Smuggling Grace

When I find myself driving and jamming to a song on the radio, it’s usually because I love that particular song, or it perfectly syncs with my mood. But yesterday, I found myself beaming with smiles for a whole different reason. A song brought me to a quirky, funny memory.

Did you ever have an imaginary friend when you were a kid?

I did, when I was four. But my friend was not from any typical, imaginary friend category.

A friend my age…? No.

An animal…? No.

A toy come to life…? No.

My imaginary friend was…. wait for it…

Yep. My imaginary friend was Davy Jones of the band The Monkees.

I am literally laughing aloud right now as I type this blog post. Such an overly-specific imaginary friend!

Davy became my bud because as a four year old, I loved watching The Monkees on their exceedingly cheesy Nick at Nite television show. Davy and I would play games, and for a brief period of time that I remember, I would buckle a seat belt for him in the car.

Yesterday, while driving to Royal Oak, Michigan, the Monkees’ song, “I’m a Believer” came on the radio. I smiled at my childhood memory and laughed. I also like the song though I’m no longer a believer that Davy Jones is buckled in next to me in my car. (And, you know… thankfully. Though I suppose I could then ask him directly, “Davy, what were you and your boys thinking when you recorded this song?”)

I didn’t ask Davy anything yesterday in my car. But to myself, I thought, “This is funny. I should blog about this. Or maybe put it in a future comedy set.”

But then I thought, “Wait… but is this also kind of embarrassing?”

It’s a quirk.

It’s both funny and embarrassing. And also endearing. And also, as I’ve already said, super overly-specific in a delightful way.

So I share.

But mostly, I share the invitation to love your quirks today.

–Renee Roederer

This sermon was preached at Starr Presbyterian Church in Royal Oak, Michigan and was focused upon the story that is told in John 12:20-36.  The audio recording is above and a written manuscript is below.

I imagine that the people were perplexed… Jesus, his disciples, and many others were at the festival of the Passover in Jerusalem. That week had been a whirlwind of events, many perplexing and unexpected. In the midst of it all, Jesus’ name and reputation were growing.

In the chapter before our passage this morning, Jesus stays in the town of Bethany, and while there, he raises a man named Lazarus from the dead. This took place just six days before the Passover. This is perplexing and astounding — certainly for the characters in the stories, but many years later, it may also seem bewildering to us as well.

And then, after raising Lazarus from the dead, Jesus came into the city of Jerusalem in a stunning way. John tells the story of it here after these events when we typically hear it during Holy Week. As Jesus rode into the city, people waved palm branches and shouted, “Hosanna! Blessed is the one who comes in the name of the Lord, the King of Israel.”

In fact, some Greeks were at the festival as well, and they wanted to speak with Jesus, so his disciples sent for him. We don’t really hear what the Greeks ask him. We only hear his response.

He begins to talk about the Son of Man… who is this Son of Man?

Jesus says that, “The hour has come for the Son of Man to be glorified.” What does that mean?

And then he talks about this imagery: “Very truly I tell you,” he says, “Unless a grain of wheat falls into the earth and dies, it remains just a single grain; but if it dies, it bears much fruit.”

And then he says some words that might make us uncomfortable, even as they might have made the characters in the story uncomfortable: “Those who love their life lose it, and those who hate their life in this world will keep it for eternal life. Whoever serves me must follow me, and where I am, there will my servant be also.”

What does Jesus mean when he talks about our life in this way? He’s perplexing.

And he says, “When I am lifted up from the earth, I will draw all people to myself.”

I’m not sure the people present knew what to make of all of this… They just asked questions: “We’ve heard from the law that the Messiah remains forever. How can you say that the Son of Man must be lifted up? Who is this Son of Man?”

They are confused. Even though we know where this story leads, these kinds of words make us confused or uncomfortable too.

And Jesus says, “The light is with you a little while longer. Walk while you have the light.” Walk, he says. Follow. It seems that following him is light. He says, “Walk while you have the light, and believe in the light, so that you may become children of light.” That sounds like life. That sounds like Jesus is inviting us into something.

We can be honest with one another. Jesus can be confusing.

And the Gospel of John is different than the other Gospels. It’s a theological Gospel, which isn’t to say that the others don’t have a theology attached. Certainly, they do. But in this Gospel, Jesus gives all kinds of theological discourses. Sometimes, he says the kinds of things we wouldn’t expect in typical conversation. That seems to be true here.

