And he said to them, “Pay attention to what you hear: with the measure you use, it will be measured to you, and still more will be added to you”. (Mark 4:24)
The very first year I choreographed a Good Friday service was the year Jeff had his internship at Our Savior’s Lutheran on Chicago Ave. It was before we had our dance studio, before our children we born, before he was ordained, and before so many other things in our life took place—even before the old church itself had burned to the ground.
The weather that day was warm, the doors to the church open wide, and I remember the sun was shining. We’d decided to begin the service like we do at Gethsemane on Palm Sunday, by walking down the streets; except a drum was beating and a cross was carried. We collected many people that day on our procession back to the church. How could we not with the pound of a drum and a line of people following waving for others to join in. Everyone was welcomed into their pews and the music began.
That year we danced to sections of Mozart’s Requiem and started off by passing the beams of the cross over both sides of the sanctuary over the heads of the congregants so they could feel the weight and burden of the wood. The dancers pounded pegs into the beams to form the cross and we lifted it up by the altar. Jeff did the readings from the gospel, and we danced with long black dresses and large shawls on our heads. The service of thirty minutes went too quickly and ended with us recessing out the back of the church.
Being the first of dozens of Good Fridays we did was important. It was epic. It was meaningful. At the time we thought it was unique. A one and done type thing. But each year afterwards, the dancers and the churches we were a part of requested the special service again and again. It became a big part of my faith journey and the journey of others.
So how did I come to do that first service? By waking up, listening, and moving.
I heard the music one day and I believe God spoke the choreography into me. I woke up in the middle of the night in our apartment in a high rise downtown—a small boxy place with not much room, our mini- lop running around my feet. I put on the music I had heard that day, Mozart’s Lacrymosa (The Day of Tears) and bowed forward on bent knees with my arms craned behind my back and my head lowered. It felt like a supplication of prayer and I emptied myself. When I started choreographing (or God started) I didn’t know what it would become. I didn’t even know that it would be the final piece of many, or that it would depict the part of the gospel where the women were grieving at the cross and then on their walk to the tomb. I didn’t know how many dancers I would have around me, what we would wear or even that we’d dance an entire service without stopping. I didn’t know that we would carry a heavy cross along the streets of the neighborhood, or later drape different colors of fabric over it by the altar (purple for Christ the king, red for his blood). I didn’t know there would be a drum beating like a dirge as we marched. I didn’t know that we would share the weight of Christ’s burden with his people for a moment, as we passed the cross over head. I didn’t know that the service would make people cry, would leave all the dancers in tears. I just woke up, listened, and moved.
What started as one impetus, one inspiration, one calling by God in the middle of the night turned into something that brought me so much fulfillment in my Holy Week walk. The preparation, the practice, the planning was all a privilege. Something I’ve missed these past years. I missed it so much so, that God gave me another nudge. The first Good Friday of the pandemic, I moved my sleeper sofa aside in my living room, pulled some large branches from our wood pile (tying them together with rope), and draped the cross with black long fabric I found in my basement. I invited my former dancers to Zoom (before I knew much about virtual meetings), put on my long black skirt and we resurrected together our Lacrymosa dance, count by count, in separate computer screen boxes, in completely different places (even states). The experience was as beautiful and meaningful as that very first service. It was because we were lonely, we were frightened, we were very sorrowful, that it even spoke to us more.
So why am I sharing this? What am I trying to say? It’s really simple. Three things: wake up, listen and move. If you get an impetus to do something in honor of God, just do it —you never know where it will lead you and what other wonderful blessings might come. Know that God will take your gifts and use them if you remain open to His call. Following the cross will lead you to the tomb with the stone rolled away and empty, just wait patiently—the resurrection will come. Because even on days of tears there is always the promise of God’s grace, God’s peace, and eternal life in his Son. So wave your palms with joy this Sunday and welcome the Messiah into your life again, renew your relationship with Jesus. Hosanna in the highest! And then on Good Friday give thanks for the burden of the cross that Christ carried for us, and if you can, bow down in prayer at the foot of it and lay down your burdens again.
Amen.
