Author: gracesmuggler

Image description: A vegetable, bean soup I made. It’s in my favorite, blue bowl.

I am very committed to not getting the coronavirus (or of course, passing it on). So with the exception of a trip to the bank drive through, two walks in the neighborhood a while back, and taking out my compost, recycling, and garbage, I have stayed in my house for 33 days. I imagine you might have a streak that long also.

The truth is, I don’t want to get that sick. I have a classmate from high school who got the virus and had a high fever for 17 days straight. (She’s doing much better, thank goodness!) My body has historically not done well with high fever, so I don’t want to risk that personally. I think of people who have much bigger vulnerabilities too. This virus is difficult and unpredictable.

This is why I’ve ordered my groceries for delivery.

It’s important to note, by the way, that this is a total privilege. It reveals something about my socioeconomic status that I can work from home, at least for the time being, and that I am in a position to choose not to go out. It’s led to some disruptions, of course, like when my grocery order was canceled on Sunday (see that post) after which I struggled to find a new delivery for a while (now I have one coming  next Tuesday). But many people can’t make a choice to stay in. This is privilege.

In the midst of this, however — staying in my cabin and keeping up my non-fever — I’ve noticed that I’ve come to appreciate small things much more.

When my grocery order was canceled, I was bummed, but not too concerned because I’ve been freezing soups in preparation for something like this. I’ve started pulling them out of the freezer. But last night, I decided to cook whatever I could find. I threw in all my last fresh ingredients. It was a hodgepodge of things… a little of this, this, and this. Sure, what the heck, how about this.? And hmm… what if we throw in the last bit of the queso from Chipotle..?

And you know what? I think this was the best soup I’ve ever made. It was my throw-all-the-rest-of-the-things-in-there soup, and it was literally the best. I didn’t even know I had enough ingredients for a best-ever soup. It included some of the frozen things, and they added a lot.

And eating that soup… in my cabin non-fever… it was just… glorious. I savored every bite.

This is a bizarre time, and trust me, I never thought I would be living this life chapter in this way. And in our own unique ways, we’re all experiencing the oddities and anxieties of this time. But sometimes, the small things give us delight in whole new ways.

Like a throw-it-all-together soup.

Oh, also, it snowed hard this morning. I might get to make that snowman after all!

–Renee Roederer

Image Description: Snow on the branches in my backyard.

Image Description: A small snowman with sticks for arms. I wish I could have made one!

These days, my mail comes as late as 7pm. Yesterday, it didn’t come at all.

Snow fell hard in Michigan for a few hours yesterday and accumulated. I sincerely considered going outside to build a 1-2 foot snowman after I finished some tasks. It melted before I was done.

I turned on some music yesterday and went for a 20 minute run inside my house. There’s a loop in the house, so I just ran indoors.

What a weird time we’re living. Might as well embrace parts of it.

–Renee Roederer

 

Image Description: A french horn. Public domain image.

In the midst of stay at home orders, church services have changed quite a bit. Over the last five weeks, I’ve been Zooming with my local church in Ann Arbor. Though separated in our various homes, our time together online has been meaningful and surprisingly intimate. In some very real ways, we’ve grown closer. It’s a reminder that church has never been the building. Church is always the community.

While communities are all dispersed from one another, Zoom has bridged some distance too. Because after this service was over on Sunday, I zoomed right into another one. I was able to join my folks at Farm Church in Durham, North Carolina. Every time I visit, I love being with this community. Typically, we spend an hour outside getting dirty while gardening. Then we come inside to worship in ways that are creative and meaningful. My mentor was the co-planter of this community (pun intended), and it has been special for me to follow this community from the the beginning, when it was merely an idea and a dream (by the way, a literal dream — like a middle of the night one — check it out).

It was Easter Sunday. And while I would do just about anything for this pandemic and quarantine to end, I also recognize that it has allowed me to do things I wouldn’t be able to do otherwise, like be with Farm Church on Easter.

And I love how Allen Brimer, pastor and co-planter, started our time together. It was appropriate to the day and wonderfully silly. He talked about resurrection as a holy disruption, so… we were invited to be disruptive. He gave instructions, and then we were off to make disruptive sounds.

GO! People started vocalizing, and I immediately ran to get a pot and pan. Others did the same. There we were banging, yelling, making silly sounds, and then…. bwahhhhhhhhh… someone just started playing a french horn. And we all burst into laughter.

