Smuggling Grace

This sermon was preached with Kirk of Our Savior in Westland, MI and was focused upon Matthew 16:21-28 and Hebrews 12:-12. An video recording is above and a written manuscript is below.

When I was in college, I had a professor who once asked our class,

“Is the life of faith like a baby gorilla or like a baby kitten?”

We all looked at him a bit perplexed as to where he was going. I think he might have been referencing some other tradition or teaching that I don’t know about. But I remember him saying this, and it’s always stayed with me:

From our perspective, the life of faith very much feels like being a baby gorilla. We are riding on the back of our mother who is swinging through the trees, and we are trying to hang on for dear life. We are likely gripping very tightly, afraid that we are going to fall into oblivion. Sometimes, the life of faith feels very much like that.

But maybe the life of faith is like being a kitten, a little baby cat. Our mother comes and grabs us by the scruff of the neck and carries us around. We can flail about all we want to, but she’s got us. We are secure. There is a love in which we are secure.

So I wonder if you resonate with any of that:
“Is the life of faith like a baby gorilla or like a baby kitten?”

The truth of the matter is, it’s probably both. Sometimes, our experience feels very much like that gorilla. But we gather together, even virtually, to proclaim the truth that God does have us by the scruff of the neck, and there is a love we cannot lose. Since we cannot lose it, we can live it. We can make that love known in the world.

And we certainly know that the world needs it. We need it.

Thankfully, I’ve been sleeping pretty well over all, but a few nights ago, I woke up around 3am with some anxious energy. And I thought, “What do I even begin to focus this upon? Where to start? Because there are so many directions.

Do I focus on a global pandemic? A hurricane? Wildfires? Is it that Jacob Blake, a Black man was shot in the back by police officers in front of his children? Do I focus upon the white teenager who has joined a militia and has now killed protestors? Is my anxious energy about the fact that students have moved back in and are starting classes at the University of Michigan this week in my town, and we are expecting — we expect! — an outbreak of the coronavirus? Is it the fact that an election is coming up and tensions are high? Is it that I and many others haven’t had a hug in 170 days? Is it the fact that people are not getting their medications in the very-slowed-down USPS mail delivery? Is it the economic crisis that people are feeling deeply with great concern for those who are low-paid essential workers?

Where do we begin? Where do we end?

How deeply we long for these challenges and these pains to end. In the middle of the night, or during the waking hours, we may absolutely feel as though the life of faith and life itself are an experience of being a baby gorilla, trying to hang on to anything we can, and most certainly, hanging onto our mother.

But is it possibly true that we are held? And we are invited to give our lives to the Great End — that is, the goal, and that is, the purpose of this great God who holds us? We are invited to give our lives to love itself.

There is no doubt that Jesus knows struggle and hardship too. In our text this morning, we hear that Jesus and his disciples are traveling to Jerusalem. In one sense, they are going to celebrate their religious holy days. But Jesus has also initiated a movement — a powerful one where people are giving their lives over to love, loving God and living into a coming Kingdom of God, including their typically excluded neighbors, and weaving together community among those who are poor, those who are the outcast, those who have done harm and want to turn their lives around, those who are often dismissed, and those whose bodies are not often uplifted. And a love like that and a teaching about this Kingdom — this Kindom, this Community of Kinship — is threatening to the Roman Empire, that is occupying the land.

Jesus knows he’s walking into trouble. He begins to prepare the disciples. He says to them that he must go there, and he must undergo suffering and be killed. They don’t know how to take that in. How can they take that in?

He says on the third day, he’ll be raised. They don’t even know what that means. And Peter is in denial about it. “God forbid, Lord! This must never happen to you.”

Jesus is one who loves expansively, but he’s also a realist. He knows this is coming. And it’s hard to hear Peter say things like this. “Get behind me, Satan!” — Satan, which can also be translated as “accuser.” “You are a stumbling block. You are setting your mind not on divine things but on human things.”

Jesus knows he is about to be a victim of state violence. As we read the story, we know it too. Jesus knows what it means to struggle and what it means to identify with a community that is threatened and struggles also. We follow a victim of state violence. We need to remember that.

And he has some tough things to say: “If any want to become my followers, let them deny themselves and take up their cross and follow me. For those who want to save their life will lose it, and those who lose their life for my sake will find it. For what will it profit them if they gain the whole world but forfeit their life? Or what will they give in return for their life?”

