Author: gracesmuggler

It’s interesting how someone’s phrase can pop back into your mind years after it was first spoken.

Sometimes, the voice of David Roth, one of my most beloved influences, bubbles up within me. (By the way, that’s David Nelson Roth, not David Lee Roth). And lately, this is the phrase that comes to mind:

“For you. . .”

“For you. . .”

“For you. . .”

These words were spoken in a litany he would say every time he baptized person in the congregation where I grew up. Most often, he said these words to babies. Each “For you” was followed by a phrase of love. Then he would add, “And right now, you’re too young to understand any of these things, but. . .” He invited the people present to be companions in telling the stories of faith and sharing this kind of love.

These days, I keep hearing the rhythm of this phrase again.

“For you. . .”

“For you. . .”

“For you. . .”

With gratitude, I think about the people who have conveyed this kind of love to me.

And these days, I ponder the mysterious realization that right now, our work and our ways of being in the world are making space for people we don’t even yet know.

“For you. . .”

“For you. . .”

“For you. . .”

–Renee Roederer

This morning, I find myself thinking about interruptions — the types of unexpected experiences that change our lives in powerful ways. Some interruptions are undoubtedly disruptive, but others are gifts we never expected, like,

-the life-changing person we didn’t anticipate meeting,
-the invitation that put us in the right place at the right time,
-the story that encouraged us to ask a new question,
-the feedback that taught us something unrecognized in ourselves,
-the movement that emerged rather organically.

Though rarely sought after intentionally, some interruptions add depth and direction to the scope of our lives. They can also bring us into community in powerful ways. They are some of the greatest gifts we receive.

Today, I am pondering these kinds of interruptions in my life and giving thanks. While unexpected at the time, much later, these are the kinds of experiences we cannot imagine our lives without.

What are some of yours?

–Renee Roederer

This sermon was preached at Northside Presbyterian Church in Ann Arbor, Michigan and is based on John 20:19-31. You are invited to first read the scripture text here.

This morning, when the scene of our scripture passage opens, we might be surprised to remember that it is Easter day itself. It is the very day of the resurrection, but the disciples of Jesus are hiding behind closed doors and living in fear. Mary Magdalene, one of their own, has shared incredible news with them. She has already told them that she has seen Jesus alive, but they have yet not seen Jesus themselves. Perhaps some of them might risk wondering if it really could be true. . . Others, as we know, dismissed her story entirely. They believed it to be an idle tale.

So there they are hiding behind locked doors, scared for their lives, and the resurrected Jesus chooses to meet them right there. He shows up on the other side of that locked door right in their midst. And what does he say? He speaks words of comfort: “Peace be with you,” he says. Then the story tells us that after he greeted them with these comforting words, he “showed them his hands and his side.”

That’s an interesting thing to do, isn’t it?
He showed them his wounds from the crucifixion.

The disciples rejoiced in his presence. They had been locked away from life, and yet, life met them right where they were. Jesus, risen to new life, stood among them, and he commissioned them to service. He said, “As the Father has sent me, so I send you.” And he gave them the gift of the Holy Spirit. This moment changed everything, and all of them were called to new life. All of them were astounded, and all of them were sent forward from his presence.

Well, all of them except Thomas.

Thomas wasn’t there in that moment when Jesus appeared to his disciples behind the locked doors. We don’t know what he was doing. Perhaps he was behind locked doors somewhere else, or perhaps he was living outside with greater courage.

But this is what we know: He missed it. I can’t imagine what it would be like to hear all of this amazing news secondhand without encountering Jesus himself. Maybe Thomas had grief. Maybe he had isolation after missing out. Maybe he had doubt about it all.
It seems to be that way. Thomas said to the rest of the disciples, “Unless I see the mark of the nails in his hands, and put my finger in the mark of the nails, and my hand in his side, I will not believe.” So Thomas continued to stay connected to these disciples, believing something different than they did and perhaps feeling something different than they did.

Whatever he believed, and whatever he felt, Jesus met Thomas right in that place too. One week later, all the disciples were gathered together, and this time, Thomas was there. Interestingly, the door was shut yet again, but Jesus appears in that house with them. He stood among them, and once more, he said, “Peace be with you.”

Then Jesus looked straight at Thomas. Jesus met him in his grief. He met him in his isolation. He met him in his doubt. Jesus said, “Put your finger here and see my hands. Reach out your hand and put it in my side. Do not doubt but believe.”

Do not doubt but believe.
Believe, Thomas. . . that is, trust, Thomas. . .

