Smuggling Grace

I was just thinking about how every day from inside the seclusion of my house, I work to form kinship circles for people, and folks know to drop me off some snacks.

I am a Queen Bee.

–Renee Roederer

Three to four times a week, over texts, a beloved family member and I greet each other with terms of endearment. Not honey, sweetie, dear, or the like, but things like,

Good morning, Snazzy Pony!

How’s your day, Blueberry Pie?

Well, hey there, hi there, Glorious Snacker!

My Most Marvelous Mouse, do I ever have a story for you!

And I just want to say that it’s really sweet to greet and be greeted.

–Renee Roederer

Luke 9:28-43

 Now about eight days after these sayings Jesus took with him Peter and John and James, and went up on the mountain to pray. And while he was praying, the appearance of his face changed, and his clothes became dazzling white. Suddenly they saw two men, Moses and Elijah, talking to him. They appeared in glory and were speaking of his departure, which he was about to accomplish at Jerusalem. Now Peter and his companions were weighed down with sleep; but since they had stayed awake, they saw his glory and the two men who stood with him. Just as they were leaving him, Peter said to Jesus, ‘Master, it is good for us to be here; let us make three dwellings, one for you, one for Moses, and one for Elijah’—not knowing what he said. While he was saying this, a cloud came and overshadowed them; and they were terrified as they entered the cloud. Then from the cloud came a voice that said, ‘This is my Son, my Chosen; listen to him!’ When the voice had spoken, Jesus was found alone. And they kept silent and in those days told no one any of the things they had seen.

I wonder what the Church would be like. . . 
if the Christian story ended with the story of the Transfiguration?

The Transfiguration of Jesus is a strange story in many ways, but let’s ponder that question for a moment. . . What if we only had one Gospel – say, the Gospel according to Luke – and it ended with the story of Jesus, his disciples, and Moses and Elijah on the mountaintop? What if it ended right there and nothing more?  What if this was the final story about Jesus? What do you think the life of the Church be like?

Perhaps Transfiguration Sunday would be the high holy day of the Christian calendar. People would invite friends and relatives to join them in worship, and then everyone would go home for the annual Transfiguration Dinner. Grandparents across the country would make their signature cheesy potatoes as requested by their grandchildren, and we would all dress in our Transfiguration best. Our churches would likely be filled to the brim with guests, people who come to worship twice a year — you know, at Christmas and Transfiguration.

Pastors and church leaders would simultaneously be filled with energy and exhausted as they worked every day of the week to build up this story of Jesus and the disciples on the mountaintop. We would tell the story successively over several days: On one day, we would celebrate Jesus and his disciples climbing the mountain. On another day, we would commemorate that moment when they began to pray together. Throughout the course of a week, we would build up to this special Sunday — the day when we celebrate Jesus transformed before our very eyes with his face changed and his clothes dazzling. If the Gospel of Luke were our only Gospel, and if it ended here, we would certainly worship Jesus in a triumphant way.  That would make sense.

And if it ended right here,
and if this were the only Jesus we knew,
Christian life might be concerned primarily with personal triumph.  

Mountains would be depicted in our stained-glass windows and on our church bulletins. We would wear mountain shaped pennants on necklaces. The mountain would be our primary religious symbol.

And we might become concerned with building ourselves into mountains as we practiced the triumphant meaning of that symbol.  Maybe we would build our own churches that way, and like Peter on that mountaintop, we could construct them into holy, everlasting dwellings to hold and commemorate all that is triumphant.

Triumph could become our primary aim, and we could spend all our money, energy, and resources to ensure that we stay on top of the mountain.  Like the mountains on our necklaces, we could create an institutional church based on that symbol, determined always to be solid and unchanging, staying triumphant on the mountaintop no matter what. We might become concerned with our image – after all, we’re mountaintop people — and we could use all sorts of techniques and marketing to tell our culture that we, the Church, are indeed a mountain. And we could tell others that they can also have a mountaintop experience if they will just climb into our pews and join us.  Who knows?  Even their money and time and talents might ensure that we stay solid on top.  We might invite people to join the church to ensure that we stay safe, secure, unchanging, and triumphant.  We could be a mountaintop church with a mountaintop Jesus.

Maybe that’s who we would be if the Christian story ended here, if we had only one Gospel that ended with chapter 9 verse 36.

But, of course, that’s not where it ends.  Jesus is triumphant in this story.  That’s true.  Jesus is triumphant in a story that is strange to us in some ways. . .  because it’s filled with symbols and images that were important to a culture and time period so distant from our own.

