Smuggling Grace

Image Description: My bouquet of yellow flowers. Daffodils are in the background of the image.

Lately, when I’ve been gathered in groups for reflection and discussion (over Zoom and the like) I’ve asked these questions:

What is a little grief you have? 
– And –
What is a little joy you have?

As we experience this pandemic and time of economic uncertainty, we are definitely acquainted with the big griefs we carry. We are concerned for the losses we know, for our loved ones, and for our own health. We grieve disruptions and the ways our lives are different than they were just a couple months ago.

But do we make space to name the little griefs? The ones we probably wouldn’t name, because stacked up against the larger ones, they seem a bit more insignificant?

I’d like to say that they’re not insignificant. They matter to us also and are worth grieving. They might also serve as symbols for the larger griefs we’re carrying too.

Likewise, do we make space to name the little joys? The ones we probably wouldn’t name because they’re typically more mundane than others we might have shared in the past? Yet we find even more gratitude for them now?

These are not insignificant either. They matter to us and are worth sharing with others. They might also serve as symbols of encouragement and hope alongside all we’re carrying too.

When I’ve asked these questions in groups, I’ve also given a particular answer a number of times. One of my little (but not insignificant ) griefs is this: I always keep yellow alstroemeria flowers on my table. I also keep some in my writing room. They are lovely, and they brighten up the space. They also last such a long time in a vase — typically three weeks. For this reason, they’ve come to take on meaningful symbolism to me. And when they begin to wilt and the flowers begin to fall, I typically go to Trader Joe’s and buy more. I’ve had a long streak of having these flowers on my table. Sure, they aren’t nearly as important to me as all the other things we’re carrying collectively, but I’ve been sad to lose their presence. You can disinfect your groceries, but you can’t disinfect your flowers.

I shared this with some people while back, and…

This sharing has led to a little but not at all insignificant joy. I feel big gratitude about it.

Yesterday, I received a package on my doorstep (some of you all know I love surprises, including tiny gestures) and this one felt amazingly huge. A friend had some permanent, yellow flowers made for me. And the petals are made from hymnals. So they have all these lovely words.

And they came in a bouquet! This meant so much to me. Big joy. Lovely connection. So very thoughtful.

I am so eager to put these on my table. And now I’ll remember big connection in the little grief. Thank you, good friend.

—Renee Roederer

Image Description: My plethora of bananas.

My grocery delivery came. Hooray! When I first looked outside and saw all the items on my doorstep, my eyes went straight to the bag that instantly caused me laughter.

I ordered 4 bananas.
I received 4 bunches of bananas.

They were all in one bag.

Obviously, I can’t eat 23 bananas. Lots of folks told me these were destined for banana bread. That certainly sounds delicious, but I actually plan to pass three of these bunches along to others. I’ll deliver them to other doorsteps over the next few days.

This Day is B A N A N A S.

–Renee Roederer

 

The video above comes from Facebook live. If you have any trouble accessing it in this format, feel free to click here. 

This is a sermon I prepared for Northside Presbyterian Church in Ann Arbor this morning. I thought I would share it too if it’s helpful. I’ve also prepared a transcript in here if you’d like to use that.

As we begin, I’ll read the story first. It comes from the Gospel According to John, chapter 19 verses 20-31.

When it was evening on that day, the first day of the week, and the doors of the house where the disciples had met were locked for fear of the religious leaders, Jesus came and stood among them and said, ‘Peace be with you.’ After he said this, he showed them his hands and his side. Then the disciples rejoiced when they saw the Lord. Jesus said to them again, ‘Peace be with you. As the Father has sent me, so I send you.’ When he had said this, he breathed on them and said to them, ‘Receive the Holy Spirit. If you forgive the sins of any, they are forgiven them; if you retain the sins of any, they are retained.’

But Thomas (who was called the Twin), one of the twelve, was not with them when Jesus came. So the other disciples told him, ‘We have seen the Lord.’ But he said to them, ‘Unless I see the mark of the nails in his hands, and put my finger in the mark of the nails and my hand in his side, I will not believe.’

