Author: gracesmuggler

This is a sermon I prepared for Northside Presbyterian Church in Ann Arbor this morning on Psalm 130. The video above is from Facebook Live. If you have any challenges accessing the video in this post, feel free to go here.

I begin by reading Psalm 130. (I also set this Psalm to music if you’d like to hear it here).

Psalm 130 (New Revised Standard Version)

A Song of Ascents.
Out of the depths I cry to you, O Lord. Lord, hear my voice!
Let your ears be attentive to the voice of my supplications!

If you, O Lord, should mark iniquities,
Lord, who could stand?
But there is forgiveness with you,
so that you may be revered.

I wait for the Lord, my soul waits,
and in his word I hope;
my soul waits for the Lord
more than those who watch for the morning,
more than those who watch for the morning.

O Israel, hope in the Lord!
For with the Lord there is steadfast love,
and with him is great power to redeem.
It is he who will redeem Israel from all its iniquities.

Out of the depths….

Out of the depths… from the depths… from feelings… from longings… from confusion… from situations so difficult we don’t know how to put them into words… from our minds… from our hearts… from our bodies… from our deepest selves… deepest selves that often don’t have words or firm definitions either…

Out of the depths — from these depths — we cry to you, O Lord.

And psalm says, “Lord, hear my voice.”

God Beyond Us,
God Within Us,
God Around Us,
God Larger Than Us,
God That Finds Our Story, even our hidden stories without words,

Hear the voice we don’t even know how to voice.

Please find it with us.

Find our voices, give them expression, and place them together.

This is a psalm of lament, and this is a psalm of hope.

It’s interesting that these often find their way together. Lament and hope often accompany each other during difficult times. I appreciate something that my friend Marcia Detrick once wrote. She says,

“Lament and hope are not opposites. Nor are they mutually exclusive.

“In my heart and life, lament and hope often co-exist very peacefully as friendly companions to one another.

“There may be pressure to accelerate our grieving, and to put boundaries around our lament.

“But my lament is grounded in hope, in a belief that the world could be better, should be better, and has the real potential to actually become better.

“The shared lament of others over the last few days has brought me great comfort and great hope.

And she closes with these words,

“If ever we stop lamenting evil, all hope will truly be lost.”

There are times when we need to lament, and there are times when we need the lament-song of others, even if it is wordless. There are times when we need to hope, and there are times when we need the hope-song of others, even if it is wordless.

Can we sing songs of lament and hope, even without words? Can some part of us be expressed and heard deep down, even in silence?

Our bodies do it all the time. And we are living a time of collective trauma. In times of trauma, our bodies and our collective embodied life find ways to cry out.

And perhaps in ways we can’t fully articulate, God, the Ground of All Being, God the Love Beyond and Within All Things, hears these voiceless-voices and even enables us to hear one another. So we lament together and hope in one another too.

In the Hebrew Bible, Psalm 130 is grouped together with a number of other psalms, and these are called Songs of Ascent. As pilgrims traveled to Jerusalem for three annual festivals, they traveled upward into the higher elevation of the city. These Songs of Ascent have been important songs of collective worship. In this Psalm, we encounter one voice crying from the depths, but we also hear a voice beckoning the voices of all of Israel — “Oh, Israel, hope in the Lord,” — the psalmist invites, “for with the Lord there is steadfast love.” This upholds and serves as a foundation for all things, even during our times in the depths. Especially our times in the depths.

And so we bring our voices today,

Our feelings… our longings… our confusion… our situations so difficult we don’t know how to put them into words…. our minds… our hearts… our bodies… our deepest selves… our deepest selves that don’t often, have words or firm definitions either…

Out of the depths — from these depths — we each cry out,

“Lord, hear my voice,”

And as we do this in so many ways, And as we do this in our own vulnerability,

We might hear each other’s voices too — even the ones below the surface, even the ones in the depths.

Even in social distancing and quarantine, we might be gathered together, and we might encourage one another in lament and hope alike.

