On a particular day about two months ago, I returned home on a Sunday afternoon to find something strange taped outside our window. “What’s that?” I asked. I knew my husband was home so I spoke the question in his general direction. That’s when I saw him cutting felt at the kitchen table.
“They’re for the hummingbirds,” he said.
Earlier that morning, at quick speed, a hummingbird flew straight into our window. Ian saw it happen and was quite saddened, recognizing he had not thought about the windows when he placed a hummingbird feeder near our house. To remedy the danger, he was now cutting and crafting felt.
After that hummingbird hit our window, it fell to the ground, and Ian stepped outside to look after it. With some time, the bird began to move, but it was grounded and stunned for about an hour. Ian checked diligently on the little bird every five minutes, and eventually, he was thankful to see it take flight again.
Ian didn’t want a repeat occurrence so he began to ponder solutions. After searching the internet, he discovered he could cut materials into the shape of birds of prey. Other people have done this too and taped them to their windows. As a result, hummingbirds avoid the glass.
Ian placed several of these on our window.
Two months later, when I see them, they still make me smile. In part, this is because they look so goofy. But beyond the surface laughter, a deeper smile emerges within me too. They’re a visible reminder that every living being has real value. Hummingbirds are worth this much thought and care.
And every day, these goofy, taped birds remind me of Ian also. I love a person who lives by this worth, thought, and care. More than anyone I know, he demonstrates this kind of commitment, and he does so quietly without attention. He’s a dedicated vegan. He’s planted two clover patches for the wild bunnies that live in our backyard. And he has created fake, felt predators to protect the hummingbirds.
Ian gives me a greater sense of wonder about the world, and he consistently makes it feel like a gentler place.
And I want to follow his lead.
I recognize that we can all create gentleness, by
slowing down,
wondering more,
mirroring worth,
celebrating value,
finding solutions,
laughing generously,
showing affection, and
loving what is around us.
Disclaimer: You should really only watch this video if you’re willing to have a better day. Because it’s pretty challenging to avoid the joy here. The precious kiddo in the blue shirt just can’t keep it together. When you pair clapping with sudden bursts of silence, it’s . . . well, the best thing in the whole world.
During my very last week of high school, every morning began with a creative conspiracy. It was implemented by giggling, teenage masterminds. Collectively, we struggled to stiffle our laugher as we waited for our teacher to enter the room. Each stunt stranger than the last, we pranked Mr. Youngblood five days in a row. Our very last days of public education were filled with practical jokes.
And what sort of pranks do teenage masterminds create? Fire alarms, smoke bombs, or egg smeared chalkboards? Not these teenagers. We were way too nerdy for that.
Mr. Youngblood entered the room to find us all wearing. . . Ayn Rand masks.
Ayn Rand masks! A classmate had actually taken the time to find an Ayn Rand image, blow it up, print twenty-five some odd copies, and glue them to sticks so we could hold them to our faces and greet Mr. Youngblood as he walked through the door. Once he did, there we were, dressed to the nines in our Objectivism best. He loved it.
I could say that Mr. Youngblood introduced us to Ayn Rand, but it was, in fact, the other way around. Before we ever met him in the classroom, he assigned The Fountainhead as summer reading. We entered our senior year ready to discuss that large work, and we were introduced to one of our best teachers.
In his English class, we learned how to analyze classic works of literature. We learned how to hone our unique voices as we wrote with greater nuance. We had spirited discussions, and we challenged each other. And we laughed. Every day, we laughed.
This last aspect of our experience has been on my mind lately. Within it, I recognize that a larger lesson was present all along. It was never sketched out as a lesson plan, but Mr. Youngblood embodied it in the classroom. It was both simple and profound: He delighted in us as students. He thoroughly enjoyed us as people.
Sure, we occasionally drove him crazy. But most often, he greeted us with a dry wit we also enjoyed. That wit accompanied our intentional learning and created spontaneous moments of playfulness. He believed in our voices. He delighted in us, and we knew it.
