Movement, movement, movement...and repose

Jesus said, "If they say to you, 'Where did you come from?' say to them, 'We came from the light, the place where light comes into being on its own accord and established [itself] and became manifest through their image.' If they say to you, 'Is it you?' say, 'We are its children and we are the elect of the living father.' If they ask you, 'What is the sign of the father in you?' say to them, 'It is movement and repose.'"

-From the Gospel of Thomas, translated by Bart D. Ehrman

Movement and repose. There are songs that haunt you, that get in your head and play out as you try to go about your daily business. When I served as a chaplain this past fall, I had mewithoutYou's cover of Nirvana's "In Bloom" (listen here). In my old age, the more mellow sound of mewithoutYou really hit me, but I really felt those lyrics, that I didn't know what "it" means, what anything meant, and I really did feel in bloom. This, of course, did not change between fall and spring semester, but another song began to resonate within me. One
that spoke to me not just about my continued learning but that articulated a liminal space I was in. A space of movement and repose.

I am not someone who is good at repose, which is perhaps why this song, using the Gospel of Thomas passage, catches me off-guard and seeps under my skin. The song is another mewithoutYou song (to get another glimpse of my obsession with this band [blame David Hosey], read this) called "Paper Hanger:"*



I love this music video because as the music builds and Aaron Weiss screams movement, he is flailing his arms about with joyful abandon. That is partially why I am so drawn to this song. I want to exhibit some of that joyful abandon, at least once in a while. This is the first meaning of movement and repose to me: movement and repose is about this ability to be free and whole, to dance.

Many of us are the kinds of people who are constantly moving. Aaron, my partner, always kind of reproaches me for it, telling me I don't know how to relax. This is true. Whenever I try to do nothing, I usually end up falling asleep! This is not what mewithoutYou or the author of the Gospel of Thomas mean by movement and repose. It isn't even about the ability to relax in the midst of working all the time. Instead, Aaron Weiss' dancing is closer to a definition of what movement and repose means: a state of joyful abandon in which we can be moving to the rhythms of the call God has placed on us and still live sabbath.

The reason why this song has pulled me in, even now when I spend most of my days napping, reading, and talking to our bird Teddy, is because my last semester of seminary, even though I needed one class to graduate, I took five classes, worked two jobs, underwent ordination exams, and went to General Conference. I had that movement part down, but I had no idea the meaning of repose. But what we learn from the concept of movement and repose is that you can't do just one. Jesus says that if they ask you for the sign of the father, tell them it is movement and repose. It is the interaction of the two that is wholeness and fullness.

There is nuance to movement and repose I am still mulling over, but I needed to write something for myself about how this little phrase has gotten under my skin, not least because as I become a pastor for the Deer Creek Charge, I want to enact movement and repose as a kind of spiritual discipline. To be a pastor whose life looks like Aaron Weiss' dancing.

Our lives are not our own;
even the wind lays still,
our essence was fire and cold
and movement, movement.
If they ask you for a sign of the Father,
tell them it's movement, movement

and repose.

*the lyrics to "Paper Hanger" by mewithoutYou

In not one motion of her gesture could I forget
the prettiest bag lady I ever met,
pushing her cart in the rain,
then gathering plastic and glass
she watched the day pass,
not hour by hour,
but pain by pain.
If I was a basket filled with holes,
then she was the sand I tried to hold
and ran out behind me
as I swung with some invisible hands.

I stopped believing, you start to move.
She was like wine turned to water then turned back to wine.
I stopped my leaving and the better man bloomed,
and you can pour us out and we won't mind.

I was dead, then alive.
She was like wine turned to water then turned back to wine.
You can pour us out, we won't mind,
a scratch around the mouth of the glass,
my life is no longer mine.

If you're still looking for a blanket sweetie,
I'm sorry, I'm no sort of fabric,
but if you need a tailor,
then take your torn shirt, and stumble up my stairs
and mumble your pitiful prayers,
and in your tangled night's sleep, our midnight needles go to work
until all comfort and fear flows in one river
down on the shelf by the mirror where you see yourself whole,
and it makes you shiver.

I stopped believing, you start to move.
She was like wine turned to water then turned back to wine.
I stopped my leaving and the better man bloomed,
and you can pour us out and we won't mind.

I was dead, then alive.
She was like wine turned to water and turned back to wine.
You can pour us out, we won't mind,
a scratch around the mouth of the glass,
my life is no longer mine.

Our lives are not our own;
even the wind lays still,
our essence was fire and cold and movement, movement.
If they ask you for a sign of the Father,
tell them it's movement, movement, movement
and repose.