Dancing With Krishna
Dancing With Life

A sermon Offered by Rev. Tim Kutzmark
Sunday, November 5, 2006 • Unitarian Universalist Church of Reading

It is worth the forest to find the Dance.
—unknown

There were two things behind my house, where I grew up, in a suburb of Pittsburgh.  The first was the meticulously clipped green fare ways of the South Hills Country Club.  All upper middle class cleanness, it was a wide, open expanse of virtually treeless space. Gentle, sloping, landscape stretched far to the left, far to the right, broken only by pools of pure white sand.  I used to run out there late at night, slipping in the dew on the short thick grass.  Under the moonlight, I would leap into the sand traps, then stare at the expanse of stars reaching ever outward.  I was looking for something.  I was looking for something to come and dance within me: perhaps an experience of God, perhaps some sense of myself, perhaps a tomorrow that felt different from that day.  I never found anything out there.  It was too safe on that wide-open green.  In the full moonlight, nothing could ever surprise me.  There was no place for Mystery to dance.

Not so for the second place behind my house.  From the safe shorn grasses of that country club, I would look to the place where Mystery was waiting.  From the safety of the sure, I would look into the other place—into the place that scared me so.

The woods were off limits once the sun had set.  The woods at night played strange games with young imagination.  Shapes and sounds distorted themselves. Nothing was clear, nothing was open.  Trees grew tight against thickets of thorns and pockets of poison ivy; winding paths led to small clearings where thin lines of moon barely illumined gray empty spaces.  I’d heard the stories of what went on in those shadows--tribes of teenagers sneaking deep into that darkness.  I’d heard stories of music and wild dancing.  I’d once heard tell of a mysterious tree house built high in the branches of an old Oak.  They said a fire burned it down, in a glorious blaze that warmed a November night.  One thing was clear, the woods were unsafe, unsure, and meant to stay unexplored.  One thing was clear, that’s where I wanted to go. 

There are always places in life that are best to avoid, aren’t there?  There are always moments in life that are best to avoid, aren’t there?  There are always stages in life that are best to avoid.  There are always decisions that are best to avoid.  There are always conversations that are best to avoid.  There are always conflicts that are best to avoid.  Nothing good can come from dancing in the dark, right?

And yet, some knowing part within us often yearns to step into the unknown.  Some of us quietly ache to step into that place of mystery.  Or, perhaps, circumstances push us into the unknown, willing or not.  Let’s face it: some part of us is always pulled toward the unknown, as if life has whispered: “Come, something waits just beyond what you cannot yet see. Just take my hand and dance with me.”

What are the places in your life that scare you? 
What is calling to you? 
What unknown is beckoning? 

What are the places that scare us as a congregation? 

What are the places that scare us as a congregation?  What is calling to us, as a congregation?  Is it growth, and all the things that now feel so different and a bit unsure?  What are the places that scare us as a congregation? Is it the need to find new ways of organizing and administrating our changing church, and not knowing exactly how to make that happen, and being afraid that we might lose our own voice in the process? 

What are the places that scare us as a congregation?  Is it having different needs in worship?  Is it some of us wanting to celebrate our children and match their energy among us with a multi-sensory experience, and some of us needing worship to be quiet and reflective, a peaceful sanctuary for our spirit? 

What are the places that scare us as a congregation?  Is it the growing need to have everyone share their talents and gifts of time and service so that everyone is working together in a truly shared ministry, and yet realizing that most of us are already overbooked and overscheduled? 

What is beckoning us to step into the unknown? Is it the large loan for our renovation, and the massive debt service that is looming?  Is it a free-floating stress from meeting here at Parker Middle School, and a subtle anxiety of losing our usual routine and beloved buildings—all of this creating a strain on our best intentions?  Is it wondering when all the construction will be finished?

What is keeping us from stepping into the unknown? Is it that some of us might still be privately wishing it was Rev. Jane standing here delivering this sermon, or wishing that gentle Rev. Doris was the one working with us at our committee meeting?  Is it worrying that any sign of conflict or disagreement might re-open the pains and trauma experienced during Rev. Robin’s ministry?  Is it that we may still be trying to adjust to a new minister and his style, his strengths, and his imperfections?

What is calling us to step into the unknown?

The mystic and poet Jalladin Rumi writes:

Out beyond ideas of wrong doing and right doing,
 there is a field.
I’ll meet you there.
When the soul lies down in that grass,
The world is too full to talk about.

Imagine it, a place beyond ideas of wrong and right!  Wouldn’t it be great if such a place existed? 

In the myths of India, there was such a place.  In the myths of India, out beyond the underbrush of uncertainty, there was a such clearing.  In the myths of India, something called us—and calls us—into Forest of Brindavan.

In India, the forests of Brindavan grew thick with darkness and danger.  Tigers, cobras, bears, and other wild animals lurked in the shadows.  No one with any sense, no one with any hope of seeing tomorrow would step into those trees at night.

And yet, in the myths of India, those trees, those paths, were filled with the sounds of feet moving swiftly towards a moonlit clearing.  Those trees, those paths, were filled with hearts yearning to know the One who would dance wildly with them.  For the woods, the forest, was not only the place of danger.  No, the forest of Brindavan was the place where you came to dance with Lord Krishna.

Krishna—great God of India.  Krishna—the lover God.  Krishna—the playful. Krishna—the blue-skinned.  Krishna—herald of passion.  Krishna—the whisper that stirs the soul.