And when we lament together, when we find ourselves heard, we might find hope in that kind of experience. We find our neighbors in that kind of experience. We find love in that kind of experience.

For many years, I have shared a phrase with a dear person in my life. Perhaps we’ve been saying it back and forth to one another for an entire decade.

“The mystery of goodness,” we say. We use this phrase in a variety of ways.

“I didn’t expect that at all. It was the mystery of goodness.”

“See, you’re worth it! The mystery of goodness.”

“Just try it. You’ll be surprised. It will show up. The mystery of goodness.”

Each time, our phrase has addressed the ways that life often hands us unexpected gifts of connection, meaning, and purpose.

Our phrase has not always been spoken in moments of joy and surprise. More often, we’ve spoken this phrase to one another when life experiences have been painful and hard – sometimes overwhelmingly so.

Our phrase has never been a pithy saying between us. Instead, we allow it to speak to realities that are deep, grief-filled, and challenging. That’s because our phrase is not ultimately a phrase. It is a way of viewing the world.

We have encouraged each other, daring to speak, daring to cry out, and daring to believe – sometimes when it felt nearly impossible to do so – that despite the losses and injustices of the world, and despite the losses and injustices in our own lives, goodness comes too. And in the end, though we lament, we hope this goodness will see us through.

We hope…
that love and life have the ultimate say,
… that goodness has the ultimate say,
… that connection, meaning, and purpose have the ultimate say,
and the ultimate claim upon our lives.

Despite the pain we feel and the pain we know, we hope that life also turns on the mystery of goodness, and
We are loved into life.

Let me be clear here: This is not pithy. We are talking about something challenging. This way of viewing the world is the hard-wrought work of having hope when nearly all feels lost. At times, we all need to invite others to hold out this kind of hope for us because we cannot begin to believe it for ourselves.

And it’s for good reason: In our lives and in the lives of our communities, we have experienced death, trauma, abuse, depression, war, racism, addiction, unemployment, divorce, poverty, other forms of loss and injustice, and now, a pandemic. That is unprecedented.

This is hard work. It is challenging at times to believe in the mystery of goodness. But we are all invited to hope even just a little more. We are invited to lean into that hope so much, in fact, that we help bring goodness into the world and into the lives of one another.

This morning, I find myself reflecting upon the mystery of goodness, wondering if it might be revealed in our voices — even the voices that are internal, deep, and hidden. When we cry out in lament, I wonder if the mystery of goodness can come to accompany us too.

Can we allow ourselves to hope for one another?

Can we turn that hope toward others who cannot possibly see the light at the end of the tunnel for themselves and those they love?

This is not pithy. It is a way of viewing the world, and It is hard work.

And so,
-To the friends who have lost multiple family members in one year,
-To the friends who are in the throes of depression,
-To the friends who are homeless and regularly skipping meals,
-To the friends who are divorcing,
-To the friends who are incarcerated,
-To the friends facing terminal illnesses,
-To the friends losing sleep in a pandemic,

With our many voices, we do not diminish your pain.

We enter it, and with love,
We hope for you.We hope the unexpected gifts of life made new. We hope the Mystery of Goodness.

“Out of the depths, I cry to you, O Lord,” we dare to utter .

“Lord, hear my voice!”

In that cry, may we also hear one another.

—Renee Roederer

Image Description: The sun shines low on the horizon over a dark ocean. Public Domain.

Many years ago, I set Psalm 130 to music for congregational singing. On Sunday, this psalm will be read as part of the Revised Common Lectionary. These words seem so fitting for the emotions of these days.

An audio recording is above, and the psalm text is listed below.

Psalm 130 (New Revised Standard Version)

Out of the depths I cry to you, O Lord.
   Lord, hear my voice!
Let your ears be attentive
to the voice of my supplications!

If you, O Lord, should mark iniquities,
Lord, who could stand?
But there is forgiveness with you,
so that you may be revered.

I wait for the Lord, my soul waits,
and in his word I hope;
my soul waits for the Lord
more than those who watch for the morning,
more than those who watch for the morning.

