Author: gracesmuggler

[1]

On the third day there was a wedding in Cana of Galilee, and the mother of Jesus was there. Jesus and his disciples had also been invited to the wedding.
– John 2:1-2

On the Third Day,
Cana is bustling with preparations.
Family members scurry in their ready-making,
dancing the chaotic choreography
of joyful celebrations and cousins twice removed.

The house is in order;
and food for the feast boils in expectation.
But are they ready?
Can they anticipate it?
Can they truly know?
That at your Mother’s convincing,
You will come alive,
choreographing this feast, as you
convert life-giving water into life-giving wine?

Stepping into your identity,
You surprise them with grace, and
You show them your very first sign.

And then!
Cana’s celebration becomes a living crescendo,
creating a whirlwind dance of God among the people.
Bread broken,
Disciples healing,
Words spoken,
Lepers leaping.

All included,
All embraced,
All empowered.

But —
the leaders in power,
Were they ready?
Could they anticipate it?
Could they truly know?
That at the Spirit’s convincing,
the people would come alive,
choreographing the feast you initiated,
all people,
all empowered,
sharing your life-giving body and life-giving wine?

No,
They were not ready.
They could not anticipate it.
They could not tolerate it.
They could not let it live.

So at your humble convincing,
We see love displayed,
We see power outpoured
as you love fervently from a cross,
Death consuming the very body that is offered sour wine. . .

Until the Third Day comes again.

–Renee Roederer

I am grateful for the reflections of the Rev. Rob McCoy and the Rev. Eric Fistler this week on the Pulpit Fiction Podcast. They influenced the ideas behind this poem. These two pastors noted that the second chapter of John starts with the phrase, “On the third day.” It serves as a hint to the resurrection story of Jesus. They also noted that the symbol of wine seems to bookend portions of the beginning and ending of John’s Gospel. The abundant wine at the wedding in Cana is Jesus’ first sign to the people, and toward the end of the gospel, Jesus receives sour wine to quench his thirst as he is dying on the cross.

[1] I found this image on the Saint John Bosco Parish website.

[1]

On Monday, I wrote a piece about time, discussing the ways we mark the transition from one year to the next. Astronomically speaking, any moment in our journey around the sun could serve as the beginning point for the year, but collectively, we have agreed that January 1st marks the start of each new year. As we cross from December 31st to January 1st and enter a different calendar year, we experience desires and longings for newness. We go through an annual ritual: We hope for richer experiences, sustained changes, and openness to different opportunities. The date is arbitrary, but the effect is real. We want newness.

For many of us, these desires are not only about the kind of future we seek. Sometimes, these desires are about the past we seek to leave behind.

We can’t leave the past completely behind, of course. Our past has formed vital parts of who we are. We will carry those experiences forward.

But sometimes, when a year has contained experiences that were accutely painful or challenging, we have a natural desire to bracket them in some way:

that hospital visit,
that job loss,
that diagnosis,
that divorce,
that argument,
that relapse,
that bankrupcy,
that death,

That thing belongs to the year we just finished.
This is a new year.

In this way, the arbitrary marker from one year to the next can give us an increased sense of distance between the painful experience and our present circumstances.

We need not live in denial, particularly if those circumstances or their consequences are ongoing. We need not leave behind the ones we love, especially those we have lost. But the desire to bracket an experience and gain some distance from a particular moment of time can empower us to view the experience as an observer. And. . .

This puts us in a position to forge meaning from the experience.
This puts us in a position to integrate it into our life story.
This puts us in a position to engage it as a conversation partner.

Likely, we would never choose such an experience for ourselves, yet it has formed part of us. In the midst of it, we may have discovered the incarnate God walking alongside us and entering the pain with us. In the midst of it, we may have discovered a community embracing us and reminding us that the experience could not and cannot completely define us.

When we bracket the time from one year to the next or from one particular chapter to another, we open ourselves to the beginning of a process. In this process, we join God as a partner. Together, we redeem the time.

I love the Ted Talk that I’ve posted below. Andrew Solomon has chosen a title that might feel stark to some. His Ted Talk is called, “How the Worst Moments in Our Lives Make Us Who We Are.”

When we’re smack dab in the midst of crisis, loss, or rapid change, such an assertion might not feel welcome, and for good reason.

If, however, we find ourselves in a position of survival, integration, and continuing recovery, we may find that statement to have some truth. This is because we’ve forged some meaning from the experience.

Most of all, I recommend this Ted Talk for its beautiful stories and power.

We’re all on the way.
And it’s always a process.
Together, we are always redeeming the time.

–Renee Roederer

This is the final post in a series about newness. Here are the first three:
Newness: The Time We Keep
Newness: Belonging Marks Beginning
Newness: Rehearsing Beloved

[1] I found the beautiful and fitting image above on this website.

In the Christian Century magazine, the Rev. Mark Ralls recounts a beautiful and unexpected experience he had while visiting a local nursing home. [1]

Pastor Ralls had gone to the nursing home to visit a resident who was a member of his congregation. While they were sitting together and conversing in the atrium, he heard some strange, intriguing words.

“I love you little. I love you big. I love you like a little pig.”

These words soon became a playful refrain. Pastor Ralls and his friend heard these words innumerable times throughout their conversation. They were spoken by a woman who was sitting nearby them. She was a resident too, and though she was sitting close enough to touch them, she paid no attention to their conversation. He writes, “During my visit to the nursing home that afternoon, I must have heard this sweet, odd rhyme more than a hundred times.” She continued to look out the window, and with a broad smile on her face, she let her refrain fill the room.

“I love you little. I love you big. I love you like a little pig.”
“I love you little. I love you big. I love you like a little pig.”
“I love you little. I love you big. I love you like a little pig.”

She seemed continually delighted by these words.

After inquiring of a staff member, Pastor Ralls learned that this woman had been a first grade teacher for decades. Each morning, when the children entered the classroom for their day at school, she would lean down and speak these very words into each beloved ear.

What a beautiful, playful ritual.

