Dancing Backwards

“A rational creature consciously … reverses the acts the acts by which we fell, treads Adam’s dance backward, and returns.”

C. S. Lewis from The Problem of Pain

On a good day, I’ve given up hoping for a better past. Regardless how silly it is to want to erase certain moments, take back particular comments, or return to opportunities I let pass by, I sometimes find myself wanting to do just that even though I know it’s impossible. This passage from C. S. Lewis, however, made me see that there is something I can do today about what I did yesterday. I can tread “Adam’s dance backwards.”

People in recovery call it a “living amends,” but maybe we should call it, “dancing backwards.” When I refrain from using humor in a way that sometimes hurts, I’m dancing backwards. When I don’t think only of myself and put someone’s well-being ahead of mine, I’m dancing backwards. When I choose the harder right over the easier wrong, I’m dancing backwards.

A wise person once said to me when I was struggling to climb out of a hole of my own creating: “You can start by stop digging!” Now I know he was inviting me dance in a new way, a new direction. He was inviting me to dance backwards.

The music remains same; it’s the dance that changes.

Smashing Statues

I once served at a school founded before the Protestant reformation. In the entrance of the chapel are a series of pedestals on which statues of saints once stood. I say, once stood, because the reformers came and smashed the statues when they tried to remove all things that stood in their way of worshiping God, all things that were a part of the faith tradition they wanted to reform. Looking up at the empty pedestals on a recent trip back, I saw remnants of that dramatic moment of history and realized what an important faith lesson sat above me.

I’m not sure why, but I’ve always liked to collect meaningful things. Looking around my studio, I see reminders of my ancestors, my career, and the people I love most. Below the portraits is a ticket from a show I directed in college, a note-finding device used for the barbershop group I led in high school, and a handkerchief I left in the pulpit when we dedicated a chapel. The collection is plentiful, but I’ve recently begun to clear out my studio. Looking at the empty space, I feel as if I’m looking at the lonely pedestals in England.

I realize now how stuck I’ve been. While trying to move forward, I’ve been surrounded (and held back) by the past. Who are you now, the voice within me asks, now that all those “statues” from the past are gone? It’s as unsettling a question as it is freeing.

It’s a question that can be asked of our faith as well. Over time, we collect things that speak of our faith. Whether it’s a leather-bound Bible, a program from an important church service, or a plaque honoring years of service, such mementos are comforting. They can also hold us back.

It’s also true of our understanding of God. It is comforting to hold a view we’ve held all our lives, but just as it may comfort, it might also hold us back. “God is never-changing,” a neighbor likes to say when defending his firm opinions of what is and is not “true faith.” So often, we cling to what we’ve known and can’t look beyond such “statues.”

Perhaps we should follow the example of those reformers of old and smash the things that stand in our way of worshipping God. Who would we be, what would we believe, and what would we do if we smashed the “statues” that surround us? Churches would no longer be museums; our connection with the past would be found through living in the future.

The thought is as unsettling as it is freeing. Perhaps we would learn to give thanks for the things that have comforted us in the past while looking forward. Who knows, we might find a God who’s both never changing and always changing. God’s not a statue. Like us, God is alive.

Pine Trees

The four tall pine trees had been looming over our house for years. Given they sat at the top of the steep hill behind our house, their presence was imposing. Every storm reminded me that we needed to remove them before they fell, but then the storms passed, and I put the work off. Recently, we hired someone to remove them, and, today as I sit looking out the window at the trees swaying in the outer bands of hurricane Helene, I’m so glad we did the work.

I can’t help but think of the important life lesson this has given me. It makes me think about a speech a friend of mine once gave about the pain of discipline. He pointed out that making the decision to do something, while painful or inconvenient, is often far less that what awaits you if you don’t.

I felt convicted as I listened to him. I could name many instances when I knew what I needed to do (or stop doing) but chose not to. The pine trees behind our house could well have been on that list this morning, but they’re not. It makes me not only grateful to have done the work before this storm, but also makes me wonder what other “pines” are out there that I need to address.

In twelve step recovery circles, they speak of “doing the next right thing.” It comes from people who have rarely, or never, done the right thing and now find themselves in deep holes of their own making. Doing the next right thing is their way of climbing out of the holes, one step at a time. It’s not pleasant work and always takes longer than anyone wants, but it’s the best way to new life.

Whether it’s a hole, a tree looming, or an ignored situation or relationship, doing the work when we’d rather not often leads to less work and pain if we don’t. “A stitch in time saves nine,” I’ve heard. Now I’m trying to listen.