Not long ago my wife and I took a ballroom dance class. I know it’s wrong and I’m not proud of it. I’m just saying we did it but have since gotten our lives right with God again.
Signing up for dance lessons was very difficult for me because I’ve just really never been able to figure out the point of dancing. Especially if you’re single. Could there be a worse activity for two people considering a relationship with each other?
“Hi! My name’s Frank. I will now gyrate my body in the most unfavorable and disagreeable fashion so that you may determine whether or not you think I’m a good long-term relationship risk.” It just doesn’t make sense.
So my wife signs us up for dance lessons sponsored by our public school’s Continuing Education Program, which means the same thing in my neighborhood as it does in yours: quality, excellence, and teachers who couldn’t get a full-time gig.
Our teacher, whom I’ll call Natasha because I forgot her real name, is a pleasant older lady who speaks what little English she knows in a thick Russian accent. She has been teaching dance since Moses was fished out of the Nile, but still dances like a fawn on a spring morning. That is to say, she dances in jerky, spasmodic motions, like someone trying to learn to use their legs for the first time. No, I only jest. She dances beautifully, but unfortunately possesses no actual teaching ability.
When my wife and I were learning the waltz, any question I’d ask Natasha would inevitably result in loud clapping in my face, accompanied by the words, “ONE, two three, ONE two three. See? Is easy! No problem. ONE two three!”
Yes, that clears everything right up. Thanks.
Our teacher’s dancing assistant, whom I’ll call Bob because that’s his name, also dances like a dream, by which I mean everything is out of place and nothing makes sense. Once again, I kid. His dancing is also superb.
Bob is roughly forty pounds overweight but he doesn’t know it because no one has told him. So Bob wears a skin-tight, white T-shirt that resembles sprayed-on latex, which is not very flattering, but nobody has told him that either. Bob sports a foot-long pony tail of solid white hair which rounds out his I-teach-dance-when-I’m-out-on-parole look.
From what I can tell, Bob’s primary responsibilities (also his principle joy in life) seem to include periodically dancing with the women in the class while scolding them about the sin of not following the man while he is leading.
Finally, a candidate I can get behind. I kid, of course!
After a while, Bob would run out of steam, relinquish his partner, and then hover longingly around the other couples, hoping that someone would ask him something so he could cut in and berate another woman mercilessly.
About three-fourths of the way through each class, Natasha and Bob would give up on their slow-witted, clumsy students and start gliding around the floor like Fred and Ginger. The rest of us would then look for our opportunity to slip out of the room without getting caught, like restaurant patrons trying to skip out on the check.
It feels good to get this all off my chest. The Bible says to “confess your sins to each other” (James 5:16a MSG), but it’s amazing how seldom we actually do it.
Maybe it’s hard to be vulnerable with each other because we’re afraid of what will happen if we do. Experience has taught us that to do so might bring ridicule, criticism, and gossip.
Maybe it would be easier for us to confess our shortcomings and failures if we adopted an attitude of grace and cultivated a culture of mercy. In a fallen world, it takes no talent to point out that which is wrong. It takes humility, however, to see God at work, even in the midst of disappointment and chaos.
So don’t think too harshly of me for my ballroom dancing folly. Instead start praying for me right now. I just noticed my wife looking at the fall Ballroom Dancing II schedule.
© 2022. Charles Marshall is a nationally known Christian comedian and author. Visit his Web site www.ChristianComedian.org or contact him via e-mail at Charles@ChristianComedian.org.
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