Jesus is standing before Thomas, meeting him right where he was struggling.
 Jesus is standing before Thomas, as one who has known suffering and pain,
one who has known grief and isolation in his body,
and that very one – the one who suffered and died – is risen to new life.

Both of these realities are overwhelmingly powerful. Jesus is risen from suffering and death. And God, found in the human embodiment of Jesus, is a God who still bears wounds. This God is one who knows what it means to suffer and chooses to bear those marks of woundedness forever. This is the God who meets Thomas, and this is the God who appears to us today.

Thomas is overwhelmed. Both of these realities – the suffering and the resurrection – are absolutely powerful. Thomas is overcome, and he exclaims with joy and wonder, “My Lord and my God!” He has moved from doubt to the highest profession of faith. Thomas sees the living God with wounds. He sees life standing before him, meeting him in his own place of woundedness. This changes everything.

Jesus didn’t leave Thomas out of the resurrection experience, and so I imagine that Jesus didn’t leave Thomas out of the commission either. “As the Father has sent me, so I send you.” In our scripture text, we don’t hear Jesus saying those words again, but I’m sure the calling remains constant. Thomas was included in that also.

And as we are gathered here this morning, we may very much be like Thomas. Perhaps we carry own grief, isolation, or doubt, but we are bold to tell one another that there is a God who is living and breathing. That there is is one among us who is truly human and truly God, who is standing before us today, knowing what it is to suffer and even experience death. That is the one who loves us to the core of our being, and that is the one who is sending us out today.

Perhaps we hear those words for ourselves this morning. “As the Father has sent me, so I send you.” And here’s where it becomes challenging and life-giving at once:

If we are sent today from this place as the Father has sent Jesus, and
If we are sent today from this place with the gift of the Holy Spirit,
we are being sent forward toward the world’s woundedness.

We are called to stand in the presence of great suffering and pain. We are called to believe the stories behind it — never doubting, but believing. These stories of human pain are real.

And we are called to speak the new life of resurrection which God breathes into the world and desires for every human being. That is how high this calling is. It is challenging and life-giving at once.

The God we worship chooses to bear wounds, and this God cares for those who carry their own wounds. But so often, people doubt not only God but the stories of the wounds themselves.

I have a friend named Sarah Watkins who wrote something succinct on Facebook, but I thought it spoke volumes in its power. She said, “If you want to be a good ally to someone, believe them. Do you know how often people who are marginalized and abused are doubted about their own experiences?”

She goes on to say,

“I believe you were assaulted.
I believe you were blocked from voting.
I believe you are in constant pain.
I believe the cop pulled you over because of your skin color.
I believe your boss/supervisor/colleague harassed you.
I believe you.”

We can believe. And when we do this among our neighbors, I think we are all called to new, resurrected life.

I’ll close with another story. When I think of people I have felt most privileged to meet, Dr. Allan Aubrey Boesak easily comes to mind. Dr. Boesak is a prolific writer and theologian. Most importantly, he is a genuine fellow human being who stands alongside any who have been marginalized and oppressed.

I have seen this on display has he has told stories about his experience living under Apartheid in South Africa. Allan Boesak was a tireless advocate for justice in that context, working to change laws and restore dignity to so many who faced discrimination and were even killed because of the color of their skin.

I have heard Allan Boesak speak a couple of times, and once, I had the great privilege of leading worship with him. Then I heard him speak at the Next Church conference a couple years ago in Atlanta. He ended a keynote lecture there in a powerful way. He said that at the end of our lives, and at the end of time when God has reconciled all things, perhaps God will say to us, ‘Show me your wounds.’

He said,

In that moment – even as people of resurrection – if we have none to show, perhaps God will ask us, ‘Wait. Was there nothing worth fighting for?’

And in that moment, he said, even if we stand there with no obvious signs of solidarity, this very God will show us his hands and his wounded side, and we will know that we were worth fighting for.

“As the Father has sent me, so I send you.”

As we leave this place, we have work to do.
We have stories to believe.
We have truth to tell.
We have human lives worth standing beside.
We have resurrection to live.

Thanks be to God.
Amen.

–Renee Roederer

What if you could be gathered together in one place with a version of yourself from every year of your life? Like, from baby to current age of adulthood?

What if every age of yourself was present toward all the others, gathered together like a family reunion of sorts? What would that be like?

-Would certain ages pair together for care?

-Would certain ages avoid each other?

-Would certain ages wander off somewhere and find some space to tell the truth, or maybe do some reconciliation work?