A week later his disciples were again in the house, and Thomas was with them. Although the doors were shut, Jesus came and stood among them and said, ‘Peace be with you.’ Then he said to Thomas, ‘Put your finger here and see my hands. Reach out your hand and put it in my side. Do not doubt but believe.’ Thomas answered him, ‘My Lord and my God!’ Jesus said to him, ‘Have you believed because you have seen me? Blessed are those who have not seen and yet have come to believe.’

Now Jesus did many other signs in the presence of his disciples, which are not written in this book. But these are written so that you may come to believe that Jesus is the Messiah, the Son of God, and that through believing you may have life in his name.

When the scene of our scripture passage opens, we might be surprised to remember that it is Easter day itself. It is the very day of this shocking resurrection experience, but the disciples of Jesus are hiding behind closed doors and living in fear. I think we can relate this year… Mary Magdalene, one of their own, has shared incredible news with them. She has already told them that she has seen Jesus alive, but they have yet not seen Jesus themselves. Maybe some of them might risk wondering if it really could be true. . . Others, as we know, dismissed her story entirely. They believed it to be an “idle tale.”

So there they are hiding behind locked doors, scared for their lives, and in this story, the resurrected Jesus chooses to meet them right there. He shows up on the other side of that locked door right in their presence. And what does he say? He speaks words of comfort: “Peace be with you,” he says. Then the story shares that after he greeted them with these comforting words, he “showed them his hands and his side.”

That’s kind of an interesting thing to do, isn’t it?
He showed them his wounds from the crucifixion.

The disciples were overwhelmed with joy in his presence. They had been locked away from life, and life met them right where they were. Jesus, risen to new life, stood among them, and the he commissioned them to service. He said, “As the Father has sent me, so I send you.” And he gave them the gift of the Holy Spirit. This moment changed everything for them, and all of them were called to new life. They were all astounded, and all of them were sent forward from his presence.

Well, all of them except Thomas.

Thomas wasn’t there in that moment when Jesus appeared to his disciples behind the locked doors. We don’t know what he was doing. Maybe he was behind locked doors somewhere else — social distancing — or maybe he was living outside with greater courage.

But this is what the story shares: He missed it. I can’t imagine what it would be like to hear all of this amazing news secondhand without encountering Jesus himself. Maybe Thomas had grief. Maybe he had isolation after missing out. FOMO. Maybe he had doubt about it all.

It seems to be that way. Thomas said to the rest of the disciples, “Unless I see the mark of the nails in his hands, and put my finger in the mark of the nails, and my hand in his side, I will not believe.” So Thomas continued to stay connected to these disciples, believing something different than they did and maybe feeling something different than they did.

Whatever he believed, and whatever he felt, Jesus met Thomas right in that place too. One week later, all the disciples were gathered together, and this time, Thomas was there. Interestingly, the story shares that the door was shut yet again, but Jesus appears in that house with them. He was among them, and once more, he said, “Peace be with you.”

Then Jesus looked straight at Thomas. Jesus met him in his grief. He met him in his isolation. He met him in his doubt. Jesus said, “Put your finger here and see my hands. Reach out your hand and put it in my side. Do not doubt but believe.”

Do not doubt but believe.
Believe, Thomas. . . that is, trust. . .

Jesus is there before Thomas, meeting him right where he was struggling.
Jesus is there before Thomas, as one who has known suffering and pain himself,
one who has known grief, isolation, and trauma in his body,
and that very one – the one who suffered and died – is risen to new life.

Both of these realities are overwhelmingly powerful. Jesus is risen from suffering and death. And God, found in the human embodiment of Jesus, is a God who still bears wounds. This God is one who knows what it means to suffer and chooses to bear those marks of woundedness forever. As theologian Nancy Eisland shared in her writings,* Jesus is the Disabled God. This is the God who meets Thomas, and this is the God who appears to us today.

