"Abwoon d’bwashmaya..."

Yikes! My tongue stumbles over the strange Aramaic syllables that co-leaders Lu and Phil are teaching our circle of 50. We are gathered in the fellowship hall at Keystone Congregational Church to dance and chant the Lord’s Prayer in Aramaic, one of the Dances of Universal Peace (see sidebar).
Phil explains that Jesus spoke in Aramaic, an earthy and richly metaphorical middle Eastern language, not the more cerebral Greek from which familiar Bible verses are translated. Lu raises his arms with a grin, walks around the inside of the circle, and says, "’O Birther! Father-Mother of the Cosmos, you create all that moves in light!’ This is what Jesus was saying in his native language, which many of us learned as ‘Our Father which art in Heaven.’"

Before I have time to consider this ecstatic Jesus, Lu teaches a simple chant to accompany the words. The guitarist and drummers in the center, seated around a simple altar of candles, flowers, and scarves, begin playing. We join hands to bow and sway to a modal middle-eastern melody. The rich syllables, candlelight, music, and dancing transport me far from the hard pews and stiff prayers of my Presbyterian childhood.

We learn this passionately poetic Lord’s Prayer line by line, each line introducing a new chant and a new dance. My back protests the dipping and turning after 45 minutes, but I’m not about to stop. I’m dancing my way into a radically different understanding of Jesus and his message.
Lu reminds us after the third dance of what many here tonight already know: we dance this dance cycle, and indeed all the Dances of Universal Peace, as a prayer for peace in the Middle East and peace for all beings on the planet.

I’m not sure what connects circle dancing to world peace, but I’m eager to learn. Lu, though, has us sit down in a circle for the next line, which I know as "Give us this day our daily bread." Weary bodies drop gratefully to the carpet and we learn the Aramaic, which Lu translates as "Grant us what we need each day in bread and insight: subsistence for the call of growing life."
As we softly chant, four dancers carrying loaves of braided challah meet in the center. They break bread, feed each other, and move out into the circle to offer sustenance to four other dancers. We are told to feed whomever we wish after we have been fed. I sing with my eyes closed, allowing my tired body to relax into the rich sound.

"Melissa… I’m glad to see you. Let me feed you." A familiar voice from my past startles my eyes open. Dana, whom I haven’t seen since we parted years ago after a disagreement, kneels before me. I am surprised that I didn’t see her dancing, but even more surprised that she is willing to offer me bread for my journey. We look deeply into each others’ eyes and Dana places a warm yeasty crust on my tongue, saying "Blessings to you, Melissa." She gives me the rest of the loaf, and a hug, before bowing and standing up.
My heart feels as big as the fellowship hall. "This is what peacemaking is about," I think. I turn to feed the woman next to me, but she is safe and known. Dana took a huge risk by feeding me; I look around to find someone with whom I may now dare peacemaking myself. I see Kent, a man whom I’ve been critical of simply on the basis of his appearance. I know it’s time to lay down my projections and be willing to behold Kent in his own light.

I walk across the circle with a heart suddenly constricted in anxiety and kneel before him. We look into each other, and I see that Kent has nothing to do with my judgments of him. I become achingly aware in this moment of how many other judgments I hurl at life: like this, don’t like that; like this, don’t like that, arrogance preventing me from beholding the glory of things-as-they-are. Releasing these for now, I breathe in peace, deeply grateful for the opportunity to feed this man. I hand Kent the challah, bow deeply, and return to my place singing, heart now spacious as the night sky watching me through the windows.
The next chant—"Loose the cords of mistakes binding us, as we release the strands we hold of others’ guilt"—we sing in Aramaic while passing stoneware chalices of wine around the circle, receiving the non-alcoholic wine from our left, tipping the chalice to our neighbor to the right. It is good. I am basking in this circle of peace and healing when the music picks up and Phil announces a free dance to "Don’t let surface things delude us, but free us from what holds us back." We dance to a wailing melody as the spirit seizes us. I join hands with a preteen girl and we spin around each other. Others whirl, jump, and dance with the joy of peacemaking and release.

We circle once more for the last two dances. My brain has shut down; it can’t do unfamiliar syllables any more. I’m obviously not alone, because Phil tells us it’s okay just to hum. For the final dance, we softly chant "Ameyn" as we slowly spiral in.
With all of us now gathered in the center, Lu offers as a closing prayer a translation from the final dance: "The prayer goes on and on, from age to age, from gathering to gathering. May it be the ground from which all our actions grow."
The gathering at the center breaks up as people move about the room now, quietly exchanging hugs. I find Dana; we hug tightly and trade phone numbers.
Walking back to my car, the sidewalk feels too small. I waltz down the middle of the deserted street, still humming the final "Ameyn." I feel unbound, released from old strands of judgment and unforgiveness. I think Jesus is dancing with me.

Melissa West, M.S., is a psychotherapist, spiritual director, teacher, and the author of Silver Linings: the Power of Trauma to Transform Your Life (May 2003). She may be reached at www.wisdomways.org, or triplespiral@earthlink.net.