Called to Dance

“And those who were seen dancing were thought to be insane by those who could not hear the music.”

(Friedrich Nietzsche)

“The aim and final end of all music should be none other than the glory of God and the refreshment of the soul.”

(Johann Sebastian Bach)

I love music . . . all sorts of music (except for rap) . . . and, rarely does a day go by that I do not spend some time surrounded by music.  I am not an expert on music . . . especially church music.  Though I am a minister, I know very little about church music . . . or the theology of church music . . . or hymnology . . . or even the theology of secular music.  I took one, maybe two classes, in seminary dealing with church music . . . and, to be honest, I must have slept through them because I do not know anything about church music.  I share this because a friend and reader of this blog, knowing my ministerial background, asked me for my thoughts on church music.  This is my attempt at answering his request . . . and, hopefully, not sounding too dumb.

As much as I love music, I am not musical.  I cannot play an instrument . . . no piano, no guitar, no dulcimer, no flute, not even spoons.  I have a difficult time tapping my feet to the rhythms I hear . . . and, no I cannot chew gum and walk at the same time.  Nor can I sing . . . ask any congregation that I have ever served . . . ask my children who endure endless hours trapped in a car on vacation with their old man singing away to the music being played . . . ask the neighborhood dogs, and they will all vouch for me when I say that I cannot sing.  I am firmly in that camp that the psalmist refers to in the psalm asking people to make a “joyful noise unto the Lord!”  That is me despite my deep love for music.  With that disclaimer my statements are made out of a love for music and not out of an ability to perform it.

I think that music has always been . . . always been from the very beginning of God’s creation.  I think that it is like the air that we breathe . . . it surrounds us mostly unheard, but that it is always there waiting to be tapped into.  Some of us hear, some of us don’t.  I think that it is a big part of the contemplative life which calls all of us to silence so that we can hear . . . that we can hear the voice of God . . . and, that we can hear the music.  I think that the purpose of music is to take us to the depths of our souls . . . to open us to our real selves, the people that God created us to be . . . to open us up to ourselves and to the presence of the Holy . . . to open us to the true reality that remains after all the facades have been stripped away.  Like the presence of God, music surrounds us and we need to listen carefully to truly experience its holiness.

It has always amazed me . . . kept me in awe . . . how anyone can pick up an instrument and play music.  I have tried and I cannot produce music . . . noise, maybe, but not music.  It has always amazed me that someone Johann Sebastian Bach can sit at a piano or harpsichord and produce the great and beautiful music that we enjoy today.  I read once that he stated that all that music was just floating around in his head and all he had to do was to get it out of there and onto paper.  He said, “I play the notes as they are written, but it is God who makes the music.”  Music amazes me and puts me in awe . . . where does it come from?  Well, it is all around us . . . always around us.

In preparation of this blog I read a lot of articles about the purpose of church music.  There are as many opinions as to the purpose of church music as there are people writing them.  Yet, there is the central theme of “worship” in a lot of them.  The purpose of music is to worship . . . to worship God.  There are hundreds of references in the Bible towards this idea of music being used to worship God.  And, I guess that is as good a purpose as any other . . . it beats listening to the preacher.  Yet, I have been in a few churches and numerous services in which the music that was offered was less “worship” and more of a sacrifice.  I think the intentions were good, but the ability was not.  But, I can buy that music in church is to help worship God . . . sometime, though, I really think we ought to reconsider that when I hear some congregations sing.

Maybe music in church is to enhance the worship experience . . . not so much to worship God, but to entertain those who are gathered with a little heavenly noise.  We humans do not do well with silence . . . without music in church there would be a heck of a lot more silence.  That would not be good for business.  Using music to fill the gaps of silence in worship is like putting commercials into the service . . . sort of mind candy to occupy our minds during those slow, awkward moments of silence that make people uncomfortable.

