News from the Tomb

If you ask me where I’ve been, I’ll tell you, “In the tomb.”

My amateur blogging career is sporadic at best. I started blogging as part of a 2013 New Year’s Resolution. My resolution was to blog at least once a month and only blog if I actually had something worth reading. That lasted a few months, then life got hard and I went underground. Then life got really, really hard and went to the tomb.

I went to the tomb the day my marriage surprisingly and suddenly ended. I went into the tomb the day my life partner of nine-years left, the day my hope for a family died, the day my life as I knew it died. I went and crawled up next to a dead Jesus, cried, and died myself.

My faith died in that tomb. Who I thought I was as a wife died in that tomb. My hopes and dreams died in that tomb. A life I had spent my adulthood building died in that tomb. My closest friendships died in that tomb. And I spent months, depressed, sleeping, crying in that tomb. Some days, Jesus and I talked, but most of the time, things were just dead. I spent a lot of time in bed and I spent a lot of time staring at a blank wall in my therapist’s office - which, incidentally, is painted tomb-color.

For those of you following the RCL readings for Holy Week, you will know that on Tuesday, we read these words from the Gospel of John, Chapter 12.

Jesus said, “The hour has come for the Son of Man to be glorified. Very truly, I tell you, unless a grain of wheat falls into the earth and dies, it remains just a single grain; but if it dies, it bears much fruit. Those who love their life lose it, and those who hate their life in this world will keep it for eternal life. Whoever serves me must follow me, and where I am, there will my servant be also.

-John 12: 23-26, NRSV

Earlier this week, my therapist and I met to bury my marriage. We gathered on the outskirts of the cemetery, thirty-feet away from tombstones which read, “Love always” and “Together Forever” and “Love Endures.” I could have closed my eyes and thrown a rock and hit engraved, intertwined wedding bands on a tombstone in whatever direction I chose. Even the “Lovins” were buried within our line of vision. I can't make this stuff up.

I sat on cold dark earth with a shovel in my hand overlooking a valley filled with wind-blown, winter cemetery trash and dead trees not-quite-yet budding blooms of spring. My therapist said some words. I looked at her and said, “This is ridiculous.. Are we in a Lifetime movie?”

And then, I started weeding. Tearing out the way in which things terribly and tragically ended. Throwing out unwanted trash of the dark pieces of my soul. Remembering how I was uprooted. Destroying the shame of being divorced. Digging out the ways I was made to feel responsible. And I dug and dug deeper and deeper into my anger, sadness, grief, fear, and darkness.

I planted a bulb. A dormant vine of hope in the middle of a hopeless winter. A seed which contained beauty and love. A seed which remembered laughter, love, joy, and life; a seed that is laughter, love, joy, and life; a seed that will be laughter, love, joy, and life.  And I gave thanks for all the ways my marriage held laughter, love, joy, and life. For my current relationships of laughter, love, joy, and life. And for the ways I hope to find those relationships in the future.

I buried the bulb. Amidst dark earth I buried the anger, sadness, grief, fear, and darkness I had just un-dug. I prayed with all my heart, that in the depth of that large, recently dug hole, new life would sprout forth again for both myself and my former husband.

I watered. I poured clean water over the sins of the past. I washed away hatred. I asked for forgiveness. And I looked forward to spring - new life, new growth, new beauty.

It no longer felt like a Lifetime movie, it felt real. And I thought, “That Jesus, he really knew what he was talking about.” He knew what he was talking about when he said, “Very truly, I tell you, unless a grain of wheat falls to the earth and dies, it remains just a single grain; but if it dies, it bears much fruit. Those who love their life lose it, and those who hate their life this world will keep it for eternal life. Whoever serves me must follow me, and where I am, there my servant will be also.”

Easter is on it’s way. New life, resurrection, are on their way. I know because I’ve seen Jesus in the tomb. But I also know, he didn’t stay there for long and he didn’t allow me to stay there for long.  I know because I've been there and I believe. I believe in Jesus Christ who suffered under Pontius Pilate, was crucified, died and buried. Who descended into the dead. On the third day he rose again, and is seated at the right hand of the Father. I believe in the Holy Spirit, the holy catholic church, the forgiveness of sin, the resurrection of the body, and life everlasting.

