Guess I’ll dive in, with the disclaimer that poetry is definitely Michael’s niche, not mine, but the prose writers I love most have lyrics and images bubbling just under the surface of their stories, and this is a weak area for me. Be gentle…

God is a dancer.
Father, Son, and Spirit
are swirling – with hands clasped –
in an endless, joyous game of Ring Around the Rosie
that defies gravity so no one ever
falls down.
Father, Son, and Spirit
are twirling – with hands folded –
in an eternal baroque minuet
that orders stars to their orbits like
Bach ordered notes to their places on the page.
Father, Son, and Spirit
are spinning – with hands raised –
in an everlasting mosh pit of anthemic, punk joy that
pounds the pulse of the universe and
puts flesh and blood back on
dry bones.

This is the music of the cosmos, the song of the spheres.
This is the dance that’s holding the whole shebang together.

God turns and asks, “May I have this dance?”

When we worship we bring our own song,
cupped in open, humble hands – offering it to
the composer, choreographer, conductor.
If we hold our offering lightly enough
Spirit takes it and replaces it with
the music
we were born to sing.
The music makes sense out of words like
the last will be first
the greatest is the least
I did not come to be served, but to serve.
The music teaches us that sometimes
washing feet is not a metaphor.
Sometimes, dirty feet are just
dirty feet – feet that can’t join the dance ’til
someone like you or me hears the music and gets down
to the dirty work – work that is the deep, gritty
groove of the dance.

This is the groove that beckons us,
the God-music that animates our dry bones
with flesh and blood and love.
May we humble ourselves and sing.