Let ‘em Whoop
Iremember summer evenings in Phoenix when I was in grade school. My friends and I waited for the sun to set and then ran out of our air-conditioned homes to meet at the park down the street. We sat in a circle on the hard, yellow grass — me, my older sister, Steve with silver braces, Andrew who was short and skinny, and Beth with long blonde hair who laughed easily. We had no plans except to be together in the warm, blue twilight, and we talked and laughed until the sky turned black and the streetlights popped awake with a buzz. And we made up games with loose rules while brown bugs danced around the yellow lights until a voice called us to bed and we ran home, tired and happy.
Some years later, testosterone started pumping through my veins, and it told me to run and jump and grab and crash into things. I waited for the irrigation ditch in front of my house to fill with water because I knew it would flood the playground near my home, turning it into a long, flat, shallow puddle – perfect for football. So I grabbed a ball and called my buddies, and we played football under the hot Phoenix sun until our clothes were heavy with mud and grass. I floated through the air to catch the ball and landed in the water without a care, and I whooped with pleasure because I was invincible and the day would never, ever end.
I don’t play football anymore, but I love to hear the happy shrieks of children near our home on a summer evening. “Don’t hinder the children,” Jesus said. “Theirs is the kingdom.” And I think he meant: “Let ‘em whoop. Let ‘em run. Let ‘em trip over themselves in feral joy and bring all the innocent gladness of life to me.” And it’s easy, too easy, for me to lose gladness in the rush to get things done. I catch the plane but can’t quite catch joy on a rental car shuttle or as I answer emails in a dark hotel bar with its forced conviviality. I try to remember the birds and the lilies, but they don’t have to fix a leaking faucet or wade through a pile of bills, so I lose the pearl of great price, and most days I don’t even remember to look for it.
Sometimes I think of Dante, the pilgrim lost in the dark wood midway through his life, and I wonder if he was just weary and busy and forgot how to listen for joy. So he descended into a frozen hell of endless consumption and then slogged up Mount Purgatory with Virgil, the trusted guide leading the way — Virgil, the poet who teaches him to hope. And Dante arrived in heaven to see the angels singing and dancing to music too wonderful for the poet to put into words, though he tries.
And there I saw a loveliness that when
it smiled at the angelic songs and games
made glad the eyes of all the other saints
In Dante’s vision, heaven is full of angels playing games, whipping through the air like bees around a flower and laughing in holy glee. They dive in and out of light and glory, and I wish I could leap in the air to catch a ball and land in mud without worry again. I wish I could laugh all day with friends and play games under blue skies without thinking about bills and broken cars. I want to sing with the saints and run between the angel’s wings as they soar in heavenly praise, but Lord help me, Lord help me, too often the clanging bell of duty drowns out the angels’ forever song.
Too often I feel like Mary Magdalene at the end of John’s gospel, stumbling around outside the empty tomb, full of questions. Blinded by grief, Mary runs into Jesus and doesn’t recognize him. “Where can I find my Lord?” she asks. Did Jesus smile and tilt his head to the side? Was his voice urgent and infinitely playful when he called her name? “Mary,” he exclaims, and they must have laughed at the goodness and the absurdity of it all. Maybe that moment was just a hint of the deep laughter in heaven that will one day wash across the barren hills and through the dark history of this world, a laughter that will call each of us by name. And if we answer, “Teacher!” we too will be comforted, all our bent and bruised lives made straight and true again.
While shopping for stocking stuffers this year, I found small bags of plastic parts that, when assembled, were little whimsical animals and creatures. They made no sense, at least none that we could tell, and my kids teased me about them until my oldest said, “Oh, but they delighted you, Dad. That’s why you got them.” Yes. Perhaps delight is the mustard seed that will save me and saves me even now. I feel it working when I hear my children giggle, or notice new green leaves on winter-tired trees, or feel the sun on my face when I run in the forest. And for just a moment I know all my maudlin mawkishness is a bad game, and I want to hoot and holler and whoop, and I think maybe Jesus would smile and be glad if I did.