I know I don’t typically make grand analogies about loving life… and losing life… and grains falling into the earth, and being lifted up from the earth… in my everyday kinds of conversations. I imagine you don’t either. But I think the author of this Gospel is up to something here. He places great theological invitation in Jesus’ words — not as some kind of verbatim record of what happened on one particular day in a particular, historical account 2,000 years ago. The author of this Gospel places words and meaning in the conversations of Jesus which invite these things to be true for us now. They become an invitation now.

Jesus might sound a bit cryptic and perplexing if we imagine these words taking place in an everyday conversation. But they are written for an audience. They are invitations now. Wherever we are, even 2,000-plus years from the life of Jesus, time collapses and we are invited into a new way of life for this moment.

And so Jesus talks about life — losing life, allowing his life and ours to be lost into meaning that is greater than simply living out our chronological days. We lose our lives into his vision, and we gain greater life, bearing fruit. We become children of light.

We do this by following him. Sometimes, that involves taking risks. Sometimes that involves giving up security. Sometimes that involves trusting that God is calling us — really and truly calling us, beckoning us to new life, new ventures, new connections with our neighbors, and new flourishing that we’ve yet to dream about.

A mentor of mine once had a dream. And it changed his life. And it changed many lives. It’s still doing that. I could tell you that story, as I know it well but I think it’s best to hear it from him. So I’d like to share this video today from Ben Johnston-Krase and Allen Brimer, the co-planters of Farm Church.

This is just one example.

Friends, where is God calling you? Where and how is God calling us? What dreams are emerging?

You know, sometimes we come to worship — and sometimes, I do this as the pastor too — and we get in a rut. We don’t expect that anything significant will happen. But every time we are together, we are being invited anew. We are being invited now.

So how is Jesus calling us to follow him and walk toward the light right now?

What do we need to lose, and what do we need to give up, so that we can bear fruit and gain the life that God calls us to — right now? this very day?

–Renee Roederer

In addition to the post I wrote yesterday, I’d also like to share a poem written by Julie Quiroz. Julie Quiroz organizes with Transforming Justice Washtenaw, one of the communities most active in advocating for a Police Oversight Commission in Ann Arbor.

I find her words to be beautiful and deeply moving.

-Julie Quiroz

Presence matters. It sets the tone.

And of course, it does much more as well. But that was one of the points of reflection that stayed with me last night. Collective presence showed up in a large way as the Ann Arbor City Council began to deliberate upon an ordinance proposed by the Police Oversight Task Force. The turnout was huge, and that set the tone for the meeting.

There is a great deal of history behind the work of the Police Oversight Task Force and the ordinance they just proposed. I could write a paragraph or two about that, but it wouldn’t do justice to the stories behind that history. Behind the history lie stories of trauma in relationship to the Ann Arbor Police Department — harassment, abuses of power, surveillance and over-policing, and four years ago, the death of Aura Rosser, a Black resident in Ann Arbor who was shot and killed by AAPD Police Officer David Reid.

Keeping those stories as the backdrop, the history is far from a simple summary. Black residents of Ann Arbor have been pushing for an citizens oversight commission since the 1970s. When Aura Rosser was killed, several organizing collectives also began working consistently in that direction, amplifying voices of residents who had been calling for oversight for decades. Since 2013, these have included the Ann Arbor Human Rights Commission, the Ann Arbor Alliance for Black Lives, Transforming Justice Washtenaw, the Collective Against White Supremacy, the Huron Valley Democratic Socialists of America, the Interfaith Council for Peace and Justice, and the Ann Arbor Friends Meeting, among others. Many individuals from the community have added their voices as well.

After years of advocacy in this direction, the Ann Arbor City Council voted to form a Police Oversight Task Force, and after appointing particular individuals to serve (representatives were proposed by the Human Rights Commission) the Task Force began its work in 2018, which involved discerning, deliberating, debating, and drafting a proposed ordinance toward a vision for the formation of a permanent Police Oversight Commission.