Bob Youngblood died two weekends ago, and I have been reflecting on this kind of legacy. Teachers impart great knowledge, but they are also in a position to teach a larger lesson of delight. When teachers delight in their students, their students come to know their own worth. From that awareness, they go on to learn in self-directed ways.
Since our Ayn Rand mask wearing days, my classmates and I have almost doubled in age. This astonishes me. Even more, I am amazed to consider who we have become. We have charted career pathways, formed families, and created meaning. Bob Youngblood would delight in all of this too, I am sure.
Robert Frost once wrote that poetry “begins with delight and ends in wisdom.” [1]
Good teachers spark delight and illumine human worth. From these gifts, a lifetime of learning continues.
-Renee Roederer
[1] Robert Frost wrote this in the foreword to his Collected Poems (1939).
[This is the highest peak of Mount Halti in Finland. Image, Wikipedia]
Norway wants to give Finland a mountain. Really.
It’s a birthday present. Next year, Finland will commemorate the 100th anniversary of its independence. The nation will celebrate its history and people, and it may have an occasion to express gratitude for its Norwegian neighbors also. After all, these are the kinds of neighbors who would move mountains for you. Or, at the very least, they’ll move their border so you can set a new record for your highest peak.
“Let us take Finland to new heights!” This is an enthusiastic statement of commitment from some Norwegians who started a Facebook campaign for this very purpose. They are encouraging the government of Norway to move their national border 490 feet to the north and 650 feet to the east. This small adjustment would place the highest summit of Mount Halti inside Finland. It would break Finland’s previous record for highest elevation.
To date, the Facebook campaign has received more than 16,000 likes, and the idea has come to the attention of Erna Solberg, Norway’s Prime Minister. “There are a few formal difficulties, and I have not yet made my final decision,” she told national broadcasters. “But we are looking into it.”
In our world, we hear frequent reports of enmity between neighbors as hostility festers across national borders. Donald Trump, the Republican nominee for President, promises that he will build a wall along the U.S.-Mexico border. He has made it part of his official platform, along with a commitment to deport 11 million undocumented immigrants who are living in the U.S. When he announced his candidacy on June 16, 2015, he stated, “I would build a great wall — and nobody builds walls better than me, believe me — and I’ll build them very inexpensively. I will build a great, great wall on our southern border, and I will make Mexico pay for that wall. Mark my words.”
His promise is actually a threat. It isn’t neighborly.
It seems that the world could take more cues from the Scandinavian countries as they celebrate one another. They have shared a mountain for years, but now, in a generous gesture of friendship, Norway might give Finland the summit. It would be hard to gift wrap, of course, but it would certainly set a neighborly tone for the world.
When I woke up this morning, the chorus to John Folgerty’s song, “Centerfield” was stuck in my head: “Put me in, coach! I’m ready to play. . . today!” “Kudos,” I said to my subconscious brain. “You picked the right song for the day.” I was amused by this silly choice.
The situation became a bit more ridiculous once I searched for the song itself on Youtube. First of all, I thought it was a Bob Seger song. Wrong. Then, after realizing the title was “Centerfield,” instead of “Put Me In, Coach,” (which also sounds like an airline song), I accidentally searched for “Centerfold” in my tired stupor. That’s when I then got the J. Giles Band. This was all spiraling down a silly pathway.
But then, I found the actual song itself and allowed myself to listen to it playfully. It’s appropriate to August 1, after all. A few weeks ago, I decided that August would be “All In Month.”
Yes, all in.
I was driving on M14 East when I had the recognition. Suddenly, an exhilarating feeling washed over me. Come August, I would be positioned to do one thing — the thing I have come to dream most about. I would be able to put my energies toward organizing Michigan Nones and Dones full-time.
