3 lessons Yoga Taught Me About Preaching
I am a yogi.
In reading that, what picture jumped to mind?
My body twisted into a pretzel? Or curved in a backbend so deep the top of my head grazes my heels? That I'm holding a handstand at the edge of a cliff, serene and confident that I won't tremble, tip, and plunge into the abyss?
Ha! I can't do anything like that!
I have a terrible sense of balance and the injuries I've gathered over the years limit my range of motion.
No, I am a yogi not because of the poses I can hold or the shapes I can twist my body into, but simply because I practice.
That's it.
Practicing yoga about three times a week for several years has taught me useful life lessons, many of which apply to preaching.
Whether you've ever done a Downward Dog or not, these lessons can benefit every preacher.
Breath
Moving in yoga doesn't start with a picture in the mind about the shape you're about to create, or even with the twitch of a muscle fiber.
All yoga starts with the breath.
Before raising an arm, bending at the waist towards our feet, or lifting one foot off the ground while the other (hopefully!) holds firm and steady in a pose, we breathe.
I'm sure I heard many yoga teachers say this one way or another, but it took me years before I truly heard that "In yoga, we let go of our ego, we let go of our will and control. Movement comes from the breath. The breath starts every movement."
Breathing in begins, initiates, propels motion.
We breathe in to infuse our muscles with the energy needed to move and breathe out to allow them to be still, whether activated and held, or relaxed but lengthened.
We need the steady rhythm of our breath, especially when we feel the pose is difficult or uncomfortable, because when we don't like something and want it to go away, it's habitual to hold our breath or breathe shallowly into our upper chest.
Our breath provides the life, grace, and awareness of the moment we are in, creating acceptance, letting our body be just as it is and not willing it to be different.
Lesson for Preachers: the spirit’s breath propels preaching
When we open our mouths to offer a message to our congregations, we first breathe in the Spirit who provides the energy for the life that will be exhaled in our words.
But preaching and sermon prep isn't always a serene experience.
Both can be downright uncomfortable!
It may make us aware of truths we would prefer not to face about ourselves or community, or we may be asked by the Spirit to say words that will get us into trouble with our listeners.
In fact, it may be deeply painful if we preach into the violence and hatred spewing around us to offer an alternative message of including everyone—including those spewing hatred and violence.
That is, offering the yoke of grace for all who are wearied and bowed down.
We may feel afraid when we stand in the pulpit, afraid of the reactions, afraid of possible hatred or violence directed at us.
In that moment, breath may be constricted, shallow and tightened in our upper chest, not filling our whole bodies, and crippling the Spirit's message.
This is why a practice of a steady rhythm of breath, a regular, intentional practice of breathing that is slow, meditative, inflating our entire body with life and exhaling our fears is so important.
Then when fear arises, it's a sacred ritual to return to the breath.
The Spirit's nourishing breath sustains us in equal measure through anxious sermons and enlightening ones.
All preaching is propelled by the breath.
God's breath.
Foundation
Imagine yourself standing in "Mountain Pose" with feet hips-width apart and arms at your sides.
That's simply standing, isn't it?
What's a "mountain" got to do with it?
A mountain is created from the foundation, from the earth, upwards.
The only way a mountain can support the cone of millions of tons of dirt, rocks, roots, trees, shrubs, bears, and rabbits is because it has a foundation wide, strong, and stable enough to hold it all up.
Mountain Pose begins with the feet.
Toes are spread, firmly gripping the mat. Our body weight is distributed evenly across all four points—big toe to pinky, down the outside of the foot to the heel, across the heel to the inside, and back up to the big toe—creating a platform of stability.
We push down through our feet, activating our ankles, calves, quadriceps, and glutes.
Arms are held steady slightly away from the hips, fingers spread wide, shoulder blades pulling lightly together across our back so hearts shine forward.
An imaginary string pulls the crown of our head towards the sky, elongating our neck and torso into perfect vertebral alignment.
Most importantly, our center (now that we are not slumping) is placed where it belongs: at the literal center of our bodies.
Located just below the belly button, that's where the "gyroscope" is around which we are able to roll and swivel to find—and hold steady—every move and pose.
Clearing away the debris of casual inattention to our bodies creates the firm foundation that supports us no matter what comes next.
Lesson for Preachers: Create a foundation from the ground up
Paying attention to our bodies in space while we preach helps us be fully present and move with grace.
I don't mean move gracefully as if we were "Dancing with the Stars."
I mean move with the grace of the Spirit, standing firm in our calling and beliefs, and unapologetically taking up physical space.
Our foundation begins with our breath as described above.