It was such a goofy, wonderful, perfect surprise.

Holy disruption. This time we’re living is painful and dangerous. It’s disrupting our daily lives and limiting what we can do. I have no desire to assign silver linings to it. That being said, midst of it all, I suppose it is resurrection-like when we are able to connect differently. I can Zoom into Farm Church, sure. But beyond that, it is also inviting us to connect differently — not just in format (something like Zoom) but in substance. We are invited to take care of each other on a whole different level, and I see expressions of this almost daily. We are invited to realize we are more connected than we think we are. This aspect is a Holy Disruption we need.

—Renee Roederer

 

Image description: A brown and black mat says “Welcome,” and is placed before a yellow front door which is slightly ajar.

Last night, I wheeled my garbage and recycling bins to the curb for this morning’s trash day. A woman was outside in the diagonal, across-the-street yard, and she was playing with a cat. I turned around to walk back up the driveway when I heard from behind me,

“Hello, neighbor!”

With enthusiasm, I whipped right around and said, “Hi!” I’ve had no in-person contact for four weeks. Of course, I would welcome this greeting from across the street.

She continued, “I just wanted to say if there’s anything you ever need, we’re happy to help.”

So nice.

“That’s really kind of you!” I projected over the distance. “Same here. My name’s Renee.”

“What?”

“My name’s Renee,” I repeated.

There was a pause, in which I now think she was asking herself, “What did I hear? How does she know?”

“My name’s Renee,” my neighbor said.

“For real?” I asked.

“Yeah!”

“Me too!”

We both laughed with delight.

I don’t know if she moved in recently, or if my double has been there the whole time without me knowing. Either way, it was a joyful moment. She said when all this is over, they plan to have a barbecue, and she’d love for me to come. I look forward to meeting my neighborly counterpart.

When I walked back inside, I kept laughing. My other neighbors saw me and smiled. I chuckled at this thought: What is our plural? Are we neighbor Renees, or are we neighbors Renee? Like mothers-in-law?

I choose the second. The neighbors Renee are delighting in greeting one another and are planning for a future barbecue.

–Renee Roederer

Image Description: Two people are standing near water, and they have their arms placed together in the shape of a heart.

My Easter evening began with a big bummer.

Last Monday, I placed an order for grocery delivery. It’s hard to get one scheduled at all, so I did this at 3am, and that seemed to work. When completing the order, the sole option was flexible scheduling. My groceries would be delivered sometime between Wednesday and Sunday. I was glad.

As Sunday approached, I was on the last day of the window, so I knew this was the one. With eagerness, I looked forward to this delivery throughout the day. I’ve had so little contact with the outside world, so it’s kind of nice when people drop off food. Even though I know what’s going to be in those bags on my porch, it feels like a total surprise has arrived. I am manufacturing surprise! (And with great gratitude for the workers too. We should tip them big).

I am slightly embarrassed to say this, but it’s funny, so I’ll share anyway. I was so eager for this grocery delivery, that at one point, I started singing that goofy song from The Music Man around the house:

“Oh ho, the Wells Fargo wagon is a comin’ down the street! Oh please let it be for meeeeeeee!”

(Sidenote: I completely forgot Ron Howard was in this, and while watching the video, that made me laugh).

As the evening approached, I especially anticipated the Easter treats I ordered for myself. I was looking forward to one item in particular: Cookies and Cream Ice Cream. My favorite. And I hadn’t had any ice cream in a long time.

But then at 5:30pm, I got a text and an email:
Your order has been canceled.

Not delayed, but canceled.

Fortunately, I’ve been freezing some food here and there as I’ve been cooking, so I have more to eat while I figure out something else. But I was bummed. Things are difficult for stores and workers right now, so it’s very understandable. But…
Big Easter Bummer.

I shared this with a group of good friends on our collective Slack channel, and right away, I got a call from one of them. She lives 1200+ miles away in Houston, and she said, “Can I buy you dinner tonight? I’d really like to do that.”

One of my best friends, all the way in Texas, had dinner delivered to my doorstep in Ann Arbor — not because I was totally out of food but simply because she wanted to do it. I was so touched. This was an even better surprise than the one I tried to manufacture for myself. First and foremost, I appreciated the surprise of her kindness, but also… she surprised me with four huge cookies in the bag!