O Israel, hope in the Lord!
For with the Lord there is steadfast love,
and with him is great power to redeem.
It is he who will redeem Israel
from all its iniquities.

Image Description: “You are Loved” is written in chalk on a street.

Have you ever felt loved in limitation?

I’m not talking about failure, though we certainly need love and grace when it comes to that.

I mean limitation. I mean receiving love precisely in the place that feels personally challenging. Accepted fully as you are. Cared for in the unique particularity of your being, including what may be difficult.

That’s when vulnerability and connection become very sacred. That’s when they become very transformative.

–Renee Roederer

Image Description: The word ‘hope’ is written in some sand. Public domain image.

Sometimes, I don’t know exactly what to do, except to just…. choose hope.

This is intentional; this is hard work. Sometimes it feels just right. Sometimes, it feels foolish. It’s not something that I would place upon a person or community when they’re feeling down or reasonably afraid. That’s insensitive and harmful. But when we can choose it (sometimes, we can’t, but sometimes, we can) it can help others do the same.

Yesterday, I looked through my social media feeds and saw big fears. The news cycle is very difficult. Staying home is difficult. People are wondering how these things will leave lasting impacts upon their lives and the lives of people they love. People are feeling all the stories and the warnings, and along with them, a sense of helplessness.

So we might have to look to where we can to find hope, maybe even unexpectedly.

I recently re-read some beautiful words  that M Barclay posted on social media during a different time a few years ago. These words feel relevant to this collective moment too. They said it so much better than I can, so I want to leave you with their words:

Image Description: Three thin, wood-carved hearts. One is red, one is orange, and one is green. They are hanging from wires.

Years ago, at a conference, I heard someone voice a phrase right before a prayer. I’m reminding myself of this again. It’s a simple statement and a beautiful reframing.

The leader said,

“We are held in a love we are not required to deserve.”

Oh, that’s so good, I thought.

Have you ever felt that before? Love you’re not required to deserve? Love given freely and abundantly? Has it ever surprised you? Relieved you? Empowered you?

We’ve probably heard messaging before that says, “You are loved, even though you don’t deserve it.” But this is saying something different, better, and deeper. “We are held in a love we are not required to deserve.” Deservedness is off the table, truly not required. We are loved because we are. Because we exist. Because we belong. Because… well, there is no because (at least not a deserved or earned one). Period.

If that phrase needs to reach us in any part of our lives, or any parts of ourselves, or any parts of our self-understanding, I hope we can receive it as true.

“We are held in a love we are not required to deserve.”

—Renee Roederer

Image Description: A fountain pen is lying on a piece of paper. The word Love is written in cursive in blue ink.

Perhaps there’s a word that keeps emerging for you. It might want your attention. It might want to be felt, or expressed, or acted upon.

Or if nothing comes to mind immediately, maybe we can ask for it: If we quiet ourselves down and ask for what we need, a word might arrive or even cry out in our thinking or feeling.

How can this word be a framework for this challenging time we’re living? This week? This day? Right at this moment? A word to be felt, or expressed, or acted upon?

Over the weekend, folks from my family chose these words:

Fun
Joy
Resilience
Return
Create
Clarity
Calm
Compassion
Energy
Focus

And each day, we each take a moment to think, ponder, pray, envision, or energize those words for each other. We hope these words for each other.

What would you choose? What word do you need?

How can we think, ponder, pray, envision, or energize that word for you?

Feel free to share your word.

–Renee Roederer

 

This week, I created a number of blog post reflections based on Psalm 23. Today, I’m posting the sermon reflection I prepared for Northside Presbyterian Church in Ann Arbor, Michigan.

After our worship time on Skype, I also spoke it again on Facebook Live. I’m sending along that along if might like to see a face and hear a voice during this topsy-turvy time! (If you don’t see the video embedded below, click here) 

Part 6:
Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me
all the days of my life,
and I shall dwell in the house of the Lord
my whole life long.

