Author: gracesmuggler

Jesus said,

“Therefore I tell you, do not worry about your life, what you will eat or what you will drink, or about your body, what you will wear. Is not life more than food, and the body more than clothing?”

and

“Can any of you by worrying add a single hour to your span of life?”

and

“So do not worry about tomorrow, for tomorrow will bring worries of its own. Today’s trouble is enough for today.”

All of these statements come from the same passage in the Sermon on the Mount — Matthew 6:25-34.

Jesus talks about placing trust in God in the hope that there is ultimately enough, naming that we are seen, cared for, and loved.

Of course, we know that sometimes, people genuinely do not have what they need, and there are times when anxiety emerges from inside the body in ways that can be debilitating. These deserve our attention, compassion, and gentleness, alongside commitments to address the situations that cause them.

Yet also, in the midst of that, and in the midst of many tendencies to ruminate over that which we fear, whether large or small, I think this is genuinely the most practical of advice.

I don’t mean to say that it’s always easy to simply turn worry off, and there are crises that make that remarkably challenging. Maybe even impossible. But in some situations, it is genuinely so very practical to say, “I’m only going to focus on this day.” At least emotionally.

Looking at the larger picture, pondering the bigger pieces, and moving in the longer direction… yes.

But emotionally, focusing on the one day in front of us. Just this one.

“One day at a time,” folks wisely say.

This can be especially practical when large things feel as though they are looming —

deadlines,
medical care,
grief,
crisis,
conflict,
addiction,
moving, or
navigating new contexts.

This is a spiritual practice and orientation, definitely. But it’s also so darn practical.

Just today.
Just today.

–Renee Roederer

 

Each of us is unique and particular, distinct and differentiated,
yes
(and these are great gifts)

But in every moment,
each person is a We.

Every single one of us is a Collective —
we are Plural
not only in a myriad of
thoughts,
feelings,
memories, and
impulses,
each as plentiful and contradictory as the next —

but also

We represent internalized others.
We are a nexus of relationships, embodied.

Who is always rooted in Whose.

Whose —
not possession or ownership.
not fate or determinism.

Whose —
belonging,
collective calling,
sacred possibility.

Sacred actuality.
We only need to awaken to it.

–Renee Roederer

 

To the Person That Harms,
To the Family That Wounds,
To the Shame That Devours,
To the Violence That Festers,

To the Grief That Upends,
To the Diagnosis that Stuns,
To the Substance That Hooks,
To the System That Discriminates,

You,

Yes,
You,

Any of You, or
All of You, or
More Than You
(That Which Stays Silent or
That Which Exists Beyond Lists)

You.

You
have never been a gift in disguise —
not tied with a bow
or packaged with grand, silver linings.

But here’s one thing you’ve yet to figure out:

The more you knock us off balance —
The more you pummel,
The more you trounce,
The more you disrupt and delight in the off-kilter,

The more we come to know what our balance is.

And that balance,
when we know it,
when we can name it,
when we can internalize it,
is Strength Beyond Strength.

That Balance is Our Sacred Invitation.
That Balance is Our Secret Intervention.

–Renee Roederer

It’s so easy to get into a rhythm that becomes a rut.

The daily, mundane flow of life can be quite beautiful if we allow ourselves to be present to it. But sometimes, we get in a rhythm where we begin to not expect very much.

I’ve been to Quaker worship a few times, and I find one particular aspect to be quite meaningful. It’s the intention that is built together in community — the expectation that during their time together, significance will be revealed. The Spirit is present, and the people are present, and so everyone sits in silence, waiting for some (and it could be anyone; it could be you!) to feel a certain calling to speak. People contribute wisdom, theological reflection, stories, questions, and occasionally, even a moment of song.

I’m sure that Quakers get in their own mundane ruts too. I’m sure folks come to the Meetinghouse after struggling to get their kids dressed and in the car on time. I’m sure some folks enter the room thinking about irritations they have, maybe even with one another. I’m sure some folks have done this so many times that they come out of a sense of routine, and occasionally, maybe even obligation.