Thomas is overwhelmed. Both of these realities – the suffering and the resurrection – are absolutely powerful. Thomas is overcome, and he exclaims with joy and wonder, “My Lord and my God!” He has moved from doubt to the highest profession of faith. Thomas sees the living God with wounds. He sees life standing before him, meeting him in his own place of woundedness. This changes everything.

Jesus didn’t leave Thomas out of the resurrection experience, and so I imagine that Jesus didn’t leave Thomas out of the commission either. “As the Father has sent me, so I send you.” In our scripture text, we don’t hear Jesus saying those words again, but I’m sure the calling remains constant. Thomas was included in that also.

And as we are gathered here this morning, we may very much be like Thomas. We carry own grief, isolation, and doubt, but gathered in community, we seek to remind one another that there is a God who is living and breathing — a God that journeys with us in suffering and the experience of death. A God who loves us to the core of our being, and one who commissions us to love others.

Maybe we can invite one another to hear those words for ourselves this morning. “As the Father has sent me, so I send you.” And here’s where it becomes challenging and life-giving at once:

If we are sent, even sent in a sense from inside our own homes,
If we are sent as the Father has sent Jesus,
If we are sent with the gift of the Holy Spirit,
we are being sent forward toward the world’s woundedness.

We are called to show up in solidarity in the presence of great suffering and pain. We are called to believe the stories behind that pain — never doubting, but believing. These stories of human pain are real.

And we are called to speak the new life of resurrection which God breathes into the world and desires for every human being and every community. That is how high this calling is. It is challenging and life-giving at once.

The God we worship chooses to bear wounds, and this God cares for those who carry their own wounds. But so often, people doubt not only God but the stories of the wounds themselves.

I have a friend named Sarah Watkins who wrote something succinct on Facebook, but I thought it spoke volumes in its power. She said, “If you want to be a good ally to someone, believe them. Do you know how often people who are marginalized and abused are doubted about their own experiences?”

She goes on to say,

“I believe you were assaulted.
I believe you were blocked from voting.
I believe you are in constant pain.
I believe the cop pulled you over because of your skin color.
I believe your boss/supervisor/colleague harassed you.

I believe you.”

We can believe, and when we do that among our neighbors, I think we are all called to new, resurrected life.

I’ll close with another story. On a couple of occasions, I’ve had the privilege to meet Dr. Allan Aubrey Boesak. Dr. Boesak is a prolific writer and theologian. He has a long history of being present alongside those marginalized and oppressed in South Africa and a number of other places.

During the Apartheid in South Africa. Dr. Allan Boesak served as an advocate for justice, working to change laws and restore dignity to so many who faced discrimination and were even killed because of the color of their skin.

I heard Dr. Boesak speak at the Next Church conference a couple years ago in Atlanta. He ended a keynote lecture there in a powerful way. He said that at the end of our lives, and at the end of time when God has reconciled all things, perhaps God will say to us, ‘Show me your wounds.’

He said,

In that moment – even as people of resurrection – if we have none to show, perhaps God will ask us, ‘Wait. Was there nothing worth fighting for?’

And in that moment, he said, even if we stand there with no obvious signs of solidarity, this very God will show us his hands and his wounded side, and we will know that we were worth fighting for.

“As the Father has sent me, so I send you.”

As we leave this time, we are called to journey with our neighbors, even locked inside our own houses.
We have stories to believe.
We have truth to tell.
We have human lives worth advocating beside.
We have resurrection to live.

To this we say thanks and yes.

Amen.

–Renee Roederer

*Nancy Eisland wrote about this in her book, The Disabled God: Toward a Liberatory Theology of Disability.

Silly, minuscule, and melting, he bides time with the daffodils, glad to take form before he waters the emerging spring.

—Renee Roederer

Image description: A vegetable, bean soup I made. It’s in my favorite, blue bowl.