Without naming her, I posted this story on Facebook, and then, less than an hour later, I found even more abundance in my friendships.

I heard my doorbell ring. “Who could that be?” I thought as I looked out the window. When I saw more food on my doorstep, I knew exactly who it could be because this couple had once delivered Christmas cookies to me in the same way. I looked up, and I was right. There he was getting in his car. He saw the Facebook post and came right over.

And… he brought the item I had told no one about.

On my doorstep, there was a container of glorious, homemade cookies and cream ice cream.

Friends are a miracle.

—Renee Roederer

This is a sermon I prepared for Northside Presbyterian Church in Ann Arbor this morning on Matthew 28:1-10. The video above is from Facebook Live. If you have any challenges accessing the video in this post, feel free to go here.

Matthew 28:1-10

After the sabbath, as the first day of the week was dawning, Mary Magdalene and the other Mary went to see the tomb. And suddenly there was a great earthquake; for an angel of the Lord, descending from heaven, came and rolled back the stone and sat on it. His appearance was like lightning, and his clothing white as snow. For fear of him the guards shook and became like dead men. But the angel said to the women, ‘Do not be afraid; I know that you are looking for Jesus who was crucified. He is not here; for he has been raised, as he said. Come, see the place where he lay. Then go quickly and tell his disciples, “He has been raised from the dead, and indeed he is going ahead of you to Galilee; there you will see him.” This is my message for you.’ So they left the tomb quickly with fear and great joy, and ran to tell his disciples. Suddenly Jesus met them and said, ‘Greetings!’ And they came to him, took hold of his feet, and worshipped him. Then Jesus said to them, ‘Do not be afraid; go and tell my brothers to go to Galilee; there they will see me.’

What does it feel like to wake up on Easter morning…

… while scattered from the presence loved ones?
… while locked away in our houses?
… while taking precaution?
… while fearing for safety?
… while in grief, grappling with loss—
loss of loved ones?
loss of any sense of normality in our daily lives?

Each year on this morning, I try to imagine what it must have felt like in that 1st century context, after the disciples of Jesus had gone through the trauma of both witnessing and hiding from the crucifixion. There is a sense in which that set of experiences is truly beyond me, but this year, I feel like we are closer to it. I feel like I am closer to it.

Every question I’ve asked so far could be applied to that context and to our current context.

This year brings no pollyanna Easter. But within this story, we may find curiosity…Could love break into our experience? Could hope? Could life itself? The God of Life? Life surprising us?

As I think about this story, and as I think about our unfolding stories, I think about dashed hopes. We can name them in the story; we can name the in our unfolding stories.

All of Jesus’ disciples, helpers, and friends had followed him for three years of their lives. They took risks to do this. They left their work, their homes, and some of them left their families. Now it seemed as though it had all been for nothing.

Their hopes must have seemed truly dashed. They had lived in awe, knowing that life was changing as they followed this Jesus. He was ushering in the Kingdom of God right before their eyes. He was loving boundlessly and healing those who were suffering. They knew they were witnessing something – Someone – beyond anything they could have imagined, but now, their loving One, their healing One. . . was lying dead in a tomb. After Jesus was interrogated, tortured, and disfigured beyond their recognition, he was crucified. Jesus died in a way that was humiliating, and his death was painful and long. Their hopes must have felt truly dashed.

Now they lived in fear.. The last 48 hours were terrifying as they watched Jesus’ arrest and death, and surely they knew that they could be next. The gospel stories give us a picture of the disciples together after Jesus’ death, waiting and watching. They hid behind locked doors. Of course, it made sense to do such a thing; they didn’t know what would be next for them. They must have been living in complete terror. I can hardly wrap my mind around that kind of fear.

And so you can imagine how brave and dedicated those women were when they ventured out to Jesus’ tomb very early on Sunday morning. . . They addressed their loss, faced their crushed hopes, and faced their personal fears as they brought spices to anoint and care for Jesus’ broken and disfigured body.

But as they arrived, they faced a new reality that was beyond their imagination. As the Gospel according to Matthew shares the story, they arrived at the tomb to an earthquake, and a messenger arrived, saying, “Do not be afraid; I know that you are looking for Jesus who was crucified. He is not here; for he has been raised, as he said. Come, see the place where he lay. Then go quickly and tell his disciples, “He has been raised from the dead, and indeed he is going ahead of you to Galilee; there you will see him.” This is my message for you.’ 

