A GOD WHO DANCES
John 15:1-17
Jeff VamosThe philosopher Friedrich Nietzsche, an arch-critic of Christianity in his time, along with Freud and others, wrote these words toward the end of his life in a letter to his sister. I read this passage several years ago, and for some reason, they continue to stick to my brain. This is what he wrote:
- If these Christians want me to believe in their god, they'll have to sing me better songs. They'll have to look more like people who have been saved; they'll have to wear on their countenances the joy of the beatitudes. I could only believe in a god who dances.
Strange that these words, spoken by an arch-critic of the faith, speak my own mind; they reflect my own critique of the Christian faith. That's the only kind of God I could believe in. A God who dances on graves. A God who leads us to experience the joyfulness of life.
That's what I want to talk about today: joy.
I want to suggest--or maybe it should be a question I want to ask you: is that maybe the kind of God you came today hoping to experience? A God who dances? Is it true that somewhere, in the back of your mind, you came to church--today, every Sunday--hoping that somehow, something might happen beyond the ordinary speaking of words, the greeting of the people you see each week, our straining to sing these hymns on key; that somehow despite the feeble words of the preacher that crack and strain under the weight of that numinous thing beyond us we hope to see and touch and feel and find, we might see the heavens opening, our heart breaking, and we would get a taste of that thing that is divine? Is that not the thing you long for? Is that not what, whether we're conscious of it or not, our lives are purposed toward? That kind of joy? An experience of God, beyond the emails and errands and laundry? Or better yet, within and alongside the emails and errands and laundry? Do you long for that? Did you come here for that?
Jesus at beginning of John's Gospel says to some of the disciples of John who are thinking of following Jesus: What do you want? Do you want this? The joy I can give you? Yes, that's what we want.
We should come here wanting that, expecting that.
But we are, after all, Presbyterian. I don't think Presbyterians are past the stage of making fun of themselves for being Presbyterian. Maybe we can say that, hey, we are joyful, we really are...on the inside. We just don't show it. We have a certain reputation. The frozen chosen. People who look like they've been weaned on pickles. There's the story of the preacher afraid to make his congregation laugh for fear that their faces would crack and fall off.
There is strong evidence that this reputation is well-deserved. Did you know that the most unchurched segment of our population consists of members of our own confirmation classes? We have lost over half of our members since 1970. The GA just had to give pink slips to over 70 workers at our HQ in Louisville. And despite the vitality of this congregation--this church is a wonderful exception to that trend--but that's the story of our larger church.
We've lost touch with that experience of joy. "These words I have spoken to you--" not so that you can intellectualize them, or form a committee over them, or an ideology around them. "...So that my joy may be in you." That's the fruit of the Christian life.
But, let's talk about that for a moment, Joy. What it's about. Just what is this joy; in what does this experience consist? Because, before we so blithely talk about this business of "joy" and what it means in the Christian experience, we need to say something about what is unique about that experience.
OK--so let's begin in sort of Socratic fashion--remember, Socrates would begin with what the thing is not. So let's begin there--by saying what joy is not.
First, we can say that this kind of joy, this fruit of the Christian life, does not consist in pleasure, or even happiness. It's something beyond pleasure and happiness.
This is how C. S. Lewis puts it, in his book Surprised by Joy. He says that Joy, "can equally well be called a particular kind of unhappiness or grief." But, he adds, however, that "anyone who has ever tasted it would, if both were in his power, exchange it for all the pleasures in the world."
See, most people don't know this--but Madison Avenue does. Remember that question at the beginning of John: "What do you want?" This spiritual yearning is the real heart of human desire. And this kind of spiritual yearning has never been greater than in our modern age. But the problem is that we think we can buy joy. That's the illusion. Buy this, and it will give you joy; this pair of jeans. This beach house. And we're inevitably disappointed, because not only doesn't it fulfill that desire, it will probably give you a hangover; or a big mortgage. In fact, many say that addiction itself is a kind of misplaced form of our (primary) spiritual desire, which is a desire for transcendence. What is it you do when you take substances? You "get high." That is our primary desire as human beings--to "get high" on something that is true and lasting; that doesn't give us a hangover, or a mortgage. That is the promise given in this passage from John: "to go and bear fruit that will last."
