Dance Party

I sat today and listened to an upbeat gospel song remixed by the artist Moby. The song is excellent, if I may say so. Before I knew it I started tapping my foot, and I'm telling you, I really felt like dancing (not a strong point of mine, by the way).

Without realizing it I sort of got lost in a daydream. In this daydream I envisioned all the people in the room with me just letting loose and dancing. Not just any old two-step, I mean dancing like they had to. Full body moving, twirls, twists, jumps, even the occasional ridiculous yelping into the air. This wasn't just hip young people, it was old people, shy people, grandmothers, children, cardigan wearers, all shapes, sizes, and colors: black, white, brown, purple. People were sweating, laughing, all had that big stupid grin of excitement that you're not supposed to have after the age of 9.

If I were smart I would just end things there. But unfortunately I tend to make a moral out of everything. I've had a friend asking me lots of questions about why I'm a Christian (a decent question, I'd say), and I've struggled to really answer why I think she should also be a Christian. I grew up with the language of heaven and hell, but I don't think this is good enough anymore. So I told her I didn't think she was going to hell. Certainly not something they teach in Evangelism 101. And I've started to think that maybe being a Christian is acknowledging that this dance party is sometime going to happen, despite what the world looks like now. One day there will be no war, no poverty, no AIDS, no weeping or crying. The rich and powerful will no longer win, evil will no longer reign over this world, and whether we want it or not we will eventually hear the music, then we'll start tapping our feet, and before we know it we'll all be dancing and sweating to the liberating gospel music remixed by Moby. And we'll be dancing for a long time, with people we never thought we'd dance with, just looking at each other with that 9 year old smile that can only come with the most foolish kind of love.

Subway Blues

I was recently in Boston in route to give a talk about justice and charity. I had been feeling as though my life was becoming mathematically oriented. I've been reading non-fiction books, like a 1500 page history of the Lancaster Mennonite Conference (pretty wild, i know), or books about theories of violence and poverty, and I'd just been thinking a lot about numbers. There is _ number of homeless people in Lancaster, _ number of children dying of hunger, _number of civilians killed in Iraq. For someone who almost failed a freshman math course in my senior year, these numbers can really give me a headache.

I stood in a Boston subway (after battling a machine in attempts of winning a "Charlie card" which apparently would let me into the subway) among scores of blank faces headed home after another mundane day. Suddenly a man who I assume was homeless began playing "Pachebel's Canon" on guitar. It was beautiful. And when I needed it most, a rather poorly dressed and unattractive couple began to dance awkwardly off-tempo to this classical ballad.

There is a part in the Wilder's "Our Town", when one character who after seeing the world exposed for what it is, asks "Will anyone ever understand." The reply is "The poets and saints, maybe." I always loved this part of the book, because it praises imagination over science, or maybe just because it too is beautiful. I've been making attempts lately at spotting poetry and sainthood in the everyday. It's in the faces of awkward couples expressing love with awkward dances, that I am reminded of the unspeakable truths which are so easily ignored. Its like what Mary Oliver once said "stories are more beautiful than answers."