If you need proof, there’s a vine on the outside of a cemetery about to sprout up. The packaging on the bulb said, “Guaranteed.”

Today is not about MY family

Dear Mass Media,

Today is not about MY family. Today, for the first time in my life, I find myself watching television on Christmas. As I watch commercial after commercial, you say, "the holidays are all about family." The commercials are followed by beautiful stories of families reunited after prison, illness, and living far away. The implication is that Christmas is about my family. 

American media, you are wrong. For the first time in thirty-six years, I have come to the realization that Christmas is not about MY family. It is Christmas Day. I have no husband because he walked out on me. I am not surrounded by nieces, nephews, and countless loving in-laws. My sisters are in two different cities. Today, my mother and I have taken shifts with my dying grandmother. My family life feels destroyed, in shambles, and turned upside down. 

And yet, last night, despite MY family, Christ was born. Because this is where Chris is born - into messiness and brokenness instead of picture perfectness. He is born in a barn instead of a clean hotel. He is born into the literal feces of our mucked up lives. He comes to comfort those who mourn, feed those who are hungry, and to release the captive. He comes to bring peace, love, honor, wonder and hope. In a world where we are often hard on ourselves and others, he is born an infant of sweet tenderness. 

I am not saying Christ is not present in a perfect family picture, gathered around a table of ham. Christ always gathers where people call on his name. However, if we think Christmas is about OUR family instead of THE family, we may miss the point.

Sent from my iPhone

Puppy Crying: Christian or Southern Behavior?

An inter-web confession: I dropped a puppy and I feel awful.

Last Sunday, after I was leaving church a beautiful couple was walking through our parish parking lot. In tow, they had a six week old puppy. I love puppies! Who doesn’t? In the midst of striking up conversation, I crouched on the ground, distractedly playing with the puppy. They asked if I wanted to pick the puppy up. Of course I wanted to pick the puppy up. So I did. We chatted. And then, I dropped the puppy. In reality, the puppy preformed a dare-devil leap out of my arms, but it felt like I dropped the puppy.

The puppy hurt. It laid on the ground it cried. I felt terrible. The couple tried to calm me down, explaining that it had performed similar feats for others. They would use ice. It would be okay. But I left wondering what damage I had done – Would the puppy recover? Had it had a concussion? Would it have some sort of brain injury? There was no blood, but that puppy fell four feet and it was ugly.

We are not puppies. Unlike that precious puppy, who only had the vocabulary of whimpering, we have words to articulate the ugliness of our pain. We can say where exactly the pain is, what feelings it brings up, and what damage has been done. Although we may not be able to articulate all of that all of the time, we can, for the most part, articulate some of that some of the time. Over and over again this week, I have been confronted with the pain we have caused others and the pain we ourselves feel from the actions of others.

What is surprising to me is that we don’t often use our words. Just like the whimpering puppy, we often do not share outside our inner groaning. Sometimes the pain is too deep, sometimes we ignore it, sometimes we choose not to articulate it. I was reminded this week, by Kay Collier McLaughlin (Deputy for Communications and Leadership Development in our Diocese), that expressing our feelings of hurt is CHRISTIAN behavior. Often, in the South, we confuse being nice with being Christian. This is not always the case. Jesus, who we believe to be our ultimate example, used his words and actions to tell people he was angry when the temple had become a “den of robbers” instead of a “house of prayer” (Matthew 21). When the people of Israel were impatient from waiting too long on Moses, and God, they made a golden calf instead, and God expressed anger (Exodus 32). When the king threw a great wedding banquet and sent his servants out to invite people, his servants were seized, mistreated and killed. And the king was enraged (Matthew 22). Over and over again, scripture gives us examples of how we, God, and Jesus may express anger, hurt, and sadness to those who cause us pain. It doesn’t sound Southern, but it might sound Christian.

