My favorite theological discussion I have ever had occurred with my son. We were driving to school one morning; he was about 13 years old at the time. As per our routine, we were listening to a popular Christian radio station. Chris Tomlin’s “God’s Great Dance Floor” came up in the rotation. The lyrics are simple, and the music bouncy. Tomlin sings passionately how soul comes alive on God’s great dance floor. We barely reached the first chorus when my son asked, “Where is God’s dance floor?” Many years of theological training had not prepared me for this question. As we listened, my son interjected with further questions; “Is God’s dance floor on earth, or in heaven? If it is on earth, where is it?  If it is in heaven, is this song about death?” These were good and important questions. But then he asked the question that theologically pierced me more than the others: “What if I don’t feel like dancing?” 

Indeed, what does worship look like when we don’t feel like dancing? What does Christian life look like when wrapped in mourning? Does not-dancing betray our connection to Jesus?

It’s all-too common nowadays to believe that Christian life must be perpetually positive and triumphant. A culture of toxic-positivity tells us the bigger the smile the stronger the belief. Struggles in faith are seen as rejections of faith. We may not even realize we think this way until hardships befall us. Then, facing what we never thought we would face, we find ourselves met with thoughts and messages decrying our struggle. What is worse, sometimes the Christian community reinforces condemning messages. Some are told that healing doesn’t happen because they aren’t praying enough, or that their struggle is symptomatic of disbelief. Pray longer, believe stronger, be better! Such a teaching is sometimes termed “victorology”; it is the belief stating that Jesus creates the victory over anything troublesome or problematic. If we just exercised more faith, then surely our mourning would be turned to dancing…right?

If we view our Chrisitan life in a victory-alone manner, worship inevitably becomes an endless concert of up-beat praise and dance-like rejoicing. But this presents a false picture of Christan worship. If we assume that spiritual heaviness betrays the things of God, we remove the very act of worship from the likes of wrestling, lamenting, and mourning. Not only do we suffer the ills of life, but now we feel a toxic guilt due to our lack of true worship.

The very idea that worship is a constant spiritual party isolates us from Jesus, divorcing him from the everyday occurrences of our lives. In his book, Turn my Mourning into Dancing, Henri Nouwen writes:

“We do not nurse the illusion that we can hopscotch our way through difficulties. For by trying to hide parts of our story from God’s eye and our own consciousness, we become judges of our own past. We limit divine mercy to our human fears.”

Narrowing our worship to the endlessly positive and triumphant is an elaborate way to hide our true selves. Christ is kept at a distance, never invited into messy lives. Worship is never a place to hide. We do not mask our feelings for the sake of make-believe-faith. Worship is where we offer our truest selves. It is a place to be honest.

So, what does worship look like when we don’t feel like dancing? Well, Jesus provides the model. Jesus himself shows us what it looks like to be faithful amidst our struggles and laments. In Jesus we see that worship looks like tears and groans that words cannot express. Worship looks like drops of blood and bold petitions to our heavenly Father. Worship looks like the majority of the psalms, crying out for help and salvation; it is sitting with hands upturned, daring to believe that we are enfolded in the Spirit, because that’s all we can do.

Worship occurs in these places because we dare to recognize Christ in our midst. Jesus does not stand far off, beckoning us to leave the sometimes-painful reality of human life. Jesus never asks for false bravado and empty positivity. He knows our weakness. He was tempted just as we are. And because he lived the harsh reality of human life, we can trust that he is present for us whenever the ills of life come crashing in.

If you want to dance, dance. But if all you can do is cry, that’s ok; Christ is with you, nonetheless.