This community is ten months old. It contains a number of people who are religiously unaffiliated (Nones) and a number of people who have left established, institutional churches (Dones). It includes people who remain connected to various traditions but want to reform what those look like (Christians who want to see reforms in churches, for instance), and a people who practice a variety of mystical traditions and spiritual disciplines. We talk about spirituality, the teachings of Jesus, and our personal journeys with both. We’re building a network of friendships, and I believe that web is about to get stronger.
With excitement and many great hopes, I want to see this community vision thrive. So I’m going to chase it. Starting especially today, I’m “all in.” I feel a sense of joy. I feel a sense of risk too: This is the least lucrative pathway I’ve ever chosen! (I’m brainstorming financial ideas these days. Any thoughts? Email me). But even that realization feels exciting in its own way – not because it’s risky, but because it involves a decision to trust the calling itself. The “all in” feeling is glorious.
So I wonder if you’ve tapped into a similar feeling before? We’re all called to particular ways of living and serving. We each have unique visions and strengths to put into the world toward the betterment of one another.
So. . .
– What about you?
– What energizes you these days?
– How can you allow that energy to take up more space within your being or
within your acting?
I wonder what beckons you. Are you “all in?” It doesn’t mean you have to do it full-time, though you might. But are you ready to let its commitment change you?
This was not entirely by choice. For some reason, our electricity has spontaneously gone out a number of times this summer. I was just about to transition to some writing when the lamp went dark. “Again?” I wondered. Yes, our electricity had disappeared once more.
Thankfully, my computer was still charged so I continued in what I planned:
I began to write my last sermon.
In a matter of hours, I knew would say goodbye to St. Andrew’s Presbyterian Church. I’ve served this congregation for the last ten months as a temporary pastoral leader. All week long, I’ve thought about what I want to say. Now it was time to put it on paper. So I sat in the dark with a candle burning beside me. Crickets resounded through an open window.
And I began to write words for my fourth last sermon.
See, I’ve done this before. Three other times, I’ve said goodbye to congregations I’ve loved. Each time, I’ve expressed gratitude for people who have shaped me. They’ve made me more human. They’ve helped me love more deeply. They’ve helped me know who I am and what I care most about.
As I wrote this last sermon it its particularities, my mind experienced an array of memories from the other places. I recalled the other last sermons too. Most of all, I remembered people with names and felt a lot of gratitude.
If you are a part of any congregation, I want to tell you this: When your pastors make transitions and leave, they still love you. We remember you fondly for decades. We make important decisions to get out of the way so other leaders can follow and thrive. We want to support them. But we don’t love you any less after leaving, and that experience is a gift to us. I hope it’s a gift to you too.
Years ago, I read a touching news story (I wish I could find it again) about Alzheimer’s patients and the changes they experience in their bodies after someone has visited them. Sometimes, the patients don’t recognize their visitor, but even then, forms of connection linger after the visitor has left.
I suppose that happens on a large scale when any of us – not just pastors – leave a community. We say goodbye, but a presence lingers both within us and beyond us. In each chapter, we meet people who particularize us. They make us more fully who we are. Since these forms of presence become a part of our very identity, they can’t really be lost.
So today, I say goodbye again, and I’m aware this will be my last last sermon for a good while. Sure, I’ll continue to give sermons in various places, but imagine it will be a long while before I’m ever anchored in a traditional congregation again as ‘the pastor.’
Though I love the people I’ve met in these traditional congregations, I’m purposefully stepping away from this kind of leadership in order to organize new forms of community. This new vision with Michigan Nones and Dones has marked my life too, and I want to chase after it alongside the very people who are making it their own.
So today, when I say goodbye,
a presence will linger within me and beyond me.
As I think of this,
it seems fitting to close with a prayer from Dag Hammarskjöld: For all that has been, thanks. For all that will be, YES!
In a huff of frustration yesterday, I turned my car around and backtracked to my house. Thankfully, I wasn’t very far away. I had forgotten something I needed for a meeting, so I turned around to retrieve it. Once I was quickly out the door again, I learned that traffic was stalled on the interstate I needed. For a variety of reasons, I was surely going to be late.