I love this story because it invites me to imagine what those words must have been like for the children in her classroom. . .

. . . I wonder if they would giggle before she could finish, each one anticipating the end of the phrase.

. . . I wonder if they would smile before she started, each one anticipating that they were loved and valuable.

. . . I wonder if they would ever add their voices to the chorus, each one rehearsing the truth of their worth, silly as the phrase may be.

I also love this story because it invites me to imagine how those words must have formed her as a teacher. . .

. . . I wonder if she spoke these words on days when she was feeling discouraged, and they lifted her mood just a bit.

. . . I wonder if she took pleasure in speaking these words to particular children who struggled to trust love.

. . . I wonder if the rehearsal of these words helped her love herself more fully too.

No matter how these words were spoken or received in her classroom, it is clear that they resonated deep within her psyche many years later when she was challenged by dementia. The refrain is delightful and silly. It is also profound.

It makes me wonder. . .

Who has told you that you’re beloved?
Who has told you that you’re loved through and through?
Who has told you that you’re valuable and worth it all?

Do we rehearse those words and memories? Do we recall them and let them sink into our very being?

We can always begin that rehearsal again.

And if we doubt those words within us. . . guess what?

We can rehearse them again.
And again.
And again.
And again.

And if no one has told you today,
And if you’re struggling to tell yourself,
Please hear this truth:
You are Beloved,
Loved through and through,
Valued and worth it all.

As we enter 2016 in this season of newness, let’s rehearse our belovedness.

–Renee Roederer

This post was the third in a series about newness. Here are the other posts:
Newness: The Time We Keep
Newness: Belonging Marks Beginning
Newness: Redeeming the Time

[1] You can find Mark Rall’s story in The Christian Century. Rev. Ralls is a United Methodist pastor in North Carolina. I first learned of this story through sermon preached by the Rev. Ben Johnston-Krase, a Presbyterian Church (U.S.A.) pastor who also lives in North Carolina.

Last month, I had the meaningful opportunity to travel to California and spend time with an important community in my life. Pasadena Presbyterian Church invited me to spend a week with them and preach the sermon in both of their Sunday worship services.

This was a beautiful return for me. Years ago, I was one of their pastors. I have great love for this community and gratitude for all I learned alongside them while I lived in Pasadena.

There was a moment during my visit that felt particularly meaningful. During that moment, time seemed to expand in an intriguing way.

As I had done so many times before, I was standing at the back of the sanctuary when worship was about to begin. In this congregation, the pastors and members of the choir process into the sanctuary as people sing the first hymn. While we were waiting for that moment to begin and walk in together, I had this odd but wonderful feeling suddenly wash over me.

In an instant, I recognized that I had gained years of experiences beyond my time in Pasadena, including a host of different memories, new people, and an entirely different town. But. . . at the very same time, I felt as though these new experiences had all happened in the span of about two weeks. This is because it felt so normal to be back in that sanctuary. I felt as if very little time had passed since I was last there. I remembered the last service I led before moving to Ann Arbor, and it seemed like only yesterday.

It was an odd but wonderful feeling, and I loved the both/and experience of it. I gave thanks for the people and memories I have experienced beyond Pasadena, and I also gave thanks to feel right at home in that spot.

Later in the day, I called that experience the “Time Warp of Belonging.”

There are times when we move beyond a particular experience, place, or community, but the rich belonging we experienced during that time can come rushing in toward the present moment.

And in those moments, we can have an experience of newness. We connect with a part of ourselves that experienced belonging in community, and we bring it forward to the chapter we are living right now.

And we can do this whether or not we make an actual return.

In chapters and years, we belong to one another. And we can experience it again.

As we enter a new year, let’s recall the people and places who shaped us, and let’s allow belonging to mark beginning.

–Renee Roederer

This post was the second in a series about newness. Here are the other posts:
Newness: The Time We Keep
Newness: Rehearsing Beloved
Newness: Redeeming the Time

For years, my husband and I have had a running joke about January 4th.

Sometimes, he’ll playfully bring it up when I resolve to try something new. He encourages me to break the January 4th Barrier.

Most of the time, perfectionism can be a heavy weight that holds us back even as we try to achieve, but at least in one respect, the perfectionism of my teenage years was kind of cute. Here’s why: I have a multitude of diaries from middle and high school which recount my experiences in great detail on January 1, 2, 3, and 4. But once we pass that fourth day, my experiences of angst, adolescent love, and cafeteria food always cease.

Each year, I would resolve to keep a diary, and eventually, when I would get too busy and miss a day (sorry, January 5th) I would just give up on it altogether. I missed a day; therefore, I would miss an entire year.

Our running joke about January 4th is that if a documentarian ever wanted to use my life as a case study to explore teenage experiences from the 90s, I would provide untold amounts of detail, but only through a tiny window of time each year.

(P.S. Documentarian, this outrageous, overly posed silk shirt shot from middle school must make it in your film. Because look at it.)

In all seriousness, we know that this is the time of year when many of us make new resolutions. Some of them are surface level commitments, some involve changes of habits, and others include deep hopes for sustained transformations in our character and actions. My hope is that we’ll all pass the January 4th Barrier this year.

But we don’t do that by flexing our perfectionism muscle with an even greater resolution to practice our resolutions beyond January 5th. We do it by recognizing that every moment presents itself as a new opportunity.

And I realize that sounds like such a platitude.
I feel like we should superimpose it over a “just hang in there” cat.

There we go.

But it’s also true. Every moment does truly present itself as a new opportunity. Every moment can be the needed springboard toward a new beginning.

An interesting thought popped in my mind last year on New Year’s Eve as the world was transitioning from 2014 to 2015. I decided to run this thought by my astronomer husband.

I know that. . .

A 24-hour day exists as the earth rotates once on its axis.
There is a physical, astronomical reality to mark this time.

A month corresponds roughly with the regular moon cycle.
There is a physical, astronomical reality to mark this time.