I am surprised that in nine full-time church ministry years, very few people have approached me to say, “When you did X, I felt angry.” In nine years of ministry, it would be impossible for me to think that I have not unintentionally hurt anyone. If I can unintentionally drop a puppy on one Sunday, I know I have unintentionally dropped numerous human feelings. Those conversations would not surprise me, and I would welcome them in order to reconcile people to me and towards God. I would treasure those conversations because they would give me an opportunity to grow, to become a better person, and to be closer to the person God desires me to be. If we don’t state our feelings, we don’t give the other person the opportunity to change.

God has gifted us a wonderful vocabulary of feeling words to express our pain. Psychology has given us wonderful tools to express those in ways without further hurt to our neighbor. Anyone, who has ever met with a counselor, knows how to use I statements. “When you did X, I felt Y.” God has given us permission to feel, psychology an example of how to state those feelings. Using a statement which owns your feelings without placing all the blame on the other person, is the perfect medium between Christian truth and Southern nicety. May you and I use our vocabulary for reconciliation, to make the world a better place, and to live into the people we are constantly being created to be.

And for all the dropped puppies out there, I am sorry. I truly am.

_______

Further reading: Kay Collier McLaughlin, Becoming the Transformative Church: Beyond Sacred Cows, Fantasies, and Fears (New York: Morehouse, 2013). 

God's Healing is Yellow

Many moons ago, I had a particular experience in ministry that was particularly hurtful to me. It is not important what the exact experience was. What is important is how God’s grace healed me.

For years, I carried around what I call hurtful experience. It ate at me. It poisoned me. I was not able to let it go. In early December 2013, I made a conscious decision to let it go. I prayed, I discerned, but it would not go away. I tried my best to release hurtful experience on the Zumba dance floor. To no avail, I ended up with a debilitating, slow-healing, painful case of tendentious of the hip. Like Jacob wrestling with God in the Jabbok, I was wrestling with God over letting hurtful experience go, and I would not get up until God gave God’s blessing.

December, February, March, and April I wrestled with God, hurting hip and all. At the end of April, I attended retreat with female ministers sponsored by the Kentucky Council of Churches with funds provided by the Lilly Foundation. It was during this retreat, my wrestling ended and my hip was healed.

The purpose of the grant funds were to ensure that ministers were taking care of themselves by receiving hospitality and healing through peer groups. As givers of constant hospitality and healing, ministers do not often allow themselves spaces of grace, or finances to treat themselves to instances of hospitality. And so, off to the spa our group went.

Laying on the massage table, the therapist begins to vigorously work my hip. It hurts. It hurts like hell. I want to scream, but there is a colleague receiving a massage next to me, so I do not. A tear falls to the ground. The therapist continues to push. And as she pushes, the Spirit says to me- “Let it go. Let the hurtful experience go. Another tear.

She pushes more and more, and I start to let it out. The therapist moves down my leg, and as she does, I see a vision. A vision of myself, standing in a large open field. The field is full of yellow flowers. Janquils, yellow rod, daises, speckle the spring green grass. A bubbling spring runs behind me with clear water. It is peaceful. The sun is shining down upon me. I am ultimately, blissfully happy. I am dancing, twirling in a circle with a wide smile, holding a yellow flower.

The music in the spa changes. It is a rendition of “It is Well with my Soul.” My heart sings –

When peace like a river attendeth my soul

When sorrows like sea billows roll

 Whatever my lot, though has taught me to say

 It is well, it is well with my soul.

Thanks be to God, I feel well for the first time in months. It is gone, hurtful experience  is gone.

The vision continues. The dream calls me to the water behind me. It calls me to write hurtful experience on a piece of paper and float it down the river.  So, in my dream, I do. And as that paper floats away, so do the years of anger, contempt, and struggle. The music in the spa changes,

When I find myself in times of trouble,

Mother Mary comes to me
Speaking words of wisdom, let it be
And in my hour of darkness
She is standing right in front of me
Speaking words of wisdom, let it be
Let it be, let it be
Let it be, let it be
Whisper words of wisdom, let it be

And when the broken hearted people
Living in the world agree
There will be an answer, let it be
For though they may be parted
There is still a chance that they will see
There will be an answer, let it be
Let it be, let it be
Let it be, let it be
Yeah there will be an answer, let it be
Let it be, let it be
Let it be, let it be
Whisper words of wisdom, let it be.
     