Psalm 23 is a psalm of presence and comfort.

I found myself grateful last week when I looked to see which scriptures were listed in the Revised Common Lectionary for Sunday, March 22. There it was: Psalm 23. It seemed to be right on time. We’re living a collective moment disruption, concern, and large-scale change. We need a psalm of presence and comfort.

We also just need… presence and comfort. We need these from each other. Gathered in our various places across technology, we invite each other to Beyond-Presence and a Within-Presence that many of us call God. In this God, there is a love deep and abiding, even larger than disruption, concern, and large-scale change. And without diminishing any part of how challenging these are — they are real and upsetting; after all, they are disruption, concern and large-scale change —we may need to remind each other that love shows up even there. God shows up there. We want to show up there with our love with and for each other, with and for our neighbors.

Psalm 23 tends to show up right there — right in these kinds of realities. Psalm 23 is often read at the bedsides of those who are sick or dying. It’s read in memory care nursing homes, and sometimes, people with dementia are still able to recite it along with others, because they put it to memory so long ago, and it’s in a deep place where they can recall it. Psalm 23 is read in times of war. It’s read at funerals. It’s been recited internally in people’s thoughts, awake in the middle of the night during high stress and insomnia.

It would be remarkable to know the full history of this Psalm — all the places where it has been read, all the languages, and especially, all of the specific situations it has spoken into. I would like to know that. I am sure many of us have specific stories, and specific situations we would lift up from our own lives of the lives of loved ones. Maybe it might help to bring those people and those moments and those loves to mind too. We can invite them to provide presence and comfort for us.

The Lord is my shepherd,
I shall not want.

The Psalm begins this way.

I don’t want the beginning of this psalm to be a mere platitude in any way. We know that some *are* in want. That was already true before COVID-19 ever came on the scene. It’s true now in even deeper ways as the virus disrupts our typical rhythms, and some find themselves suddenly without work or resources. This is real, and we may need to grieve these changes. But is this not precisely the kind of place where love should show up? Where God should bring presence and comfort, and where God can stir up our presence and comfort to address these needs tangibly?

This week in Washtenaw County, we TP-ed each other’s houses. This is true, but in a totally different way than that phrase usually suggests. Local organizers started a Facebook page called Washtenaw County Mutual Aid + Resources. If you’re a Facebook user, I suggest checking that out. In that space, people are helping one another to address a variety of needs.

It was beautiful to watch this happen this week. In that space, some are letting people know about public resources and how to access them. Some are advocating for sick leave. Some are requesting Venmo, PayPal, and CashApp accounts of those who are losing incomes due to cancelations and job losses, and they’re sending money along.

And you guessed it: We started a thread that invites people to pass toilet paper along to those who need it. We are TPing each other’s houses.

In my faith tradition, there are stories about Jesus feeding crowds of 4,000 to 5,000 people from a mere five loves of bread and two fish. These enormous crowds had been following him and assembling together to request healing and to listen to him teach. As you might remember, the disciples wanted to send them away to surrounding towns to buy food, but Jesus said, “You give them something to eat.”

Maybe right then, there was the sound of crickets. Silence. “How do we do that?” They certainly wondered.

They were probably panicking. It’s a task too large, and they didn’t necessarily want to be responsible for people growing weak and fainting.

And maybe they also want a break.
Please. I need some introvert time. Send them awaaaaaay for a while.

“We only have five loaves of bread and two fish,” they said. Could that have been a sarcastic response? Or maybe just a declarative, matter-of-fact one? A practical one?

“We’re not going to be able to do it,” they think.

But then, a miracle happens. Jesus begins to break that bread and share that fish, and everyone has enough to eat. They even finish with twelve baskets left over.

What happened here? The traditional interpretation I’ve heard most is that Jesus reveals himself to be a creator: He’s in alignment with The Creator and is one and the same. He miraculously creates and multiples this food out of virtually nothing. That’s a beautiful interpretation.