A calendar year exists as the earth revolves once around the sun.
There is a physical, astronomical reality to mark this time, BUT —

Why January?

I asked my husband, “Is there any astronomical reason that our calendar year begins in January? I don’t think there is. . . I think it’s just arbitrary, right?” We both concluded that there might be some historical reasons for placing the beginning of the year in January, but astronomically, the year could just as well begin in May or September.

So each year, we have this agreed upon time that we mark as new, and we feel the time beckon us with hopes and possibilities. The agreed upon moment rolls around, and even though it’s arbitrary, we allow this transition of time to orient us toward newness.

And so here we are in January. It’s our collective time of newness, and I hope it transforms us. But I also hope we’ll recognize that new beginnings can come in March, June, August, and even December. This can happen. . .

When something unexpected shakes us, and we discover strength we didn’t know we had,

When a new pathway opens that we never considered,

When we’re up to our eyeballs with household to-do lists and are suddenly overcome with gratitude for the people who live in the household,

When we go to a trusted friend for advice, and she reminds us we don’t have to settle for the way we’ve been living,

When we lose sleep for those who are suffering and then resolve to walk alongside them,

When a stranger meets us and hopes we’ll notice him, and we do.

All of these moments can initiate our new beginnings.
So let’s look for them, celebrate them, and break the January 4th Barrier.

–Renee Roederer

This post was the first in a series about newness. Here are the other three:
Newness: Belonging Marks Beginning
Newness: Rehearsing Beloved
Newness: Redeeming the Time

[1]

Matthew 2:1-12

The story begins with questions.

It is a story that seems quite familiar to us. Each year, the Magi make their way into our nativity scenes at Christmas. From boxes stretched out in all directions, they arrive from the “East.” We pose them carefully in the hopes of setting up a holy scene of serenity, or perhaps, we simply desire a decorative display for our houses. Apart from our pristine nativity scenes, however, we might forget that the story begins with swirling, controversial questions:

In the time of King Herod, after Jesus was born in Bethlehem of Judea, wise men from the East came to Jerusalem, asking, ‘Where is the child who has been born king of the Jews?’ For we observed his star at its rising, and have come to pay him homage.

These wise ones had come into the city of Jerusalem, and before they ever met with King Herod, it seems that they were asking these questions of everyone. “Where is this child? Where is this King of the Jews?” They stirred up these questions among the people of Jerusalem.

And then, King Herod heard about it.
The questions stirred up fear in the king.

The story says,

When King Herod heard this, he was frightened and all Jerusalem with him.

Soon after, Herod begins asking questions of his own. He calls together all the chief priests and scribes he can find, and he inquires of them where this Messiah is to be born. This is the pressing question before him. They tell him,

In Bethlehem of Judea; for so it has been written by the prophet: ‘And you, Bethlehem, in the land of Judah, are by no means least among the rulers of Judah; for from you shall come a ruler who is to shepherd my people Israel.’

At these words, Herod must have been terrified. In the midst of his fear, he puts a plan into place. He decides to use these Magi as pawns.

Herod secretly calls for them.
It is time to do his own questioning.

Herod asks them questions about the star that they have observed. The Magi were likely astrologers, and Herod wanted to know about the astronomical sign that initiated their journey. And after gaining enough information, Herod then sends the Magi directly into Bethlehem to find the very child who is stirring up fear in his heart. He gives a false story to cover up his motives, saying that he wants to find the child and honor him. But along with the fear, Herod has hatred and violence in his heart. How dare this child question his own rule?

And so, they go. The Magi from the East will not be deterred by these false motives, but instead, they let their questions lead them on. They follow the astronomical sign, and they follow the questions of their hearts. Then miraculously, they find the child Jesus. They enter the house and see Mary, his mother, also. This is when they fall to their knees to honor him.

And from that place of honor, they give him gifts of gold, frankincense, and myrrh. These are odd gifts to give a child. . . and yet, they set the scene for the life story that will unfold.

Gold is a gift fitting for a king.
Frankincense is a gift fitting for a priest.
Myrrh is a gift fitting for one who will die,
one whose body will be anointed.

These gifts raise hints about how the story will unfold, and perhaps we find ourselves curious with questions. Alongside these questions, the scene gives way to exclamations of joy.

This child is a King,
This child is the Prince of Peace,
This child reigns over the entire cosmos, and
This child reigns within our very being.

This is the exclamation of this story.
It invites our own exclamations of joy and conviction.

Where is this child, the one who is born a King?
Where is this child, the one who is born the Prince of Peace?
Where is this child who reigns over this cosmos,
from whom and for whom all things have come into being?

These questions lead to responsive exclamations.

Large questions like these lead to an array of exclamations. For some, questions like these can become exclamations of threat.

This was certainly true for Herod. The Magi were warned in a dream not to return to him, so they left for their own country by another road. Meanwhile Herod, in a fit of rage and violence, begins to massacre all children in Bethlehem under the age of two in an attempt to stop the reign of the child who threatens him. Joseph, Jesus’ father, also warned in a dream, then flees with Mary and Jesus to Egypt. The holy family lives there as refugees until Herod dies and is no longer a threat to their own lives.

That’s picture is quite different than our placid nativity scenes.

[2]

For those in positions of power and privilege, and especially for those who rule over others in oppressive ways, the birth of Jesus is not particularly good news.[3] God’s holy presence in the world alongside us is not really good news at all, because

God will always uplift those who are downtrodden.
God will always balance uneven manifestations of power.
God will always make holy space for the oppressed, marginalized, and suffering.

For some, this will never be good news.

And yet, the questions emerge again and again.

Where is this child, the one who is born a King?
Where is this child, the one who is born the Prince of Peace?
Where is this child who reigns over this cosmos,
from whom and for whom all things have come into being?

These questions lead to responsive exclamations.

Large questions like these lead to an array of exclamations. For us, they don’t have to be exclamations of threat. For us, they can be questions of wonder and hope. These questions can guide our lives. Like that astronomical sign in the sky, these large questions can lead us to find the child who has been born. They can help us to follow him as he grows, as he serves the people of God with freedom, peace, justice, and love.