I’m sure all of that is true with Quakers, just as it is with any of us. But I so appreciate — and I see and feel the conviction of this in the room — that Quakers expect worship to lead to moments of transformation.

So today, I’m thinking about worship… what it means… how expansively we might think of it… and what sorts of invitations it brings to us…

In my own Presbyterian context, I confess that sometimes, I forget how transformative worship can be. I don’t mean to say that I simply go through the bare minimum of the motions. It’s not that so much. But sometimes, there are moments when I ponder whether my expectations of meaning, experience, and transformation — in a word, encounter, and sense of calling in that encounter — could be larger and more expansive. I sometimes wonder if I’m in a room with people who could also expect more, which sometimes involves expecting the unexpected… that is, what can happen around us and among us… and what can happen inside us internally.

And then, what if we think about worship expansively? Not only some-odd service at a particular time and place once a week that we do or don’t go to. What if worship is a way of expecting encounter in all things — the Spirit, God, Community, World, Humanity, Larger-Meaning, Significant-Questions, Connection, Care, Solidarity, Joy — in all the mundane, routine rhythms?

Maybe we’re invited in those directions all the time.

–Renee Roederer

When I find myself driving and jamming to a song on the radio, it’s usually because I love that particular song, or it perfectly syncs with my mood. But yesterday, I found myself beaming with smiles for a whole different reason. A song brought me to a quirky, funny memory.

Did you ever have an imaginary friend when you were a kid?

I did, when I was four. But my friend was not from any typical, imaginary friend category.

A friend my age…? No.

An animal…? No.

A toy come to life…? No.

My imaginary friend was…. wait for it…

Yep. My imaginary friend was Davy Jones of the band The Monkees.

I am literally laughing aloud right now as I type this blog post. Such an overly-specific imaginary friend!

Davy became my bud because as a four year old, I loved watching The Monkees on their exceedingly cheesy Nick at Nite television show. Davy and I would play games, and for a brief period of time that I remember, I would buckle a seat belt for him in the car.

Yesterday, while driving to Royal Oak, Michigan, the Monkees’ song, “I’m a Believer” came on the radio. I smiled at my childhood memory and laughed. I also like the song though I’m no longer a believer that Davy Jones is buckled in next to me in my car. (And, you know… thankfully. Though I suppose I could then ask him directly, “Davy, what were you and your boys thinking when you recorded this song?”)

I didn’t ask Davy anything yesterday in my car. But to myself, I thought, “This is funny. I should blog about this. Or maybe put it in a future comedy set.”

But then I thought, “Wait… but is this also kind of embarrassing?”

It’s a quirk.

It’s both funny and embarrassing. And also endearing. And also, as I’ve already said, super overly-specific in a delightful way.

So I share.

But mostly, I share the invitation to love your quirks today.

–Renee Roederer

This sermon was preached at Starr Presbyterian Church in Royal Oak, Michigan and was focused upon the story that is told in John 12:20-36.  The audio recording is above and a written manuscript is below.

I imagine that the people were perplexed… Jesus, his disciples, and many others were at the festival of the Passover in Jerusalem. That week had been a whirlwind of events, many perplexing and unexpected. In the midst of it all, Jesus’ name and reputation were growing.

In the chapter before our passage this morning, Jesus stays in the town of Bethany, and while there, he raises a man named Lazarus from the dead. This took place just six days before the Passover. This is perplexing and astounding — certainly for the characters in the stories, but many years later, it may also seem bewildering to us as well.

And then, after raising Lazarus from the dead, Jesus came into the city of Jerusalem in a stunning way. John tells the story of it here after these events when we typically hear it during Holy Week. As Jesus rode into the city, people waved palm branches and shouted, “Hosanna! Blessed is the one who comes in the name of the Lord, the King of Israel.”

In fact, some Greeks were at the festival as well, and they wanted to speak with Jesus, so his disciples sent for him. We don’t really hear what the Greeks ask him. We only hear his response.

