grandeur. I want to walk with Him in His kingdom on earth, and be His princess. I want to wear a crown and my favorite socks with the faded stripes and the hole in the middle. I want the freedom to experience His kingdom on earth, the perseverance to pursue justice and conquer violent oppression. I want more than grammar, more than words on a page. I want my life to write a significant and meaningful story of wanting Him, and wanting to want nothing else.

Im sure this won’t sit well with those of you who are learned scholars; those who are able to lose themselves in the abundant mysteries of God. I applaud people who are impassioned with their academic interest. There is indeed much to be gained from such knowledge. I think there is a subtle beauty in the tireless pursuit to study God. I also know in that beauty is a mess of arrogance and pride, ready and waiting to devour. God isn’t a punch line in an argument; can’t be diminished to a rebuttal in a debate. He is the period at the end of it all.