These questions can guide us to be found in him, for that is what he seeks. Jesus seeks to transform our lives so that we can live in the very same way, serving people with freedom, peace, justice and love.

If we let large questions guide us, we will soon discover that Jesus himself is the light among us. He is the one who guides the questions. He clears the pathway so that we may find him and be found in him.

He is God among us in human form.
He is infinitely with us.
He is the light leading the way.

He is with us. . .

He comes among us as one who is poor. He is born to a family in poverty, and he enters the world at a time when there is with no room at the inn. He is born into a world of violence, where his very being seems to threaten those in power. He lives as a refugee.

He walks alongside us.
He enters this world with us,
guiding us in our places of deepest heartache.

The light is among us because he is with us.

Where is this child, the one who is born a King?
Where is this child, the one who is born the Prince of Peace?
Where is this child who reigns over this cosmos,
from whom and for whom all things have come into being?

He is with us.

He is the light beside us, among us, beyond us, within us.
He is with us in our poverty,
He is with us in our heartbreak,
He is with us in our grief and losses,
He is with us in our cancer,
He is with us in our Alzheimer’s Disease,
He is with us in our experiences of bullying, racism, and discrimination,
He is with us in our immigration status,
He is with us in our violence,
He is with us in our abuse,
He is with us in all forms of suffering.

And no matter where we find ourselves and no matter how we feel, Jesus is leading the way toward hope, justice, wholeness, and peace.

So let us follow that light.
Let us find this one who seeks us.
Let us be found in him.
Amen.

–Renee Roederer

This post was adapted from my recent sermon at Southminster Presbyterian Church in Taylor, MI.

[1] This depiction of the Magi was created by the artist Val Stokes. You can see this image and more work by Stokes here. 

[2] This is a Reuters image of Syrian Kurdish refugee and her child. It was taken after they crossed the Turkish-Syrian border near the southeastern town of Suruc in Sanliurfa province on September 27, 2014. You can read the story that was published with the image here.

[3] The Epiphany C (Jan. 3, 2016) episode of the Pulpit Fiction Podcast influenced my thinking and language here.

When we stepped outside to take a walk this Christmas morning, we were greeted by a cacophony of sound above us. We opened the door, and that very instant, large numbers of sandhill cranes were flying above us.

The sound was inviting. As we ventured beyond the house, our eyes were delighted too. Along with the calls above us, the sandhill cranes made a gorgeous display in the sky. Continuous waves of V-formations passed above us throughout our walk. The birds were flying remarkably low for all to see, and soon, neighbors began to take notice as well.

We passed people along the road, and our platitudes about the uncharacteristic weather — “Can you believe how warm it is today?” — turned into exclamations about what we were seeing. “Can you believe all these cranes? And they’re so low in the sky!” This was a gift to the entire neighborhood.

Sandhill cranes are majestic, and they have captured the attention of cultures throughout history. People have assigned various forms of meaning and significance to them. Some consider sandhill cranes to be harbingers of good fortune and longevity. Some consider them to be symbols of justice, and others look to them as a flight of peacemakers.

I spent a little time learning about these associations once we returned, and of all the descriptions, this meaning stood out to me: When cranes arrive in our lives, they invite us to use our past as a source of strength for our present. 

Last night, I had the great privilege to attend the Christmas Eve celebration at St. John United Presbyterian Church. This is the congregation where I grew up; in many ways, the people there raised me. They certainly created the space for a multitude of community connections to be formed. The relationships from this congregation continue to sustain me many decades after I first arrived.

In recent years, I have been at the front of other congregations leading the celebration. This year, I reveled in the opportunity to sit in the back row and sing the Christmas Carols between my husband and one of my longest friends. It had been about a decade since I was present in my home congregation on Christmas Eve. In that back pew, we took it all in.

And before anyone assumes a picture of total reverence, “taking it all in” included old forms of tradition. . . like passing notes down the pew as we did in our youth group days. Last night on bulletins, we scribbled words that made us chuckle about old, inside jokes.

But “taking it all in” also included the opportunity to enter the Story.

We heard the familiar scriptures about the birth of Jesus, spoken aloud with music in between the readings. These narratives describe points of time millennia ago, but in the moment, I was also reminded again that this is a story we enact. The past becomes a source of strength for our present.

Last night, we entered the sacred story along with communities and congregations across the world.

And as I entered the story in one of my spaces of deepest belonging, the sacred story released hosts of other stories into my memory. In a different way, they are also stories of incarnation. These are stories of human lives in that congregation that I have known for decades,

People who nurtured those teenagers who passed notes,
People who laughed hard and shared meals together,
People who struggled with illness and loss,
People who found new life through holy words in the sanctuary,
People who dared to share their presence  with others beyond the sanctuary.

The past becomes a source of strength for our present.

This is the kind of belonging I want with me in present moment.
This is the kind of belonging I want to create alongside others in the days ahead.

I am grateful for the surprising view and birdsong that greeted us this Christmas morning.

The past becomes a source of strength for our present.
Those cranes seem like the right kind of heavenly host to usher it in.

 

–Renee Roederer

 

This post is adapted from my recent sermon at Pasadena Presbyterian Church in Pasadena, California. I was their Associate Pastor from 2010-2013, and last week, they extended a wonderful opportunity for me to travel back to California, connect with their community, and preach in both of their worship services.

Philippians 4:6-7
Do not worry about anything, but in everything by prayer and supplication with thanksgiving let your requests be made known to God. And the peace of God, which surpasses all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus.

Luke 3: 10-14, 18
And the crowds asked John, “What then should we do?” In reply he said to them, “Whoever has two coats must share with anyone who has none; and whoever has food must do likewise.” Even the tax collectors came to be baptized, and they asked him, “Teacher, what should we do?” He said to them, “Collect no more than the amount prescribed for you.” Soldiers also asked him, “And we, what should we do?” He said to them, “Do not extort money from anyone by threats or false accusation, and be satisfied with your wages.” . . .  So with many other exhortations, he proclaimed the good news to the people.

