Improv:

Stepping Into Emptiness

 

Now go and I will be with your mouth and teach you what to speak.

But (Moses) said, “O, my Lord, please send someone else.”

(Exodus 4:12-13)

 

Even before a word is on my tongue, O Lord,

you know it altogether.

(Psalm 139:4)

 

 A sermon by Siegfried S. Johnson on the Ninth Sunday after Pentecost

Volume 2, Number 5

  

Improv is an abbreviated form of improvisation.   To ad lib.  To wing it.  To speak, off-the-cuff.  One of my favorite television shows, always fresh to me though all are re-runs, is “Whose Line Is It Anyway?” the show, to use Drew Carey’s tagline with which he opens each show, “where everything is made up and the points don’t matter.”   It’s true -- everything IS made up, often with themes and situations shouted spontaneously from the audience.  Though there is no shortage on laughter, this is no sitcom and these are not actors speaking from scripts.  Wayne, Ryan, and Collin and their friends are Improv specialists, “Stepping into the Emptiness” of the moment, on the spot making up their lines in hilarious comedy sketches and songs, leaving audiences astonished at how they fill the emptiness with wit.  It’s entertaining, to be sure. 

 

For one such as myself, severely challenged by the spontaneous moment, Improv experts are awe-inspiring.  I suppose it’s simply a case of jealousy.  I never seem to be able to find the words I want, the best words to fit a given situation.  I crave that ability to Step into Emptiness and creatively fill the blank pages, but I’ve come to know that Improv is not the best club in my bag.  I faced the fact a long time ago – that I just don’t think well on my feet. Our Psalmist said, “Even before a word is on my tongue, O Lord, you know it altogether.”  That’s comforting, I suppose.  I’m glad God knows my words before I form them on my tongue.  I just wish God would give me a clue.   Ah, but “such knowledge is too wonderful for me, it is high, I cannot attain it.”  

 

No, I need things scripted.  I suppose that’s true of most of us, which is why those gifted ones are so spectacularly engaging and entertaining.  Where I see an end, they see a beginning.  Where I see a blank page that fills me with fear, they see a blank page filled with potential.

 

As I was putting finishing touches on this sermon Friday afternoon, my panic button began to glow bright red.  My printer crashed.  After an hour or so of trying to figure it out, as I stood at the cash register at Staples to get another print cartridge, I smiled as it occurred to me how much my last hour frenzy proved the words I have been writing -- how frightened I am of the blank page.  Printer crashed, I could envision myself standing in this spot now, having only a wooden pulpit staring back at me instead of the words I had so carefully crafted, words locked up in my computer which, though only a few feet away, may as well be miles away. 

 

When one thinks of biblical figures with little confidence in their ability to fill the blank page with energy and meaning, one thinks of Moses, who at the Burning Bush begged God to choose another.  “Now go and I will be with your mouth and teach you what to speak,” God said. “But (Moses) said, “O, my Lord, please send someone else.”  Evidently, fear of public speaking was real for Moses, who saw only emptiness in this project. 

 

Liturgically speaking, we are in the season of Pentecost, the day which opened the journal of the Christian era to its first blank page.  There, in Jerusalem, the disciples waited -- the blank pages of the as-yet-unwritten Christian history in front of them.  How shall they fill the blank page? 

 

For a writer, the blank page is an apt image.   Writers know the loneliness and intimidation of the blank page, but also the excitement.  The disciples must have felt this same mix of loneliness and joy, intimidation and excitement, as they set out to fill the blank pages of the Christian journal, to transform potential into history. 

 

Consider the Christ-event from this blank-page perspective.  That Christ “Stepped into Emptiness” is made emphatic by Paul.  “He emptied himself,” Paul wrote.  Jesus, creator of all things, intentionally Stepped into the Emptiness of the moment, joining the Divine Dance.  Jesus was Stepping into the Emptiness of uncharted territory.  Any birth is a Step into Emptiness.  The infant is curled and nurtured in amniotic warmth, comforted by the familiar rhythm of mom’s heartbeat.  One imagines that, were the baby to be given a rational voice, it would naturally rebel against such a Step into Emptiness.  Bleak and without promise seems this new world outside the womb.  Yet, Stepping into Emptiness, it is found instead to be vibrant with color and promise. 