Jesus meets with Moses and Elijah, two men who are prophets in the stories of the Hebrew Scriptures. They symbolized the Jewish law and the prophetic writings.  To include Jesus in their company was to convey that Jesus is connected to these figures and to the law and the prophetic writings themselves. To have Moses and Elijah conversing with him about his departure – or as the original language puts it, his upcoming exodus – communicates that Jesus was the fulfillment of the law and prophets.

His face shone and his clothes became dazzling.  
He was glorified.

And in a moment of awe and wonder, Peter just doesn’t know what to say or do. . . Awkward words come pouring from his mouth: “Master, it is good for us to be here; let us make three dwellings, one for you, one for Moses, and one for Elijah.”  He doesn’t know what he’s asking for, really.  And in response, the voice of God declares who Jesus is: “This is my Son, my Chosen; listen to him!”  The disciples are so awestruck by the entire experience that they don’t say anything to anyone about it.  How could they even put it into words?

Whatever it was, they probably wanted to stay longer.  They wanted to build the experience into a structure and dwell in it until the end of time.

But that’s not the end of Jesus’ story.  
And that’s not the end of our story either. 

Though mountains are valued, they aren’t our primary symbol; instead, the cross is the primary symbol of Christianity.  Jesus may be triumphant, but not without cost.

In great, unfathomable love, Jesus shows us continually that he is determined to be with us – determined to be with us when we’re vulnerable and in need. He joins us when life is messy and transforms us there.  Jesus doesn’t stay enshrined on a mountaintop.  He does the opposite.  Jesus comes down the mountain and leads his disciples in doing the same.

In this story, Jesus leads his disciples down the mountain, and at the foot of it, they all encounter a man and his son. They are suffering greatly, and nothing is neat and clean about this experience.  It involves sickness, pain, injury and uncertainty, and the disciples had no idea how to heal the boy or this difficult situation.  Jesus enters the situation and is troubled himself.  But it is from that place that he heals the boy and restores him to his father.

And the story continues. . .
Jesus continues to walk with the people.
Jesus continues to walk with us.

The story continues. . .
We know that Jesus will demonstrate such radical love
that the powers-that-be will feel threatened.

And Jesus will risk that love even if it leads to a cross.  
Love like that transforms the world.

Jesus will be with us, no matter the cost.  Even when life is messy. Especially when life is messy. . .

When the diagnosis comes. . .
When the loved one dies. . .
When unemployment stretches out. . .
When we can’t seem to put the bottle down. . .
When human beings are reduced to skin color. . .
When depression seems to have taken over, and
When we are unsure where our next meal will come from.

Jesus will love us at great risk.  
And this love transforms everything.

And is church not called to follow Jesus down the mountain, straight into those places where life is messy and there is suffering?  Is that not our call?  To go there and to love there?

Michael Jinkins is one of my former seminary professors, and he wrote a book with a provocative title.  It’s called The Church Faces Death: Ecclesiology for a Post-Modern Context.  In the pages of his book, Michael Jinkins proclaims that the church is called to love so greatly that it risks its own death.  In fact, he would say that the church is only alive when it lets go of its need for safety and institutional survival, loving and serving first — not ultimately to gain or to grow — but to follow Jesus.

That is a church alive.
That kind of love changes everything.

And that’s a challenging posture to take because it feels uncertain and risky.
But life is there.
Jesus Christ is there.
God’s unending love is there.
The power of the Holy Spirit is there.

We’re about to enter the season of Lent. During this season, we journey to and through the cross with Jesus as we contemplate God’s presence and mission among us.  We’re called to get our hands dirty as are grounded and as we work alongside others.

I wonder what our work clothes ought to be. . . Will they dazzle? Maybe.  Or maybe they’ll just look like plain, solid faithfulness.

After all, we know that the story of Jesus doesn’t end on a mountaintop.
It continues on to a cross.

And it doesn’t even end there!
Even death is transformed by Christ’s love.

Resurrection always comes – sometimes in unexpected ways —
But it always comes.

May God’s great risk to us call forth our own risk,
and may God’s great resurrection call forth our own resurrection. 

–Renee Roederer

I haven’t seen Wandavision, and truth be told, I know very little about the show. But over the weekend, I saw a number of friends share a quote from the show that touched them deeply. While scrolling through Facebook and Twitter, I kept seeing it. Even though I don’t know the full context of the quote, I found it to be meaningful too. It’s this question:

“What is grief, if not love persevering?”