He begins to talk about the Son of Man… who is this Son of Man?

Jesus says that, “The hour has come for the Son of Man to be glorified.” What does that mean?

And then he talks about this imagery: “Very truly I tell you,” he says, “Unless a grain of wheat falls into the earth and dies, it remains just a single grain; but if it dies, it bears much fruit.”

And then he says some words that might make us uncomfortable, even as they might have made the characters in the story uncomfortable: “Those who love their life lose it, and those who hate their life in this world will keep it for eternal life. Whoever serves me must follow me, and where I am, there will my servant be also.”

What does Jesus mean when he talks about our life in this way? He’s perplexing.

And he says, “When I am lifted up from the earth, I will draw all people to myself.”

I’m not sure the people present knew what to make of all of this… They just asked questions: “We’ve heard from the law that the Messiah remains forever. How can you say that the Son of Man must be lifted up? Who is this Son of Man?”

They are confused. Even though we know where this story leads, these kinds of words make us confused or uncomfortable too.

And Jesus says, “The light is with you a little while longer. Walk while you have the light.” Walk, he says. Follow. It seems that following him is light. He says, “Walk while you have the light, and believe in the light, so that you may become children of light.” That sounds like life. That sounds like Jesus is inviting us into something.

We can be honest with one another. Jesus can be confusing.

And the Gospel of John is different than the other Gospels. It’s a theological Gospel, which isn’t to say that the others don’t have a theology attached. Certainly, they do. But in this Gospel, Jesus gives all kinds of theological discourses. Sometimes, he says the kinds of things we wouldn’t expect in typical conversation. That seems to be true here.

I know I don’t typically make grand analogies about loving life… and losing life… and grains falling into the earth, and being lifted up from the earth… in my everyday kinds of conversations. I imagine you don’t either. But I think the author of this Gospel is up to something here. He places great theological invitation in Jesus’ words — not as some kind of verbatim record of what happened on one particular day in a particular, historical account 2,000 years ago. The author of this Gospel places words and meaning in the conversations of Jesus which invite these things to be true for us now. They become an invitation now.

Jesus might sound a bit cryptic and perplexing if we imagine these words taking place in an everyday conversation. But they are written for an audience. They are invitations now. Wherever we are, even 2,000-plus years from the life of Jesus, time collapses and we are invited into a new way of life for this moment.

And so Jesus talks about life — losing life, allowing his life and ours to be lost into meaning that is greater than simply living out our chronological days. We lose our lives into his vision, and we gain greater life, bearing fruit. We become children of light.

We do this by following him. Sometimes, that involves taking risks. Sometimes that involves giving up security. Sometimes that involves trusting that God is calling us — really and truly calling us, beckoning us to new life, new ventures, new connections with our neighbors, and new flourishing that we’ve yet to dream about.

A mentor of mine once had a dream. And it changed his life. And it changed many lives. It’s still doing that. I could tell you that story, as I know it well but I think it’s best to hear it from him. So I’d like to share this video today from Ben Johnston-Krase and Allen Brimer, the co-planters of Farm Church.

This is just one example.

Friends, where is God calling you? Where and how is God calling us? What dreams are emerging?

You know, sometimes we come to worship — and sometimes, I do this as the pastor too — and we get in a rut. We don’t expect that anything significant will happen. But every time we are together, we are being invited anew. We are being invited now.

So how is Jesus calling us to follow him and walk toward the light right now?

What do we need to lose, and what do we need to give up, so that we can bear fruit and gain the life that God calls us to — right now? this very day?

–Renee Roederer

In addition to the post I wrote yesterday, I’d also like to share a poem written by Julie Quiroz. Julie Quiroz organizes with Transforming Justice Washtenaw, one of the communities most active in advocating for a Police Oversight Commission in Ann Arbor.

I find her words to be beautiful and deeply moving.

-Julie Quiroz

Presence matters. It sets the tone.