 

Speaking of stepping into uncharted territory, into the emptiness of a new thing, I’m going to go now to a place you’ve never seen me go in a sermon, as I step into emptiness.  Please turn in your hymnals to No. 261, Lord of the Dance, and keep your hymnal open through the rest of this sermon.  I’m going to sing the first stanza of “Lord of the Dance,” and ask you to join me when we come to the chorus.

 

I danced in the morning when the world was begun,

and I danced in the moon and the stars and the sun. 

And I came down from heaven and I danced on earth,

at Bethlehem I had my birth. 

Dance, then, wherever you may be, I am the Lord of the dance, said he,

and I’ll lead you all wherever you may be, and I’ll lead you all in the dance, said he.

 

Before television, there was Vaudeville.  Vaudeville was the venue in which many of our best old-time comedians learned their trade, much of it in the context of improvisation.  Entertainers in those days faced some pretty tough audiences, so they learned to end their acts with show-stopping moves to ensure applause.  One performer, Eddie Leonard, had a unique way to ensure the audience’s compassion and applause.  He announced at every performance that this would be his last show, banking on the hope that few people would be heartless enough to boo and harass a man performing for the last time.  For twenty years on the Vaudeville stage that announcement became Eddie Leonard’s staple.  He said it was a moving out, but everyone knew it was really a moving on. 

 

When the resurrected Christ ascended into heaven and set the stage for Pentecost, it seemed Jesus was moving out.  He wasn’t.  He was allowing the church to move on.   “Unless I go, the Holy Spirit will not come to you.”  The blank page before the disciples was an invitation to join the dance, to embark upon a dynamic, Spirit-empowered ministry that spread the Good News all over the world, establishing churches, hospitals, orphanages, universities, and missions.  Actors may step into emptiness and fill it with wit.  Christians must step into the emptiness of the world, the emptiness of broken lives, and fill it with grace and love.

 

We naturally face challenges, the blank page, with fear.  Psychologist Martha Beck tells of clients who miss great opportunities simply because they are afraid of the blank page, afraid of uncharted territory, afraid to Step into Emptiness.  She offers hilarious snippets of actual conversations she has had with clients. 

 

Beck: You’ve been invited to raft the Grand Canyon this summer?  That’s great!  It’s exactly what you’ve always wanted to do.

 

Client: Yeah, but I can’t go.  I have an appointment to get my teeth cleaned that week.

 

Beck: You say you’d do anything to work in the automobile industry, and you have the credentials.  You should start now applying for jobs.

 

Client: Yeah, but I’m too tall.

 

Yeah, but.  Contrast that attitude with the attitude of comedian Tina Fey, of Saturday Night Live. She credits her current success to rules she learned in improvisational acting class, when her teacher, Martin de Maat, said, “Greet opportunity with a ‘Yes, and . . .’ attitude.”  Here is a willingness to say “Yes” to the blank page, to begin creatively and enthusiastically to fill it.  When Jesus came to the scribes and Pharisees, their response was, “Yeah, but.”  Not so the first disciples called from the lake of Galilee to fish for people.  They responded, “Yes, and . . .”  Ready for verse two?

 

I danced for the scribe and the Pharisee,

but they would not dance and they would not follow me. 

I danced for the fishermen for James and John,

they came to me and the dance went on.

Dance then, wherever you may be, I am the Lord of the Dance said he,

and I’ll lead you all wherever you may be, and I’ll lead you all in the dance said he.

 

“Stepping into emptiness” is a phrase I borrowed, not from a book of theology, but from an essay by David Rothenberg about playing jazz.  These words were written about gifted musicians, those able to depart from the notes written on the score with a spontaneity that surpasses “whatever limits you might imagine to hold you.”  This, Rothenberg says, requires a lifetime of practice but, when it emerges, sounds like pure invention, leaving the audience to wonder, “Did you make this up as you went along?  Did these beautiful notes emerge from midair?” 

 

Rothenberg tells of Picasso once being asked how long it took to make a painting.  “All my life,” was his answer.  How long does it take a doctor to see a patient?  Perhaps a few minutes but, in reality, a whole life.  How long does it take a carpenter to build cabinets?  A whole life.  How long, musicians, did it take for you to learn today’s anthem?  One Wednesday night rehearsal, or a whole life?  How long to prepare this sermon?  Whatever your occupation, a lifetime of education and experience combine to create new, confident avenues of expression.

