EVERY ONCE IN a while, while brushing my teeth or driving to work, my mind will wander to what I call “future regrets”—things that I’m pretty sure I’ll rue later in life but about which I do nothing to resolve in the present. Those include obvious ones like not flossing or watching PBS NewsHour enough. But there’s one thing in that category that’s a little more unexpected: dancing.
The sheer act of dancing—with its flailing of the arms and stomping of the feet (including, inevitably, stomping on other people’s feet)—doesn’t exactly lend itself to those inclined toward modesty and reserve. And unless you’re doing that flailing and stomping while walking over hot coals at the direction of human resources as part of your new employee training icebreaker, people will probably turn their attention to you, and not in a good way. But for those of us who grew up in churches where dancing was frowned upon, stepping out on the dance floor feels like a theological risk as well. (Old joke: “Why do Baptists prohibit sex while standing up? It might lead to dancing.”)
In my junior year of college, I attended a three-day Christian conference that culminated in an epic dance party (lasting exactly 11 songs—41 minutes). For the first three songs, people stood and looked at each other, just as I did for 96 percent of the one high school dance I went to. But then they put on Miley Cyrus’ “Party in the U.S.A.,” and we did. Party, that is. Well, at least we began to move our feet a little, which given the setting was pretty remarkable: These were people who had probably never so much as clapped their hands during the annual children’s ministry Christmas Eve musical celebration. Now they suddenly thought they were Chance the Rapper in concert (although I’m pretty sure Mr. the Rapper never played the Holiday Inn Express). Everyone in the room seemed to meld into one communal, carousing cluster of joy; the carousing, admittedly, was on G-rated side and the only drinking involved grape juice. People were having so much fun that, when the fellowship staff worker said it was time for bed, everyone refused to leave the dance floor—that is, until the DJ played “Sweet Home Alabama,” which caused such a rush off the floor and toward the elevators that I was afraid the elevators would drop at a speed paralleling the Tower of Terror.
While it’s easy to say I want to dance, for this church boy grown up, acting on it is more challenging. If, say, I were to appear before a Senate confirmation hearing (could happen), and before they confirmed my appointment as Deputy Secretary of Transportation (less likely since I don’t own a scooter) they told me that my final task was to do a dance (okay, that’s probably not going to happen), I would say, “I’m sorry, Senator, but I’m afraid Secretary Buttigieg will just have to find another dance partner—maybe try someone from the Episcopal Church.”
Despite my hesitations around tripping the light fandango (which I hope means “dancing”), I want to give it a try. After all, the psalmist tells us that dance is a form of praise and says that “You turned my wailing into dancing” (other, nonstandard translations render that verse “You turned my flailing into dancing,” which is another thing altogether). Bottom line is, go ahead and channel your inner Whitney. I’m pretty sure you won’t regret it.
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