-Would certain ages impart wisdom to the other ages?

What might the current you want to say to your younger selves? Truth be told, our younger selves are always present in some way, embedded into the rest of our lives. We can access the various parts of ourselves, and in a sense, even be in relationship with ourselves.

I suppose this is one form of resurrection.

–Renee Roederer

On Sunday, I celebrated Easter in Ann Arbor with folks at the Episcopal Church of the Incarnation. I had already heard a lot of wonderful things about this place because a number of my friends are a part of this community. For that reason, I walked in the doors with a bit of knowledge, but there was still much for me to experience and learn. For instance, I discovered the story of this unique building.

Upon entering the Episcopal Church of the Incarnation, I imagine most people become immediately curious about the architecture. It is very unique. Soon after I entered the space, I was grateful when someone told me the story about how this building came to be. It’s not a story I would have expected.

The building started with this piece in the photo above – the structure with the arch on top. An African-American professor named David Byrd had been teaching a construction class with his students, and this was one of their projects.

But once they were finished with it, they thought, why stop here? They began to ponder creating a building around this structure. While considering this, David Byrd had a experience of calling: He discerned that they should build a church.

And this is where a construction project became an even greater vision. He recalled these words of scripture, first found in the Hebrew Bible and then applied to Jesus in the New Testament,

The stone that the builders rejected has become the chief cornerstone;
God has done this, and it is marvelous in our eyes.

David Byrd, teacher and visionary, wanted to create a church that would house people who have been rejected, so that they could be at home, held in community, and empowered. For this reason, he and his students traveled around Washtenaw County and collected building materials that had been tossed aside and thrown away. From these, he built a home for anyone who feels rejected, a home for a community that is called to stand with those who are rejected.

This is powerful.

It also feels fitting. People from this community are now some of the leaders of the local chapter of the upcoming Poor People’s Campaign. If you have not yet heard about this, you surely will soon. There is a national movement underway to resurrect the Poor People’s Campaign, initiated by Martin Luther King Jr. He and others were working on this campaign in 1968, when it was sadly disrupted due to his assassination — 50 years ago this very day.

Martin Luther King Jr. was certainly a stone rejected. His legacy remains marvelous in our eyes, but his legacy is one that needs to be lived in our own lives, our own time, and our own particularity.

I am curious how a community built with this vision might participate in creating a social structure that resurrects this needed legacy in new ways.

–Renee Roederer

Well, I’m sad to say that our Michigan Wolverines did not win the NCAA Championship last night. Villanova was really phenomenal out there, so a big shout-out to their athleticism and drive.  But I’m very proud of this Michigan team too. I imagine it’s painful and difficult for these players to get so close and then lose. My thoughts are with them today.

Last night, as I watched, I found myself pondering what it’s like to follow along when the energy is moving in the direction you desire, and then what it feels like when that energy shifts. In other words, I found myself thinking about momentum.

It’s an easy thing to ponder because momentum can be felt physically, even in the role of a spectator. When the Wolverines started last night’s game, they came out with such sharp, forceful, confident energy. They were ahead for the first long segment of the game. But then, when Villanova took the lead, that lead continued to grow throughout much of the game. As I simply sat there and watched, I felt my own body shift from energetic and confident to lethargic and sad.

Then as I went to bed, I found myself pondering that experience more. We often have moments where our energy shifts physically, just by the act of observing. I think about the news cycle, for instance. How often does our energy shift based on what we read and see? And how is that connected to hopefulness? When the news includes wave after wave of challenge, we might begin to despair and believe that very little can be changed. But when we see, for instance, the teenagers of Parkland connecting with other teenagers across the nation, we might feel hope and believe that change could actually be possible. It’s interesting to ponder these kinds of shifts.

And then, there are two other kinds of experiences as well:

There are are moments when we move from being spectators to being actors, working intentionally in the directions we hope. The momentum can shift many times, and our own energies along with it, but we stay committed, not because of the momentum of the moment, but because we believe in the work and vision.

-And-

There are rare but very real moments when we see some challenging writing on the wall, and surprisingly. . . we come completely alive in the inevitability of losing. We know we’re going to take a risk, and it’s definitely going to cost us. But it’s worth it. Truth-telling can be like that. (God bless whistle blowers). Or we come to recognize our finitude, perhaps, very concretely – we age, we receive a diagnosis, we lose a dream, we lose a person — and shockingly, we come alive with more vitality, recognizing what a gift life can be.