 

Rothenberg writes, “Only by stepping into emptiness can you fill the impossible with your work.  The beauty in improvisation is that you can do more than you can calculate, can soar far beyond any notes or structures you might plan.  It’s wonderful to be a part of it, to forget whatever limits you might imagine to hold you . . . It’s takes a lifetime to trust one’s tools enough to rise to the openness of the instant.  The improviser specializes in making the most of accident, an instant that is fluid, fleeting, creating a moment which has never been heard before this present moment, and at the same time, a moment that will never appear again.  We all have gifts which can be elucidated, developed, expanded, and then, in a magical moment, squeezed and transformed in freedom of expression.  That’s the moment when training becomes art, when you handle the unexpected in a way which even you yourself never guessed you could . . .You will take yourself to places you never imagined reachable.”  

 

Birth in Bethlehem was not the only emptiness into which Jesus would step.  Jesus was called to step into another, terrifying, emptiness – death.  “Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death,” an emptiness, an aloneness.  Yet, Jesus led the way even to the grave, so we could follow in confidence, signing with the Shepherd psalmist “I will fear no evil, for you are with me.”

 

I danced on a Friday and the sky turned black,

it’s hard to dance with the devil on your back.

They buried my body and they thought I’d gone,

but I am the dance and I still go on.

Dance then wherever you may be, I am the Lord of the dance said he,

And I’ll lead you all wherever you may be, and I’ll lead you all in the dance said he.

 

 He stepped into the emptiness of death, as must we.  But, as in birth, so death -- the blank pages of fear were filled with the brilliant colors of life.  As the poet T. S. Eliot wrote, “In my end is my beginning.” 

 

They cut me down and I leapt up high,

I am the life that’ll never, never die. 

I’ll live in you if you’ll live in me,

I am the Lord of the Dance said he.

Dance then wherever you may be, I am the Lord of the dance said he,

And I’ll lead you all wherever you may be, and I’ll lead you all in the dance said he.

 

When Bishop William Willimon was Dean of the Chapel at Duke University, he received a phone call from a very irate father.  The caller told Will furiously, “I hold you personally responsible for this!”  He was angry because his graduate school-bound daughter had decided to (in the father’s words) “throw it all away and go do mission work in Haiti with the Presbyterian Church.”  The father complained, “Isn’t that absurd!  She has a degree from Duke and she’s going to dig ditches in Haiti.  I hold you responsible for this!”

 

Willimon said, “Why me?”

 

The father said, “You ingratiated yourself and filled her mind with all this religious stuff.”

 

Willimon is not the sort to be easily intimidated.  He asked, “Sir, weren’t you the one who had her baptized?”

 

“Yes,” said the father.

 

“And didn’t you take her to Sunday School when she was a girl, and allow her to go on youth trips when she was in high school?”

 

“Yes.  What does that have to do with anything?”

 

“Sir,” said Willimon, “You’re the reason she’s throwing it all away.  You introduced her to Jesus, not me!”

 

“But,” said the father, “all we wanted was for her to be a Presbyterian.”

 

“Well, sorry sir, but you messed up,” said Willimon.  “You’ve gone and made a disciple!”

 

The father had a“Yeah, but . . .” attitude (as fathers are wont to have with respect to their children, when those children leave the map which they’ve drawn out for their happiness).  So when his daughter responded to the prompting of God with a “Yes, and . . .” it frightened him.  What is our response today?  May we fill the blank pages of our future, by hearing the call to Step into Emptiness with a “Yes, and . . .” attitude.

 

Sources and notes:

The “Blank Page” theme running throughout this sermon was captured in the Children’s Lesson.  I gave each of the kids a blank notepad and showed them a Journal given to me before leading a pilgrimage to the Holy Land in March of 2007.  I talked to the kids about how each day begins with a blank page, ready for us to fill the pages.

 

David Rothenberg, “Spontaneous Effort:  Improvisation and the Quest for Meaning,” in PARABOLA, Volume 21, Number 4 (Winter 1996, Play and Work).