Five days after the celebration of Jesus resurrection, I sit, naked under my own shroud. Like the tomb, the spa is dark. Like Jesus’ broken body, I am draped in white cloth. 
            But Lord, tis for thee, thy coming we wait

            The sky not the grave is our goal.

            Oh trump of the angel, oh voice of the Lord

            Blessed hope, it is well with my soul.

Like the excitement of the Disciple’s who do not find Jesus in the tomb, I am ecstatic. Naked before God, I want to run, skip, jump through the fields praising God’s healing power. Like the man at the pool of Bethzada, I am ready to stand up and walk.

            And the Lord haste the day when my faith shall be sight

            The clouds be rolled back as a scroll

            The trump shall resound and the Lord shall descend

            Even so, It is well with my soul.

I am ready to rise, yet I cannot. I sit. Stunned by amazing grace. I cannot move. Tears flow, tears of joy and more joy. Tears of a new baptism, a remembrance of my calling as a minister to Christ’s church. Tears that I am God’s beloved child. And so I lay, peaceful. Non-moving, unable to arise from my state of new birth, enjoying the warmth of my burial shroud. Let it be.

 Later that afternoon, our group returns to our cabin. I already know that God plans my afternoon for more quiet. Members of my group go to take naps and prayer time. I walk. Carrying a journal, prayer book, and my colored pencils in hand, I travel away from our cabin. This is a new place for me, I’ve never ventured there before. But I have the sense, in God’s providence, there is a stream, and yellow flowers. I follow a stream to a large field. It is a baseball field, not a meadow. There are no yellow flowers, but is close enough.

I sit. I write. I write about “It is Well” and “Let it be.” I draw my vision – yellow flowers, me dancing, sun shining, the stream behind me. When I am finished, I write hurtful experience on a piece of paper. I walk over to the stream and I drop it in.

At first  hurtful experience moves slowly. It stops and pools. Then, it begins to run quickly over rapids. Like a child, I follow it with joy. Like an adult, I follow it pensively. My anger towards hurtful experience has become such a defining factor for my life, it feels like I am letting go all of me. Again, the paper floats slowly, then more rapids. I run, but I am blocked from its sight by a group of trees. When I reach the other side, the paper is gone – swallowed by deep cleansing waters.

            It is gone. I am not sure I am ready for hurtful experience to be gone, but it is gone. I thank God – for helping me to let go of the anger, the resentment, the unkind words, the hateful feelings I have towards the people involved in the hurtful experience.  I say goodbye, and I give thanks to God for healing. And, then, I see them! A great bunch of yellow daises growing between two rocks, planted directly between my two feet. Yellow flowers, given to me, on this day, by God, just for me.

I turn to walk back to the cabin. It is the field of my vision. Not visible before on my walk down, but everywhere on my return to the cabin – yellow flowers. Daises, natural violets, goldenrod, dandelions. Flowers everywhere, and they are all yellow. Thanks be to God, they are all yellow!

Art credits to Cliff Sullivan, Lexington, Kentucky. The picture does not do the painting justice. https://www.facebook.com/pages/Cliffs-Art/131025403608120

I Believe in All That Is, Seen and Unseen.

“We believe in one God,
the Father, the Almighty,
 maker of heaven and earth,
of all that is, seen and unseen.” – Nicene Creed

In light of yesterday’s Ham-Nye debate, I offer a personal story.

I grind my teeth at night. To prevent damage, I wear a bite-guard – similar to a retainer. Last night, after brushing my teeth, I realized I had not returned it to the proper place. It was missing. I searched the house, every room, long and hard. I prayed the St. Anthony prayer. No avail. I slept poorly without a bite-guard and woke up with a headache.  

This morning, I woke up early, determined to find it. I tore the house apart – high and low, room to room. I moved couch cushions and emptied drawers. I even began to sweep! Finally, I gave up.

A bit of background: We are the second owners of a house built in the late 50’s. Prior to our living here, the previous owner, Miriam, died in the house. I never knew her, but since the day we moved in I have felt her presence in this house. She is kind and loving, and a bit set in her ways. We know that she was an excellent house keeper, so she is always both intimidating and pushing me to clean.  My husband thinks I am crazy.

