Peace in the invitation to love and dance
Peace in the invitation to love and dance
By Clay Brantley
On the Saturday before Martin Luther King Day 2020, I was the keynote speaker for the Collin College MLK Power Leadership Breakfast. This breakfast is an annual gathering of 300 to 400 leaders, politicians, members of various organizations, and people interested in honoring Dr. King.
When my friend, Ada, asked if she could submit my name to be the speaker, I was honored and said, “Yes.” I was pretty sure I would not be chosen because I was a 59-year-old white guy. I always imagined speakers for these events as dynamic Black speakers. For some reason, the committee picked me. Perhaps Ada made a good case. Or maybe the committee heard of the work I have been doing on racism.
God certainly had a mischievous sense of humor.
I struggled with what to say. It was not that I didn’t have enough to say. I read books. I listen to podcasts. I have deep conversation with people around racism. I have pages and pages of notes. But people did not want to hear me report on what I had heard and read and seen. I was being asked to share out of who I am, out of my reflections on Dr. King, out of my own broken heart around racism. I was asked to speak of hope in the midst of this difficult time. Normally when I prepare a sermon, I do my bible study. Ideas float around in my head, and I try to connect the text to who the congregation is. I structure an outline. At this point, I have a pretty good bible study but for the outline to become a sermon requires deep soul work.
It means truly wrestling with the text until a “Yes” rises up in me. This wrestling can consume two or three days. I have gone to bed Saturday night not knowing how the sermon is going to end, which is not a good thing for me or the hearer of the sermon.
At some point, the Spirit shows up. I never know when that will be. Sometimes the Spirit helps me to see what I need to say. Sometimes the Spirit shows me where I have missed the point. The Spirit might even tell me what a point needs to be. I say the Spirit because this is my experience. Something comes from somewhere to engage and encounter me in a new way. I feel the energy. I feel the grace. I experience a deep sense of peace. After much struggle and wondering, I am gifted with what needs to be proclaimed.
This peace comes after the struggle and because of it. This was my experience with the MLK Power Leadership Breakfast. But this was not a sermon. I wrote a good outline with lots of good points. I did lots of work on the outline. The outline was too long, much longer than the 20 to 25 minutes allotted me. It was hard for me to get my head wrapped around all those points, so I could imagine how difficult it would be for the listener. Martin Luther King’s legacy, the ongoing racism today, and our inability to talk about racism are all important topics that needed to be discussed.
How could I speak in a way to be heard? I was so frustrated on Wednesday that I had an hour-long prayer time in my prayer chair; then I went to Erwin Park, a wonderful rustic park in north McKinney with majestic trees. I walked in anger, using language I don’t normally use.
I was mad at the Spirit. “Where was she?” I was frustrated at me. “What was I missing?” I said some breath prayers and glared at the sky. “Why won’t this come together? What more am I to do? What is blocking me?” Fear and frustration filled me. I found a wonderful cedar tree, filled with branches that went every direction. I sat down and looked at this 50-foot- tall tree. I told it my story of struggling. I discussed with it all the work I have done, all my frustration, all my fears over not being ready and my fears about what I must say about racism. Then, I sat in silence and listened. I heard no response.
Then quietly this thought came to my mind. “You are a lover of soul and an inviter to the dance.”
I sat with that. This talk, to which I had given so much importance, was an opportunity to be a lover of soul and an inviter to the dance. That would mean struggle. That would mean lots of seeking and reading and listening. That would mean surrendering, giving up in order to let that dance emerge and let the soul sing. This invitation would ask much of me, so I could ask much of the listeners. In that invitation to be lover of soul and the inviter to the dance, I found a peace, a peace far greater than the anxiety I was feeling about being a white guy talking about MLK and racism.
This peace was a peace far greater than me. It held me, sustained me, guided me, loved me. I breathed it all in. I said yes. I saw that the struggle and doubting and seeking was part of the dance. I spoke a “thank you” to the wonderful cedar tree and headed home, not knowing where the talk would go but knowing I would love soul(s) and invite others to the dance.
Postscript: The talk went well. I was nervous but prepared. I knew what I wanted to say. I knew I wanted to love the souls of all gathered and invite them into the dance of peace and justice. Most of those gathered received what I said well, and I had several great conversations afterwards. A few politicians did not like what I said, yet I was at peace.
Peace in the invitation to love and dance was written by Clay Brantley and originally published in House of Peace.