In the 1930s, teachers considered grade school student Gillian Lynne a problem child. You know, one of those students who don't pay attention, or focus, and cannot sit still. She didn't "fit in." Since ADD or ADHD had not been invented, Gillian was labeled "difficult." And, as you can imagine, her parents were deeply troubled (they must have done something wrong along the way, they told themselves).
A school counselor arranged a meeting with Gillian and her parents to discuss the options. Through the entire meeting, Gillian sat on her hands, stoic, doing her best to "act natural and well behaved." At the end, the counselor asked to see Gillian's parents privately, outside the office. Before he left the room, he turned on his radio. Music filled the office. Outside the office door, the counselor asked Gillian's parents to look back inside at their daughter. "I want to show you something," he said. No longer seated, Gillian now moved about the room with the music--freely, untroubled and blissful.
"You see," the counselor told the parents, "your daughter isn't troubled. Your daughter is a dancer."
This story could have gone another way. Gillian could have been labeled, and medicated. Problem solved. We like life when it can be more easily managed.
Instead, Gillian was given the freedom to live from the inside out. The result? A lifetime of dance, first with Sadler's Wells Ballet during WWII and then with the Royal Ballet. Later, a wealth of extraordinary choreography, including collaboration with Andrew Lloyd Weber, including CATS and Phantom of the Opera.
In our hearts, we are all dancers. Yes. Every single one of us.
It is that part of us that responds to the music of abundant life, freely and unrestrained. But somewhere along the way, we lose that don't we?
We choose to live guarded and closed.
I will confess that labels conveniently serve many purposes... I play it safe, I hide, I live small. But all of the labels are fashioned by fear; a fear that dismisses or restricts.
So. What does it mean to dance... to live with arms wide open? To live without fear? Like four-year-olds, who live fearless. Just ask them;
Can you sing? If we don't know the words, we'll make them up.
Can you play music? A cardboard box and a stick will do.
Can you dance? Watch this!!
Ask an adult; Can you sing? Only in the shower, and then off-key.
Can you play music? That was years ago.
Can you dance? Not without people laughing.
I take two lessons from Gillian's story. One: the voice of GRACE tells us that we are more than our labels.
Today I preached at St. John's in Tampa, FL. (Hint: the weather here is warmer than Seattle.) The Gospel text tells the story of the Samaritan woman at the well. Long story short, here is a woman who carries a myriad of labels--she is a member of the wrong group, she is "less-than," undesirable, a social outcast (not to mention she'd been married several times). And Jesus offers her everlasting water no questions asked. My take on his words to her: "You've lived on scarcity--labels that limit you--and I offer you sufficiency, in water that will never leave you thirsty again." I preached a good sermon. Of course, now I need to believe it. No, I mean I need to hear it. For myself.
Here's the deal: It's not that we "choose" to dance, so much as we "choose" to give up being afraid.
We give up being afraid by responding to the love of the Beloved--the invitation to sufficiency or "everlasting water."
We hear and taste and touch this love; and our dance is the interplay with that voice. Because now, our hearts are alive.
In fear, Robert Capon reminds us, "we live life like ill-taught piano students. So inculcated with the flub that gets us in dutch, we don't hear the music, we only play the right notes."
And Two: I don't hear this voice of Grace (or invitation to Dance) when my life is filled with noise and hurry, when I'm out of breath and out of time, incessantly worried about public opinion.
I'm here in Florida for several days--various venues, churches, schools and business associations--and most importantly a few days of down time. Catching up on email tonight I read a note from a CA friend about her nephew diagnosed with stage 4 Leukemia. A friend of the boy's father, Blair Matthews, wrote a song--"Live Out Loud" (I've linked it below)--about "dancing" even when life feels transitory, troubled or filled with sorrow.
After watching the video, I step outside. The Florida night air is warm on my skin, and I remember the words I have on my desk back at home...
Life is short,
Break the rules,
Forgive quickly,
Kiss slowly,
Love truly,
Laugh uncontrollably,
And never regret anything that made you Smile.
Life may not be the party we hoped for,
but while we're here we should
Dance....
