“Enjoy Being Present in Your Body”
I Corinthians 6:19; John 1:1-14a
Rev. Dr. Deborah L. Clark
August 30, 2015
It was “back day” at our Yoga Teacher Training Intensive in the Costa Rican jungle. During our early morning practice, we had moved our spines six ways. In our anatomy lesson, we had taken note of the four curves in the human spine, and how the combination gave us just the right balance of strength and flexibility. Now, during the afternoon workshop, we were focusing on Urdhva Dhanurasana, also known as Wheel Pose, or Upward Bow, or just plain Backbend.
Marianne, our teacher, started by asking for a volunteer who already knew how to do the pose. One young student pushed her body up into a perfect wheel pose, as though it was the most natural movement in the world. We noted the placement of her hands, the arch of her back, the alignment of her hips, knees, and feet. It was impressive.
Marianne asked for another volunteer, this time someone who needed help getting into the posture. I raised my hand. “Have you ever done this before?” she asked. “Not since Junior High P.E. class,” I answered. I didn’t add that gymnastics had been the bane of my 8th grade existence.
Marianne recruited three assistants, and I lay down, with three yoga straps under my body. I drew my feet up near my hips, put my hands on the floor just above my shoulders, and tried to push. My body didn’t budge. I tried again, and this time Marianne and her three assistants pulled my body up using their straps. They noticed I wasn’t breathing, and so they gently lowered me down.
Apparently, I looked as though I wanted to try again. We moved over to the wall so I could put my hands on blocks and have a bit more leverage. When I tried to push my body up, it was as though I had no arm strength at all. I figured we were done.
Ron, the other teacher in the room, had another idea. He put yet another strap under my body, told me to push up, and this time I rose into a perfect backbend. Everyone applauded. I had done it! Except I was sure Ron had pulled me up and was holding me up with his own strength. My arms hadn’t done anything at all, or so it felt to me.
I was embarrassed, frustrated and angry. I was embarrassed that everyone was applauding my supposed wheel pose when they could all see Ron had been holding me up. I was frustrated that my body wouldn’t do what I wanted it to do, frustrated that I felt weak and old. And I was angry at myself for not lifting weights and running races, angry that I had let myself get out of shape.
I was on sabbatical—an extended Sabbath–, but I was most definitely not living out my second Sabbath intention: “enjoy being present in my body.”
When I first wrote that Sabbath intention, it had a pretty simple meaning. When I am on vacation, or on a day off, or taking an hour away from work, I get great pleasure out of physical activity: playing tennis with my Dad, hiking in the woods, biking to the bird sanctuary, jumping waves in the ocean. This Sabbath intention prompts me to get up and go, and it also reminds me that the point is not to accomplish something, not to clock the most miles on my bike or the greatest elevation gain on my hike. The point is to enjoy the activity. Simple and straight-forward, right?
My wheel pose debacle reminds me that this Sabbath intention is both more complex and more important than a simple invitation to get up and move.
Most of us have complicated relationships with our bodies. We don’t always treat our bodies well. We eat and drink things that don’t nourish our bones and our hearts and our brains. Sometimes we sit like slugs; other times we push our bodies so hard we hurt ourselves, not honoring the need for rest and healing. We buy into someone else’s definition of what bodies should look like and then we try to twist and squeeze and contort our bodies to be what they are not.
We don’t always treat our bodies well, and often it seems our bodies don’t treat us well. All of our bodies are aging—some of us are in a stage of life when we feel that acutely. We bump up against physical limitation. Our bodies bear the memory of physical and emotional trauma—sometimes little hurts that are part of life, sometimes horrific experiences no human should have to endure. At times it feels as though our bodies betray us—responding in ways we don’t want them to, refusing to do the things we need them to do. For some among us, our bodies are the source of tremendous pain.
The language I find myself using as I reflect on this intention reveals how deeply challenging it is. I keep talking about our relationships with our bodies—as though our bodies are not really part of who we are, as though our bodies are possessions we own, tools we use to accomplish our purposes. In spite of our cultural inclination to worship certain idealized bodies, it is deeply ingrained in our society to think of our selves as somehow separate from our bodies.
Our faith challenges that instinct. The beginning of the gospel according to John uses poetic language to convey a spiritual truth about our bodies. “And the Word became flesh and dwelt among us.”
Theologians have argued the meaning of this line for millennia. It has been the source of schisms and witch hunts. Sometimes the incarnation has been envisioned as God putting on a human body like a costume—a perfect divine being hiding inside an imperfect mundane body.
The poetry in John’s gospel suggests something more integrated: “the word became flesh.” In Jesus, John writes, God’s sacred presence became a whole human being—flesh and blood, mind and emotion, spirit and body.
“The word became flesh.” I understand these words as poetry—metaphor that speaks profound truth about the depth of God’s love for us, about God’s presence in the joys and struggles of human living, profound truth about the goodness, the sacredness, of human bodies. The poetry also points me to our wholeness as human beings. We are not sacred sparks of the divine hiding in human bodies; we are sacred, whole creatures—body, mind and spirit integrated and intertwined.
It is a deeply challenging concept. We are not “in” our bodies; we are our bodies. And we are more than our bodies. So really my sabbatical intention should be worded differently: not “enjoy being present in my body.” Maybe “Enjoy being present to my body?” Or “with my body?” or “Enjoy being body?” hmmmm…
Language falls short. Fortunately, this intention is not about language; it is about experiencing the goodness of my body, the wholeness of who I am.
Over the years, I have found yoga to be a powerful way to practice experiencing myself as a whole human being—to claim my body as an essential part of my being. The slowness of the movements gives me space to notice physical sensations, and the intentionality of the practice helps me notice without judgments. My failed attempt at wheel pose was an exception—I was noticing the physical sensations, and I was making all sorts of judgments. Even that, though, was an opportunity to explore my feelings about my age and my abilities.
What I have learned from yoga helps me practice being present with my body in other activities—pausing after an intense tennis point to feel my racing heart, noticing the wind on my face as I ride my bike downhill. They are small moments of presence, hints of the wholeness of my body, mind, and spirit.
My Sabbath intention challenges me to go a step further—from practicing presence to enjoying it. This intention invites me to take pleasure in movement or sensation, to revel in the wonder of my wholeness.
I’ve chosen to preach this sermon series on my Sabbath intentions hoping they will spark your own intentions for rest and for sacred time. I was surprised this week to discover that, of the three intentions, this one is the hardest to preach about. We have such different experiences of our bodies. For some among us, being present in our bodies means being present to pain and limitation. I want to honor that reality.
And I still want to invite you to explore this Sabbath intention This intention is not about pretending our bodies are perfect. It is not about ignoring pain and illness. It is about refusing to allow pain to define our experience of our bodies. It is about daring to trust our capacity to be creative in discovering new opportunities for joy. It is about allowing others to help us–maybe to get into wheel pose, or maybe to coax us out for a beautiful walk or hold our hands as we venture into the ocean, or maybe just to encourage us to keep trying.
Enjoying being present in our bodies can mean many different things. Fran and I talked about what it means to each of us. For me, at this point in my life, it is often about enjoying physical movement. Fran brought a different perspective. “For me,” she said, “it means enjoying my capacity to see something beautiful with my eyes, and to take a picture of it. It means appreciating the taste of my favorite food, or the smell of a pine tree. It means experiencing the pleasure of touching and being touched.”
Feeling the stretch of a muscle. Diving into salt water. Taking photos. Savoring a meal. Patting a dog…What does it mean for you to enjoy being present with your body? I invite you to ask yourself this question. I invite you to experiment with living into this Sabbath intention. May God bless our asking and our exploring. Amen.