My dear friends, it is an absolute joy to be with you this morning. I am grateful to be standing in this sacred space once more, and it is a gift to be surrounded by you, so many beloved people. Thank you for the opportunity to be here.

This entire week in California has been a great gift.  You have. . . sun! Do you know this? SUN! It’s wonderful.

Actually, thanks to the El Niño weather pattern, the winter in Michigan has been remarkably tolerable so far. Folks in Michigan are enjoying two days in the 60s this weekend. Ian is back there, soaking in that warmth, but he’s also grading for his class which is much less exciting than what I’m doing today. He misses you very much, and he sends his greetings as well. I want to pass that along.

Now what I’m about to say next is pretty dorky, but when you’re a pastor who preaches regularly, it can be exciting to go to a website like textweek.com to discover, “Which scriptures are coming up next in the lectionary? What’s on the menu this week?” Of course, I did that very thing a few weeks ago when I learned I would be back in Pasadena with the meaningful opportunity to preach here once again. “What’s on the menu for December 13?” I wondered. As I looked at the list of lectionary scriptures, I saw Philippians 4:4-8. . Yes! That’s one of my favorite scriptures of all. The language is so beautiful and comforting. “Do not worry about anything, but in everything by prayer and supplication with thanksgiving let your requests be made known to God. And the peace of God, which surpasses all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus.” Those are beautiful words. They are powerful words.

But then, I figured I should probably preach from the Gospel text this week since it is Advent, and we do tend privilege those texts at this time of year.

“So let’s see. . . what’s on the menu for December 13?” I wondered. Oh, right, it’s John the Baptist. . . And oh, right. .. he’s kind of yelling. . . Well, this should be fun, I thought, because nothing quite says gratitude and “thanks for bringing me here, PPC!” like beginning a sermon with John’s words: “You brood of vipers!”

So here I am, standing before you this morning with gratitude in my heart and a deep desire that you will truly learn to be anxious about nothing, and I am deliberately choosing for us all to experience these tough words that John the Baptist cries in the wilderness. I wonder, can we experience those words this morning with intention but without anxiety? Let’s try that because I think John has something vitally important to say to us this morning.

John’s words, without question, are hard. He does call the people “a brood of vipers!” And he follows that greeting with a harsh question about their intentions, wondering how it is that they came to this moment. “Who warned you to flee the wrath that is to come?” he cries out. John undercuts any attempt for them to justify themselves. “Don’t begin to say, ‘We have Abraham as our ancestor,’ for God is able to raise up from these stones children to Abraham.” And then, as he closes this controversial address, he casts an evocative image. “Even now, the ax is lying at the root of the trees. Every tree therefore that does not bear good fruit is cut down and thrown into the fire.” This is how our Gospel text begins this morning.

It is fiery.
It is passionate.
It is challenging.

But something good – something powerful – must have happened as the people stood before John in the wilderness. They were cut to the heart. They were convicted. And soon, John’s call with all of these challenging questions turns into a refrain of more questions, questions from the people themselves. Over and over, they respond in the same way, “What should we do?” they ask. It seems that they are wondering, “How should we practice the way to new life?”

Each time, John answers in a particular way:

He redirects their attention toward those who are suffering. He invites people to place their intention toward those who don’t have their physical needs met and those who have little access to power. And he turns the moment into the possibility of extension, calling the gathered assembly to recognize the humanity of the people who exist beyond their own community. John calls the assembly standing before him, and he calls us, to go out and be with these others. “Share your extra coat,” John says. “Share your food.” “Stop extorting money from people.” “Be satisfied with your own wages and don’t threaten those of others.”

Give of yourselves.
Go and be with these people.

This is John’s challenging message in the wilderness.
And this is John’s challenging message to us, the Church.

There are portions of our scriptures that are hard to hear, and yet, we dare to call them Good News. They might not be the most comforting of texts, and they might not be the most endearing. But often, the most challenging scriptures of all are Good News because they tell us exactly where we should be looking. It’s where God is looking. It’s where God is loving. Scriptures like this one tell us where to place our vision. We are invited to see very people that God chooses to see. Scriptures like this one tell us where to place our presence. We are invited to value the beloved people of God who exist beyond our own church walls and beyond our own assembly. We are called to add our presence to theirs. We are invited to follow God’s gaze into Good News, and we live this Good News when we add our vision and presence to others with all that have and all that we are.

John points us in this direction. And if we follow John’s gaze in the wilderness, we will see the One John sees – the very One who calls us into this way of life. John says, “I baptize you with water; but one who is more powerful than I is coming; I am not worthy to untie the thong of his sandals. He will baptize you with the Holy Spirit and fire.” When John speaks these words in the wilderness, Jesus on the verge of beginning his public ministry. Jesus is coming into this ministry, and when he does, he will turn the world upside down:

He will speak truth to power.
He will uplift the downtrodden.
He will eat in full communion with the ‘outsiders.’
And he will empower these very people to take his message of worship, passion, and justice to the ends of the earth.

Jesus – God in human form, found to be with us! – will add his presence to ours, and he will baptize us with the Holy Spirit.

God incarnate will move into the human neighborhood, [1]
and all people will see the salvation of God.

Jesus calls us to follow him into the human neighborhood. This requires commitment, but along the way, we are invited to cast all anxiety aside and follow him with joy and boldness. “Do not worry about anything, but by prayer and supplication with thanksgiving, let your requests be made known to God. And the peace of God, which surpasses all understanding will guard your hearts and minds in Christ Jesus.”

These days, I spend a lot of time with local churches. And these days, I spend a lot of time in online forums with pastoral leaders all across our country. I see an enormous trend that is unfolding before us. The trend is this: I see churches profoundly anxious about the future.

Churches are anxious about demographic shifts which are affecting church membership and attendance.