We shouldn’t make any mistake about it — following Jesus is costly. Because we are giving our lives to a love that is dedicated to the One Who Holds Us Fast, and we are called to a faith that is dedicated to our neighbors, especially those who are marginalized, excluded, maligned, stigmatized, downtrodden, and those who are victims of state violence.

We’re called to this too. Of course, we want to preserve our lives. Of course, when we wake up at 3am, we want to preserve that. But there’s this paradox that Jesus speaks about. It’s not always that we’re called to be a martyr, but we are called to give up our position of self-preservation at all costs and lean our posture in the direction of love and this Kindom itself — this Kingdom where the God who holds us fast, calls us to hold each other fast. We don’t do it perfectly or at its fullness like God, but we practice it again and again, and with whatever we have — even if it feels meager — we lean it in the direction of this love. And we will find life there.

We will. We have. We will enact life there when we begin to see that life itself and love itself are held in this God — a God who loves us and gives us life, a God who holds us fast and calls us to hold one another fast. We do this with and for each other.

We’re invited into this. It’s costly. But it’s abundant. There is abundant life in this invitation.

And so we hear the text also from the Epistle to the Hebrews. Who is that we follow? Who is that seeks the ultimate claim in our lives? Who provides us with abundance beyond what we can imagine in the lives of each other?

This text says,

Therefore, since we are surrounded by so great a cloud of witnesses, let us also lay aside every weight and the sin that clings so closely, and let us run with perseverance the race that is set before us, looking to Jesus the pioneer and perfecter of our faith — looking to Jesus the pioneer and perfecter of our faith who seeks our ultimate claim — who for the sake of the joy that was set before him endured the cross, disregarding its shame, and has taken his seat at the right hand of the throne of God.

Yes, he endured a cross. He absolutely endured a cross. This way of living and loving is costly. He also did so for the sake of the joy that was set before him. When we lose our lives into this great vision, we are found. We are enlivened. It is the great paradox of the life of faith.

And he disregarded its shame, loving those who were often regarded with shame. And that cross wasn’t the end. It wasn’t. He sits at the right hand of the throne of God. Jesus is no longer on that cross, or on an execution gurney, or under the knee of state power.

Jesus has risen, and we proclaim him, and we live in his direction. And when we do so, we are given one another. We are surrounded by a great cloud of witnesses, and we are called into this vision, never alone — never! We are always with each other.

So today, I hold up a paradox in our own living and our own loving.

There is no doubt there are times when we wake up at 3am, and we are worried about what is happening in our lives and in the direction of this world. That’s valid. It feels like hanging on for dear life. It feels like the life of a baby gorilla.

And

Love is the Great End. It is the purpose. It is the goal of this God who is Love itself, enacted in the world. When we give over our lives to this direction, we will find our neighbors. We will find a great cloud of witnesses. We will find that Great End and that Great Purpose, and we will find that we are held. We are held. 

So know this, once more: You are loved with a love you cannot lose. You simply cannot lose it. And since that is true, you can live it. We can live it.

Thanks be to the God who loves us just like this.

Amen.

–Renee Roederer

Image Description: Logo of the Pulpit Fiction Podcast.

This week, I had the occasion to provide the Voice in the Wilderness segment on the Pulpit Fiction Podcast. It takes place toward the beginning, right after the intro.

If you’d like to check that out and hear the whole podcast (I always love this one!) feel free to have a listen here.

–Renee Roederer

Image Description: Facebook’s logo.

… because it means they’re trying to entice me back.

… because it means I’ve been spending way less time there.

–Renee Roederer

Image Description: A spread of dishes for a potluck.

Surprise food is my love language.

I love goodies. I love when someone makes me a meal. I love when someone brings me bread. I love when people give me little PayPal funds here and there to order treats. My recent love (though not too often) involves the home delivery of Dairy Queen Blizzards. Perfection.

I also enjoy cooking and experimenting with new flavors and tastes.

And these days, I occasionally receive and learn from the tastes of a local company that makes ready made meals each week and delivers them. Whenever I buy their food, there are six days between ordering and delivery.

So… I always forget at least some, if not all of what I ordered.

So I manufacture surprise foods for myself. Big LOL.

–Renee Roederer

Image Description: Four cartoon shapes of people (orange, blue, green, and red) are lined up from left to right, and two conversation bubbles (green and orange) are above their heads.

These days, in the middle of a pandemic none of us could have possibly anticipated, I spend a great deal of time on the phone and on Zoom calls with people. This abundance of Zoom is new in my life, but the phone isn’t. I’m realizing I already spent a lot of time on the phone with people before this pandemic, and that continues. Zoom fatigue is real, and I experience it sometimes, but overall, I’ve found myself grateful for voice.

