A long time ago—in what seems like a land far, far away, where sugar plum fairies flitted about and dub step dancers dueled—I was a dancer. Born with a wicked club foot that had me outfitted with my “special shoes” and numerous procedures from my doctor, one of the prescribed treatments was something that would strengthen the muscles in my feet and calves… something like gymnastics or dance. The choice was easy for my aristocratic mother. Dance it would be.

What started as a point of rehabilitation became my greatest inspiration. I took to my little store-front dance classes like a fish to water. While the other little girls were so excited about preserving their peachy-pink ballet shoes and comparing the ribbons in their taut ponytails, I was practicing my rond de jambe, desperate for the scuffs and marks on my doll-sized Capezios to prove that I’d put in the hours and was on my way to being a real dancer. I turned into one of those kids… the ones who have all the appearance of being a bit scattered, a bit flighty unless it came to dance class. Suddenly I found a deep sense of discipline and drive I didn’t know I had. Conditioning before school followed by a few hours of class after school. This was going to be my future.

Until the powers-that-be at my church stepped in with some guidance and concerns. Concerns that I was putting my time and energy into something that was worldly, dangerous, and ultimately a “bad environment for a Christ-follower.” Concerns because dancers were notoriously vain and sensual and promiscuous—you know, all that focus on the body and all. No matter that none of this lined up with the dancers I’d known and studied with or that it was so abundantly clear that this is what I was born to do: I wanted to be a good girl, wanted to be faithful, believed that they knew more.

So I quit dancing.

And I learned why dancing is such a metaphor for aliveness.

Fast forward a few years to the worship services that I was attending. Here I was, observing what seemed like a subconscious message to check out of your body, focus on the unseen. Looking around the room, I saw that people were either unaware of their bodies or painfully self-conscious of their every move. After all the hours I’d logged at the practice bar, working through sprained muscles, persevering for the sake of the story, the symbol, the corps, I couldn’t bring myself to divorce the act of worship from the expression of the body.

Nor did I feel right about the way we [Christians] attempted to bring the body back into worship. Prescribed motions (you know what I’m talking about… you can already see it, can’t you? The raised hands, the tilted heads, the specific bowing at the neck), or liturgical dance which, I’m sorry, has always made me cringe. You see, dance is one of the most revealing art forms. It asks the most of us. Hides nothing. Invites us into an awareness of the reality, the symbol, the sensuality, the humanity, the divinity. Unlike singing or playing an instrument or even preaching, dance can’t be faked. It requires discipline, training, vision, surrender, intuition. The categories of good and bad, sacred and secular fall away. We are invited to engage with the body as Storyteller: Prophet and Priest.

Dancing is a lot like drama: when it’s good, it’s breath-takingly good and awakening. When it’s not good, it’s just bad. And distracting. And awkward. So, since gifted and trained dancers are increasingly harder to find, what does that mean for us as worshipers?

My first caution: don’t run out and try to organize a dance piece in your worship service as an answer to “how do we integrate movement into worship.” Dance is something we respond to and is always an inspired response on the part of the dancer. The worship context in which this would be a shared liturgy would be very specific. Here’s my gentle nudge: we can learn from dancers about the profound mystery of being present in our bodies. They teach us of the divine Story-telling in wholistic, sens-ual expression. About the deep integration of ourselves—that our souls are not simply “housed” in our bodies, but seeped-into, enmeshed, experienced-through. That worship without real-time-presence, without movement, without action and reaction, is just so much emotional gratification whether we use the liturgy or an acoustic set in the key of D. It begs the question: Why do we fear our bodies? Why do the strongest and most intelligent among us fear making a fool of ourselves with our actions, gestures, and postures more than most other social fears? Because it’s so very real. Movement ties our intentions and our ideas and our feelings to the reality that is.

Your context will, of course, affect what this looks like. Movement cannot be forced, though some will try. Just because you get people to move doesn’t mean you’ve invited them to be present and participate in worship with their bodies. Movement must be natural—like an exhale. So how do you create places for people to feel invited into movement? Into standing, to being present with their breath, their posture? Start with the simple practice of being aware. Dancers do this at the beginning of every rehearsal. Slow and purposeful practice to become aware of ourselves moving through space. Aware of the arch of the arm—is it graceful? Strong? Powerful? Vengeful? What Story are we telling with our posture. Are we receiving? Angry? Expectant? Grieved?

How do you practice the symbolic and story told through movement in your prayer? In your scripture reading?

Inhale. Exhale. Let’s start there. Peace of Christ rest on your eyes, your hands, your legs, your heartbeat this week.

Image © iStockphoto