I am very committed to not getting the coronavirus (or of course, passing it on). So with the exception of a trip to the bank drive through, two walks in the neighborhood a while back, and taking out my compost, recycling, and garbage, I have stayed in my house for 33 days. I imagine you might have a streak that long also.

The truth is, I don’t want to get that sick. I have a classmate from high school who got the virus and had a high fever for 17 days straight. (She’s doing much better, thank goodness!) My body has historically not done well with high fever, so I don’t want to risk that personally. I think of people who have much bigger vulnerabilities too. This virus is difficult and unpredictable.

This is why I’ve ordered my groceries for delivery.

It’s important to note, by the way, that this is a total privilege. It reveals something about my socioeconomic status that I can work from home, at least for the time being, and that I am in a position to choose not to go out. It’s led to some disruptions, of course, like when my grocery order was canceled on Sunday (see that post) after which I struggled to find a new delivery for a while (now I have one coming  next Tuesday). But many people can’t make a choice to stay in. This is privilege.

In the midst of this, however — staying in my cabin and keeping up my non-fever — I’ve noticed that I’ve come to appreciate small things much more.

When my grocery order was canceled, I was bummed, but not too concerned because I’ve been freezing soups in preparation for something like this. I’ve started pulling them out of the freezer. But last night, I decided to cook whatever I could find. I threw in all my last fresh ingredients. It was a hodgepodge of things… a little of this, this, and this. Sure, what the heck, how about this.? And hmm… what if we throw in the last bit of the queso from Chipotle..?

And you know what? I think this was the best soup I’ve ever made. It was my throw-all-the-rest-of-the-things-in-there soup, and it was literally the best. I didn’t even know I had enough ingredients for a best-ever soup. It included some of the frozen things, and they added a lot.

And eating that soup… in my cabin non-fever… it was just… glorious. I savored every bite.

This is a bizarre time, and trust me, I never thought I would be living this life chapter in this way. And in our own unique ways, we’re all experiencing the oddities and anxieties of this time. But sometimes, the small things give us delight in whole new ways.

Like a throw-it-all-together soup.

Oh, also, it snowed hard this morning. I might get to make that snowman after all!

–Renee Roederer

Image Description: Snow on the branches in my backyard.

Image Description: A small snowman with sticks for arms. I wish I could have made one!

These days, my mail comes as late as 7pm. Yesterday, it didn’t come at all.

Snow fell hard in Michigan for a few hours yesterday and accumulated. I sincerely considered going outside to build a 1-2 foot snowman after I finished some tasks. It melted before I was done.

I turned on some music yesterday and went for a 20 minute run inside my house. There’s a loop in the house, so I just ran indoors.

What a weird time we’re living. Might as well embrace parts of it.

–Renee Roederer

 

Image Description: A french horn. Public domain image.

In the midst of stay at home orders, church services have changed quite a bit. Over the last five weeks, I’ve been Zooming with my local church in Ann Arbor. Though separated in our various homes, our time together online has been meaningful and surprisingly intimate. In some very real ways, we’ve grown closer. It’s a reminder that church has never been the building. Church is always the community.

While communities are all dispersed from one another, Zoom has bridged some distance too. Because after this service was over on Sunday, I zoomed right into another one. I was able to join my folks at Farm Church in Durham, North Carolina. Every time I visit, I love being with this community. Typically, we spend an hour outside getting dirty while gardening. Then we come inside to worship in ways that are creative and meaningful. My mentor was the co-planter of this community (pun intended), and it has been special for me to follow this community from the the beginning, when it was merely an idea and a dream (by the way, a literal dream — like a middle of the night one — check it out).

It was Easter Sunday. And while I would do just about anything for this pandemic and quarantine to end, I also recognize that it has allowed me to do things I wouldn’t be able to do otherwise, like be with Farm Church on Easter.

And I love how Allen Brimer, pastor and co-planter, started our time together. It was appropriate to the day and wonderfully silly. He talked about resurrection as a holy disruption, so… we were invited to be disruptive. He gave instructions, and then we were off to make disruptive sounds.