It’s taught me something about myself as well.

We all need physical connection. I would prefer to be surrounded in person with family and friends, but since that is lacking much more, I realize that I’ve probably always felt a sense of physical connection primarily through voice.

That may be one of the reasons I’m doing as well as I am in a set of challenging scenarios. I didn’t lose voice. I still hear people’s voices and often.

I’m very grateful for those voices that connect physically to my own.

— Renee Roederer

Image Description: On a concrete wall, a mural reads, “Black Lives Matter.” Credit: PixaBay. Public domain.

Last night, when quickly typing a tweet, I accidentally typed the hashtag as

Black Lives Martyr.

No one deserves that role or this violence.
#JacobBlake.

Image Description: Pages from a book are folded to make the shape of a heart. A string of lights shines in the background.

For many, 1 Corinthians 13 is a very familiar text. Some of us grew up hearing these words in church communities. Many others have heard these words at weddings.

Love is patient; love is kind; love is not envious or boastful or arrogant or rude. It does not insist on its own way; it is not irritable or resentful; it does not rejoice in wrongdoing, but rejoices in the truth. It bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things. (1 Corinthians 13: 4-7, New Revised Standard Version)

These descriptors get translated as adjectives, but interestingly enough, in the original Greek language, these descriptor-words all have verb roots. We describe love by enacting love.

Here’s a verb-friendly translation of this text.

Love lives long-hearted in adversity. Love practices kindness. Love envies not. Love boasts not. Love swells-up not. Love does not act unbecomingly, does not seek the self, does not provoke to anger, does not calculate evil, does not rejoice upon the injustice, but rejoices together with the truth. It covers all things, entrusts all things, hopes all things, endures all things.  Love never perishes.

–Renee Roederer

Image Description: Three hearts carved from wood are hanging on wires like a mobile. One is red, one is orange, and one is green.

This summer, the Michigan Nones and Dones community is exploring spiritual values and practices, and we’re applying them to commitments of anti-racism. We’re also asking ourselves: As we think about our religious/spiritual upbringing, what did we learn about these values? What do we want to shed? What do we want to retain? What do we want to deepen or take on in a new way?

In the final topic of the series, we recently held a conversation about the spiritual practice of love. We asked, “How is love a spiritual practice?”

With permission, I am sharing our answers.

Image Description: A red, full moon rises on the horizon over water.

I want to see the Patriarchy topple.
I want to see the Empire fade.

Toward something else. . .
Toward a completely different way of relating with one another and the earth itself.

Keep in mind, when talking about “The Patriarchy” I’m not talking about men themselves. But I am talking about a move away from –

an external ordering of the world, and
an internalized axis in our own thinking where we continually. . .

. . . determine people’s worth based on perceptions of their productivity,

. . . exert power-over one another in dominance, with the assumption that this makes sense and is normative,

. . . abuse and even kill with deep-seated rage once we encounter people’s culture, skin tone, gender, full presence, and full particularity,

. . . wield brute force in violence when marginalized people seek power, freedom, and resources,

. . . view the world through a lens of scarcity and hoard resources with an assumption that greed is reasonable and good.

Ecologist Joanna Macy says that we have come to a juncture in human history where we encounter two very real story lines. The ways we have been living collectively are dangerous to the point that we soon cannot sustain our lives on the earth. She calls this The Great Unraveling. But the great adventure of our time involves the potential reorientation of our lives toward life-giving, sustaining aims. She calls this The Great Turning. I long for this.

I long for the Rise of The Matriarchy.

An ethic of care, where human beings. . .

. . . honor and celebrate people’s worth based on their Humanity,

. . . share power and decision-making with a recognition that horizontal practices and relationships are good for the collective whole of the community (I also know we never arrive at this or practice it perfectly. . . so we keep putting it before ourselves and working at it)

. . . revere the life that we find on the earth and in one another, as we encounter people’s culture, skin tone, gender, full presence, and full particularity,

. . . dismantle systems that marginalize human beings, so that all people can have access to empowerment, freedom, and resources,

. . . view the world through a lens of abundance and willfully share resources, with an assumption that greed limits our empathy and our very life, and a realization that care with and among neighbors increases our compassion and our very life.

We can find particular places and particular moments of time where these are all happening. Jesus seemed to believe that a little bit of yeast can leaven the entire bread.

When we see glimpses of The Great Turning, we can lean into them with our gratitude, our intentions, and our own actions.