An ancient poet from Bengal wrote of the forest journey to answer the call of Krishna:

How shall I tell you of my terror?
I could not describe my coming here
If I had a million tongues.
When I left my room and saw the darkness
I trembled:
I could not see the path,
There were snakes that writhed round my ankles!

I was alone; the night was so dark,
The forest so dense and gloomy,
And I had so far to go.
The rain was pouring down—
Which path should I take?
My feet were muddy
And burning where thorns had scratched them.
But I had the hope of seeing you,
None of it mattered,
And now, my terror seems far away…
When the sound of your flute reaches my ears
It compels me to leave my home, my friends,
It draws me into the dark toward you.

(In Praise of Krishna: Songs from the Bengali by E. C. Dimock and Denise Levertov)

Krishna was the transcendent Creator god, Vishnu, come down to earth in one of his ten avatars, or incarnations.  Krishna was born to human parents.  His evil Uncle—King Kamsa—plotted to kill the child, correctly discerning that the baby would grow up to eventually overthrown his corrupt rule.  The gods intervened, and the new-born Krishna (who, legend tells us, could talk and walk at birth) was whisked off to a remote forest village in the province of Braj.  Despite several attempts on his life, including a demon in the form of a whirlwind and an old lady with poisonous breast milk, the child grew quickly, strengthened by the fresh air of the lush countryside and the butter and milk that the cow herds produced.

It was clear early on that Krishna was a precocious child.  Unlike good little deities, baby Krishna was always getting into trouble.  He would constantly crawl up into the kitchen cabinets to raid the butter jar, stuffing himself with its fresh churned richness.  In India butter is believed to be pure love in solid form. Here was a child already filling himself with love.

But Krishna embodied more than just love.  He did a great job in the lust department as well. Other gods were known as champions of dharma--virtue, righteous duty, godly order.  Other gods journeyed through the land fighting evil and restoring the balance of goodness.  Not so for Krishna, at least not in his late teens and early 20’s.   Krishna—young, handsome, buff—liked nothing more than to hang out with his buddies and flirt with the gopis (the village girls who tended the cows).  For sport, he’d seek out the gopis’ bathing places, and then steal their clothes while they washed in the river, playfully teasing them into revealing their uncovered beauty.  On quiet afternoons, he’d share special favors with Radha, his favorite gopi.

But it was in the night that the full lure of Krishna was felt throughout the land. It was in the night, in the forest, that all convention was overturned.  By the faint light of the moon, Krishna would claim a small clearing.  Like a young peacock with his plumage calling into the night, Krishna would take out his flute, and, in the shadows, begin to play.

Krishna’s flute song: so gentle and sensual as it released its rhythm of passion and possibility. Krishna played the music of longing, the heart song that sings within each of us.  For some it was the ache to know better the Sacred and the Spiritual; for others it was the ache to know oneself; for others it was the ache to know community; for still others it was an ache for something still unnamable.  And for some wise ones who realized that spirit and self and community and the nameless are not separate, it was the ache to know wholeness.  Whatever was heard, it was so captivating, the myths tell us, married women abandoned their husband’s bed to seek it out in the darkness.  A song so inviting, the myths tell us, men were enraptured and sought to couple with the passionate source.  All convention, all need for safety or surety was forgotten as those who heard the call stepped into the place of the unknown.

An ancient poet from Bengal poet writes:

At the first note of his flute
Down came the lion gate of reverence for elders
Down came the door of dharma, of duty
My guarded treasure of modesty was lost.
I was thrust to the ground as if by a thunderbolt.

(In Praise of Krishna: Songs from the Bengali by E. C. Dimock and Denise Levertov)

What did they find among the trees of Brindavan?  What gift was found in the forest?

Those who ventured forth found a dance.  They found something that could teach them to dance. Whether the body was aged or youthful; whether the body was tense or supple; whether the body could move freely or only dream of doing so…there, in the clearing, Krishna and his devotees began to dance together.  They moved their spirits in shared joyful rhythm.  They danced the dance known as the rasa lila, the flavors of the play of life.

As they danced, a realization grew.  As they danced, they realized the connection between the rough forest path and the gentle forest clearing. As they danced, they realized that within the unknown, as within the forest, there are calm, clear spaces where joy can be awakened and savored. As they danced, they realized the dance is made up of tiny steps—just take the first step, the next step will follow. As they danced, they realized that waiting beyond the unknown is the Spirit of Life. As they danced, they learned to trust….to trust again.

The Spirit of Krishna dances on, even today.  Even today, the Dance of Krishna, the dance of Life calls to us from the underbrush, saying:

“All life is a paradox: a subtle balance of conflicting needs, a fragile alliance of opposing values.  The world is a process, a mystery.  [But] we are creatures who grow only through enduring the tension and exploring the boundaries of the unknown.  [We are creatures who grow only when we] dance in the empty spaces.” (Daniel O. Rankin, Dancing in the Empty Places)

The place of our dance is here.
The time of our dance is now.

A contemporary poet writes:

I have sent you my invitation,
The note inscribed on the palm of my hand by the fire of living.
Don’t jump up and shout, “Yes, this is what I want!  Let’s do it!”
Just stand up quietly and dance with me.

Take me to the places on the earth that teach you how to dance,
The places where you can risk letting the world break your heart,
And I will take you to the places where the earth beneath my feet
And the stars over-head make my heart whole again and again.

Don’t say, “Yes!”
Just take my hand and dance with me.
(The Dance by Oriah Mountain Dreamer)

May it Be So.  Blessed Be.  Amen.

© Copyright 2006 Rev. Tim Kutzmark