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King David had much to be dancing about. After years of fighting, his rag tag army had conquered the last enemy hold out in central Palestine. The native Jebusites had been beaten and he claimed Jerusalem for himself and God. In a majestic procession the Ark of the Covenant, that symbol of the presence of God dwelling with the Hebrews in the wilderness, the Ark was now being brought into the city that would be the capital of Israel, the City of David. And in this triumphant moment David himself danced ecstatically before the ark, making way for God in a frenzy of joy. We often don’t realize how much ecstatic dance is an ingredient in religion throughout the world. David danced with all his might, and the ark was brought forward with shouting and the sound of the trumpet. But not everybody shared David’s joy. The scripture says:

As the ark of the Lord came into the city of David, Michal daughter of Saul looked out of the window, and saw King David leaping and dancing before the Lord; and she despised him in her heart.

So what’s the matter with her? Some have suggested that she is just a killjoy, or maybe a nasty wife cutting her husband down to size. It may be more complicated. She was chosen to marry David in order to heal the division between David’s family and that of Saul, a family now in tragic decline. She had been forced to leave her husband for David. Or perhaps she realized that being married to the king meant you had to share him with numerous other wives and concubines. At any rate, she wasn’t dancing with joy.

And there were others who were not so happy. What about the poor guy named Uzzah who was helping to transport the ark? The oxen jostled the cart it was sitting on and it started to tip over. Uzzah reaches up to keep the ark from falling and ZAP! The Lord strikes him dead. He wasn’t dancing any more. And for that matter what about all those indigenous conquered by David? History is written by the winners.

David is now undisputed conqueror and king. And he leaps in pure joy. But in such joyous moments are things really quite so universally joyous? Three thousand years after David’s triumph, the U.N. established the modern state of Israel amid universal joy – a fitting affirmation of the Jewish people in the aftermath of the Holocaust. But there were other people who were not celebrating - the Palestinians. And we now know that old hatreds don’t just fade away – they can intensify. And we know that following this triumphant moment of David’s dance, his reign as king didn’t proceed so smoothly. There were more wars. There was the scandal with Bathsheba. There was the tragedy of David’s son Absalom, and David’s somewhat pathetic old age. Joyous moments are wonderful. The purer the joy, the more wonderful the moment. But within each joy there may be a hidden sorrow.

I spent last week in seven days of silence and meditation at a Catholic monastery in Pennsylvania. During this same time period, Lois traveled on work to Brussels, Paris, and Amsterdam. We returned home on the same day and when we reconnected at dinner, well, she had more to talk about. There is, after all, not much to report about efforts to empty oneself of thought for seven days – except for how difficult it is. But actually there were many lovely moments for me. In one, I found myself thinking about a famous zen poem, a Haiku by Basho. It goes: “Old pond – frog jumps in – kerplunk!” It is said, in one interpretation, that the old pond represents the cosmic, the universal, the sacred. And the frog stands for the everyday particulars of reality. In that splash, the pond and the frog become one. And the whole universe and the individual become one, the cosmic and the mundane meet. Christians might call that incarnation. And it came to me that in that “kerplunk” is what it means to be fully alive – a moment in which the sacred and the everyday, the body and the spirit, one’s self and the universe – are an incarnate living sacred now. Just being alive. And I thought “I am really alive!” And this wave of joy, wonder, and gratitude, just washed over me. It was electric. But almost at once I started weeping. “And what do these tears mean?” I wondered. Joy? Happiness? Maybe. But then I thought, “No, I think they are tears of grief.” Grief for what? Grief for so many wasted years. All the years I wasn’t really alive and was clueless about it. All the people I’d hurt in my cluelessness. All the missed opportunities never to come again. And I thought about all the hurt visited upon the world, not by people who set out to do wrong, but people who are so certain that what they are doing is right. So, so sad. So in a moment of supreme joy, up welled a deep sadness. I shared this experience with one of the teachers at the retreat. She is a member of the Catholic Order of the Sisters of Notre Dame. During the French Revolution her order was decimated. It wasn’t a good time for the church, although the revolutionary era began with hope and joy and dancing in the streets. But she went on to say that the mystery of this was that due to the excesses and cruelties of the revolution, her order spread throughout the world. It became an international movement. As someone once said,  “God does not will everything that happens. But out of everything that happens, God wills something.”

Joy. Sadness. Our emotions are rarely simple. Discussing the news of my retirement plans with some of you has been very emotional. Like the tip of the iceberg I mentioned in my congregational letter. A common response has been, “Well, I am sorry to hear this, but I am not really so surprised. I am really happy for you, but sad for us.” And I would find myself thinking, “I really am happy. I really am. Uh oh. Maybe I shouldn’t be acting so happy? Maybe I better be careful about that!” I was chatting with Moderator Ruth Prindle about the possibilities for planning and closure for my final year, and looking at the future of the church. Very exciting. Then it hit me that I have little or no role in planning for the future of CCC. And I felt this gulp. I really am happy about retiring. But, wait, that means it’s your future, not mine. Now I don’t feel like dancing at all. I shared my plans with our new music director, Nae Pearson last week, and he said, “That makes me sad. I was really looking forward to working with you.” That made me even more sad.

In the First Chapter of the Letter to the Ephesians is one of my favorite verses. It reads:
With all wisdom and insight he has made known to us the mystery of his will, according to his good pleasure that he set forth in Christ, as a plan for the fullness of time, to gather up all things in him, things in heaven and things on earth.

God’s plan is somehow a mystery we are invited into, an unfolding mystery. Christ somehow is the plan itself. In the fullness of time, things of heaven, and things of earth; things of the body and things of the spirit; the old ponds of sacred history and timeless tradition, and the frenzied hopping of the frog, will be gathered up in him – this meeting of the divine and the earthly reality, this sacred, eternal Now – kerplunk! God’s majestic overarching providence and the dancing feet of David.

To be led into the mystery is to be led dancing into the unknown, the mystery – and the loss of control that goes with it. We can react to the loss of control with fear and flight, or with trust and ecstasy. We can run away or we can dance forward. But God invites us in - into the dance of eternal life.

AMEN.

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