GO! People started vocalizing, and I immediately ran to get a pot and pan. Others did the same. There we were banging, yelling, making silly sounds, and then…. bwahhhhhhhhh… someone just started playing a french horn. And we all burst into laughter.

It was such a goofy, wonderful, perfect surprise.

Holy disruption. This time we’re living is painful and dangerous. It’s disrupting our daily lives and limiting what we can do. I have no desire to assign silver linings to it. That being said, midst of it all, I suppose it is resurrection-like when we are able to connect differently. I can Zoom into Farm Church, sure. But beyond that, it is also inviting us to connect differently — not just in format (something like Zoom) but in substance. We are invited to take care of each other on a whole different level, and I see expressions of this almost daily. We are invited to realize we are more connected than we think we are. This aspect is a Holy Disruption we need.

—Renee Roederer

 

Image description: A brown and black mat says “Welcome,” and is placed before a yellow front door which is slightly ajar.

Last night, I wheeled my garbage and recycling bins to the curb for this morning’s trash day. A woman was outside in the diagonal, across-the-street yard, and she was playing with a cat. I turned around to walk back up the driveway when I heard from behind me,

“Hello, neighbor!”

With enthusiasm, I whipped right around and said, “Hi!” I’ve had no in-person contact for four weeks. Of course, I would welcome this greeting from across the street.

She continued, “I just wanted to say if there’s anything you ever need, we’re happy to help.”

So nice.

“That’s really kind of you!” I projected over the distance. “Same here. My name’s Renee.”

“What?”

“My name’s Renee,” I repeated.

There was a pause, in which I now think she was asking herself, “What did I hear? How does she know?”

“My name’s Renee,” my neighbor said.

“For real?” I asked.

“Yeah!”

“Me too!”

We both laughed with delight.

I don’t know if she moved in recently, or if my double has been there the whole time without me knowing. Either way, it was a joyful moment. She said when all this is over, they plan to have a barbecue, and she’d love for me to come. I look forward to meeting my neighborly counterpart.

When I walked back inside, I kept laughing. My other neighbors saw me and smiled. I chuckled at this thought: What is our plural? Are we neighbor Renees, or are we neighbors Renee? Like mothers-in-law?

I choose the second. The neighbors Renee are delighting in greeting one another and are planning for a future barbecue.

–Renee Roederer

Image Description: Two people are standing near water, and they have their arms placed together in the shape of a heart.

My Easter evening began with a big bummer.

Last Monday, I placed an order for grocery delivery. It’s hard to get one scheduled at all, so I did this at 3am, and that seemed to work. When completing the order, the sole option was flexible scheduling. My groceries would be delivered sometime between Wednesday and Sunday. I was glad.

As Sunday approached, I was on the last day of the window, so I knew this was the one. With eagerness, I looked forward to this delivery throughout the day. I’ve had so little contact with the outside world, so it’s kind of nice when people drop off food. Even though I know what’s going to be in those bags on my porch, it feels like a total surprise has arrived. I am manufacturing surprise! (And with great gratitude for the workers too. We should tip them big).

I am slightly embarrassed to say this, but it’s funny, so I’ll share anyway. I was so eager for this grocery delivery, that at one point, I started singing that goofy song from The Music Man around the house:

“Oh ho, the Wells Fargo wagon is a comin’ down the street! Oh please let it be for meeeeeeee!”

(Sidenote: I completely forgot Ron Howard was in this, and while watching the video, that made me laugh).

As the evening approached, I especially anticipated the Easter treats I ordered for myself. I was looking forward to one item in particular: Cookies and Cream Ice Cream. My favorite. And I hadn’t had any ice cream in a long time.

But then at 5:30pm, I got a text and an email:
Your order has been canceled.

Not delayed, but canceled.