I long for this rise.

–Renee Roederer

Good Bones (by Maggie Smith)

This is the second post in a series about feminist spirituality. Feel free to check out the others as well:

The Moon is My Patronus
She
Can Our World Experience Post-Traumatic Growth?
Life Finds a Way

Image Description: A large, orange full moon is rising in contrast to surroundings. Black background.

She.

When I lead worship in congregational settings, I typically use gender-neutral language for God. But these days, in my own personal, spiritual practice, I use feminine language and imagery almost entirely.

It’s not that I believe God is literally female. I don’t believe God is literally male either. God is a Mystery beyond our our limited language.

But yet, precisely because God is Incarnational, God can be made known and revealed to us in our limited language, often in very intimate ways. Jesus used the personal title Abba to address God, a word that might be translated, “Papa.” I find this at once to be endearing and intimate, while revealing an orientation of trust.

Biblical scriptures are written in Hebrew and Koine Greek, and because of their particular grammatical structures, a lot of language about God gets translated into a grammatically masculine framework. (Think about languages like Spanish or German and the ways they assign grammatical gender to nouns).

Then all of that grammatical gender gets internalized inside of us. Quite naturally, we begin to make connections between that grammatical gender, our cultural understandings of gender, and God. More challenging, we take the those very cultural understandings, including distortions of masculinity, and paste them onto God. Then, we make these distortions Ultimate in our world.

When all of this happens, we stop noticing the feminine imagery for God in those very same Biblical texts. (For more on this, see Elizabeth Johnson’s enlightening book, She Who Is). Worse, we begin to connect with a god who is primarily distant, angry, and vengeful (again, distortions of masculinity) – one who wields power over others and initiates the very hierarchy by which we do the same.

So here’s a question for us:

How many of us grew up picturing God as a bearded man in the sky — perhaps even an angry, bearded man?

Most of us don’t believe in that god anymore. Thank goodness.

But even if we don’t believe in such a god anymore, this old, internalized understanding can still get in our way. It can be challenging to pray to God when that ghost of a god keeps popping up. Maybe we don’t even notice he’s there. But in conversation about God, we keep finding ourselves feeling afraid or ashamed. Or maybe prayer feels silly and embarrassing because our understanding of God, however amorphous, still feels like a cartoon or a caricature.

This can be challenging. For all of these reasons, I often encourage the people I mentor to try using feminine language for God exclusively for a while. Does it feel different? Does it open up new understandings? Does God feel closer, and less like a cartoon?

It might not be helpful for all people, but I have found it to be helpful for me. It’s just something to try. Thankfully, the God Beyond Our Understanding is quite capable of revealing Herself in our very limited language.

To close, a brief story:

If you’ve followed this blog for a while, you know that I love the moon. Referencing Harry Potter, I’ve joked that The Moon is My Patronus. Years ago, I wrote a series with photos of the moon, delving into feminist spirituality, and adding some poetry.

Years ago, I was walking around the University of Michigan campus, and in just the right place at the right time, I saw the full moon very low in the sky. In contrast to all that was around it, the moon looked so enormous, bright, and present.

And always — always! — when the moon is like this, I want to snap a really good photo of it. I always try. But you know what is true every single time? It’s utterly impossible.

Unless you have special equipment, you cannot get an adequate photo of a contrast moon because the camera does not process that contrast in same ways our brains do. Every photo looks woefully inadequate. I just cannot capture the experience.

I think God is like that. Our language and imagery is woefully inadequate. But as we open ourselves to the moment — endearing and intimate, trusting with the fullness of ourselves— She will surely meet us.

–Renee Roederer

Enjoy this choral piece called “Evensong” by Stephen Paulus. The text is from Matthew Claudius.

“See how the moon has risen, among the stars that glisten high in the firmament. Dark stand the woods and silent while from the meadows island white veils of ghostly mist ascend. Now has the world grown silent, while in the evening’s twilight we find protective peace, as in our quiet chamber after much toil and labor in healing sleep we find release. Look, how the half moon shineth while from our view it hideth its fullness, round and whole. Thus many truths are hiding from utter lack of striving on our part to see them whole. The hour draws near for sleeping, and rest and in God’s keeping entrust we body and soul. Protect us, Lord from danger, keep watch o’er barn and manger and make our ailing neighbor whole. Entrust we body and soul. And make our ailing neighbor whole. See how the moon has risen.”

This is a piece on feminist spirituality. Feel free to check out the others as well: