One Friday night in May, when I was in college, some friends and I, rather inexplicably, decided to ride up and down the elevator of our nine-storey residence hall singing Christmas carols to the lobbies of each floor. The next day one of my neighbors approached me laughingly and said, "You guys were really drunk last night, weren't you?" What a funny question, I thought. We'd been, I assured her, stone-cold sober. Was alcohol necessary for such silliness? Not for us.
I wish I had more stories like that. I know people who do, people who have littanies of dancing on tables with lampshades on their heads after drinking nothing stronger than a strong draught of joy. High on life.
Unfortunatley, I'm a lot more like my neighbor, and Michal, more often judging cynically or scoldingly the frivolity around me. I'm jealous, of course. It takes courage and self-forgetfulness to leap and dance before the Lord. I'm afraid. I'm caught up in my image. What would people think?
No one is carting the ark of the Lord around my suburban neighborhood. What would it look like for me to get up and dance today?