But, you see, the kind of joy that is the fruit of the Christian life is a joy that in some ways is most likely to happen in the midst of suffering. Isn't that strange? For me, some of the most profound and joyful experiences have happened when my heart got broken open. Which didn't, at least initially, feel very good.
During our Flannery O'Connor class, I made everyone tell a "Terrifying Angel" story from their life experience--stories about a time in our lives when some event or experience "broke us open," pried us loose from our carefully constructed universe in which we are usually at the center, and gave us a glimpse of a bigger universe. Experiences of joy that went beyond suffering. People told amazing stories of meeting God precisely at the point of crisis or challenge.
I don't know if you've ever seen the film, Life is Beautiful, by Roberto Benigni. It's a comedy that takes place in a concentration camp. It's about a father who makes his son laugh while they're imprisoned by the Nazis, and ultimately gives his life for him.
That's what it's like, this joy.
Dietrich Bonhoeffer, who also spent time in a concentration camp toward the end of life, speaks of the gospel's power in making a heaven even of hell; the power of the gospel is such that those who live it experience this joy under any circumstances--even suffering.
OK--so there's a little about what this joy is about. It's not pleasure or happiness. We can't buy it. So how do we get it?
Do you remember that bumper sticker that used to be around a few years ago? "Joy Happens." That's not a bad way to describe it--and not a bad place to begin. "Joy happens"--it's a gift of grace. But how does it happen?
Well, here's the sort of terse, snotty answer: read John 15. Just go and read it. Read it about fifty times a day. Put it in your room or your office wall or on your refrigerator. Study the original Greek. Because that's where it starts: with the scripture. That's where this experience starts--with the witness to the one who gives the experience.
John 15 is probably one of the most complex and mystical passages in the entire bible. I think of this as the sort of Rube Goldberg machine of the bible--you know those machines where a weight drops, and a lever falls, and some golf ball goes down a chute and bounces up to hit a bell, and so on. It's a very intricate text in which words sort of loop around to each other, forming a kind of chain that loops in on itself, and begins and ends with love--a certain kind of love.
But actually, the primary metaphor here in this passage is not a chain, but a vine. If we want to say in just a few words how to cultivate a joyful life--there, I've said it; that's the word; that's how to do it. To cultivate it. That's the metaphor in John 15. We can't make anything grow--growth happens. It happens in spite of us. We just have to cooperate with those forces that make things grow.
And here's the mystical part: we're talking about cultivating something that is already growing within us; and, we are also talking about cultivating ourselves to grow into some other thing that enables us to grow. We are in something. Something is in us. We discover joy growing in us when we graft ourselves into some bigger thing that is the source of all growth and joy--some bigger purpose for our lives.
A good question to ask ourselves in relation to John 15 is: are those words growing in me? Are they seeds that are somehow sprouting up to joy? Up to compassion and life?
OK--so what does that mean in real life? What does that mean to me in my every-day living? Well, here's one approach: I think it means investing in Joy--here. In church! It means coming here expecting joy. It means cultivating our lives together as a community into that true vine. Maybe that means doing more than just coming to church once a week. It means getting down and dirty and doing a small group with others, where we share our lives with each other. Maybe it means investing our money here, so we can cultivate our lives into one another, and into that Living Vine. Cultivating joy means living for the sake of some cause greater than our own comfort and agenda. It means living for a mighty cause.
And finally: it means learning to love one another. That's the beginning and end of this growth process, the stuff that makes this vine flourish; love. All this complex theology becomes as simple as that. It calls us to a certain kind of love: a love willing to suffer and die. It means investing ourselves in the act and practice of loving one another.
It means coming here, expecting to find, and a god who dances.
"These words I have spoken to you so that my joy may be in you, and your joy may be complete."
Amen.
May 14, 2006
e-mail