Author: gracesmuggler

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

Image description: A leafy fig tree with no figs.

Sometimes, you realize you have nothing in particular to write about because you’re just… tired. Tired of all the things. You know?

Ever had a prolonged period of time when you had to be strong? Or at least, strong enough? I’m okay, but I’m also there. Sometimes, we just get tired.

You too?

I was scrolling through the Holy Week narrative, wondering what to write about today while I was tired of all the things, and then I saw the moment where Jesus also seems to be tired of all the things:

“On the following day, when they came from Bethany, he was hungry. Seeing in the distance a fig tree in leaf, he went to see whether perhaps he would find anything on it. When he came to it, he found nothing but leaves, for it was not the season for figs. He said to it, ‘May no one ever eat fruit from you again.’ And his disciples heard it.”

It wasn’t even the season for figs. But he wanted one, and he was tired.

Glad for this little story today.

–Renee Roederer

Image Description: Two wooden tables and four chairs are turned over. One has a sticker of an American flag on the bottom.

A blessed Table Flipping Monday, y’all.

A few years ago, my friend and colleague Sarah Ross made a suggestion that the Monday of Holy Week ought to be considered Table Flipping Monday.  Of course, that’s a pretty humorous title, but Sarah also helped me think about this . . .

During the last week of his life, when Jesus arrived in Jerusalem to celebrate the Passover, the very first thing he did was walk into the center of communal, religious life and hold it accountable. He went into the Temple, the most holy place, and was horrified to discover that some were making unjust money as they oppressed the Jewish people in their religious devotion. He turned over the tables and chased out the money changers, quoting Jewish scripture, saying, “It is written, ‘My house shall be called a house of prayer, but you have made a den of robbers.’”

I want to be careful about how I talk about this story, in large part because throughout history, Holy Week has been an occasion when Christians have oppressed Jews and even caused violence. When I think about this day, I don’t aim to criticize the Temple or the religious heritage of which Jesus was fully a part.

Instead, I want to consider the ways in which my own religious tradition ought to be held accountable. That includes this painful history we have caused our Jewish siblings. And it includes a host of other abuses fully expressed in the present.

Religion can give life and meaning, and it can be twisted as a tool for oppression.

There are a multitude of ways in which tables ought to be flipped over. In fact, accountability and truth telling can be acts of spiritual devotion in and of themselves.

Jesus rages against the oppression and manipulation of others. Today, we need prophets and holy agitators to follow into this calling. I offer my gratitude today for people who hold my tradition and our actions to account.

One of Christianity’s foundational teachings involves a holy leveling – an inverted shift where the marginalized become the most empowered and the most powerful are brought into humility.

But too often, we fall far short of this vision. Today can serve as a day of confession.

May Jesus and a host of others flip the tables.

– Renee Roederer

 

This is a sermon I prepared for Northside Presbyterian Church in Ann Arbor this morning on Matthew 21:1-11. The video above is from Facebook Live. If you have any challenges accessing the video in this post, feel free to go here.

Matthew 21:1-11

When they had come near Jerusalem and had reached Bethphage, at the Mount of Olives, Jesus sent two disciples, saying to them, ‘Go into the village ahead of you, and immediately you will find a donkey tied, and a colt with her; untie them and bring them to me. If anyone says anything to you, just say this, “The Lord needs them.” And he will send them immediately.’ This took place to fulfill what had been spoken through the prophet, saying,

‘Tell the daughter of Zion,
Look, your king is coming to you,
humble, and mounted on a donkey,
and on a colt, the foal of a donkey.’

The disciples went and did as Jesus had directed them; they brought the donkey and the colt, and put their cloaks on them, and he sat on them. A very large crowd spread their cloaks on the road, and others cut branches from the trees and spread them on the road. The crowds that went ahead of him and that followed were shouting,

‘Hosanna to the Son of David!
Blessed is the one who comes in the name of the Lord!
Hosanna in the highest heaven!’

When he entered Jerusalem, the whole city was in turmoil, asking, ‘Who is this?’ The crowds were saying, ‘This is the prophet Jesus from Nazareth in Galilee.’

As we begin to look at the stories of Holy Week, we begin with a moment of preparation. Jesus is making preparations. He’s asking his disciples to do that with him. He is moving toward something that is very intentional.

Even though it’s intentional, the directions seem a bit cryptic, but there is trust here. “Go into the village ahead of you, and immediately, you will find a donkey tied and a colt with her. Untie them and bring them to me.” And more trust: “If anyone says anything to you, just say this. ‘The Lord needs them.’ And he will send them immediately.”

So there is a sense that these people were likely known to Jesus, and that they would understand what that means, or at least be open to it, or trust that something important was about to happen.

There was preparation.
There was intention.

