God: Hands and Hips

When I sat in God’s lap one morning, my eyes landed on the beeswax candle I had made on a pilgrimage last month. I smiled remembering how I had felt slowly rolling the sheet of beeswax ever so gently around the cotton wick. The texture of the sheet felt good pressed against my fingertips. It seemed to take on a life of its own as I stroked the beeswax upwards to smooth the top into a conical shape. I then placed my thumb flat against the bottom to make it able to stand on its own. The beeswax scented my fingertips for the rest of the evening.

While rolling the beeswax and shaping it into the candle, I had thought about nothing but what I was doing. It was as much a meditative act as walking the canvas labyrinth later on. As I walked I could feel the cool, uneven stones beneath my feet. Before I walked, I had taken a ribbon on which I had written “abundance” and tied it to a cherry blossom branch in the front of the chapel where the labyrinth was nestled. After placing the ribbon and before walking the labyrinth, I had also lit a scented tea light candle. The candle sat among ones that had been lit by other pilgrimage participants. I used the flame from one of those candles to light mine. Later during reflection time I said that I had been on many pilgrimages, but I had never been on one so tactile.

I’ve been thinking about tactility and corporeality since then. Every week when I go to the Cathedral Center for Prayer and Pilgrimage, I do something tactile. It may be something as simple as lighting a candle in front of the icon in the Still Point, writing out a prayer, or cutting out a simple icon I have written and pasting it into my journal. This past Saturday, I picked the dried blossoms off the dying cherry tree branch and placed them in an envelope for a future project. Next week I may untie the ribbons and put them somewhere for safekeeping, or, as someone suggested, tie them to a tree outside the Cathedral.

According to chapter 31 of Saint Benedict’s Rule, “… [We] should regard all utensils and goods of the monastery as sacred vessels of the altar, aware that nothing should be neglected.” I interpret “regard” as to mean not only to think about but also to handle. Of course when those of us who are Christians partake of communion, we hear the invitation to come to the table, see the Eucharist vessels, touch the bread, and smell and taste the fruit of the cup. I have come to believe that the other things we can touch, see, hear, taste and smell are as important to our spiritual lives as any ritual we partake of, sermon we hear or song we sing. Beyond those, I have found that the things that we use and do each day can also make the sacred accessible.

The Friday after the pilgrimage when I attended a day of celebration at a university with which I am affiliated, I participated in a Zumba© class. Outside. In the sunshine. On the lawn. In front of hundreds of people. Zumba© is an aerobic dance class based on the rhythms of Latin America (think salsa and merengue). In the 80s I had hated aerobics because moves like the “step-ball-chain” made me feel as if I had four left feet. Even before that I was not known as a dancer. (In fact, my children have asked me repeatedly not to dance—or even move to music—in their presence.)

So why was I dancing as if no one was watching? Because I was full of joy and that seemed to be the only way to express it. I danced clumsily missing the beat more than once. I danced modestly—I still can’t bring myself to wind or to shake my you-know-what. But I danced joyfully, happy that God made hips to swivel (you don’t have to believe it, but I do).

When there is nothing more left to say about God—or any transcendent experience—dancing or doing something with our hands, may be one of the only adequate forms of expression left. Go back in time and watch Miriam, the sister of Moses, who danced after the Israelite’s deliverance at the Red Sea or fast-forward to King David who danced before the Lord God and everyone else in the city. Fast forward again to an African American, Latino, African or any given charismatic church and watch people stand up, sway, raise their hands, wave their bulletins, and sometimes break out in a holy dance or run down the aisle. Look a group of teenagers or young adults listening to the music of their generation. They chant lyrics and move in exultation of the shared experience of being young.

I like to think I serve a God who “Kneeled down in the dust /Toiling over a lump of clay/Till He shaped [me] in His own image,” as poet James Weldon Johnson so eloquently wrote in his poem “The Creation.” (See http://www.bartleby.com/269/41.html for the complete poem.) This is a God who not only handled elements of the earth, but also designed a human body that can step, glide and leap across the surface of the earth. I accept God’s creativity as an invitation to participate fully in the life given me. And as I believe God created, I receive permission and inspiration to create: icons, blogs, candles, and dances.

I don’t know if Saint B enjoyed 6th century dancing (at least before he became a monk), but I can’t imagine the 21st century without multiple opportunities to glorify God with my body—hands and hips.