Fortunately, I’ve been freezing some food here and there as I’ve been cooking, so I have more to eat while I figure out something else. But I was bummed. Things are difficult for stores and workers right now, so it’s very understandable. But…
Big Easter Bummer.

I shared this with a group of good friends on our collective Slack channel, and right away, I got a call from one of them. She lives 1200+ miles away in Houston, and she said, “Can I buy you dinner tonight? I’d really like to do that.”

One of my best friends, all the way in Texas, had dinner delivered to my doorstep in Ann Arbor — not because I was totally out of food but simply because she wanted to do it. I was so touched. This was an even better surprise than the one I tried to manufacture for myself. First and foremost, I appreciated the surprise of her kindness, but also… she surprised me with four huge cookies in the bag!

Without naming her, I posted this story on Facebook, and then, less than an hour later, I found even more abundance in my friendships.

I heard my doorbell ring. “Who could that be?” I thought as I looked out the window. When I saw more food on my doorstep, I knew exactly who it could be because this couple had once delivered Christmas cookies to me in the same way. I looked up, and I was right. There he was getting in his car. He saw the Facebook post and came right over.

And… he brought the item I had told no one about.

On my doorstep, there was a container of glorious, homemade cookies and cream ice cream.

Friends are a miracle.

—Renee Roederer

This is a sermon I prepared for Northside Presbyterian Church in Ann Arbor this morning on Matthew 28:1-10. The video above is from Facebook Live. If you have any challenges accessing the video in this post, feel free to go here.

Matthew 28:1-10

After the sabbath, as the first day of the week was dawning, Mary Magdalene and the other Mary went to see the tomb. And suddenly there was a great earthquake; for an angel of the Lord, descending from heaven, came and rolled back the stone and sat on it. His appearance was like lightning, and his clothing white as snow. For fear of him the guards shook and became like dead men. But the angel said to the women, ‘Do not be afraid; I know that you are looking for Jesus who was crucified. He is not here; for he has been raised, as he said. Come, see the place where he lay. Then go quickly and tell his disciples, “He has been raised from the dead, and indeed he is going ahead of you to Galilee; there you will see him.” This is my message for you.’ So they left the tomb quickly with fear and great joy, and ran to tell his disciples. Suddenly Jesus met them and said, ‘Greetings!’ And they came to him, took hold of his feet, and worshipped him. Then Jesus said to them, ‘Do not be afraid; go and tell my brothers to go to Galilee; there they will see me.’

What does it feel like to wake up on Easter morning…

… while scattered from the presence loved ones?
… while locked away in our houses?
… while taking precaution?
… while fearing for safety?
… while in grief, grappling with loss—
loss of loved ones?
loss of any sense of normality in our daily lives?

Each year on this morning, I try to imagine what it must have felt like in that 1st century context, after the disciples of Jesus had gone through the trauma of both witnessing and hiding from the crucifixion. There is a sense in which that set of experiences is truly beyond me, but this year, I feel like we are closer to it. I feel like I am closer to it.

Every question I’ve asked so far could be applied to that context and to our current context.

This year brings no pollyanna Easter. But within this story, we may find curiosity…Could love break into our experience? Could hope? Could life itself? The God of Life? Life surprising us?

As I think about this story, and as I think about our unfolding stories, I think about dashed hopes. We can name them in the story; we can name the in our unfolding stories.

All of Jesus’ disciples, helpers, and friends had followed him for three years of their lives. They took risks to do this. They left their work, their homes, and some of them left their families. Now it seemed as though it had all been for nothing.

Their hopes must have seemed truly dashed. They had lived in awe, knowing that life was changing as they followed this Jesus. He was ushering in the Kingdom of God right before their eyes. He was loving boundlessly and healing those who were suffering. They knew they were witnessing something – Someone – beyond anything they could have imagined, but now, their loving One, their healing One. . . was lying dead in a tomb. After Jesus was interrogated, tortured, and disfigured beyond their recognition, he was crucified. Jesus died in a way that was humiliating, and his death was painful and long. Their hopes must have felt truly dashed.