A professor once said to me, “Grief is the price tag for loving.” I heard that meaningfully. Love involves risk, and grief is part of that risk. But grief is also a form of love itself. It’s love that remains. It’s love that continues.

Grief is love persevering.

It’s love that accompanies us after we’ve endured a loss or major change. It’s also a form of love that can lead us into living. It’s love that can love-forward and create more space for lived-love, even as it holds space for the past. It can take many forms. It can sustain. At times, it can even renew.

“What is grief, if not love persevering?”

–Renee Roederer

Image Description: A Ben Montero cartoon, which can be found here. 4 slides: This yellow bird really loves treats! “Do we get treats?” he asks, as a newborn, as a kiddo walking into school for the first time, on the first day on the job and… well, popping out of the casket.

At the end of the month, I like to take a moment and thank people for visiting Smuggling Grace and reading my daily posts here. I appreciate that so much and the ways that people contribute their own thoughts through comments. Thank you! I’m committed to sharing my written content free of charge, and I hope that these pieces provide some hope and encouragement during challenging times. Once per month, for those who would like to support this work, I offer some opportunities to do that.

If you would like to become a monthly patron, I have a Patreon Page. Feel free to check it out. Or, if you’d like to give a one-time gift, you can do so here.

Thanks for reading and commenting! You are appreciated. To borrow the words from the tip jar at my local Panera Bread, “Never expected, always appreciated.”

–Renee Roederer

I’m doggysitting this weekend and thoroughly enjoying it. My buddy and I took a nice walk on a much-warmer-than-it-has-been, sunny day with a very blue sky. I enjoyed watching our shadows as we walked.

Sometimes, I ponder what life will be like after the pandemic. I don’t want to take for granted what it means to be able to gather together. I think even the smallest forms of connection will bring deep gratitude. This era of time has included many deep difficulties in our collective life, and I’ve been feeling that a bit more acutely as we near the one year anniversary of lockdown. But while walking, I also wondered what I might miss from this period of time. I also wondered if there were things I shouldn’t take for granted right now.

I enjoyed seeing the sun and even feeling it a bit. I enjoyed the blue sky. I thought about these accompanying me in some way. St. Francis used to address forms of nature as friends. Kindred, even. Brother Sun, Sister Moon, he would say.

I decided to be with these and let them be with me. I don’t want to take them for granted either.

–Renee Roederer

I’m grateful to invite Taylor Murray to be guest blogger on Smuggling Grace. I love the phrase that she shares in this piece below, as well as her reflections upon it.

Lifts Us All

I went to my weekly spiritual gathering this Saturday. It was our last one in a series we started seven weeks ago. We have been coming together, as a group of spiritually-curious 20s year olds, and trying to connect with our inner spirits. It’s been really powerful.

This week to celebrate our work and the work left to be done, we each were asked to share our intention of what we want to work on with Spirit in the weeks to come. At the end of each intention Angie, our leader, would say “We honor your intention, it lifts us all.”

I fell head over heels for that phrase. It lifts us all, it lifts us all. Your growth and intention lifts us all.

This mindset is countercultural. Our capitalist society says that another’s success, another’s happiness and nourishment is threatening to our own. It even convinces us that their success is a success stolen from us, their achievement should be ours. We are taught to be angry about other people’s betterment because it means we are failing.

But Angie brought abundance that day, and she could do that with ease because we were interacting not on a physical plane but a spiritual one. There is no limit to the amount of love you can give or receive, and the more someone else has, the more you will get because they have more to give to you. Your abundance of love lifts us all. Your abundance of joy lifts us all. Your wisdom lifts us all.

I carry this phrase in my back pocket now. When I used to see someone succeed, heat would gurgle in my body as I sunk into the depths of shame.

They stole that from you, my mind says. You deserve it more.

Or

You don’t work hard enough. You are undeserving of amazing things.

My mind is expertly able to deprecate myself while inflating my ego, both forcing me down into a dangerous part of myself that I wish was not a part of me.

Today, my friend got a research position with an amazing professor we both adore. Immediately, while my fingers were typing over-the-top congratulations, my heart started to turn to the darkness in me. I could feel it turning. But out of nowhere a light switch flicked on as I remembered: her betterment lifts us all. It lifts me too. I am connected to her, and the more opportunities she has to expose herself to this amazing work, the more I will be connected with it and will learn from it.

It lifts us all.

I offer this to you now, when you feel the shame wash over you. You may have envy like a mold growing inside you, like I have for the past 20 years. If so, let the knowledge that the string that pulls others up is tied to you, and up you go with it.

It lifts us all.