This is a resurrection kind of momentum. How completely counter-intuitive, shocking, surprising, and life-giving it is.

–Renee Roederer

Happy Easter!

It’s a season, so I can still say that.

People often make New Year’s resolutions, and of course, some make intentional choices and changes for Lent. But how about initiating something intentional during the Easter season too — a new practice, a new question, a new wondering, a new framework?

Perhaps it’s surprising that we don’t often think about Easter as a season in this way. After all, it is about new life, so there are some good possibilities there! Easter is a season that is 50 days long. From now to May 20 (Pentecost), how might we practice what is calling us into new life?

I’m going to try something, and I’m curious to see where it will take me:

For the next 50 days, I’m going to spend less time on social media — not 0, but much less — and instead, I’m going to prioritize having more purposeful, intentional, in-real-life conversations.

I started this yesterday, and it was wonderful. I called a bunch of former students yesterday to wish them a Happy Easter and hear how they are doing. I’m grateful for opportunities to keep in touch via texts and messenger apps, but some aspects of conversation are just more possible with actual voice.

You can go deeper in conversation and talk about more meaningful things, of course. But you can also hear and laugh about more mundane things, and this is somehow extra rich also — the funny mix-up that happened that morning, the realization that a return trip to the grocery store is in order, that today needs a good nap (yes, I woke someone up when I called).

All of this (well, minus waking someone up – sorry!) was really so wonderful.

I’m curious what kind of impact this might have over the next 50 days. What about you?

–Renee Roederer

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, however. 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 dared to speak, and we have dared 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. And in the end, it will prevail.

Love and life have the last word.
Goodness has the last word.
Connection, meaning, and purpose have the last word.

Despite the pain we feel and the pain we know,
Life 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, and other forms of loss and injustice.

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.

On this Easter morning, I find myself reflecting upon the mystery of goodness. While we can hope for love and life to prevail, we rarely anticipate what they will look like in the face of hatred and death. They always surprise us.

Yet the surprise comes. No one expected Jesus – tortured, ridiculed, and executed – to walk out of the grave with life in his lungs and in his steps, but that is the great Mystery of Goodness on Easter morning.

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 throws 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,

We do not diminish your pain.

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

–Renee Roederer

Stephon Clark.

“We’re Geezer Millennials,” I said last night, pointing to Ian and me as we sat around a table with students.

This came up first when we were talking about age, and then later, when we were dating some old shows and video games — that is, if or when we knew about them as children. In all of this, when I used this silly, self-descriptive term, I was conveying that we are in fact, among the very oldest Millennials. My high school graduating class in 2000 helped give this generation its name: We initiated the bracketing.

I’m still relatively young, but I don’t consider myself to be a ‘young adult’ anymore. (Unless, perhaps, you’re in the Presbyterian world, where anyone under 50 is considered a young adult. The PC(USA) has its own version of dog years, but in reverse: Maybe every 7 years only equals 1?)

At age 36, I lapped adulthood this year.  This means I am also double the age of a college freshman.

And friends, I love all of this.

Last night, I told this table of people that hardly a day goes by when I don’t think about how much I love being in my mid-30s. This is true. This is one of the fullest, most meaningful eras of my life so far, and it is, in part, connected to age.

It’s this sense that if I’m fortunate to live a long time, I still have a lot ahead of me. But I have some significance behind me too. I have lived a lot. I even have some wisdom to share. (Still much to learn though!)

And I have the opportunity to keep doing what I’ve been doing now for more than a decade – cultivating intentional, nurturing space for young adults – but now, I get to do it with more age. This has always been a rich life-calling, but it just keeps getting richer.

And in all of this, a particular joy finds me on an everyday basis. This is my deepest joy as a Geezer Millennial: I know a large number of young adults who now live all over the place — people with whom I am inextricably linked in community and kinship; people who are doing amazing things with their lives —

They live in 3 nations,
and at least 14 states (hopefully, I didn’t miscount those)

I’ve known some of them for a couple of years,
and some for more than a decade (by the way, this is astonishing to me)

I’m in touch with them regularly. And every single day, at least one of them says something so loving, caring, compassionate, and affectionate to me; something so wise; something that teaches me about life; something that speaks to the particularity of their being and calling in the world.

Do you know how lucky I am to experience and hear these things every single day?

This is undoubtedly one of the reasons I love my mid-30s so much. I keep having this experience and marveling about how rich it is.

Ah, the daily joys of a Geezer Millennial. . . This keeps getting broader; this keeps growing deeper.

–Renee Roederer