And of course, it does much more as well. But that was one of the points of reflection that stayed with me last night. Collective presence showed up in a large way as the Ann Arbor City Council began to deliberate upon an ordinance proposed by the Police Oversight Task Force. The turnout was huge, and that set the tone for the meeting.

There is a great deal of history behind the work of the Police Oversight Task Force and the ordinance they just proposed. I could write a paragraph or two about that, but it wouldn’t do justice to the stories behind that history. Behind the history lie stories of trauma in relationship to the Ann Arbor Police Department — harassment, abuses of power, surveillance and over-policing, and four years ago, the death of Aura Rosser, a Black resident in Ann Arbor who was shot and killed by AAPD Police Officer David Reid.

Keeping those stories as the backdrop, the history is far from a simple summary. Black residents of Ann Arbor have been pushing for an citizens oversight commission since the 1970s. When Aura Rosser was killed, several organizing collectives also began working consistently in that direction, amplifying voices of residents who had been calling for oversight for decades. Since 2013, these have included the Ann Arbor Human Rights Commission, the Ann Arbor Alliance for Black Lives, Transforming Justice Washtenaw, the Collective Against White Supremacy, the Huron Valley Democratic Socialists of America, the Interfaith Council for Peace and Justice, and the Ann Arbor Friends Meeting, among others. Many individuals from the community have added their voices as well.

After years of advocacy in this direction, the Ann Arbor City Council voted to form a Police Oversight Task Force, and after appointing particular individuals to serve (representatives were proposed by the Human Rights Commission) the Task Force began its work in 2018, which involved discerning, deliberating, debating, and drafting a proposed ordinance toward a vision for the formation of a permanent Police Oversight Commission.

The Task Force worked on this for six months and spent thousands of volunteer hours in this direction. And the community pushed them hard. Directly-impacted individuals and organizers were tenacious in showing up and demanding a vision for the future Commission which is 1) fully independent (among other aspects, not allowing law enforcement officials to serve on the Commission) 2) adequately funded, 3) supported with subpoena power, 4) and trauma-informed in protecting residents who make complaints, committed to uphold confidentiality whenever possible.

And then… Howard Lazarus, the City Administrator of Ann Arbor, drafted an alternative proposal which could subvert the work of the Task Force entirely. As City Administrator, Howard Lazarus is tasked with placing state laws and the city charter in conversation with this proposed ordinance so that City Council can reconcile any discrepancies should there be any. (By the way, there is dispute about potential discrepancies between Howard Lazarus and attorneys who served on the Task Force). But rather than make amendments to the proposal, he just drafted another document which subverted all four aspects I have mentioned above: 1) independence, 2) adequate funding, 3) subpoena power, and 4) trauma-informed confidentiality for complainants.

The Task Force listened to the community, particularly those directly-impacted from abuses of power by police, and through a process that was painstakingly hard, they proposed an ordinance that represented collective perspectives. Last night, however, there was deep concern and anger that one person in power, removed from direct-impact, might single-handedly subvert the entire process.

So the community showed up. Presence set the tone.

There was a huge turnout last night, and that in and of itself made a statement. The original agenda had placed Howard Lazarus’ presentation first, but City Council members made a motion to begin with the Task Force presentation instead. While members of the Task Force were not always in agreement in their own meetings, there seemed to be a great deal of unity against the City Administrator’s document and its implication. Their collective presentation was quite strong.

But above all, I kept thinking about presence. The turnout was huge, as was the implication of what the community was demanding. I found myself convicted by those who showed up and did the hard work when others were distant and there was less of a crowd.

And I kept thinking… within this presence tonight, others are represented too, people whose experiences are present… Aura Rosser and her family… people who initiated and organized activist circles… people who have known harassment and intimidation… people who have known state violence… young people… elders… and people whose experiences could be made better if leaders will have courage to move where the community is asking them to go.

Presence matters.

–Renee Roederer

Please also read a powerful poem about this meeting by Julie Quiroz. She organizes with Transforming Justice Washtenaw, one of the communities advocating most strongly for a Police Oversight Commission in Ann Arbor:

City Council Poem By Julie Quiroz

This is the field in Marktoberdorf, Germany. I took this photo in 2010, five years after my original experience. In 2005, the field was bright yellow with wildflowers. Whatever the season, it’s a gorgeous view.

When I ponder an experience of transcendence… a sense that I was in the presence of something much larger than myself, surpassing what I expected… I think about a field in Marktoberdorf, Germany.

I think about how I marched to a field in a huff of anger, then departed with a sense of reassurance and wonder. I didn’t expect any of it, but it was exactly what I needed.

At age 23, I was on the verge of more than one major life transition. It was all a whirlwind of sorts. I was spending twenty days in Germany with the Cardinal Singers, the choir I had performed and traveled with for the last few years. With gratitude, we had been invited to participate in some prestigious competitions, most especially the Marktoberdorf Chamber Choir Competition.

And when I returned home to Indiana… Whew. In ten days, I would then get married, and soon after that, we would move across the country to Austin, Texas. That would be the first time I had moved from home. I chose this… I’m the one who applied to seminary, and I loved choosing this seminary, but suddenly, on the Germany trip, I struggled mightily with the move. We were definitely going. No turning back. Ian had chosen this too and had been accepted into a Ph.D. program at the University of Texas.

But what was I thinking?

I kind of panicked.

And I was also angry. I wasn’t ready to leave my friends, especially the people in this choir. We had created something incredible together over the last few years. I didn’t know yet… What happens when people move across the country? Do these kinds of friendships continue, or was I throwing that away?

I wasn’t ready to leave my church community. I had such a rich sense of belonging, and the people there had gotten me through so much. I didn’t know yet… What happens when people move across the country? Will I miss them too much? And will I miss out too much?

During a break in rehearsals, I departed for some time alone. I was infuriated about having to make these choices, potentially about losing so much. With deep frustration, I walked a pathway that was becoming increasingly familiar to me. It was a paved but often cracked, small road with gorgeous trees lining either side. Those trees with their vivid, green leaves lined the entire walkway until about a mile down the road, where everything opened up.

I had discovered this pathway about a week before and walked it many times since. The first time, I didn’t expect the opening, though each successive time was stunning in its own way. The shift was this: This road of trees suddenly opened to unexpected views. The Alps were in the distance on right, and a large, expansive field of wildflowers was on the left.

On this day, I think I was less interested in these, at least initially. I just wanted to be alone. So I walked and huffed. Then I turned left and stood in front of that field of wildflowers.

And I don’t know how to explain this, but something shifted, and I had an experience that felt very transcendent right there in the mundane moment of it all, beautiful though it was. And how to tell this story? Because in one sense, nothing happened, at least externally. There was no great miracle. Nothing fell from the sky. No supernatural action took place before my eyes.

But something happened internally. And it felt deeply spiritual. And I felt the presence of what I would call God, yet how do I name or describe what that means? Above all, I felt a sudden knowing. No voice fell from the sky, but if there would have been one, it would have said this:

There are people in Texas you have to meet, and without them, you will not fully be yourself.

Standing there, that is what I felt and quite suddenly, deeply knew. Something in me then rested in that knowledge, and the anger faded away. I trusted that it would be okay, even a gift to the ones I loved now, for me to become more fully who I was called to become. I knew that was calling me to Texas. I knew that was taking me to particular people in Texas.

And so I went.

When we lived in Texas, I thought of this experience many times. I even told the story a few times too. But I believe all of this resounded most strongly with me when I returned to Texas after the next move, which was to California.

At age 30, seven years after that experience in a field, I flew from Pasadena, California to Austin, Texas, returning for my ordination service. It would be held in a congregation where I did end up meeting an enormous amount of formative people in community.

One night before the service, I was alone in the upper loft of the house where we were staying with friends. I thought about all of this again. Then I wept with gratitude. It was overwhelming… I realized that the very next day, the church would be filled with people present to participate in ordaining me, and with the exception of Ian, to a person, the sanctuary would be filled with people I did not know until I made that move to Texas.