Now they lived in fear.. The last 48 hours were terrifying as they watched Jesus’ arrest and death, and surely they knew that they could be next. The gospel stories give us a picture of the disciples together after Jesus’ death, waiting and watching. They hid behind locked doors. Of course, it made sense to do such a thing; they didn’t know what would be next for them. They must have been living in complete terror. I can hardly wrap my mind around that kind of fear.

And so you can imagine how brave and dedicated those women were when they ventured out to Jesus’ tomb very early on Sunday morning. . . They addressed their loss, faced their crushed hopes, and faced their personal fears as they brought spices to anoint and care for Jesus’ broken and disfigured body.

But as they arrived, they faced a new reality that was beyond their imagination. As the Gospel according to Matthew shares the story, they arrived at the tomb to an earthquake, and a messenger arrived, saying, “Do not be afraid; I know that you are looking for Jesus who was crucified. He is not here; for he has been raised, as he said. Come, see the place where he lay. Then go quickly and tell his disciples, “He has been raised from the dead, and indeed he is going ahead of you to Galilee; there you will see him.” This is my message for you.’ 

In this version of the telling, they didn’t even go inside. They just ran away with fear and joy. Fear and joy… those two experiences don’t often go together. But they were met with surprise beyond their greatest comprehension. It shifted the painful reality they were living, but it was also completely outside of any experience they had ever had before. Life still had no normality. It was shifting greatly.

And then as they ran, Jesus met them. He also said, “Do not be afraid.” And he said, “Go and tell my brothers to go to Galilee; there they will see me.”

My brothers… My siblings… Go to Galilee. There you will see me.

This is my favorite part of this particular Easter text. Matthew is the only one who says it like this.

Yes, in one sense, the story continues just like that. Later in this chapter, at the very close of the Gospel, the disciples go to Galilee and meet with the resurrected Jesus who gives them the Great Commission.

But I also love these words from Jesus — Go to Galilee; there you will see me — because it takes them right back to where the story began. It takes them back to the place where all the stories of Jesus unfolded. It takes them to the place where life unfolded.

There you will see me. There you will find life. There you will live life.

Return. As I am living, continue to live — continue to truly live. This is always much more than breathing and existing. It is about living these stories, ever anew — enacting love, healing, and joyful surprise. In fact, it is letting ourselves be surprised that these are possible and that they continue to emerge, even if sometimes, they are there alongside pain and grief.

Live.
Keep living these stories.
There you will see me.

And so I wonder… as we return to Galilee and these stories, as we allow them to speak to our own unfolding stories, might we find ourselves alive alongside Jesus’ living? Might we also find ourselves alive alongside his way of living? Does this story call for our resurrection too?

David Johnson, one of my professors from my time at Austin Seminary, once said this: “There are only two Easter sermons: 1. This is extraordinary and hard to believe, but it changes everything. 2. This is a crock, and we have to figure out some symbolic way of making it believable. I’m going with #1.”

I’m with him on this. I want resurrection to be extraordinary and to make a difference in our actual lives. When are right in the thick of it, it’s hard to believe that’s possible, but then again, resurrection is always a surprise. We never think it’s possible. We are often shocked by it.

And then we testify to it.

I know, even as we are scattered, even as we are grieving, even as we are afraid, we have stories of our lives becoming enlivened by this story, and in fact, by all the stories of Galilee. We have stories of our own life stories intersecting with one another and participating the love of God — enacting it and making it real, sometimes really surprisingly so.

So why not call these to mind?
Why not go to Galilee and live them again?
Why not live our woven stories together again?

Perhaps we will find life there, even the very presence of Jesus, even the very love of God, even the very presence of ourselves, our loved ones, our communities, and our world enlivened.

May the tomb be open. And may our lives be opened to this Great Mystery.

And so we dare to say it again,

He is risen,
He is risen indeed!
Alleluia!

–Renee Roederer