This morning, as I was giving up, I had a conversation with Miriam. It went something like this… “Miriam, I love your house. I know I am not a good house keeper, but we do the best to keep it as clean as we can. We are having a great time here. I am missing a bite-guard and I have looked everywhere. I’ve been through every room. As soon as I got up this morning, I sifted through a beer soaked recycle bin (which should have given you a good laugh). I’m about to go through the trash. The trash is really gross because we had a Super Bowl party the other night. If you are to blame for this, I am starting to get mad at you. So, you can laugh at me while I am going through the trash, or you can help me out.” I took one last look around the house and then dug out the trash.

I dug through the first layer of yesterday’s vegetable peels, through the second layer of beer soaked party napkins and down to the third layer of old coffee grinds. FYI, two-day old coffee grinds are REALLY disgusting.  Half way through the bag and hands covered in grinds, I said, “Miriam, seriously, this is gross.” On my next handful of coffee grinds, my eye caught my bite guard to the right!  Safe outside the trash, half-way visible in a fold of a towel on our kitchen towel rack.

I’m not advocating for white Casper-like spirits. I do not know if Miriam and I had a connection this morning or not, but I have worked in the church far too long to rule out things unseen. I have listened to too many first count experiences of dreams, visions, conversations and coincidences with parishioners’ friends and family who they love but see no longer. I too, have had my own experiences, beyond Miraim , of dreams and visions of those who are no longer with us in living, physical form. I don’t know how the afterlife is real, or what it looks like, but I know it exists.

I must confess, I did not spend time watching the entire 2.5 hour Nye-Ham debate.  I don’t know that I will ever give it 150 minutes of my life. But I have been on social media and CNN enough this morning to realize that Nye’s arguments for creation sound a lot more like my faith than Ham’s. There is extreme beauty within the mystery of earth’s formation.  Not knowing how atoms were formed or how they came into being, resonates with my belief in God as beautiful and mysterious creator, of whom, I would like to more about but of who I will never know completely how or why. Not needing to have a step by step explanation for how consciousness was transferred into matter, gives my heart room to wonder. If we do not know how consciousness is held within matter, is there consciousness outside of matter? Could there be? Could that be God?  Could God’s consciousness somehow be transferable and inside me? I sure hope so! Could consciousness somehow change the physical matter of plain bread into something sacred and beyond ourselves? 

There are many things I do not understand, yet they exist. I don’t fully understand how this computer works, but I trust it. I certainly do not understand how this blog is transferred to you by 1's and 0's, but you are reading. I do not fully understand how my car works, but I drive it. I don't remember the chemical reaction for yeast. I do not fully understand how my body keeps breathing, but it does. And for all of the cars, computers, and hearts there are millions more things beyond me that I cannot see, do not understand and have never experienced. And I believe that computers, cars, heartbeats and interwebs are just a tiny spec of the iceberg on adventures into the unseen. 

Big and small, I put my trust in mysteries every day. I believe in big mysteries. I believe in Bill. I believe in the unseen. 

Why I left Him: A Sincerely Christian Apology

Dear Big-Steeple-Mega-Church-Preacher,

I attended your church on Sunday and I left halfway through your sermon. I am truly sorry.

For the past month, I have been attending churches throughout our city – some big, some small, some liturgical, some not. I’ve sung gospel hymns, praise and worship choruses, out of books and on screens. I’ve listened to rock and roll and offerings in Latin, Greek, and Spanish.  I’ve prayed to her, him and them. I’ve managed to do so with an open heart. I’ve found God’s amazing love in places I least expected it – in worship communities far removed from my own home base of Anglicanism. I have truly enjoyed worshiping in all sorts of places, with all sorts of people.  

I have prayed using all sorts of terms for God over the past month. I’m not big on referring to God in masculine terms.  Years of seminary and looking at my own relationships with men and women in my life want me to believe that God is much bigger than “him” or “her.”  I’d like to think God is both, or better yet, more. Your opening praise hymns got under my skin a little, but I kept an open mind. I really wanted to worship with you.