Churches are anxious to discover how they can maintain those ministries and programs that are struggling,

And churches are anxious to bolster budgets which are diminishing.

I see this happening everywhere.

This immense, heavy anxiety is so understandable. It deserves compassion and care.

But at the same time, I see the kind of damage this anxiety can do when it begins to take on a life of its own. Here’s why: In the midst of this kind of anxiety, churches can become remarkably insular, and soon, every act, every desire, every talking point, and even every invitation toward others can become motivated by a desire to secure institutional survival and avoid change.

Now, of course, we know it’s good for churches to move toward health and sustainability. I’m not critiquing that. But when institutional survival becomes our primary motive for ministry, it can quickly become all about us. We know it can be faithful to invite others into worship, membership, and even stewardship, but these must invitations must be motivated by a desire to serve Jesus Christ, as we participate in sharing the knowledge of God with others and doing the very things that God has called us to do –
caring for those who don’t have their physical needs met,
advocating alongside those who don’t have access to power,
and revealing the love of God toward people beyond our church walls –

Because perhaps. . .
no one has ever told these people that they have worth and value.
And they have infinite worth and value.

This is our call to ministry.

As the church worries so intensely about institutional survival, we can easily begin to chase a ministry model that is exclusively vertical. In this model, we attempt to build up this ever growing cathedral of membership and resources.

We can certainly give thanks for membership and resources, but more than ever, today we need church that spills outward. We need to build a Horizontal Cathedral.

. . . a Horizontal Cathedral of neighborhood connections.
. . . a Horizontal Cathedral of relationships,
. . . a Horizontal Cathedral of compassion,
. . . a Horizontal Cathedral of justice,
. . . a Horizontal Cathedral that says, “I will be with and for you, because I have been baptized by the Holy Spirit, and I have been commissioned to follow Jesus Christ into the human neighborhood.”[2]

Our buildings and our resources are important. Let’s care for them with our very best stewardship.

But let’s also remember that they are not the church. We are the church, and we are called to serve.

It makes me wonder how Pasadena Presbyterian Church can do that. . . It makes me wonder how you will do that in 2016 as this new year presents itself with new possibilities.

I know that I saw a taste of it last night at the Candlelight and Carols concert. When I sat in this sacred space, the beautiful, new lights aided the choirs in proclaiming Good News. I know that these gorgeous, new spotlights illumined a ministry of good news rather than serving as a lightshow for themselves.

Last night, I saw three languages projected on the wall. This is something you may have gotten used to in your ministry together, but please don’t forget how rare that is, especially in a church community. You are daring to say that all people are welcome in this fellowship. In that spirit, how then can that ministry of welcome spill outward as you take your presence into the very communities who speak those languages, so that you will come to know their names and stories? So that you will strengthen your connections as a Horizontal Cathedral of human relationships?

I know this: I can issue the challenge because I know you’re people who are up to the challenge. And I know that you’re up to the challenge because more than anyone I’ve ever known, you are the ones who have taught me to live this way. You are the ones who have taught me most deeply to follow Jesus into the human neighborhood and love the people on the ‘outside.’ These people are absolutely worth loving.

So keep on doing that great work, PPC! Follow Jesus into the human neighborhood with joy and boldness as you cast off any and all anxieties. Build that Horizontal Cathedral. Go and do it with joy! And know that you and I are always connected in it, always united in this love. I love you, and I thank God for you.

Be anxious about nothing.
Thanks be to God,
Amen.

– Renee Roederer

[1]  I am borrowing this language from The Message, Eugene Peterson’s translation of the Bible. Peterson uses the language of God moving into the neighborhood as he translates John 1:14: “The Word of God became flesh and moved into the neighborhood.”

[2] It has come to my attention that Diana Butler Bass has  also been discussing the ‘horizontal’ dimension of faith in new and exciting ways. Though I have not yet read her newest book, I look forward to exploring its ideas. I recommend that we all read Grounded: Finding God in the World – A Spiritual Revolution soon.

The description of her book on Amazon articulates this conviction: “[A] shift, from a vertical understanding of God to a God found on the horizons of nature and human community, is at the heart of a spiritual revolution that surrounds us – and that is challenging not only religious institutions but political and social ones as well.”

With vivid clarity, I remember the defining moment when I knew I was going to move forward with this dream and calling to be a pastor.

Ten years ago and barely out of college, I had the opportunity to spend twenty adventurous days in Germany with the Cardinal Singers, my choir from the University of Louisville. Over the course of those days, we performed in international competitions, toured villages and famous cities, marveled at castles, and ate our fill of the brötchen we piled high upon our breakfast plates each morning.

It was truly an adventure. But in the midst of it, I was struggling through the angst of upcoming transitions.

Shortly after our return to the U.S., I knew I would move across the country to Austin, Texas with Ian, my newly married husband, and we would both begin graduate school. I would soon be a student at Austin Presbyterian Theological Seminary.

Everything was already set up. Enrollment was initiated. Housing was secured.  Friends and family knew our destination. And our move date had been on the calendar for a couple of months. I was even traipsing around Deutschland with an Austin Seminary tote bag over my shoulder. I was eager for my fellow choristers to celebrate my next steps.

That is, until the day I realized that I didn’t want to move.

It was the day we won an international choral competition. The Cardinal Singers were in a small town with a huge name (Limburg-Lindenholzhausen!) and we won the Harmonie Choral Festival with a perfect score, something that had never happened in the history of the competition. As the awards were announced, we were filled with a sense of gratitude and celebration. We knew we were headed to the Marktoberdorf Chamber Choir Competition next,  and our win felt like great boost in that direction.

After the award ceremony was over, we walked to an area to wait for our bus, and out of nowhere, a torrential downpour sent us huddling under awnings for cover. We shrieked and then laughed in surprise. Though I was initially thrilled about our win, my mood seemed to follow that rain in its quick and sudden descent.