But I’m also intrigued by another interpretation:

What if Jesus began giving this food away to the first few people as a deliberate teaching moment? Modeling this first, what if people then understood he was issuing an invitation? What if they then reached into their pockets or satchels or baskets or whatever they used back then and began to share the food they have too? Giving and receiving, what if they passed it all around to their neighbors and were amazed to discover that there’s enough? Even more than enough?

That invitation continues right now.

The Lord is my shepherd,
I shall not want.

There is presence and comfort in that statement, but it’s not a platitude. If God is our shepherd, we might be a part of that vision and calling, adding our own presence and comfort, adding our own resources.

So we might ask ourselves these questions:

What need do I see or know about?
What abundance do I have?
How do I make them match?

Or even… What meager, small thing do I have? What tiny thing can I share as part of a collective contagion of giving? Something that might chip away at a need and inspire more giving?

These are good questions.

The Psalm ends this way:

Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me
all the days of my life,
and I shall dwell in the house of the Lord
my whole life long.

So… if we’re part of houses of worship, we’re not quite in the house of the Lord, at least, in the typical ways we think of it. We’re separated from our sanctuaries, and there is some very real grief about that. It’s okay to feel it. But maybe we can be remind ourselves again that we make up that house in our relationships, so we still exist there, and we can’t do anything but exist there, even our whole lives long, because we love each other, and we are that house.

So we’re separated in a particular sense, but we’re together, declaring goodness and mercy. And even distanced physically, we can receive goodness and mercy. And we can share it. Let’s put relationships into this psalm of presence and comfort. Let’s add our presence and our comfort too.

–Renee Roederer

Image Description: A very long, brown table with brown chairs with red table settings. The table is located in a room with white, cinderblock walls and a large number of windows. Florescent lights are hanging above the table. Public domain image.

This week, I’m creating blog post reflections based on Psalm 23.

Part 5:
You prepare a table before me
in the presence of my enemies;
you anoint my head with oil;
my cup overflows.

We’re all at the same table right now, so to speak.

And… maybe that metaphor doesn’t work fully since we are quite literally spread out and quarantined. But this collective experience impacts us all. We are all disrupted in various degrees.

And those degrees are… yes, varied. There are some among us that are particularly vulnerable. I think about people with disabilities and chronic illnesses. I think about those who have very few resources, and thus, very few choices. Some are homeless. Some are living on SSDI. Some are incarcerated. Some are in immigration detention. These people matter, and we need to do what we can to protect and support them.

I also think about about my Asian-American friends who are experiencing multiple fears at once. We are hearing racist rhetoric blaming Chinese people for this coronavirus. This is not the Chinese Virus or the Kung Flu. It is the novel coronavirus, also known as COVID-19. This is a worldwide pandemic. We are quick to blame, scapegoat, and label people as ‘enemies’. It’s racist, and it’s wrong.

It’s also leading to violence. My Asian friends and colleagues are afraid to be out in public right now in the rare moments that they are outside. Some have had racist epithets yelled them. Yesterday, a colleague shared that her Dad’s tires were slashed at a store. This is racist, and it’s wrong.

We need to support Asian and Asian-American friends. And we need to support the local neighbors we’ve never met. Shop at their local grocery stores. Send kind words. Ask friends how they’re doing in this social climate.

We’re all in this together, but yes, impacted differently and uniquely. We need to show up for each other.

—Renee Roederer

Image Description: A cartoon by Bjenny Montero. The sun is rising out of the window. A person lying in bed asks the sun, “Again?” and the sun says, “Again.”

This week, I’m creating blog post reflections based on Psalm 23.

Part 4:
Even though I walk through the darkest valley,
   I fear no evil;
for you are with me;
   your rod and your staff—
   they comfort me.

During this difficult time, we have occasions to provide gifts of presence. I realize this may sound absurd since we’re largely quarantined and physically separated from one another. But just last night, the Canterbury House community from the University of Michigan gathered folks over Zoom. Together, we checked in with one another, and we shared, music, readings, and prayer. It was a lovely and meaningful time. Beyond this example, we may all have unique ways of providing virtual presence with family members, friends, coworkers, and larger communities.

