Sermon given by Joanna Fortna, July 18, 2021.

I don’t know about you, but in recent months, as I have slowly returned to public life, I am grateful to be getting past our long period of pandemic confinement. I am hearing from family and friends, and experiencing myself, this Rip Van Winkle waking up from the long sleep.  I am hearing about the unanticipated pleasure of returning to church activities we once took for granted – entering our beautiful sanctuary for a vesper service, reuniting to say good bye to our intern, Sophia, under the tree in the beautiful yard next to Calvary Baptist, reconvening small groups like the meditation group on Tuesday evenings. These moments are infused with a sense of wonder and gratitude. I feel myself reentering with some tentativeness, a dip the toe in the water movement, and then at some point a bolder plunge into the waters of our wonderful and wise community. 

A memorable moment of reentry for me was on my recent family vacation in Southern Maine.  It was a sunny day in a week of mostly overcast weather, and we eagerly anticipated going to one of our favorite places, the Coastal Botanical gardens in Boothbay, ME.  We had heard about the new installation of five enormous sculptures, “The Guardians of the Seeds”, otherwise known as the trolls created by a Danish artist Thomas Dambo and we were on a quest to find all those sculptures. With maps in hand we ventured out into the gardens, maskless and free to roam in the same space with others who were admiring the trees and flowers so artfully planted to fit into the natural landscape. I must admit though, the focus and buzz on this day was a communal search for the trolls that are installed throughout the landscape, nestled in the trees.  Only one sculpture can be seen as you walk over the bridge from the visitor’s center to the gardens and it is impressive! His name is Roskva, made of recycled wood, representing the trunk of a tree. When we approached the gathering of admiring visitors I could not tell who was more excited, the adults or the children.  With a staff person keeping a watchful eye, the mood was jubilant, with many of us posing for pictures next to these artful creations that animated the space and captured the spirit and message of the trees. 

This excitement carried us through several hours of walking and exploring, of the joy of discovery of each new work of art in the woods.  Now this would have been a cool experience before the pandemic, but with the overlay of a lost year of vacations and the communal experiences of sharing public art, the experience felt closer to pure joy, a rediscovery of what matters and what makes meaning in a troubled world; this childlike wonder restores hope. 

In his book, The Invisible Embrace of Beauty, John O’Donahue includes a chapter titled, “The Joy of Shapes that Dance.” Just the name of the chapter reminds me of our day of walking in the trees and gardens in the midst of the new sculptures. He says, “Usually a piece of sculpture inhabits stillness, yet that stillness is not dead or vacant. It is a stillness that is shaped with presence.  In a way, a piece of sculpture is a still dance,”(126)  and indeed, it felt that day like we were all participating in that dance.  

With that in mind let’s repeat the refrain from the hymn we sang before the sermon.  I will say a phrase and then Frank will lead you in the response.  Let’s repeat this three times and the 3rd time we will say it together. 

Refrain: Let it be a dance we do, may I have this dance with you, through the good times and the bad times too, let this be a dance.  

The essence of our jubilant day in Maine reminds me of a poem by David Whyte, “Four Horses.” In it he describes the unexpected arrival of four beautiful horses in his neighbor’s field. 

On Thursday the farmer
put four horses
into the cut hay-field
next to the house.

Since then the days
have been filled with the
sheen of their
brown hides
racing the fence edge.

Since then I see
their curved necks
through the kitchen window;
sailing like swans
past the pale field.

Each morning
their hooves fill my
open door
with an urgency
for something
just beyond my grasp

and I spend my whole
day in an idiot joy,
writing, gardening,
and looking
for it
under every stone.

I find myself
wanting to do
something
stupid and lovely.

I find myself
wanting to walk up
and thank
the farmer for those
dark brown horses and
see him stand
back laughing in his

grizzled and
denim wonder at my
innocence.

I find myself wanting
to run down first street
like an eight year old,
saying, “Hey!
Come and look
at the new horses
in Fossek’s field!”

And I find myself
wanting to ride
into the last hours

of this summer,
bareback and
happy as the hives
of the days
that drum toward me.

I hear the whinny of
their fenced and abandoned
freedom
and feel happy
today
in the field
of my own making,

writing non-stop,
my head held high
ranging the boundaries
of the birthright
exuberance.

Again it is the child like wonder, the innocence inside of a not so innocent adult body, that can be rediscovered and tapped into in this world that we inhabit together. What he names is “birthright exuberance,” a reminder that we can all revisit this joy in spite of all the suffering and hardship we may have experienced in our lives.  It is there to be rediscovered.  What intrigues me is his line, “I hear the whinny of their fenced and abandoned freedom feel happy in the field of my own making.”  My mother always told us, on those rainy days when we complained about not being able to go outside, that we had make our own sunshine.  And we would roll our eyes as kids when she said that, but of course she was right. We do have to be intentional about creating good cheer rather than waiting for the right circumstances to bring that “sunshine” to us.  And we need each other to make that sunshine as well.  

I am impatient to return to the beauty of our sanctuary, to experience the presence of our community in person, and safely.  If I had my way we would not be on zoom at this moment, but instead, looking at each other’s smiling faces in the space that we make sacred by being there. And all these moments of return require some patience and the wise leadership of the church board.  Otherwise, I would feel more like the speaker of the poem who wants to run down the street like an 8-year-old and reminds us that:

Each morning
their hooves fill my
open door
with an urgency
for something
just beyond my grasp

and I spend my whole
day in an idiot joy,
writing, gardening,
and looking
for it
under every stone.

I find myself
wanting to do
something
stupid and lovely.

This Friday, Hal and I attended the Bradford Common Friday night concert on the green, the first since the summer of 2019.  There were several members of our church in attendance as well.  The musician, a blues band, sang and played with gusto, restoring a sense of normalcy to a Friday night midsummer.  For the last piece of the evening, Peter Chase, the band leader invited all of us to stand up, come closer to the stage and participate in a number that invited us to a call and response.  Those of us who had been sitting for the concert were now standing, swaying to the music and responding to the call to sing with the band. It moved me to tears to participate in a communal celebration of life and art and music. 

All these experiences add up to the call and response we need to invite in each other during this tenuous time of return.  John O’Donahue reminds us that “true community is not produced; it is invoked and awakened.”  It is in our gathering together as community, whether at the church in the gardens, observing art or attending a concert, we must do our part to invoke and awaken the spirit within ourselves and others, reconnecting the fabric of community that has worn thin in our time of isolation. 

Now let us repeat the refrain from the hymn, “Let it be the Dance” and do with great gusto, imagining that we are all standing in the sanctuary and maybe even coming into that wonderful open space in front of the chancel so that we too could let it be the dance. 

I will say a phrase and then Frank will lead you in the response.  Let’s repeat this three times and the 3rd time we will say it together.  You can sing it as well.

Refrain: Let it be a dance we do, may I have this dance with you, through the good times and the bad times too, let this be a dance.