Some churches and congregations use music to entertain the masses.  This is one that I hear a lot of complaints about from those whose churches believe that “traditional” is closer to the will of God, is done in red letter style, and holier than those churches into that Satanic, non-biblical, and paraphrased scriptures “contemporary” rock and roll offerings.  Of course this argument often has the age bias connected to it.  Is one form of church music better than another?  My goodness, there are as many different styles of church music as there is music in the world . . . there is Christian rock, Christian heavy metal, Christian reggae, Christian country, Christian bluegrass, and (I shudder) , Christian rap.  Everyone has an opinion . . . people are on both sides of the fence . . . and, the ones who are straddling the fence . . . well, those are the churches and congregations that have both the traditional and contemporary services being offered on the same day . . . or they do a “blended” service.  There is a church music war being waged and sometimes it gets pretty ugly.  Again, not good for business.

Personally, I really do not care.  The congregation that I am presently serving falls solidly in the traditional area . . . with a heavy splattering of the gospel music of Bill and Gloria Gaither.  We also have a lot of music that twenty, thirty, or even forty years ago was considered “contemporary”, but today it is thrown into the “traditional” category.  We often forget that the music that the great church musicians were writing and playing way back then was the rock and roll of their time.  I think that music has been unfairly labeled and categorized much like we humans have been.  Music is music . . . why do we need to label it?  We need to let music be music . . . to do its thing . . . and, to enjoy it.

I remember the first time that I had heard the hymn Amazing Grace played and sung to the tune of that rock and roll group’s song The House of the Rising Sun . . . wow, that was moving to the toes of my soul!  I suggested to the choir director of the church I was serving that we should try that in worship some time.  One would have thought that I had suggested blasphemy of the highest order.  Yeah, I know that the “house of the rising sun” was a house of prostitution . . . but this song gets into the holy.  Listen for yourself as the Blind Boys of Alabama sing it here.  (Yeah, I like the Blind Boys of Alabama!)  Music is music and if it gets me closer to knowing and understanding who I am as God created me . . . understanding the life I am living . . . getting me closer to God and the intimacy we have . . . then music has done its purpose.  It doesn’t have to be church music to do this.

As I stated at the beginning . . . music surrounds us like the air that we breathe.  Music’s purpose is to open us to ourselves and to God.  It is to strip away the barriers that keep us from touching the deepest roots of our own creation and who we are . . . it reveals our thoughts, feelings, and emotions whether we want to deal with them or not.  It reveals to us the Holy . . . the mystery of intimacy . . . it reveals to us the multi-faceted presence of God in so many unique and different ways that we are sometimes elated with joy or awestruck in fear.  Music is a means to the Holy . . . sometimes intentionally (like with church music), more times unintentionally.  Music moves us . . . makes us want to dance.  As the children of God we need to dance to the music we hear.  So what if no one else can hear it and think us crazy (Nietzsche) . . . it is a holy dance with the one who created us, loves us, and desires us to move in closer for the dance.  It doesn’t have to be church music that does that . . . any music can do that.  We just have to learn to listen.

Okay, last confession . . . I can’t dance either.  I know I joking say that after a few beers I am a regular Gene Kelly or Fred Astaire . . . but the truth is, beer lies to us.  But, I dance . . . it ain’t pretty, but I dance.  The Spirit . . . the music . . . moves me to dance.  Dance doesn’t even seem to care if I step on God’s toes.  I am not going waste time arguing with anyone about the music that should be played in churches because it takes away my time of listening to the music that is already there . . . like the air that we breathe . . . and, I can’t dance when I am arguing.  Whatever it takes to get you to dance . . . play it.  God wants to dance.

Dancing with a Limp

“You will lose someone you can’t live without,

and your heart will be badly broken, and the bad news is

that you never completely get over the loss of your beloved.

But this is also the good news.

They live forever in your broken heart that doesn’t seal back up.

And you come through. It’s like having a broken leg that never heals perfectly—that still hurts when the weather gets cold, but you learn to dance with the limp.”

(Anne Lamott)

In a sense, the social media on the Internet makes for strange bedfellows . . . you never know who will up being someone you care for . . . someone who touches your life . . . someone who becomes a relationship in your life . . . people, who, in a million years, you never imagined would be a part of your existence.  As an introvert who appreciates and protects his privacy zone around his heart, I never imagined that I would be touched by the life another person who I have never personally met . . . who lives many, many miles away . . . and, is much older than I am.  But, it happens.

It started awhile back when I received a comment on one of the writings I posted on my blog . . . kind of a humorous, backhanded compliment . . . a note from another introvert who happened to like what I wrote.  Kind of made me feel good . . . especially when this individual eventually asked me to “friend” him on Facebook.  Suddenly I was wondering if this was one of those strange stalking types . . . but, it turned out to be a nice old guy in Michigan with a wickedly dry sense of humor that made me smile (and, at times, laugh) who had once lived in Montana.  Turns out . . . he wasn’t so bad.

Our relationship as so-called “friends” was pretty much lived on the pages of social media found on the Internet.  If I wrote something that tickled his funny bone or made him think . . . I got a quick comment and a thumbs up.  I looked forward to those moments when they appeared.  I looked forward to seeing his name or picture show up on either my blog or Facebook page.  He made my day and validated my efforts at either humor or wisdom.  Unbeknownest to either of us, we actually were starting to care for one another even though we had never met face-to-face.  Would this fellow be someone I ever sought out as a friend?  Probably not . . . but, as I stated, social media on the Internet makes for some strange bedfellows.

It was not until early this morning that I came to the knowledge of how much of a relationship there really was between the two of us.  It was just a quick short note . . . not to anyone in particular, but to all who were his “friends” on Facebook: “Midge passed away early this morning. There will be no service. That's not a religious or philosophical statement about anything, just a personal preference that we agreed on much earlier. And thanks for understanding my personal need to spend much time alone and quiet.”  Words spoken like a true introvert—which my friend is.  My unseen friend had suffered the death of someone significant in his life . . . his wife.  My heart was broken.

Brokenness seems to be a big part of grief . . . the heart is broken, sometimes shattered, when someone whom we have greatly loved dies.  And, as hard as we try we can never get the shattered pieces back together again as they once were . . . no matter how long we try, we can never get our hearts back to what they once were.  There is always a piece missing . . . especially when that love is deep and long.  As a minister I have witnessed this over and over again when dealing with death with people within the congregations I have served.  As a son who has had both his parents die . . . I can speak to this.  And, in one of the greatest losses in my life—as silly as it may sound, when my beloved Boxer died . . . my heart was shattered.  The hurt is sharp and it echoes . . . yes, echoes . . . through the whole body to the root of our souls.  Grief is not for the faint-hearted . . . and, because this is the case, I ached for my friend and the pain he must be feeling.

Also, as a minister, the expectation is that I will know what words to say to those who grieve . . . but, in all honesty, I do not know.  It is a crap shoot, and those who grieve will tell you that sometimes they just wish the minister would just shut up.  So, I have learned that there is not a whole bunch that needs to be said.  Sometimes there are no words that could ever express the emotions and feelings of someone who has experienced a death in his or her life.  Sometimes the best thing and only thing that could ever happen is to just be there . . . be there in silence . . . be there to listen . . . be there to embrace . . . be there to take the anger and beating . . . to just be there.  To be there no matter how long it takes because it will always be there.

Much time alone and quiet . . . again, spoken like the true introvert he is, my friend has shared his needs.  It is not selfish, it is not cold and aloof . . . it is a time for remembering, for laughter, for tears . . . time for anger, a time for letting go, a time for healing . . . a time for learning how to dance with a limp.  Life has suddenly changed for my friend . . . it will never be the same, the love of his life has died . . . my heart cracked a bit too, for my friend.

These words, as empty as they might be . . . are all I can offer to my friend.  But, if I were there, I would hug my friend (as much as it would make him flinch in true introvert fashion), and then just sit with him in the still quietness of his grief.  I would let him know that I, too, dance with a limp . . . a limp that seems to get more and more pronounced the older I get.  For my friend who is far, far away . . . known, but unmet . . . I offer you my prayers, my thoughts, and my presence.  In the end, when you are ready, we will dance with a limp in celebration of a life well lived and shared.  God be with you, my friend . . . Clif.

Tiny Dancer

“You've gotta dance like there's nobody watching,

Love like you'll never be hurt,

Sing like there's nobody listening,

And live like it's heaven on earth.”

(William W. Purkey)

I have never been comfortable dancing.  I think it happened at some point when I was in college . . . on a date.  The young lady I had taken out that particularly evening wanted to go dancing, so we went out dancing.  Well, at least that is what I thought we were going to do . . . instead it became a critique of my inability to dance.  I did this wrong . . . I did that wrong . . . I was too rigid . . . I wasn’t loose enough . . . I looked foolish.  Needless to say, that was our last date.  But, sadly, the damage had been done.  What little comfort I had for dancing (along with my ego) was dashed upon the dancing floor.  I believed her.

Ever since then I avoid dancing like the plague.  I jokingly say that I cannot dance until I have a few beers, but that is actually the truth.  I have pretty much limited my dancing to required events in our family’s life . . . mainly having to do the “father/daughter” dance at my daughter’s wedding.  Talk about pressure!  Having to dance in front of all of those people!  Just me and her . . . let’s just say, I survived . . . and, I did it with only one beer in me!  The daughter did not care how well I danced . . . she loves me and it was a “father/daughter” moment.

The truth of the matter is . . . I do like to dance . . . only I like to dance when no one is watching.  But, that is changing.  That is changing thanks to my 14-month old granddaughter . . . she is a tiny dancer.  By the time that that little itty bitty girl could move, she has grooved to the music.  Dancing is in her blood . . . and, it does not matter what the music is . . . this little girl likes to boogie.  She has danced with belly dancers at the state fair . . . gotten down to the polka at the local town celebration . . . she bops with whatever music is playing . . . and, she loves it.

I love watching my granddaughter dance.  There is great joy in her movement . . . deep feeling in her concentration . . . and, there is always that smile.  Her smile can melt ice.  She does not care if anyone sees her.  She does not care if she has rhythm.  She does not care whether or not she is getting the steps down.  She does not care if anyone criticizes her.  She just likes to dance.  Dancing makes her happy.  Her dancing makes me happy . . .

. . . in fact, it inspires me.  Makes me want to get up and boogie with her.  So, we do. Whenever we have the chance, the tiny dancer and I dance.  Yeah, the family laughs . . . but, so do we . . . the granddaughter and I . . . we laugh too.  We laugh for the joy . . . we laugh for the love . . . we laugh because for a moment we get lost in one another . . . creating whatever memories we can.  We live like it is heaven on earth.

Years from now, I hope that I get that opportunity to dance one more time, just as I did with my granddaughter’s mother, at her wedding.  That we get to close our eyes, get lost in the music, get lost in one another, and dance . . . dance as if no one is watching . . . like we will never be hurt . . . lost in the joy no matter how silly we look to anyone else.  This tiny dancer has given me joy . . . great joy.  It feels right.  It feels good.  To the tiny dancer, I say, “Thank you!!”

Grandpa Is Getting Old

I’m getting too old for this stuff . . .

This weekend the wife and I are babysitting our 14-month old granddaughter as her mother and father attend a wedding in the big city.  It was with great exuberance that the wife and I volunteered to take on this duty . . . we wanted to watch her.  We wanted to watch her in all of her non-ending youthfulness, non-ending energy, constantly walking, constantly wandering away, constantly getting into stuff . . . never wanting to take a nap . . . never wanting to go to sleep . . . and, constantly wanting to be noticed; yeah, we wanted to watch her . . . and, after one day we are wondering what we were thinking!!  We are getting too old for this stuff and she isn’t even a teenager yet!!

Now, don’t get me wrong . . . my granddaughter is the coolest and best thing that has ever happened.  I miss the punk when I don’t get to see her at least once a week . . . which probably prompted the wife and I into volunteering to watch the kiddo this weekend.  The kids moved to another big city in Montana a couple of hours away a few weeks ago.  I had not seen the kid since they moved . . . I was having granddaughter withdrawal.  So we volunteered . . . and, the adventure began.

The day began bright and early as we all heading off to the mountains to do a little “moosing”.  Moosing, for those of you who do not know what I am referring to, is cruising the back roads looking for moose.  To properly do “moosing” one has to get up very, very early . . . on the road by 6:00AM.  Without a complaint or even a whimper, the granddaughter joined us adults for a early morning of moose hunting.  She was a real trooper even though she was stuck in her car seat for a couple of hours . . . the reward was that we saw seven moose.  We saw three sets of momma moose and their children, and we saw one bull moose.  Unfortunately, at 14-months of age, the granddaughter will never remember any of it!