In this version of the telling, they didn’t even go inside. They just ran away with fear and joy. Fear and joy… those two experiences don’t often go together. But they were met with surprise beyond their greatest comprehension. It shifted the painful reality they were living, but it was also completely outside of any experience they had ever had before. Life still had no normality. It was shifting greatly.

And then as they ran, Jesus met them. He also said, “Do not be afraid.” And he said, “Go and tell my brothers to go to Galilee; there they will see me.”

My brothers… My siblings… Go to Galilee. There you will see me.

This is my favorite part of this particular Easter text. Matthew is the only one who says it like this.

Yes, in one sense, the story continues just like that. Later in this chapter, at the very close of the Gospel, the disciples go to Galilee and meet with the resurrected Jesus who gives them the Great Commission.

But I also love these words from Jesus — Go to Galilee; there you will see me — because it takes them right back to where the story began. It takes them back to the place where all the stories of Jesus unfolded. It takes them to the place where life unfolded.

There you will see me. There you will find life. There you will live life.

Return. As I am living, continue to live — continue to truly live. This is always much more than breathing and existing. It is about living these stories, ever anew — enacting love, healing, and joyful surprise. In fact, it is letting ourselves be surprised that these are possible and that they continue to emerge, even if sometimes, they are there alongside pain and grief.

Live.
Keep living these stories.
There you will see me.

And so I wonder… as we return to Galilee and these stories, as we allow them to speak to our own unfolding stories, might we find ourselves alive alongside Jesus’ living? Might we also find ourselves alive alongside his way of living? Does this story call for our resurrection too?

David Johnson, one of my professors from my time at Austin Seminary, once said this: “There are only two Easter sermons: 1. This is extraordinary and hard to believe, but it changes everything. 2. This is a crock, and we have to figure out some symbolic way of making it believable. I’m going with #1.”

I’m with him on this. I want resurrection to be extraordinary and to make a difference in our actual lives. When are right in the thick of it, it’s hard to believe that’s possible, but then again, resurrection is always a surprise. We never think it’s possible. We are often shocked by it.

And then we testify to it.

I know, even as we are scattered, even as we are grieving, even as we are afraid, we have stories of our lives becoming enlivened by this story, and in fact, by all the stories of Galilee. We have stories of our own life stories intersecting with one another and participating the love of God — enacting it and making it real, sometimes really surprisingly so.

So why not call these to mind?
Why not go to Galilee and live them again?
Why not live our woven stories together again?

Perhaps we will find life there, even the very presence of Jesus, even the very love of God, even the very presence of ourselves, our loved ones, our communities, and our world enlivened.

May the tomb be open. And may our lives be opened to this Great Mystery.

And so we dare to say it again,

He is risen,
He is risen indeed!
Alleluia!

–Renee Roederer

When I was training to be a pastor, I spent a summer working as a hospital chaplain in a CPE program. CPE stands for Clinical Pastoral Education. It teaches skills for ministry that are used in hospitals and hospice programs, and it provides a learning community where all participants collectively explore the ways their life journeys have shaped them with strengths and growing edges. It is a valuable experience.

During one of our early CPE group sessions, we had an opportunity to tell our life stories and the ways that faith has shaped us. In the midst of telling these stories, one of my cohort members spoke a sentence that intrigued me. I found it to be quite beautiful. As she described a conversion experience, she said, “On that day, I adopted the Christian narrative to myself.” Years later, I do not want to assume all that she meant in that sentence, but I interpreted her words mean that as she received this story, she added her decision to let this Christian narrative mark her life.

I love that sentence:
Today, I adopt the Christian narrative to myself. 

Today is the grief-filled Saturday of the Christian narrative. After hearing the horrific details of Jesus’ death on Friday and experiencing injustice and loss collectively, we now sit with that traumatic reality on this Saturday. We sit in grief with an unexpected tomb – not one unexpectedly empty, for we cannot anticipate that reality. We sit with the trauma of a tomb that unexpectedly holds the lifeless body of the person who embodied love beyond our imagining. As the disciples did so many years ago, we sit with the fear that this love might also be dead and lifeless.

Today, I adopt the Christian narrative to myself.
As I receive this loss,
As I know real pains and losses in the experiences of real human lives,
I add my decision to let this Christian narrative mark my life.