Then, it happened – the sermon which saddened me deeply. The sermon which called out Anglicans, Eastern Orthodox and Catholics everywhere for worshiping idols through though icons lit with candles and incense. I have icons and I occasionally use them to pray. I occasionally seek places that have icons as personal solitude and respite and as windows to God, not God on their own, but as visions of God’s love, work, and beauty beyond what the white walls of my home look like. When you stated that deeply devoted Christians who find pilgrimage and solace in statues like Christ the Redeemer in Brazil and Bolivia are worshiping idols, you really lost me. That’s when I walked out.  The only thing that would have lost me faster was a discussion on gay hate.

I’ve been on those pilgrimages, not to Corcovado or to San Pedro, but to altars in Italy and Lexington. I’ve sat and walked on bended and hurting knees to attempt to glimpse at Christ on staircases and altars with incense and icons. That devotion allowed me to contemplate Jesus’ deep sacrifice for us in powerful ways. 

I came to your church on the eve of Martin Luther King, Jr.’s Birthday – a day when we celebrate unity, justice, and respect for all people. Martin Luther King, certainly understood sacrifice far beyond my sore devotional knees. That night, God spoke to me in another form of devotion – dream.

Sometime, during the night, I too had a dream – a dream that I was in trouble and lost. A dream where I needed help – and a former boyfriend was there to pick me up, hug me, and get me safely to a car. Like Jesus, my ex-boyfriend saved me. When I awoke this morning, I logged on to check his facebook page. It was filled with images of Phil – you know, gay-hating, duck-hunting, Phil Robertson, Phil. Had God sent me a dream in the night, that Jesus could have been a gay-hater? That is not my Jesus and there is no way God would send me that message on the eve of MLK!

Dear Big-Steeple-Mega-Church-Preacher, you and I actually agree on something. Whereas I believe icons are forms of devotion and not idols, whereas, I believe dreams are God’s inner spirit working and not satanic spirits, we both agree that much of our devotion should come through scripture. Imagine my surprise when God had these words for me today –

To you who are ready for the truth, I say this: Love your enemies. Let them bring out the best in you, not the worst. When someone gives you a hard time, respond with energies of prayer for that person. If someone slaps you in the face, stand there and take it. If someone grabs your shirt giftwrap your best coat and make a present of it. If someone takes unfair advantage of your, use the occasion to practice the servant life. No more tit-for-tat stuff. Live generously.

Here is a simple rule of thumb for behavior: Ask yourself what you want people to do for you; then grab the inactive and do it for them!  If you only love the loveable, do you expect a pat on the back? Run-of-the-mill sinners do that. If you only help those who help you, do you expect a medal? Garden-variety sinners do that. If you only give for what you hope to get out of it, do you think that’s charity? The stingiest of pawnbrokers does that.

I tell you, love your enemies…. Live out this God-created identity the way our Father lives towards us, generously and graciously, even when we are at our worst. Our Father is kind: you be kind.” (Luke 6: 27-38, The Message).

Dear Big-Steeple-Mega-Church-Preacher, I am sorry. I am sorry I did not stay to have an open dialogue conversation. If I had preached or written something that hurt someone else, I would hope that they would confront me. I hope that they would be kind with my broken ego and bring me back to reality with love and grace. If ex-boyfriend was to call me today, I would be able to still love him with grace and I would want to dialogue with him about Phil. Yet, I didn’t see you as a person – I saw you as a “Big-Steeple-Mega-Church-Preacher,” and for that I apologize.

I am sorry because on a week where we talk about unity, respect, and love for all people I am having a really hard time respecting you. I am sorry that sometimes I find it much easier to love everyone else- the gay, the transgendered, the Hispanic, the African-American, the immigrant, the politically incorrect, the politician, the homeless, the criminal, the prostitute, the Roman Catholic and the Eastern-Orthodox before I love you. “Those people” do not slap me in the face. “Those people” often love me and I love them back. Yet, God shows us generosity, forgiveness and love to all, and you are no less deserving of that love.