–Taylor Murray

Taylor is a student at the University of Michigan, currently taking a semester off from her computer science studies. She is the co-founder and president of Tech for Social Good a student org creating critical conversations about technology and society. She is also a self-described renaissance woman and currently is learning Korean, thinking about communal grieving, and combatting grind culture. You can reach her at murratay@umich.edu.

I keep thinking about how feelings of trauma can get reactivated when we reach the dates of difficult anniversaries, and how we’re about to experience this for the pandemic while it’s still happening.

If we notice big spikes of stress in ourselves and others in the next 4-6 weeks, it makes complete sense. Gentleness for this.

–Renee Roederer

There are times when we find ourselves mulling over the very same themes in our thinking.

There are times when we feel weighed down by longstanding frustrations that rarely seem to shift.

There are times when it feels like things are stagnant or unmoving.

So. . . What if we ask a different question?

This is something that a friend of mine says often, and I really appreciate it.

What if we do that? What if we ask a new question? Could that open up new possibilities – creative pathways or new angles of relating?

Maybe that seems like a small thing, but it’s actually a large thing. Frameworks affect how we view situations, feel, and express hope.

So what if we try it? Might it open up something different?

What’s possible?

– Renee Roederer

Photo Credit: Carson Smith. Hans Honschar is an artist who leaves encouraging chalk messages for people to discover throughout the neighborhoods of New York City. This says, “fulfill your calling, HHNY.”

“How do we live and work as people who are connected to our whole selves?”

This was the very excellent question someone asked me this week.

Of course, none of us has a full, definitive answer to a question as large and expansive as that one, but it’s the kind of question that can sit with us for a while. Maybe it’s the kind of question that asks good questions of us:

What is wholeness? Who are we called to be, and how do we partner our deep-seated callings with the callings of others? How do we embrace our vulnerabilities? How do we give voice to our vulnerabilities and allow them to provide leadership as strengths? How do we give and receive care in relationship and community? How do we cultivate space for healing and wholeness — for ourselves? alongside others? How do we lead with our unique gifts? How do we open ourselves to a sense of the whole within our life and work, even if we have only a glimmer of understanding that we are connected to a vision and sense of mutuality much larger than ourselves alone?

When this expansive question at the top came up (which has now offered a cascade of questions) the two of us were talking about vocation and calling and what it’s like to bring our fullest, particular selves to our living and our work. This was a meaningful conversation that has stayed with me throughout the week.

Today, as I ponder this conversation and these questions, I’d like to place the writings of two authors side by side.

Richard Rohr talks about vocation and calling as the Deep Yes:

“The doctrine of haecceity is saying that we come to universal meaning deeply and rightly through the unique and ordinary, not the other way around, which is the great danger of all the ideologies (overarching and universal explanations) that have plagued our world in the last century. Everything in the universe is a holon and a fractal, where the part replicates the whole. Go deep in any one place and we will meet all places where the divine image is present.”

-And-

“In the moments of insecurity and crisis, ‘shoulds’ and ‘oughts’ don’t really help; they just increase the shame, guilt, pressure, and likelihood of backsliding. It’s the deep ‘yeses’ that carry you through. Focusing on something you absolutely believe in, that you’re committed to, will help you wait it out.”*

MaryAnn McKibben Dana has written a great deal about the concept of Yes-And in improv, applying that vision to our daily living. She has published a book entitled, God, Improv, and the Art of Living. She also has a blog, and she’s written a piece called, The Joy of Yes-And. I recommend reading all of it. She talks about embracing our limitations and making choices about what is most important to us:

“But too often, our culture looks at people who take a step back in terms of what is lost. Maybe Ohashi will not end up at the Olympics as a result of her choice… [See the piece for this story.] But it’s clear from her performance how much has been gained.

“Sure, sometimes Yes-And is a process of sheer addition, and making it work imperfectly and beautifully. But other times – maybe more often – it’s about subtraction. Clarification. Deepening.”

What does it mean to practice a Deep Yes-And?

There are many ways to answer that question, of course, but I think it leads us back to this question:

“How do we live and work as people who are connected to our whole selves?”

We make the main calling the main calling, whatever that may be for us. We choose it deeply, even as it is most readily choosing us.

But we don’t have this all figured out. How could we? It’s all in process, and we never arrive fully. We just keep adding our yes to the Deep Yes that beckons us, little by little, moment by moment.

Deep Yes-And…

Deep Yes-And…

Deep Yes And…

–Renee Roederer

*The two paragraphs from Richard Rohr above come from his daily meditations. I recommend subscribing.