Author: gracesmuggler

[Public Domain Image]

Why do we say that people are low-income? We hear this language all the time on the news:

“Most of all, this policy will affect low-income people.”

“Low-income people are more likely to vote for ______.”

“Low-income people tend to use these resources.”

While I’m about to be critical of this, I confess that I have used the same kind of language at times.  We tend to form our sentences so that ‘low-income’ becomes part of the subject — a descriptor completely embedded with the word ‘people.’ In other words,

We tend to say that people are low-income

– rather than saying –

People have low-incomes.

These ways of using words might reveal something unconscious as to what we believe concerning class and personhood in the U.S.  We tend to think that class and wealth (or lack there of) reveal something about who you are.

We also say that people are rich, and people are middle class. It is rare to hear that people have wealthy incomes, or that people have middle-incomes.

This helps us think about people in ways that are two-dimensional or flat-out false.

So if you have lower incomes or less access to gaining wealth in this country, you are. . . fill in the stereotypes. . . Stereotypes like lazy, entitled, uneducated, or foolish.

The income you have is entirely your fault: It’s who you are.

Meanwhile, if you have higher incomes or greater access to gaining wealth in this country, you are. . . fill in the praise. . . Praise like hard-working, creative, educated, or smart.

The income you have is entirely your accomplishment: It’s who you are.

These are the assumptions our wider culture tends to make because we have been taught to believe these things. Sometimes, we believe and share them consciously. Other times, they influence us on an unconscious level.

My suspicion is this: If we moved away from this intransitive language — “People are low-income” — and started using verbs like ‘have’ — “People have low incomes” — we would have to acknowledge the economic and political systems that cause such a reality. We would have to consider the chapters of U.S. history which have played a role in this outcome.

If we moved away from intransitive language — “People are rich” — and started using verbs like ‘have’ — “People have wealth” — we would have to acknowledge the economic and political systems that cause such a reality. We would have to consider the chapters of U.S. history which have played a role in this outcome.

That’s the harder, more honest work.

–Renee Roederer

[Bryan Stevenson, Executive Director of the Equal Justice Initiative.]

Who are the people who influenced the people who influenced you?

We might call them the GrandInfluencers. I like to think of this question and these people from time to time.

We are connected more broadly and expansively than we are always aware. Whether we know their names or not, there are people who have had a major impact upon the shape and direction our lives because they had a major role in shaping the people who most influenced and inspired us.

I thought of this again on Tuesday night. On Tuesday, Bryan Stevenson was presented with the Wallenberg Medal at the University of Michigan for his vision and service, and afterward, he gave the Wallenberg Lecture.

Bryan Stevenson is the founder and Executive Director of the Equal Justice Initiative, an organization committed to ending mass incarceration in the United States, protecting human rights and dignity, and challenging racial and economic inequities. Within the large, crucial vision of this work, Stevenson has spent decades entering personal relationships with the people he represents in court. They have impacted his life, as he has impacted theirs.

His lecture was filled with stories of human connection as he challenged us to do justice in our neighborhoods, nation, and world and to change our narratives about race and poverty.

He opened the lecture first with a story about his Grandmother. He grew up calling her Mama. When Stevenson was a child, she would give him enormous hugs, and when she finished, she would ask, “Okay, can you still feel me hugging you?” If he said no, she would do it all over again. This became one of their playful rituals, and Stevenson came to know that he was loved and absolutely cherished.

As she was dying, her last words to him were, “Can you still feel me hugging you?”

Beautiful. It’s clear that he does.

She shaped so much of his vision and calling. She was the daughter of enslaved people, and she taught him about the terror and trauma of slavery. She also filled him with a sense of love and worth. Stevenson has been addressing slavery in its many forms throughout his life, protecting human lives, standing up to false narratives, and telling the truth — both about our national history and about human dignity.

In many ways, this started with his Grandmother. Unknown to many future clients, she impacted their lives — and in many cases, affected their freedom — through the formation of Bryan Stevenson.

And Stevenson told us stories about some of these clients. Unknown by name to us, they have impacted the formation of Bryan Stevenson as well, and their stories are now challenging the narratives and power structures of mass incarceration.

We are connected more broadly and expansively than we are always aware.

Who influenced the people who influenced you? Who are your GrandInfluencers?

We honor them with our lives by being ourselves. And though we cannot always predict the direction entirely, when we demonstrate love to others and are present in formational ways, we will embolden and empower people we will never meet.

–Renee Roederer

 

[Public Domain Image]

Live that alive gift and turn it toward others.

Do you know which one I mean? The skill, the aptitude, the particular talent that comes so easily to you that you even forget sometimes it’s something significant to offer?

Yes, live that. Live that very gift, the one that makes you come alive.

Because

we need it.

we need you.

we need you come alive.

There’s a quote I share with people  a lot. I’ve posted it here before. It’s from Howard Thuman, author, theologian, civil rights leader, and mentor of Martin Luther King Jr.

He said,

“Don’t ask what the world needs. Ask what makes you come alive, and go do it. Because what the world needs is people who have come alive.”

We need that in you.

Yesterday, I got to watch someone live their alive gift. It wasn’t a performance or any special kind of event. It was just watching a person do what comes so naturally. This person has studied and practiced skills quite a bit but has also internalized them with an energy that exudes aliveness.

It made me wonder if he was aware how much joyful energy he was giving us. What a gift that is!

One person’s aliveness can often support and launch the aliveness of others.

That’s why we need your gift. Yes, the one that comes so easily. Even the one you might forget about if people asked you to get involved in a needed cause.

Turn that alive gift in the direction of others, and you’ll give life to the whole.

–Renee Roederer

[Leaders from the Civil Rights Movement during the 1963 March on Washington.]

From the time I was a young child to the time I was a young adult, my formal educational settings taught me that racism was a thing of the past.

It was serious, but it was largely behind us.

Oh, sure, there were some skinheads out there somewhere. And grand dragons marched in those occasional KKK rallies too. But those people were certainly the hate-filled exceptions. “Aren’t they awful?” we seemed to say with our scrunched up facial expressions of disgust and dismissal.

We dismissed their hatred, as we should have, but we also dismissed ourselves from the necessity of confronting our own racial biases. We kept these individuals away from the center of our civic life, as we should have, but we also kept ourselves from the recognition that race and class function systemically within our civic institutions.

We were majority white communities who learned, taught, and internalized colorblindness. It became a virtuous thing never to see race. “When I see people, I don’t see color,” we would say.

But this meant we never talked about the racism we did see. Most of all, this meant that we worked to deny the reality of racism right in front of us. We erased the harm that we and our larger systems were causing people of color. Occasionally, this meant we would erase people of color themselves. It certainly involved the erasure of their claims. We would dismiss them outright.

“That was then, but this is now,” we would say.

We gathered around photos of Civil Rights leaders from the 1960s and taught those to our children, as we should have. But before color printing, those photos were all in black and white. They had a veneer of past. I was born a mere eighteen years after the passage of the Civil Rights Act of 1964 — that’s it — but I grew up feeling like Jim Crow took place eons ago.

I have vivid memories of sitting around my house while talk shows from the 1980s and 1990s were on the television set. Oprah would dare to talk about race on her show, inviting guests to talk about real, lived stories. Almost inevitably, someone in the audience would stand up to make a particular, impassioned argument. Oprah would hold out the microphone for them to speak, and they would say something like,

“Why are you always talking about slavery? Can’t you let that go? That was then, but this is now!”

“Those police officers shouldn’t have done that to Rodney King. It’s awful. But that’s the act of those police officers. Stop trying to act like this is everybody. You got desegregation. You got Civil Rights. You got the right to vote. Stop blaming us for everything. That was then, but this is now!”

“But this is now.”
“But this is now.”
“But this is now.”

The phrase usually meant, “Get over it.” Racism is serious, but it’s largely behind us.

And yet, here we are.

On Friday, a man was working on his car in his driveway just south of Seattle. A white man wearing a mask suddenly walked up to him with a gun. He yelled, “Go back to your own country!” and pulled the trigger. The Sikh man has injuries, but thankfully, none of them are life-threatening.

But this is now.

On Saturday, the Klu Klux Klan announced that they would hold a rally outside of a Georgia courthouse to protest the recent sentencing of Joe Torres and Kayla Norton. Torres and Norton were convicted after a 2015 incident. On that day, they rode with a convoy of trucks that were waving large confederate flags, drove past a birthday party with black families present, and yelled racial slurs from the vehicles. The drivers then pulled off the road and parked, and a smaller group approached the families with more racial slurs. Torres pulled out a shotgun and made threats of violence. Norton made similar comments.

But this is now.

On Sunday, a lawsuit hit the news, claiming that as many as 60,000 immigrants have been detained and brought into forced labor — a violation of federal anti-slavery laws. This is alleged to have taken place at the Denver Contract Detention Facility, a for-profit detention center run by GEO Group. GEO Group has a contract with ICE. Detention and slavery are serving as a money-making scheme for white CEOs and white shareholders.

But this is now.

–Renee Roederer

For the last couple of weeks, I’ve found myself listening to the 4th Movement of Beethoven’s 9th Symphony almost every day. I had the wonderful occasion to sing it recently with the UMS Choral Union and the Budapest Festival Orchestra, and I reflected upon that incredible experience on this blog. But I’m nowhere near tired of this work. Musically and emotionally, it’s a masterpiece.

And I realize that it draws me back almost daily because of its obvious subject matter: JOY.

Each day, I seem to get some new joy from it — a hope, a feeling, a dream, a memory. A few days ago, a vivid memory popped in my mind while listening. I had not thought of it for many years, but there it was, so clear and wonderful. It was an embodiment of joy. All these years later, it reminds me of something important.

When I was 17 years old, I traveled to Austria with my high school choir. That summer, we toured in several major cities. It was the first time I had ever traveled outside of the United States, and from beginning to end, the trip felt like an absolute adventure.

My vivid memory takes place in Vienna.  One afternoon, everyone in our choir had several hours to explore the city on foot. We were all given a map, and my adventuring took me pretty far away. My friends and I left enough time to turn around and get back to the tour bus, but it seems we “turned around” in the wrong direction. We thought we were tracing our steps, but we were actually moving even farther away. We consulted the map and found it confusing. Eventually, fear hit us. We realized odds were quite high we wouldn’t make it back for our agreed upon meeting time.

Horrified that an entire bus of students would be waiting for us, or worse, that we might miss a performance, I was flooded with stress. If you knew me in high school, you would know that I was fun, but a perfectionist, goody two shoes. I did not like to disappoint. I did not want to get in trouble.

So we did what we had to do: We ran. In fact, we sprinted.

I began that long run back with stress. Worried, we flew by old, colorful European architecture. Anxious, we zoomed past folks sitting in the squares of outdoor cafés. Yet at one point, in the midst of all that adrenaline, a realization dawned on me, and everything changed. I was running. . . in Vienna! Suddenly, that sense of adventure overtook me, and I felt utter joy. I felt completely alive, taking in all the details around me.

My seventeen year old self sprinted with joyful abandon. Such a vivid memory. . . I was wearing a blue dress with butterflies on it. The front was stained with chocolate ice cream I had dripped all over myself earlier in the day. And I ran in Mary Janes, those shoes popularized in the 90s. They were filthy with dust and gravel from adventures earlier in the day.

Joy found me unexpectedly, and I became unexpectedly alive.

A portion of Beethoven’s 9th reminds me of this moment musically. I think of it every time now.

And all of it reminds me of something I need to hear. Maybe you do too.

There are times these days when we’re working hard, alert to the stressors around us, deeply aware of changes we want to make in our neighborhoods and in our world. The work and the awareness are necessary and serious. No doubt.

But there are also times — thank goodness — when we’re reminded of the larger vision too, not only of what we’re working against, but what we’re working for. . .

Who and What we’re working for. . . We catch that vision, imagining that its fullness could become a reality, and suddenly, we feel the joy of it. And we begin to make it happen, even just a little bit, right now. Right this instant.

Joy finds us unexpectedly, and we become unexpectedly alive.

–Renee Roederer

 

Today I want to take a moment to honor the life of Janika Edmond.

The story below is a hard one, involving mental health, incarceration, and suicide. If those topics are especially challenging for you, please take care as you read this story, or feel free to skip it if that’s most helpful.

Janika Edmond was twenty-five years old. She had a family. She had personal likes and dislikes. She had dreams. She had personhood. She had worth.

But all of this was disregarded on November 2, 2015, the day she died at the Women’s Huron Valley Correctional Facility in Ypsilanti, Michigan.

About a year ago, at march on behalf of Flint, I first heard the name of this prison voiced aloud. Someone mentioned the Women’s Huron Valley Correctional Facility in a list of justice concerns in Michigan. I am ashamed to say this, but at the time, I did not know that this prison was a mere fifteen minute drive from my house. In fact, I live off of the very same street.

But that’s how it often is with prisons.
Out of sight, out of mind.

Out of awareness.
Outside of accountability.

Janika Edmond had mental health concerns, and these were exacerbated during the period of her incarceration. After her arrival in 2013 and before her death, she attempted suicide six times at the Women’s Huron Valley Correctional Facility. Clearly, she continued to need care, but instead, she received disregard, negligence, and a horrific experience of dehumanization.

On November 2, 2015, Janika Edmond was struggling. She approached prison guards and requested a suicide prevention vest, but they did not provide her with one. Instead, corrections employee Dianna Callahan and counselor Kory Moore, took her life in their hands and treated her like an object for their own amusement. Callahan had previously made a bet with Moore as to whether Janika Edmond would become suicidal. When she requested the vest, Callahan said, “Somebody owes me lunch!” and pumped her fist into the air three times. It was all caught on camera.

After this, the footage takes an especially frightening turn.

About six or seven minutes after this comment, choking sounds from Janika Edmond can be heard on the footage. Without the aid she requested, and given no supervision or compassionate accompaniment, she completed suicide in the shower.

Callahan and Moore were both fired shortly thereafter. Callahan was then charged with involuntary manslaughter and neglect of duty.

Kory Moore, however — again, a counselor — has been reinstated with the Corrections Department after arbitration.

This story has been back in the news over the last few days as a lawsuit has been brought by Janika Edmond’s aunt, claiming that prison officials additionally engaged in obstruction to keep these details unknown. Warden Anthony Stewart, fourteen current and former corrections officials, and the department as a whole are being charged with violating Janika Edmond’s constitutional rights, the failure to make accomodations under the Americans with Disabilities Act, and the failure to train and supervise.

This is a gross level of negligence, disregard, and dehumanization. And here’s the thing I keep thinking about: This kind of behavior does not emerge overnight. It festers in a particular kind of culture – a breeding ground for abuse.

It makes me wonder how many horrific things are happening right now in a facility largely out of our public eye — indeed, just fifteen minutes from my house.

Janika Edmond is a beloved person with value and worth. She should have received that message and tangible forms of care. Instead, she struggled and died, and her mug shot is the most frequent image chosen to represent her in the news stories.

But Janika Edmond was much more than a mug shot. She was and is a human being.

Let’s keep her in our sight.
Let’s keep accountability in our sight.

–Renee Roederer

I suppose I’ve had an intriguing relationship with Ash Wednesday over the years. At times, the day has intersected with some challenging moments and chapters in our lives.

I’ve participated in Ash Wednesday. . .
. . . on the very day an opportunity fell through, and we learned we wouldn’t be making a move we really wanted,
. . . on a day when I was acutely aware I was about to lose a job,

and most challenging,
. . . on the exact date that one of the most beloved people of my life received a terminal cancer diagnosis.

In the Lent tradition, Ash Wednesday serves as a recognition of impermanence and our own mortality. In various chapters of my life, the date has intersected with real occasions for grief.

Yet surprisingly, I don’t feel a sense of dread when I reach this annual tradition.

On one hand, the day can provide an opportunity to feel something cathartic. In our broader culture, we often push away public expressions of grief. There aren’t enough occasions to honor our pain and the pain of others in visible ways. But on Ash Wednesday, people actually wear that pain and acknowledge it in each other’s presence.

But most of all, I suppose I don’t dread this date because there is a real expression of hope within it. Pain, grief, and mortality — real as they are — are never the final word. In a time of great anxiety, I hope to put that Hope on display today. The Hope is this:

No matter what we fear,
No matter what we lose,
No matter what we hear,
No matter what we’ve done,
No matter how we’ve failed,
No matter how we’ve been failed,
No matter what has been done to us,

We are loved with a LOVE we cannot lose.

I really do believe that.

And in a time of fear, grief, and anxiety, I both believe and choose to display daily that each human being is absolutely Beloved — that each and all are worth the Love that forms their being. I do not mirror this love or this truth perfectly, but I’m going to keep working at it. I hope we all will. . .because this is the actual truth.

Even in the face of death itself, it’s a truth that can be lived.

–Renee Roederer
 

 

Hello, friends.

I recently had an opportunity to write an article about what I’m up to these days. I’m serving as a Community Chaplain for Nones and Dones. That’s a rather quirky title, but it’s actually a perfect description of what I do. I spend time in the community as a chaplain, especially for people who are religiously unaffiliated and people who have left organized religious institutions.

This article is a part of the NEXT Church Blog. NEXT Church is an organization and a movement in the Presbyterian Church (USA) that discerns visions for innovation, direction, justice, and inclusion in the Church.

Feel free to read the article. It’s called Community Chaplaincy for Nones and Dones.

–Renee Roederer

The image above was taken during a recent march at the University of Michigan. It seems like a fitting expression of Community Chaplaincy — my local campus neighborhood and my most colorful stole.

[Military and civilian personnel attend a Muslim prayer service at the Washington Navy Yard Chapel, Washington, D.C., 2010. Public domain.]

The amorphous they and the amorphous there are very dangerous things.

They often start off as a fuzzy sense of Other. . . .like the violence we shrug off in certain places  because, you know, that’s the kind of thing that happens there to those people. We hear news reports of violence and poverty, sometimes in nations and local neighborhoods that the U.S. government has destabilized, and either because they’re so horrific, or because we don’t want to reckon with our own complicity, we begin to feel nothing. Over time, numbness turns into a lack of compassion, and eventually, that turns into a lack of empathy.

Then the amorphous they and the amorphous there begin to take shape. They become solid versions of they and there with inaccurate accusations and stereotypes. Those people there are like this. They are violent. They are criminals. And though we don’t usually let ourselves say this last part aloud, we begin to believe that they are less than human, certainly less deserving than us.

Once we’ve internalized all of this, we begin to justify our own physical, emotional, psychological, and spiritual violence against these Others. It is a terrible thing.

These days, with this on my mind, I’ve thinking a bit about the parable of the Good Samaritan. It’s a powerful story. Even if it’s been a while since we’ve engaged that story itself, we often hear that phrase from time to time — Good Samaritan.

Perhaps we’ve forgotten how shocking that story was in its original context.

Jesus tells the story after a person seeks to justify himself. That person asks, “And who is my neighbor?” limiting what kind of neighbor he is commissioned to love.

In response, Jesus tells this story: A Jewish man was beaten and left for dead on the side of the road by robbers. A priest comes down that road, but once he sees the man, he passes him by on the other side. The same happens with a Levite. He too passes him by on the other side. But a Samaritan comes, a person considered to be an absolute enemy based on centuries of enmity and mistrust — a representative of they and there — and he goes above and beyond to care for the wounded, Jewish man. He bandages his wounds, brings him to an inn and cares for him there, and then leaves money for his care after he has to leave.

Jesus asks, “Which of these three, do you think, was a neighbor to the man who fell into the hands of robbers?”

The original inquirer cannot even bring himself to say, “Samaritan.” He answers, “The one who showed him mercy.”

Jesus says, “Go and do likewise.”

Go and do likewise. When we hear the term Good Samaritan, we might ask ourselves, “Am I willing to go above and beyond for people who are threatened and harmed?” That is indeed a good question to ask.

But I think we also need to remember how shocking this story was in its original context.

It’s not solely about us and what we’re willing to do. It’s about they and them – that is, a recognition that our enemies are not who we think they are.

So are we going to do in response to that?

–Renee Roederer

Sometimes, the particular needs and urgency of a moment line up, revealing that you are precisely the person called to act. Quickly and decisively. Swiftly, yet with wisdom. At times, with risk, but also, with sure conviction. Not necessarily alone, but yes, definitely you. In this situation, you are the one who must act.

I found myself reflecting upon this after my good friend and colleague Reid Hamilton did just that. Perhaps you remember this recent moment:

Dan Adamini, the GOP secretary in Marquette, Michigan, shocked many of us when he composed and then shared a horrific tweet. Addressing protests at UC Berkeley, he said, “Violent protestors who shut down free speech? Time for another Kent State perhaps. One bullet stops a lot of thuggery.”

This was an unquestionable call to violence against students, referring to the state violence unleashed at Kent State during the Vietnam War protests. The National Guard fired shots, and four people died. Mr. Adamini was not subtle. He mentions what ‘one bullet’ can do and addresses that possibility as a good outcome.

Sometimes, the particular needs and urgency of a moment line up, revealing that you are the precisely the person called to act.

That’s what Reid Hamilton did. Reid has served as the Chaplain at Canterbury House at the University of Michigan for the last thirteen years. And before coming to Ann Arbor, he was the rector at Christ Church, Kent. Reid has known the horror and impact of what happened at Kent State, and he lives right here in Michigan, working with our students.

He was the one to act. Certainly not alone, but yes, he needed to act.

Reid called me to ask if I could lead the events at Canterbury House over the weekend because he needed to jump in the car and head north. He drove seven hours and was in Dan Adamini’s office the very next work day. They had coffee together and talked. Their conversation was both personal and productive.

In response to this conversation and a larger groundswell of public outcry, Dan Adamini resigned shortly thereafter.

I know Reid very well. I have permission to write about this story, but I know he’s not seeking an outcome of personal attention. So instead, I want to call our attention to this: We each have an intersection of roles, life experiences, identities, local contexts, personal strengths, and causes that we hold with conviction. When these begin to intersect in a particular moment, we are the ones especially equipped to act. We must choose to do it.

This experience in Marquette caused me to think about this for myself as well. It’s a good idea to think about these things ahead of time. I invite all of us to ponder our own intersections.

Many people are becoming more active, both in the political sphere and in local contexts. While we want to stay aware and informed broadly, it’s important ro realize that none of us can be a point person for every single cause or concern. We simply aren’t equipped to do that, and we’ll get overwhelmed very quickly. But if we identify some causes or concerns that will serve as our primary sphere of action, we have a greater sense about our role. And we should remain connected with people who are active the other areas. We can partner and show up for their actions too. This is an important piece of organizational work.

What are your intersections? Here’s a helpful exercise: Yesterday, I wrote down 8 words in a circle. Some of them are causes, some are contexts, and some are particular abilities in which I specialize. I drew connecting lines between each word and every other word, pondering how this circle contains a particular sphere of action. It doesn’t mean I’m limited only to these, but it does mean I must be a primary actor here. I have to be willing to act at a moment’s notice.

Also, while I did this, I recognized the absolute privilege embedded in this exercise. Some among us don’t have choice about when and where they act. Some have to act because their quality of life and very survival is on the line. We should keep this in mind.

Those realities, in fact, are the points of urgency which call our action. So let’s think now about what we can uniquely bring.

Because sometimes, the particular needs and urgency of a moment line up, revealing that you are the precisely the person called to act.

–Renee Roederer