Most of all, I’m sorry I didn’t make it until confession, communion or prayer – the acts that remind us no matter how broken we both are, that God loves, accepts us, and calls us as living members of Jesus’ work. I am sorry that I was unable to confess in your community that I had not loved you, my neighbor, child of God, as much as I loved myself that day. Through Christ’s example, I’m trying harder to be kind, I’m trying harder to know your name, I’m trying harder to love. It is really hard to love you sometimes, and that is why I ask for God’s help.  I’ll pray for you, will you pray for me? 

WWJZ – Why Would Jesus Zumba?

I love to dance. I believe it is scriptural – when the Israelites crossed the Red Sea and escaped from Pharaoh, Miriam led them in dance. When the psalmist speaks of praising God, they speak of singing and dancing. Jeremiah prophesizes about times of hope and newness complete with dance. At the core of our beings, dancing is related to a deep and inner joy. I imagine it connects us to the elements of God’s unfathomable creativity within us. Like corporate singing and communal prayer it unites us, beyond ourselves, to persons in our midst.

I hate to admit, that as a Christian minister, I do not always participate in corporate worship away from home.  For me, travel is often a time of deep prayer and discovery.  I journal, read scripture, contemplate God’s abundance and unendingness by spending time with ocean, sky, dessert and forest.  I stumble into churches to pray and to admire the beauty of architecture. Occasionally, I stay for a choir or organ practice that I happen upon.  Sometimes, I return for a service.

On the contrary, I rarely miss Zumba. One of the first things I do on vacation is open my Zumba app to see if there are classes in my area. My desire to Zumba everywhere is not because I am a fitness nut. At a size 16 and someone who really enjoys food. I believe in taking care of my body, but not that much. I would also never say Zumba means as much to me as sharing in worship of God with community. But it is a close second. What is it about Zumba that makes me never want to miss?  

#1. Diverse Community – With God’s great vision, I believe God is able to see and accept the differences in each of us. Like the church, Zumba is an intentionally diverse age community. In any given class, children to 90 year-olds dance together. In addition, Zumba is an extremely diverse cultural community. The music spans across the globe: hip-hop, Bollywood, Latin, Middle Eastern, 80’s rock. Often, I attend classes where people do not speak the same language. Dance, like song, like art, like ritual, cuts across cultural barriers joining us into one.

#2. Acceptance – I really don’t dance well.  I’ve seen pictures. I look like a complete fool.  Most of the time, I am off beat and out of place.  But, no matter where I go, the Zumba community seems to accept me as “one of them.” Perhaps, because the only requirement to Zumba is that you have a desire to dance. Not that you are good at dancing, not that you follow along by sitting, standing and bending at the right time – but that you have a DESIRE to want to be there. No one judges you because you have desire.

#3. Encouragement – Zumba is a tremendously positive environment. Instructors sign off on their emails with “besos” (the Spanish word for kisses). They spend time at the beginning and end of each class in humility thanking their students for coming. They remind each class how beautiful they are (I’ve seen the room from their vantage point; the DANCING is NOT what makes the class beautiful).

#5. Admittance of flaws – I like my Zumba instructors imperfect. Sure there are those out there that look like “models” but there are more out there who look like me - with pinches of fat and imperfect hair. Zumba instructors mess up. A lot. Then the laugh it off and keep on going. They admit fault and they humbly rely on the rest of the class to catch them and correct them.  

#6. Live participation – Rarely, do people attend Zumba out of obligation or out of guilt. They are there because they want to be there. The air is thick with intensity and intention. The energy is full and active participation.

#7. Authenticity – Not all the music is “moral.” Not all the dance moves are for the southern gentile, but they are real. They scream humanity. In a range of emotions – from celebratory hops to anger punches, they are real. From the sensual salsa to guttural hip hop – dancing forces you in to accepting and deal with the wide range of emotions that exist within your human soul.  

I would never say Zumba could take the place of church. There is no sacrifice outside one’s self, no talk of unconditional love, no focus on ultimate forgiveness. It isn’t church, nor is it a substitute for it.  It is however beautiful, spiritual, and possibly a parable. The Kingdom of Heaven is diverse, accepting, and authentic community where people can be themselves, just as they are? The kingdom of heaven is like… Zumba? The kingdom of heaven is like….Church?