At the recent wedding of our son, Chris, and his beautiful bride, Tiffany, I understood the joy of celebratory dancing. Though it felt foreign to my Mennonite limbs, I can still feel that delicious freedom of swaying to the beat of the music, in the midst of family and friends. We were laughing and moving and living in the moment. Not knowing many dance moves, Lauren and Derek were our security blankets. We kept those kids in our sights and tried to mimic what they were doing. That was easier said than done since both of those Wheaties are natural dancers. Larry and I are late bloomers on the dance floor. In keeping with our strict upbringing, dancing was viewed as sensual, and a stepping stone on the path to immorality.
Many years ago, Larry and I were part of a group of couples who took ballroom dancing lessons on Saturday afternoons at Chattanooga Christian School. One of the teachers, David Stanton, was also a dance instructor, and we were eager students of various ability levels. Larry and I easily won the title of "Least Knowhow and Most Inhibition." We spent the first session stepping on each other's toes and giggling nervously. You know that common dream that you have forgotten to dress and you find yourself exposed in the midst of a social setting? My youthful version of that dream was that I showed up at my conservative mennonite church with my long hair down and no covering. That was exactly the feeling I had when we were trying to learn to dance: awkward and exposed. At the end of the lessons, we had advanced from subpar to barely beginners. The instructor kept telling us to take smaller steps, that it was not an athletic endeavor! We are still novices, but we can now at least dance in social settings without embarrassing ourselves. Our bodies are made for movement; to let go and dance is freeing for uptight folks like us.
The best dance teacher is a glass of wine. Of course alcohol was totally taboo as well, during our early years. I remember my initial taste of fermented grapes. We were celebrating our first wedding anniversary in Sarasota, Florida, where we lived. We splurged and ate at a fancy seafood restaurant in St. Armand's Circle. At the waitress's recommendation, we each ordered a glass of chardonnay. Larry drank his, but I thought it tasted rotten! Six bucks was a lot to waste, but I just couldn't drink it.
A few years later, in India, we managed to choke down a glass of warm beer, so as not to be rude to our kind host. He assumed he was providing a treat for two American kids, as we drove in his curtained, chauffeured car, to view the rare black buck in a forest enclosure. Fast forward several more years, during Larry's residency, we grew to tolerate the cheap pink wine, white zinfandel, that seemed to be the drink of choice at hospital events. There was the time we went to an outdoor party at someone's home, and were served margaritas. One sip and we read each other's thoughts. We made polite conversation as we inched our way to the shrubs. Mr Subtlety managed to water the plants with both our glasses.
In the past ten years, visiting vineyards, wine tasting and collecting has become a fun hobby for Larry and I. When we travel, we often seek out the local vineyards and enjoy learning about the whole science that goes into producing a fine wine: there's the soil, the type of grapes and the age of the vines, the temperature and winds, the amount of rainfall, how vigorously the vines are pruned, when the grapes are harvested, how long the juice is in contact with the skins in the giant fermenting vats, how long the new wine is aged, as well as what kind of container it is allowed to rest in. A highlight for us is bringing wine home from the vineyards we have visited, and sharing it with friends.
Growing up, drinking alcohol was viewed as an "all or nothing" proposition. Either you were an alcoholic, or else you didn't touch the stuff: there was no moderate, middle ground. I often wondered what would have happened if Jesus had shown up at a conservative mennonite wedding and suddenly the water pitchers would have been filled with wine, and really good wine, to boot. Jesus' first miracle was at a wedding in Cana. When they ran out of wine, Jesus told the servants to fill the containers with water and take some to the head steward to sample. Not knowing what Jesus had done, he asked the bridegroom why he had saved the best wine for last?!
Similarly, what would have happened if King David, garbed only in a linen ephod, had danced with all his might down the church aisle, as he did when the Ark of God was returned to Jerusalem? He leaped and danced before the Lord and all the people, with music from trumpets, castanets, harps, lyres, timbrels, and cymbals. Four part acapella harmony would have seemed a bit subdued for that celebration!
I realize issues such as dancing and drinking are taboo in some religious settings. I understand how highly offensive my comments are to those from my particular subculture. I appreciate so many things from my heritage: I learned about community and helping others. I heard the gospel and the importance of God's Word. I learned what gracious hospitality looked like and how to make people feel welcome and "at home." And I was taught that it was prideful to draw attention to your own abilities; it was only acceptable if someone else pointed them out.
Unfortunately, I also learned how to be a very good rule keeper. My subculture had many rules that governed all of one's life. While lip service was given to spiritual salvation by faith alone, faith without works is dead. And by the way, if your faith is genuine, this is specifically what your works will look like. Communion was a biannual sacrement. On the Wednesday evening before the Sunday service, we filed one by one before a church minister and said, "I am at peace with God and my fellowman and I am in agreement with the standards or rules of this church." Only then were you offered communion and fellowship. The double talk is what toyed with my heart. I have no problem with folks saying they want to preserve their subculture or maintain a tradition. Please just don't equate those rules as gospel prerequisites or manifestations; call things what they are.
What I never really learned growing up was grace: that spirit zephyr wafting to the soul, freeing one of condemnation and guilt. That gift given by God alone, saying, "of course you are not good enough, but you are loved unconditionally, and are given salvation anyway, through Jesus." God's new covenant is a heart issue, not about keeping rules.
Grace is hard for me to understand. My personality is drawn toward the themes of accountability, consequences, responsibility, and fences. I am most like the self-righteous elder brother in the gospel story of the prodigal son. Remember the story? A father had two sons. The younger one asked for his share of the inheritance, and then went out and squandered it all in wild living. When he found himself hungry and destitute and feeding pigs, he decided to return home and ask to be one of his father's hired helpers. He was greeted joyfully by his father, who threw a huge party celebrating the return of his son. When the older son came in from working, he went to his father and resentfully asked when he was getting his party? After all, he had lived uprightly and worked hard for his father all these years. The father's focus was on what was lost but now is found. The saddest part of the story is the elder brother thinking that by living a moral life, his spot in the family was more secure. Sonship is not earned, but rather it is extended with grace.
My personal default mode is to be the moral, upright child. The reality is that without God's grace, my heart is equally doomed, mired in self centeredness. I long for my heart's motivation to be love and gratitude, rather than obligation. Having received grace, I want to reflect it to others, an impossible task without Divine assistance. Some years ago, I felt moved to extend grace to someone close to me. This stood in direct conflict with my natural, "consequences mantra." I think it was a nudge from God. This is what I said:
"I've lived long enough to know that at some point, we all need a second chance, a clean slate. That is what I am extending to you. I don't judge you or hold anything over your head. I accept you and want you to know that in my book, the page is clear. I have confidence in you and know that God is at work in your life. My prayer for you is that He will bless you even beyond your wildest imagination! My heart is always open to you."
It was so very freeing to be able to say this. I want to offer more grace, even to those in my strict upbringing who stifled my creativity and cut the warped grooves in the records that occasionally still play in my head. From the angst I feel in my heart, I know I have a long way to go. Shamefully I admit, when I hear about small changes made in my church of origin, I want to shout, "when did the scroll drop?!"
I know we are all on a journey; perhaps some of you can relate to mine. I understand the "slippery slope" reasoning behind some of the taboos of my childhood. If you crack open a door, it will fling wide open and all will be lost. The Holy Spirit cannot be counted on to teach you self control. A hard and fast rule is a safer fence. I am learning to savor the beauty of freedom. When given the choice to sit it out or dance, I hope I dance. And cheers to the velvet Syrah from down under, "Carnival of Love."