Our memories can provide presence too. We can bring loved ones to mind. Here’s something lovely: In New Testament, the word typically translated for ‘remember’ means much more than “thinking about/recalling a person or an event.” It means that we “make it present.” We can do more than ponder our loved ones. We can live in vivid memory of them. Our bodies remember what it was like to be together. We can bring that to mind and even feel that comfort physically. We can make each other present to a certain extent.

During this difficult time, we have occasions to provide gifts of comfort. These things I’ve mentioned above are helpful, but we’re also going through a collective crisis, and it is trauma. It’s okay to name that. This is our individual and collective experience at the moment. We will need comfort from each other. We can also take heart and courage in sharing what we need. Then we can offer comfort and support toward one another in those very needs. It will be important to do that.

This is trauma. It may feel like the deepest valley.

Our bodies may feel this stress.
Our relationships may feel this stress.
It may ebb and flow.
It may occasionally feel acute.

We will need forms of presence. We will need comfort.

We will also need the wisdom of one another. I appreciate what Shannon Dingle has been writing on Twitter. She is a trauma survivor, author, and disability advocate. She’s also a Mom of six children and as of last summer, tragically a widow. She’s been sharing “Trauma Life Hacks.”

Here are just a few of them:

1) “Trauma life hack:

“Name it to tame it’ is an axiom used in therapy circles. There is power in naming things, in putting words to your own inner story.

“For starters, name this moment as a time of collective trauma. This feels like trauma because it is trauma.”

2) “Trauma life hack:

“Befriend your insomnia. Sure it’s an asshole, but when we judge us — our sleep, what we ate or drank last night, our anxiety, not turning off lights — we lose.

“If you’re awake, you’re awake. It sucks, but you don’t have to be awake *and* unkind to yourself.”

3) “Trauma life hack:

“Eat something with protein. We’re in traumatic times, but it might be that you’re mostly hangry.”

4) “Trauma life hack:

“If you deny trauma with your brain, it’ll demand to be heard in another way.

“… digestive issues, tension headaches, screaming or unkindness, substance abuse, or other forms of numbing, irritability…

“whatever you use to deny it, trauma will demand a hearing.”

And I especially want to share this next one. It goes along with a trauma life hack I also want to uplift.

5) “Trauma Life Hack:

“Naming feelings helps us process them. That feeling you’re feeling a lot lately… it’s grief.

“Grief for life as it was. Grief for the loss of certainty. Grief for funerals and celebrations that won’t happen as planned or at all.”

We will need to feel our feelings. As we do, I hope we find presence and comfort Beyond and Within (I call this God and the way of the Spirit) and in the ways that we show up for one another.

I’m a trauma survivor too. I’ve lived through a number of long-term, high-stress situations. Here’s the trauma life hack that I’d like to lift up. My biggest advice is to take this one day at a time. And if you’re in a place of acute stress, take it one hour at a time. Maybe even take it one 20 minute segment at a time.

As we do this, and as those days add up, some forms of our previous normalcy will find their way back into our days. Some forms will show up just as they were (and we’ll probably appreciate them even more) and some will show up a bit adapted. Then forms of totally new normalcy will creep in, and these will be gifts too.

I’ve lived this kind of process enough times to know that for a period — in our case, maybe even months — 1) high stress, 2) old normalcy, and 3) new normalcy will all mingle together. At first, this will be confusing because we’ll feel totally outside of what’s typical for us with a lot of unpredictability. But we can take this one day at a time: High stress is then concerned with what’s going on in that 24 hour period instead of feeling everything at once, or feeling all our fears at once (after all, we don’t know what it will be like a week, month, or year into the future, but it will have gifts and challenges alike). As we live day by day, old normalcy and new normalcy will also be appreciated as gifts.

We’ll need presence.
We’ll need comfort.
We’ll need wisdom.

And we’ll need Trauma Life Hacks.

What would you add?

—Renee Roederer