Then, whether we preach standing or sitting, we create a foundation from the bottom up.
We plant our feet firmly on the ground or on the pedals of the wheelchair, pushing lightly, active, ready, strong, noticing the four points of contact our feet make inside our shoes to ground us.
We feel that string pulling our heads towards the sky, elongating our bodies so that we are as upright and relaxed, as our bodies allow, undergirding us with confidence.
Growing tall allows for the fullest and easiest of breaths with expansive space available for our lungs to be filled.
We relax our shoulders, shining our hearts forward.
If we preach standing outside of a pulpit, our hands hang at our sides, easily and defenselessly, palms open to indicate welcome and safety.
If we preach standing in the pulpit, we relax our hands at our sides or on the lectern.
And always, we feel our center.
We find the center of our bodies below our navels.
Our centers lets us move balanced and stable, dispelling tension that infects our listeners with uneasiness.
When we're balanced and grounded, we move easily, helping listeners relax and helping them stay with the message wherever it takes them.
And just as importantly, we feel centered in God, grounded by the Good News no matter the reaction that may come our way later.
When we work from the ground up, then "How firm a foundation, ye saints of the Lord/is laid for your faith in God's excellent Word!"
Practice
This is the hardest one for me.
In classes, I see yogis far more advanced than I.
They flow, blissfully (they seem to me) gliding from pose to pose, Tree, Eagle, Dancer, Crow— neither teetering or tottering, elegant and effortless.
How do they do that? And why can't I?
"Comparison is the thief of joy," as Brené Brown tells us, and my joy is quickly stolen as frustration takes over, toppling over, over and over, sometimes as wobbly as a toddler first learning to walk.
I'm sure it has nothing to do with my watching them instead of focusing on rotating around my carefully positioned center of gravity. Harrumph!
Here's the thing, though.
Whether you stumble with every move, or, for the first time hold Warrior Three on your weak ankle for thirty whole seconds, the teacher says the same thing at the end of class: "Thank you for showing up to your mat and practicing with me today. Namaste."
That's it?
Yoga has no Olympic competition with a gold medal for the one who holds the most tangled pose the longest.
It has no destination. There is no "there" there.
There's no end point, no moment of arrival when you've "made it" as an official yogi and become a card-carrying member who gains free admission to any yoga studio across the land.
On a yoga mat, it’s only about being on a journey where we can't hide from ourselves.
Who we are at every moment comes out and comes through.
Judgementalism about our "performance?" Check.
Frustrated by being less able-bodied, or feeling superior that we are more able-bodied than other yogis? Check.
Thinking about when the discomfort of the stretch will finally end instead of breathing into it and staying in the present moment? Check.
Feeling "less than" for relying on supports like yoga blocks to hold us steady instead of being able to go without "like I should?" Check.
Envious of other yogis' ability compared to one's own? Check.
But also, serenity from breathing, accepting, and surrendering? Also check.
In other words, on the mat we pay attention to our breath and our thoughts and continually learn the truth about ourselves.
When Pontius Pilate asks cynically, "What is truth?", you know right then he never laid on his back, grabbed the outside of his feet with his hands and rocked back and forth in Happy Baby.
If he had, surely he would have learned something about serenity, humility, and laughter, and the world would have been a more joyful place.
Lesson for Preachers: Practice Humility
Humility is simply the truth.
Humility isn't complicated or difficult. It isn't mortifying, self-flagellating, or shaming.
Humility is accepting what is: whatever or whomever we're considering isn't better or worse, greater or lesser, more valuable or cheaper, than it is.
Literally, it is (exactly) what it is.
Because there is nowhere to hide in yoga, the truth in the form of humility comes without trying.
We accept whatever happened on the mat that day, and every day is different.
Some days we flow, and some days we wobble. It's all the same. It's all good.
Preachers can do the same.
Some days our sermons flow. Some days our sermons wobble.
That's the truth.
Paying attention to how we react to the truth teaches us humility.
We can accept with serenity and equanimity whatever happened in the pulpit that day.
We can notice when we chastise ourselves or pat ourselves on the back.
We pay attention when we compare ourselves to another preacher more or less skilled than we are.
We watch the recording and notice what worked and didn’t without shaming or praising ourselves.
We try something different the next time and observe what happens.
We notice how we feel about ourselves when the sermon flowed or when it fell apart.
And we trust we are loved just the same, no matter what truths about ourselves come to light.
We aren't worth more or less, we're not greater or lesser, more or less valuable because of our sermon, however it went.
That's simply the truth.
And then we can lay on our backs in all humility, scrunch up our legs and grab the outside of our feet, roll on our backs and laugh, content as a Happy Baby.