The Liturgy of Line Dancing

(this is an article which was published in the sem. newspaper-ish-thingie and I figured I'd reprint it here. Fair warning: it is entirely innocuous and even slightly sacchrine.)

A year and a half into my seminary education and I’m learned a new definition of self-discipline. Discipline is choosing a nap on Sunday afternoon instead of looking over Greek paradigms “just one more time.” Discipline is resolutely closing my copy of The Institutes on Friday night to go country line dancing with new friends. I grew up in the church. I definitely did not grow up line dancing. The church, The Institutes and, on a good day, the Greek are my comfort zones – I’m familiar with the expectations, my knowledge and limitations. Line dancing is a counter-cultural adventure and, in advent of the Worship Symposium, I think we overly worship-exposed and overly worship-learned can pick up a few steps from the world of country line dancing.

Nothing but a friendship with someone who insisted that this was “just my thing” would have induced me so far outside my own experience and into the world of country line dancing. With her patient coaching, I prepared a few basic steps and, aside from that I relied, heavily upon her enthusiasm and comfort in the line dancing world. Once inside the swinging doors of the saloon, I was inundated by unfamiliar music and the general joviality of the crowd (what a crowd!) I was partially excited and mostly frightened that I would heel-toe while everyone else do-si-doed. I was prepared to sit the first dance out but such an approach is foreign to the thoroughly communal nature of the line dance. The dance floor appeared to ebb and flow seamlessly in time with the music. Everyone seemed to know what they were doing and I was, frankly, intimidated. My friend was back at my side, knowing the experience wouldn’t really be mine until I participated, she pulled me up to the outskirts of the dance floor. Up close and personal, standing as one of the crowd, I realized that the venture wasn’t as polished as it had first appeared. I was enveloped by the crowd and thus realized I had plenty of people to watch and, with their encouragement, sometimes even shouting the next step over their shoulder to me, I fumbled through. I started moving and, before I knew it, I was tentatively gaining ownership. To my astonishment, by the harmonica’s outro, I was following the steps with a modicum of, well, something very nearly resembling grace.

Learning to country line dance taught me that it was OK and, in fact, even expected that I wouldn’t “get it right” the first time. No one rolled their eyes or huffed away when I went left against everyone else’s right. They smiled good-naturedly when I inexplicably ended facing backward with everyone else facing forward. I quick righted myself and we all kept dancing.
On the other hand, the music didn’t grind to a halt, the band didn’t confer among themselves and decide that, since there was a novice in their midst, they would keep their music at an electric-slide-for-dummies level. They kept going at a reasonable pace, acknowledged my presence and, I’m sure, noticed my ignorance but didn’t stop to instruct me on the art of line dancing with playcharts on a whiteboard. They just let me stay half a beat behind them, and encouraged my fumbling attempts to high heaven.

The dance began long before I got there and it would continue long after I’d gone home but, a miracle of Kenny Chesney proportions, for awhile the dance floor continued to ebb and flow seamlessly in time with the music only I got to add my cowboy boots to the collective scuffle.
So, wonder with me what this has to do with the church’s worship practices: Are our parishioners equipped to teach their friends the basic steps? Are they emboldened to invite their friends into the dance? When people watch the church worship, does it appear to be a seamlessly corporate ebb and flow or do we tend to showcase our best talent? Are we making room on the outskirts of our dance floors for the un-coordinated and those with two worshipping left-feet?

On the other hand, are we so eager to make the dance novice-friendly that we never challenge ourselves with a more complicated jump-cross-turn? Do we instruct our congregations in worship or do we worship together and keep a nurturing eye on the dancers who are one beat behind? The church began long before I got there and it will continue long after I’ve gone home but, a miracle of Christian proportions, for awhile every Sunday, the 2000 year old dance continues to ebb and flow seamlessly in time with the rhythms of the Holy Spirit only we get to add our praises to the collective scuffle.