I was filled with swirling questions. Like the other graduates in our choir, I knew I could continue to sing with this group for the next few years. I thought, why would I ever want to leave this dream? Much was going well for us on an international stage, and new opportunities were presenting themselves too. But even more importantly, why would I ever want to step away from this community of people I love so deeply?

For the rest of the trip, these questions grew with anticipatory grief.
I did not feel ready to make this shift.
I did not feel ready to leave these people I loved.

I carried these questions and feelings with me over the course of that trip and to our second destination in Marktoberdorf. Then, on a day when these questions were weighing quite heavily upon me, I had an transcendent experience that opened my fears toward trust.

In a particular moment when I was frustrated about it all, I took a walk down the Lindenallee in Marktoberdorf, which was near the place where we were staying. As I huffed with angry resistance, I walked on the pathway between beautiful rows of trees on either side.

This pathway eventually opened to a clearing with gorgeous views in every single direction. To the right, the Alps displayed themselves majestically, and to the left, an immense field displayed itself with the bright, painted colors of wildflowers.

I took it all in, and then, I stopped right here in this place.

And that is when I encountered a deep sense of knowing.

It was a sense of transcendent calm that was quite unexpected, and it opened me up to the possibilities that were coming. No booming words fell from the sky in that moment, but there was a sacred sense of intuition. It felt profound and changed my perspective on this upcoming transition. The new awareness conveyed this: “There are people in this next chapter who you need to know, and without them, you will not fully become yourself.”

I suddenly knew that my upcoming transition was not only about entering an academic institution or initiating a sequence of steps to result in ordination. This transition was ultimately about God’s dream, which included the formative people I would soon encounter and the opportunities I would have to give myself toward the formation of others.

Standing in that field, I decided that I owed it to the community I already knew and loved to become even more fully myself through this move. And that became the defining moment when I knew I was going to move forward with this dream and calling to be a pastor.

So I did go to Texas. Ian and I plunged ourselves into all the opportunities to enter these relationships, and they were indeed formative.

Over the years that followed, that initial sense of knowing in Marktoberdorf became more concrete. Now, I am aware that there are literally hundreds of names attached to that vision. It was all true: I did need to know those people in Texas, and in an unfolding way, they continued to form me toward the chapters that would soon follow. My seminary years launched me in the direction of serving three congregations, all additionally filled with formative people I would come to know and love.

It was truly an adventure.

But then, recently, I found myself struggling once again through the angst of transitions.

In May, I stepped down from my parish ministry position.

In the midst of that, I began to wonder what might be next on the horizon. Though I was eager to uncover it, my swirling questions were back in earnest too.

For the first time since those days in college, I ventured into an experience of unemployment, and it came with some challenges. I encountered those awkward moments that unemployed people frequently experience at social gatherings with that ever-persistent question. . .

“So what do you do?”

I wasn’t always sure how to answer. Whenever I said, “I’m a Presbyterian minister,” the next question was always, “Oh, which church?”

It was difficult to answer that question without a church. I was a Presbyterian minister living in a liminal space with no community.

Once, when I was on my way to a meetup group, I prepared my answer in advance. In my imagination, I practiced articulating all of the new projects I was working on so I could answer the question. But that was the night I was asked,

“So where do you work?”

Touché, evolving question! Again, no good answer.

Like those days so many years ago in Germany, I found myself trying to grapple with a new way. Similarly, I took many walks and allowed a growing sense of knowing to encounter and shape me. This time, it was more of a process than a sudden, transcendent experience, but a new way started to come into view.

I ventured into the neighborhood.

As I have spent more time entirely outside of a congregational building, I have discovered that there are unique opportunities to connect with others beyond the walls of our churches. Even as a congregational pastor, I knew this and tried to practice it, but new pathways began to emerge once I had no title. I realized I could connect quite deeply with people — especially with those who have become alienated and disaffected from our churches — as a pastor who remains unaffiliated.

I continue to support and value the ministries of local congregations, but more and more, I am beginning to embrace this way personally. I sense once again a new awareness:”There people in this next chapter you need know, and without them, you will not fully become yourself.”

So I want to find them.
I am venturing into the neighborhood.

These days,
I am walking into a number of community groups and joining them.

I am running into the possibilities of new friendships and entering rich conversations.

I am stepping into opportunities to make music and adding my voice to the chorus.

I am marching into protests alongside passionate leaders and wearing my clergy collar on the streets.

Again, I am standing right here.
And I am beginning to embrace this new pathway.

In the Presbyterian tradition, there is a term for a minister who is unaffiliated with any particular congregation. It is usually reserved those who are retired or in-between ministry positions. It’s called “Pastor-at-Large.” In some ways, it can seem like a mere filler title, but these days, I am beginning to embrace it as a legitimate calling.

And I feel alive in this new calling.

Time will tell, but I may continue to choose this deliberately for quite some time.

In the meantime, I choose to embrace the expanse of what is unfolding in this chapter.

I am a Pastor-At-Large.

So to this time of possibilities,
I say, “Expanse!”

To this chapter of newness,
I shout, “Immense!”

To the neighborhood that invites me,
I exclaim,

To those who who seek their own calling,
I affirm,

And to a wide-open future that beckons,
I acknowledge,

– Renee Roederer

 

This reflection is adapted from my recent sermon at St. Andrew’s Presbyterian Church in Dearborn Heights, Michigan.

Luke 3:1-6

In the fifteenth year of the reign of Emperor Tiberius, when Pontius Pilate was governor of Judea, and Herod was ruler of Galilee, and his brother Philip ruler of the region of Ituraea and Trachonitis, and Lysanias ruler of Abilene, during the high priesthood of Annas and Caiaphas, the word of God came to John son of Zechariah in the wilderness. He went into all the region around the Jordan, proclaiming a baptism of repentance for the forgiveness of sins, as it is written in the book of the words of the prophet Isaiah, “The voice of one crying out in the wilderness: ‘Prepare the way of the Lord, make his paths straight. Every valley shall be filled, and every mountain and hill shall be made low, and the crooked shall be made straight, and the rough ways made smooth; and all flesh shall see the salvation of God.’”