And the author of the Gospel According to Matthew also seems to think about preparation and to make connections regularly with the scriptures of the Hebrew Bible.

And so, he says that this all took place to fulfill what had been spoken through the prophet Zechariah,

‘Tell the daughter of Zion,
Look, your king is coming to you,
humble, and mounted on a donkey,
and on a colt, the foal of a donkey.’

The disciples went on to do what Jesus had asked them to do, perhaps not understanding what was about to take place, and certainly not understanding fully the reality that Jesus was about to enter.

He was going into Jerusalem. He was processing straight into threat and likely death. In fact, he had predicted this with his disciples, and they were not prepared to hear it. And in this intriguing moment, where he’s processing straight into danger, into trauma, even into death, and… they all enact what is most true. They have joy, and they recognize that they are participating in some kind of kingdom even if they don’t understand it. The people around them certainly did not understand that the figurehead of the kingdom they imagined would soon process straight into these painful things, but they recognized something, and they shouted,

‘Hosanna to the Son of David!
Blessed is the one who comes in the name of the Lord!
Hosanna in the highest heaven!’

There was joy as they laid down branches from the trees and spread them along the road. They had great anticipation for Jesus, some having followed him, some having seen and heard the things he was doing. They desired the joy of something different, and they longed from liberation from their oppressors — the Roman Empire that was occupying the land.

When Jesus enters Jerusalem, the story says that the whole city was in turmoil, asking, “Who is this?” Some did not know, but he had made himself visible. He had made himself noticeable. Some then answer the question, saying, “This is the prophet Jesus from Nazareth in Galilee.” He was from Nazareth, a place not highly regarded. From there, comes who creates cheers, and hope, and joy, but also turmoil…

He knew he was processing into danger, eyed suspiciously by the Romans, and he did it anyway.

When I think about this procession they made together, honoring Jesus and this kingdom, I think about how joyful it was, but I also think about how political it was.

“Hosanna!” they cried. Hosanna – meaning ‘Save us.’ 

“Hosanna to the Son of David,” — the marker, figurehead, and name of the ancient Kingdom, the Kingdom of David. To anyone, this would have appeared to be an insurrection. Under the occupation of the Roman Empire, this procession was definitely making claims of a new kingdom, an alternative kingdom, and a new order to things.

And people connected it to Biblical prophesy. He descended from the Mount of Olives, a place that people certainly associated with that prophesy — a location where God’s redemption of Israel would be visible.

And now, they made it visible.

And it was a revealing procession. It was meant to be a revelation of sorts. It was an unveiling and an uncovering of what is ultimately true, a proclamation of the central truth of Matthew’s Gospel. Jesus is publicly revealed to be the one Matthew claims him to be – the Messiah, the Anointed One, the Coming One. This was certainly going to get attention.

And it was an ironic procession. Jesus knew what he was processing into. I wonder… was there some kind of pain inside the joy? Inside him? Or did that fade for a moment? We don’t know, but even in face of irony, this moment revealed some kind of ultimate joy.

In the Greek New Testament, there are two words for time. One word is chronos, which talks about linear time — days, weeks, months, years, and decades in the same ways we tend to measure time. But there’s also another word for time — kairos. This is a time of ultimate fulfillment, when something that is most true and most ultimate breaks into the present moment.

I like to imagine that this was true here. When we think about chronos, Jesus was walking straight into the most traumatic week of his life — the end of his life. But when we think about kairos, perhaps there was true joy in this present moment of a procession, revealing a kingdom with all the values Jesus had already lived in his life. This procession revealed the values he had ushered in with his disciples. It revealed what is most true, most fulfilled, most ultimate. Kairos. Kairos broke into a present moment.

Right now, we are entering Holy Week. We are also all experiencing a collective trauma in this time of the coronavirus. And I think we can name how painful it is, how scary it is, how unpredictable it feels.

And I wonder if we were to join this procession today, are there ways in which kairos — what is most fulfilling, most ultimate, and most true — could break into our world, into our week, into our present moment right now, into how we’re feeling now, into this situation in which we are living? Could we hope for that?

Like the disciples of Jesus, we are processing into something we would never desire. Can we live the values of the Kingdom of God? Can we be a Kindom of God that practices these values? Love for the so-called least? Care for the vulnerable? Proclamation of hope to the people? Love no matter what? Love that knows the path its on, even if that path is a painful road, and loves anyway?

And perhaps centuries and millennia removed in chronos from this moment, knowing the rest of the story, can we trust that resurrection might even be able to find us there? Is that possible? Can we hope that for each other, even if we can’t quite imagine it?

If so, by what values will we live? How can we live kairos in this procession? How can we live kairos in this present moment? How can we live kairos in the days ahead?

–Renee Roederer