I had worked hard all day, trying to meet a number of deadlines. In actuality, it was a day of productivity, but I felt constantly behind. This was the last straw. I was an irritated driver.
I took note of my frustrations while I waited for a red light to turn, and at that very moment, I realized I had a voicemail. I try not to use the phone on the road, but I was just sitting there, and this voicemail was from my dear friend Adrian. I decided to listen.
I’m so glad I decided to listen.
“I feel so happy every time I have to drive this way,” she said, “because sunflowers are in full bloom now. We have these huge fields and fields and fields of sunflowers being grown as crops, and they’re just so pretty. Unfortunately, they’re not ever in a place where I can pull over and take a picture because they’re on the freeway, and there’s not much of a shoulder. But I wanted to tell you about that, because I thought that is something that would also bring you joy like it does me.”
Could she have possibly shared these words at a better time?
There was so much wonder and gratitude in her voice as she shared this image me, and my heart was suddenly filled with the connection of friendship.
We all have the ability — at any moment —
to share simple gifts with one another.
We all have the capacity — at any moment —
to open ourselves toward connection.
Sometimes, the simplest occasions for connection are the most profound.
Thank you, Adrian.
On Tuesday night, President Bill Clinton took the stage at the Democratic National Convention to break new ground. He endorsed his wife to be President of the United States.
Before he spoke, people in the convention hall and around the globe expressed awe as they witnessed history in the making. Hillary Rodham Clinton is now the first woman to be nominated for President by any major political party in the United States. In November, she may indeed be elected to serve as the President and Commander in Chief. Hillary Clinton is trailblazing a new chapter in American history.
As the spouse of the nominee, Bill Clinton took the stage to humanize her as a candidate. He told moving stories about Hillary Clinton’s work of advocacy over the span of decades. He gave numerous examples of her passions, and he described her as a relentless “change-maker.”
These stories uplifted the themes of her work and the legacy it has created. But when it came to discussing the details of their courtship and marriage, Bill Clinton uplifted something else entirely: He prioritized the male gaze.
The ‘male gaze’ is a term which describes the lens through which women are frequently viewed in daily life and leadership. When the male gaze takes narrative form, it presents women as objects to be enjoyed for male pleasure.
Some journalists and political commentators found Bill Clinton’s opening story to be charming and endearing. Frankly, if I may be so bold, I found it to be creepy and disrespectful. He described his first meeting with Hillary Clinton in this way:
“The first time I saw her we were, appropriately enough, in a class on political and civil rights. She had thick blond hair, big glasses, wore no makeup, and she had a sense of strength and self- possession that I found magnetic. After the class, I followed her out, intending to introduce myself. I got close enough to touch her back, but I couldn’t do it. Somehow I knew this would not be just another tap on the shoulder, that I might be starting something I couldn’t stop.”
Within this story, one may hear Bill Clinton expressing recognition that a large, important life chapter was about to open. But his language — especially when viewed through the history of his personal discretions; that is not easily avoided — talks about her appearance and his motives to gain access to her. Later, he shared that she finally addressed him in their university library after he had been staring at her continually. He quoted her as saying, “Look, if you’re going to keep staring at me, and now I’m staring back, we at least ought to know each other’s name. I’m Hillary Rodham. Who are you?”
Along with narrating Hillary Clinton’s accomplishments, the male gaze wove its way throughout the speech. Many times, Bill Clinton praised Hillary Cllinton as a good mother and wife. I am grateful she has raised her daughter well, and I applaud the ways she has championed the needs of many children in our nation. I would not want the opposite to be true. But I long for a nation where women do not have to make the case for their leadership by first justifying their success as good wives and mothers.
I want a nation where women can use words like ‘wife,’ ‘mother,’ and ‘grandmother’ to describe themselves if they so choose. But I also want a nation where people do not require such words to justify the executive leadership of women.
So come on, Bill.