Having known them for years now, these were the kinds of people I could not imagine myself not-knowing. Every single person, and all the people collectively… It seemed that they were the fulfillment of that vision, the people I needed to know, the people with whom I would grow more deeply into myself… now with a myriad of names attached.

This was a deep, rich love with names, stories, and commitments attached.

Whatever transcendence is… whomever that Beyond-Presence is… surely, this calls us toward a deep, rich love with names, stories, and commitments attached.

–Renee Roederer

 

 

 

“But why doesn’t God have arms? I just… I wish God had arms.”

That’s what I lamented as we drove through the Texas Hill Country. The scenery was lush with long, green grasses, wildflowers, a creek, and pastures with longhorn steers. But I wasn’t noticing any of that beauty.

At age 26, I sat in the back of a Volvo and felt devastated about David’s cancer. Like a slow moving storm, I was experiencing the kind of lament that hovered over anger and despair in the five stages of grief, not moving much lately, just churning and pouring it all down.

It was all anticipatory grief. David was still with us and was his typical self too — funny, endearingly irreverent, curious, committed; still voraciously reading, still reassuring and loving of me. He was, in fact, concerned lately about how much pain I was feeling in all of this. The anticipatory grief of this particular, impending loss was enormous on its own, but along with it, this seemed to pull up previous losses I had not fully grappled with before. The cumulative grief demanded to be felt.

So feeling invited to do so, I sat in the back of Ben’s Volvo and lamented. I wanted to be comforted in all of this, and God was supposed to be this cosmic force of ultimate love in the world, right? But… was God just… a neglectful parent? Another example of this gnawing absence I was feeling? I mean, what good is a God that has no arms?

Maybe in some ways, that was a silly detail to fixate upon, but fixate I did. Yet in its own way, it was an apt fixation. When grieving like that, who doesn’t want to be held? Not metaphorically — which was my point — but actually held?

The Volvo arrived at Mo Ranch, a Presbyterian Camp and Conference Center in Hunt, Texas. We were there for College Connection, a week long event that in involved play, worship, shared meals, and reflection among college students. I was there to be a volunteer leader, assisting in worship and facilitating a small group.

Though I had not met him before, the keynoter for the week was a very beloved speaker in Presbyterian circles, well known for his work in youth ministry as a pastor and now, as a seminary professor. I heard him speak throughout the week and experienced him to be engaging, deep, funny, joyful, and inviting.

For most of the conference, I put on a face in public and pushed through my own leadership commitments. But privately, I felt miserable. Why doesn’t God have arms?

I just kept lamenting that, which was of course, a symbol for everything I was feeling. Then before the last worship service, I let myself voice that aloud once more.

The keynoter had become a friend during the week, and before that last service, we sat outside the hall, waiting for it to be unlocked so we could set up the space. With time then to spare, he asked me how the week had been for me. So I told him the truth. I talked about David, how much he meant to me, and what a gift he was in my life. I talked about cancer and the devastation of impending loss. I voiced the whirlwind of my feelings, and then, I eventually said it again:

“But why doesn’t God have arms? I just… I wish God had arms.”

The keynoter heard me meaningfully. And somehow, that conversation allowed me to enter that worship space with more vulnerability. This was a healing and wholeness service after all, and I let my public, putting-on-of-a-face fade.

I had a small role in that service. We had a time of anointing one another, placing a bit of oil on the foreheads of those who requested it with prayer. I participated in that. But when I was finished, I walked to the back of the hall and just sat in a chair totally dejected.

My eyes were closed with tears falling down my cheeks, so I didn’t really see this coming. But when he was finished with his part, seeing my sadness, the keynoter came to the back with me. I didn’t see him walk there. I only… felt his arms.

He absolutely bear hugged me. And I just melted into him.

I let the sadness be there, really and truly. But then I smiled. I already knew what he was doing before he said anything aloud.

But soon after he started to embrace me, he voiced it it. With great presence, he said,

“God does have arms.”

–Renee Roederer