This passage begins with words that don’t seem particularly significant to our 21st century context, so if you’re like me, as you read them, you might tend to tune them out.  Luke initiates this section of his Gospel with a list of rulers from the 1st century — despots, kings, foreign occupiers, and the highest religious officials.

It takes a bit of time to move through these names, which adds to the probability that our brains might move elsewhere. But these words are absolutely significant to the message Luke intends for us to hear.

So let’s consider them again.

In the fifteenth year of the Emperor Tiberius. . .
Tiberius was the primary ruler and ultimate authority in the expansive Roman Empire.

When Pontius Pilate was governor of Judea. . .
Pilate was the Roman prefect who governed a large portion of the occupied land.

And Herod was ruler of Galilee, and his brother Philip ruler of the region of Ituraea and Trachonitis. . .
The Herod dynasty included kings who ruled harshly as a client state for Rome.

During the high priesthood of Annas and Caiaphas. . .
Annas and Caiaphas were the highest religious leaders put in place by Rome.

This is Luke’s list at the opening of this passage. But take notice of what happens after he lists all of these powerful leaders with high status. Luke says. . . During the time when all of these powerful people governed, “the Word of God came to John in the wilderness.”

The Word of God came to John and it came to him in the wilderness.

This is significant. At first, it may seem like Luke is simply setting the scene and establishing the time period as he mentions what was happening in the government, but it’s so much more than that.

Luke wants us to know that at the time these leaders ruled — some with corruption and all with wealth and influence– the Word of God came to one of society’s so-called nobodies in the wilderness, a remote spot entirely removed from society’s center.[1]

And this man named John went into many places in this wilderness. Luke says that he went into all the region around the Jordan River, and as he did that, he baptized people into the very waters of that river, proclaiming good news and a message of repentance. The word ‘repentance’ literally means to ‘turn around.’ John invited people to turn around toward a lifetime of good news, living toward God with worship, passion, and justice.

And John did this with power.

John the Baptist did not have the world’s power.
He wasn’t wealthy.
He wasn’t welcome in high society.
He didn’t have a position in the government.
He wasn’t the leader of an army.

But John was a prophet of God, a fiery prophet of power who did not mince words. Without question, John would have made us uncomfortable, and he might have made us angry too. Like so many of Luke’s characters, John preaches a radical Gospel: God is turning the world upside down. The powerful are becoming decentered, and the people on the margins are empowered to lead the way toward new life.

With this message in the wilderness, John cries aloud the very words that the prophet Isaiah proclaimed centuries before him. “Prepare the way of the Lord, make God’s paths straight. Every valley shall be filled, and every mountain and hill shall be made low, and the crooked shall be made straight and the rough ways smooth; and all flesh shall see the salvation of God.”

God is turning the world upside down. The mountains and hills and bastions of power will be made low! And the valleys of those who are humbled, despised, and marginalized shall be filled so that all people will see and know the salvation of God.

As John proclaims this message, he serves as a messenger, preparing the way for Jesus who will indeed turn this world upside down. When John cries words aloud in the wilderness, Jesus is about thirty years old and on the verge of his public ministry. John is the herald, inviting people to prepare their anticipation, because once Jesus comes into the fullness of this ministry,

He will speak truth to power,
He will uplift the downtrodden,
He will eat in full communion with the ‘outsiders,’
And he will empower these very people to take his message of worship, passion, and justice to the ends of the earth.
All people,
All people,
will see the salvation of God.

This world-turning intention is central to the character of God. It is a vital part of Who God Is. So it makes me wonder. . .

How is God moving now? How is God proclaiming a message of salvation now? How is that happening in our own time and in our own modern forms of wilderness?

After all, isn’t that just the kind of thing this God would do? Arrive in the middle of wilderness places that some label insignificant?

This is one of the primary messages of Advent —

God is always coming,
Always arriving in this Jesus,
Always initiating movements of power and good news through the Holy Spirit,
often in the least likely of places.

So it makes me wonder how God is showing up in the wilderness.

We certainly have many places of wilderness in the landscape of our lives. These places seem rough and are perhaps on the outside of anyone’s knowledge or notice.

Our losses,
Our addictions,
Our health crises,
Our disappointments,
Our broken relationships. . .
They can feel like places of wilderness.

But we can take heart,
And we can remember,
God shows up even there and can turn the world upside down.

Your life is not insignificant in God’s eyes.
It is immensely significant.
Even in these places of wilderness,
God turns our lives upside down,
so we can turn toward the direction of new life.

It makes me wonder how God is showing up in the wilderness.

We also know that there are many in our neighborhoods and many around our world who experience burdens that are heavier than we can easily imagine —

People struggle through poverty,
Children fall through the cracks of failing schools,
People are despised and disenfranchised through racism,
Men, women, and children are caught in the trauma of wars,
Refugees escape those wars but have nowhere to go,
And victims  die and are wounded by the senseless and seemingly continuous gun violence in our country.
These are wilderness places,
These are painful wilderness places.

And these lives are not insignificant in God’s eyes.
They are immensely significant.
Even in these places of wilderness,
God turns our lives upside down,
so we can turn toward the direction of new life.

It makes me wonder how God is showing up in the wilderness.

I know this. . . God often shows up in the presence of other people, and God can arrive in these realities of wilderness through our very presence.

In the midst of heartache, God brings comfort and good news through our presence.

In the midst of challenges, God turns the world upside down through our presence.

In the midst of wilderness, God provides a way in the desert and makes all things new through our presence.

How will we add our presence?
How will we be a part of the very prayers we make?
How will we act on that small thing or that large thing that keeps arriving in our minds and hearts?
How will we reach out to that person or community that keeps showing up in our thinking and praying?
How will we follow John into the wilderness to proclaim good news?
How will we also turn the world upside down?

– Renee Roederer

[1] My perspective here was informed by the Advent 2C episode of the Pulpit Fiction podcast with co-hosts Robb McCoy and Eric Fistler.