Enough of the male gaze already.
Perhaps,
you didn’t sleep well, or
you have a looming deadline, or
you’re juggling a heavy load of responsibilities, or
you’re troubled by the news,
you’re at wits end with your teenager, or
you’re in a conflict with someone you love.
Whatever it may be,
you are worth
wellness,
space,
grace,
peace,
insight, and
connection.
And a moment of play, something at once simple and profound, serves as a reminder. Play reorients and grounds us in what is most true: We are loved and living in a world with lovely gifts, even as it contains real challenges.
Play changes our brains. It calms us and helps us feel more connected. It also shifts us away from our anxious reactivity, allowing us to use the higher levels of our brain functioning to solve problems.
So find a way to play a bit today, even if it’s just for a moment.
Today, I take my cue from a hilarious, adorable toddler. She has a really hard time continuing to sulk in that tantrum once she starts to delight in squeaky, red shoes. Enjoy this video:
This sermon was preached at St. Andrew’s Presbyterian Church in Dearborn Heights, Michigan and was focused upon Luke 11:1-13. An audio recording is include above, and a manuscript is included below.
Do you remember who taught you how to pray? Do you have memories of specific people or communities that helped you memorize the Lord’s Prayer and say it aloud? Who comes to mind for you? Do you feel gratitude when you remember them?
Let’s take just a moment to think of those people. Let’s have a few seconds of silence to bring their memory to our recollection. . .
I know we’re going to say the Lord’s Prayer later in the service, but I thought we might say it together right now too, specifically remembering the people who taught us to pray. Let’s imagine them with us. Let’s imagine them saying these words alongside us as we pray together the prayer that Jesus taught us, saying,
Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name. Thy Kingdom come, thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven. Give us this day our daily bread, and forgive us our debts as we forgive our debtors. And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil. For thine is the Kingdom, and the power, and the glory forever. Amen.
If you think about it, this prayer has been transmitted and taught from one Christian to another Christian, not only across generations inside churches and households, but across millennia, reaching all the way back to Jesus himself. His disciples requested, “Lord, teach us to pray, as John taught his disciples.” In the story we heard today, Jesus teaches a version of this prayer. You’ll notice that this version is missing some clauses we typically say in worship. When we speak this prayer together, it mirrors the version from the Gospel of Matthe more closely.
Jesus cared for his disciples’ request and taught his disciples to pray. But he did more than share particular words and phrases. The words, phrases, and images of the Lord’s Prayer are beautiful and important. But more important, Jesus taught his disciples about the God to whom they pray. He taught them about a loving God who knows how to give good gifts to them, for they – and we – are children of this loving God.
Jesus shares an interesting parable. He says, “Suppose one of you has a friend, and you go to him at midnight and say to him, ‘Friend, lend me three loaves of bread; for a friend of mine has arrived, and I have nothing to set before him.’”
On the other side of the door, this friend gets pretty annoyed. It’s the middle of the night! If he gets up to find some bread, all the kids will wake up. They’ll be whiny. He might stumble over something. Later, he might lie in bed awake, struggling to fall asleep again.
But eventually, with enough perseverance and continued knocking, even an irritated friend will help. Jesus wants to convey this to his disciples: If a grumpy, crabby, annoyed friend will give this good gift, how much more will God hear our prayers and care for us? How much more will God do this – one who loves us unconditionally like a parent? How much more will God show tender care – one who looks upon us with delight?
Jesus invites us to be persistent in our prayers.
It’s not that God needs us to make a case or work really hard to be convincing. God isn’t far away, ignoring us until we’re sufficiently irritating. Instead, God is profoundly and tenderly near and with us in our everyday lives. This God looks upon us with love and delight. Though there are certainly times when we struggle or experience painful moments that make no sense, we remind one another that this God is accompanying us. And we speak the truth: God’s gifts will find us because God’s presence is always with us.
Jesus says, “Ask, seek, and knock. For everyone who asks receives, and everyone who searches finds, and for everyone who knocks, the door will be opened.”