After a couple of hours of moosing, we headed to breakfast at one of the wife’s favorite eating establishment.  There the granddaughter was a blast.  Grabbing everything and anything . . . babbling away . . . flirting with people at other tables . . . and, demanding to taste everything that was on the table.  Constant energy . . . constant motion . . . and, constant noise.  I loved it!!  Who doesn’t like being with the cutest person in the room?

From there we decided to do a little walking around town . . . do a little shopping . . . after all, the acorn doesn’t fall far from the tree, and daughter and wife seemed to think there was a need to do a little shopping.  Fourteen month olds really don’t care much for shopping.  Fourteen month olds want to explore . . . search and destroy . . . go on what they think are Indian Jone’s adventure worthy of the silver screen.  The granddaughter was up to the task . . . we walked around countless stores . . . we tested the limits of a lot of store owners . . . tested the limits of Grandpa.  The punk must have walked a couple of miles!  The rest, Grandpa carried her.  Needless to say, even though she is quite petite, Grandpa got tired.

We walked the streets . . . we petted dogs . . . we looked in windows . . . sat on park benches . . . wandered the aisles of every store within a hundred miles . . . danced.  Yeah, I said, dance.  This granddaughter likes to dance . . . she likes to boogey.  Doesn’t matter the music, when the spirit hits her to dance, she dances.  Of course my dancing is not much better than my singing . . . but, being a grandparent cuts a person a little slack . . . people expect grandparents to act like idiots.  I need a granddaughter thirty years ago!! 

Again, I was tired.  She wore me out . . . she wore her parents out.  But, they were lucky as they were heading out and going to a wedding rehearsal.  A tear entered my eye as they pulled away from the house . . . what had we gotten ourselves into!!  A 14-month old and a nearly elderly couple . . . someone was going to lose in the end.

From the time that our granddaughter’s parents left she was a constant blur of activity.  She was a ball of energy . . . constantly moving energy.  Her grandparents, unfortunately, were not . . . we were more like the immovable blobs that wanted to sit on the couch and reminiscence about the good old days when we just sat there and held our granddaughter.  It was low energy, low impact. 

I do want you to know, there were chinks in the granddaughter’s armor.  She did start to get tired . . . which meant she got grumpy . . . but we were under strict orders to not let her sleep until her bedtime at seven o’clock.  That was nearly four hours away when the parents left . . . the wife didn’t make it.  She crashed in her recliner for a “ten-minute” nap that lasted nearly an hour . . . much to my horror!  I did a whole lot of walking around the yard and house with the granddaughter . . . we picked grandma’s flowers . . . walked up and down steps . . . danced in front of the bedroom mirrors . . . ate a lot of Cheerios . . . and, basically wore Grandpa out.  It was then that Grandpa decided that he was getting too old for this stuff.

Yet, we survived.  The granddaughter has now been asleep for over two hours . . . sawing logs.  Grandma has already hit the sack.  Grandpa is drinking beer, writing a blog, and wondering how in the world he is ever going to survive tomorrow when Grandma goes grocery shopping for a few hours, leaving him alone with the granddaughter.  He is not sure, but . . . he will survive.  He always survives to see his granddaughter another day.

At the end of a day with the granddaughter there is exhaustion.  Yeah, this exhaustion manifests itself physically in my body, but it is a “good” sort of exhaustion.  I love my granddaughter.  I love her 14-month old sense of adventure and wonder.  I love her goofiness.  I love her dancing.  I love her babbling.  I love holding her in my arms as she clings to hang on.  I love her “honking” my nose.  I love her sharing her food with the dogs.  I love her constant motion.  I love her laughter . . . and, I even love her tears.  She is a hoot . . . the best hoot I ever get.  She reminds me what it means to live life to its fullest . . . because she does each and every moment she is awake.  Yeah, it is exhausting, but it is a good exhaustion no matter what age one might be . . . it is life lived with joy.

My granddaughter is a blessing.  I thank God each and every day for this blessing.  I am not too old, she is too young . . . but the blessings are numerous . . . too numerous to count.  She makes me smile . . . she makes me laugh . . . she makes me sing . . . she makes me dance, but most of all she makes me feel loved.  No matter how old I get, I will never get enough of that sort of stuff.