The narrative of this day tells us something powerful. Christians say that Jesus is truly the presence of God in human form. In this sacred narrative, when Jesus experiences trauma and death, God enters death with humanity. God dies.

For some, it might seem controversial to say that God died, and
For some, it might seem illogical to assume a God exists
who could even live or die like we do,
but –
however we understand it,
however it offends us, or
however it confounds us,
this narrative says that love incarnate entered death with us.

Today, I adopt the Christian narrative to myself.
Today, I choose to add my love to losses of the world.
Today, may we all add our love to the grief and unexpected tombs of others.

–Renee Roederer

Image Description: A black marker is writing the word “LOVE” on a red heart.

As we remember and honor the death of Jesus this Friday of Holy Week, we ponder injustice and loss. We remember what Jesus and his followers endured millennia ago, and we reflect upon the deep losses and injustices in our world today.

During his life, Jesus loved and included others so fully that it threatened those who wielded power, particularly the leaders of the Roman state. Jesus loved and included others, and he defended them fiercely, especially all who were marginalized. He did this continually in the face of resistance, and ultimately, he did so in the face of an excruciatingly painful execution.

The writers of the four gospels each tell the story of Jesus’ death from particular perspectives, emphasizing different details. The larger narrative is painful as Jesus experiences betrayal, arrest, torture, public ridicule, and death. But even as these details are woven together in the four gospels, there are several moments of grace and human connection. One moment has been especially meaningful to me over the years.

It is a scene from the cross which is told in two, short verses.

When Jesus saw his mother and the disciple whom he loved standing beside her, he said to his mother, ‘Woman, behold, your son.’ Then he said to the disciple, ‘Behold, your mother.’ And from that hour the disciple took her into his own home. (John 19:26-27)

Jesus demonstrated love during his injury and trauma. While he is dying, he gives these two beloved people to one another. Jesus loves them into kinship. 

This passage has been especially meaningful to me over the years. I have written about it before, reflecting on the ways my life has been given over to others in the midst of the community. As we embrace the personhood and belonging of one another, we are loved into kinship. These bonds can be just as vital and formative as the bonds we experienced when we were born or adopted into our family of origin.

On this Friday of Holy Week, we remember losses and injustices and we can also remember this vision of kinship. We are called to follow this example. We can do this powerfully when others experience their own losses and injustices, offering ourselves in love as we embrace the personhood and belonging of others.

We can also reflect upon kinship through the lens of the injustices and losses which have taken place this very week. Our world is deeply acquainted with trauma and injury. In the midst of great pain, we are always invited to care for one another in kinship.

We have been loved into kinship.
Now, how will we show that love toward one another?

–Renee Roederer

Image Description: A glass jar of oil surrounded by some olives.

Matthew 26:6-13

Now while Jesus was at Bethany in the house of Simon the leper, a woman came to him with an alabaster jar of very costly ointment, and she poured it on his head as he sat at the table. But when the disciples saw it, they were angry and said, ‘Why this waste? For this ointment could have been sold for a large sum, and the money given to the poor.’ But Jesus, aware of this, said to them, ‘Why do you trouble the woman? She has performed a good service for me. For you always have the poor with you, but you will not always have me. By pouring this ointment on my body she has prepared me for burial. Truly I tell you, wherever this good news is proclaimed in the whole world, what she has done will be told in remembrance of her.’

As Jesus nears trauma and death, he receives a costly gift.

“Why this waste?” the disciples say, angrily.

Jesus models something different.

Western cultures don’t always value gifts of receiving. We sense that we need community, relationships, and the care of others, but we don’t ultimately value or affirm this way of living. Instead, we tend to value and affirm people who appear entirely self-sufficient, as though they don’t need anything. And this often leads us to hide our needs and vulnerability, bolstering a false image that we don’t need anything or anyone.

That Simon and Garfunkel song comes to mind:

I am a Rock.
I am an Island. . .
And a rock feels no pain.
And an island never cries.

In my faith tradition, we have a beautiful way of saying that God’s power works differently. God isn’t some solitary monad floating out there in space – distant, isolated, and individualistic. God’s power is revealed in vulnerability, weakness, and togetherness.

Have you ever received love beyond what you expected? Do you remember moments like that? How can we receive them again in our memory, and in ways that inspire us toward greater receiving, along with greater giving?

—Renee Roederer