Ask, Seek, and Knock.
Perhaps within these words, there lies another word: Dream.
I spent some time in San Antonio last week. I traveled there to co-officiate a wedding along with another pastor that I’ve known for many years. His name is Ben Johnston-Krase. During the ceremony, he and I gave a wedding sermon together, and it started with a good question: “What is God’s fondest dream for your life?”
It’s a beautiful question.
Today, I’d like to ask it to you:
What is God’s fondest dream for your life?
I wonder what would happen if we all prayed to discover it.
When we let that question guide us, we open ourselves to new possibilities. Sometimes, they are the kinds of possibilities that we never anticipated. Sometimes, we are surprised if they come later in life, but often, they do. Sometimes, we are surprised if they invite us to chart a different course entirely.
What is God’s fondest dream for your life?
For our lives?
Ben Johnston-Krase, my mentor and co-officiant had that kind of experience.
In his case, it started with a literal dream. In the middle of the night two summers ago, Ben received one of the best ideas of his life. At the time, he was a pastor in Southeast Wisconsin, but while he slept, he dreamt he was traveling to a new church to become their pastor. Once he arrived, he was surprised to discover that the church was. . . a farm.
When he awoke, a good feeling lingered. He realized there might actually be something to this vision. At 3:17am, he was suddenly awake with a flurry of ideas: What would it be like to worship in a barn? What if Sunday School involved children caring for chickens? What if all resources on a farm could be leveraged to address hunger. . . in homes. . .in prisons. . . in nursing care facilities?
He wondered, Is anybody out there actually doing this? He started Googling, and he couldn’t find anything like this dream. So he went to GoDaddy.com to see if FarmChurch.org was available. It was, and after being awake for a mere twenty minutes, he bought it on the spot.
And that’s when the dream got bigger than Ben’s ideas alone.
The next day, he called Allen Brimer, a seminary classmate and close friend who had been a farmer before becoming pastor. After talking to his family, Allen responded right away, “I’m in.”
The flurry of conversations continued. A third family joined too, and soon the Johnston-Krases, Brimers, and Werts were all in agreement: They were actually going to dream, create, and launch Farm Church. They decided to take a great deal of personal risk. They quit their jobs to pursue this vision with their full attention and energy.
And that’s when the dream got bigger than their ideas alone.
The vision spread, and people around the nation began contacting them in the hopes that they might bring Farm Church to their town. The pastors, their partners, and their kids all entered a discernment process to figure out where they should move. After a lot of prayer and consideration, they decided upon Durham, North Carolina.
And that’s when the dream got bigger than their families alone.
These families made a commitment to follow every thread of conversation once they arrived in Durham. As a result, vital partnerships emerged. Within a year, they received land to farm right within the city, and SEEDS, a local non-profit, gave them space to hold worship services. Most importantly, people of all ages have caught the vision and made it theirs too. Together, they are embodying it. Together, they are embodying church.
And the dream will clearly get bigger.
I mention this story as inspiration for us today. I share it as a reminder us that God’s love and vision are calling us all the time. Will we open ourselves to recognizing it? Will we become fully alive as we follow it?
So I ask it again,
What is God’s fondest dream for your life?
What is God’s fondest dream for our lives?
Sometimes, we wonder if God has passed us by. We question if od really cares for us. We might even hold an unconscious belief that we have to pester God or build a masterful case to be heard. But God’s posture is one of love and abundant presence.
What would happen if we prayed often?
What would happen if we prayed abundantly?
Would we learn to see the gifts all around us?
Would new possibilities come into view?
Would our lives be marked for greater purpose and adventures in belonging?
Well, let’s try it.
Ask, Seek, Knock, Dream. We might just find answers in that process, but even richer, our lives themselves might be found as they are empowered with even greater meaning.
May God reveal the most beautiful, fondest dreams of all.
Amen.
Smuggling Grace 