The Task Force worked on this for six months and spent thousands of volunteer hours in this direction. And the community pushed them hard. Directly-impacted individuals and organizers were tenacious in showing up and demanding a vision for the future Commission which is 1) fully independent (among other aspects, not allowing law enforcement officials to serve on the Commission) 2) adequately funded, 3) supported with subpoena power, 4) and trauma-informed in protecting residents who make complaints, committed to uphold confidentiality whenever possible.

And then… Howard Lazarus, the City Administrator of Ann Arbor, drafted an alternative proposal which could subvert the work of the Task Force entirely. As City Administrator, Howard Lazarus is tasked with placing state laws and the city charter in conversation with this proposed ordinance so that City Council can reconcile any discrepancies should there be any. (By the way, there is dispute about potential discrepancies between Howard Lazarus and attorneys who served on the Task Force). But rather than make amendments to the proposal, he just drafted another document which subverted all four aspects I have mentioned above: 1) independence, 2) adequate funding, 3) subpoena power, and 4) trauma-informed confidentiality for complainants.

The Task Force listened to the community, particularly those directly-impacted from abuses of power by police, and through a process that was painstakingly hard, they proposed an ordinance that represented collective perspectives. Last night, however, there was deep concern and anger that one person in power, removed from direct-impact, might single-handedly subvert the entire process.

So the community showed up. Presence set the tone.

There was a huge turnout last night, and that in and of itself made a statement. The original agenda had placed Howard Lazarus’ presentation first, but City Council members made a motion to begin with the Task Force presentation instead. While members of the Task Force were not always in agreement in their own meetings, there seemed to be a great deal of unity against the City Administrator’s document and its implication. Their collective presentation was quite strong.

But above all, I kept thinking about presence. The turnout was huge, as was the implication of what the community was demanding. I found myself convicted by those who showed up and did the hard work when others were distant and there was less of a crowd.

And I kept thinking… within this presence tonight, others are represented too, people whose experiences are present… Aura Rosser and her family… people who initiated and organized activist circles… people who have known harassment and intimidation… people who have known state violence… young people… elders… and people whose experiences could be made better if leaders will have courage to move where the community is asking them to go.

Presence matters.

–Renee Roederer

Please also read a powerful poem about this meeting by Julie Quiroz. She organizes with Transforming Justice Washtenaw, one of the communities advocating most strongly for a Police Oversight Commission in Ann Arbor:

City Council Poem By Julie Quiroz

This is the field in Marktoberdorf, Germany. I took this photo in 2010, five years after my original experience. In 2005, the field was bright yellow with wildflowers. Whatever the season, it’s a gorgeous view.

When I ponder an experience of transcendence… a sense that I was in the presence of something much larger than myself, surpassing what I expected… I think about a field in Marktoberdorf, Germany.

I think about how I marched to a field in a huff of anger, then departed with a sense of reassurance and wonder. I didn’t expect any of it, but it was exactly what I needed.

At age 23, I was on the verge of more than one major life transition. It was all a whirlwind of sorts. I was spending twenty days in Germany with the Cardinal Singers, the choir I had performed and traveled with for the last few years. With gratitude, we had been invited to participate in some prestigious competitions, most especially the Marktoberdorf Chamber Choir Competition.

And when I returned home to Indiana… Whew. In ten days, I would then get married, and soon after that, we would move across the country to Austin, Texas. That would be the first time I had moved from home. I chose this… I’m the one who applied to seminary, and I loved choosing this seminary, but suddenly, on the Germany trip, I struggled mightily with the move. We were definitely going. No turning back. Ian had chosen this too and had been accepted into a Ph.D. program at the University of Texas.

But what was I thinking?

I kind of panicked.

And I was also angry. I wasn’t ready to leave my friends, especially the people in this choir. We had created something incredible together over the last few years. I didn’t know yet… What happens when people move across the country? Do these kinds of friendships continue, or was I throwing that away?

I wasn’t ready to leave my church community. I had such a rich sense of belonging, and the people there had gotten me through so much. I didn’t know yet… What happens when people move across the country? Will I miss them too much? And will I miss out too much?

During a break in rehearsals, I departed for some time alone. I was infuriated about having to make these choices, potentially about losing so much. With deep frustration, I walked a pathway that was becoming increasingly familiar to me. It was a paved but often cracked, small road with gorgeous trees lining either side. Those trees with their vivid, green leaves lined the entire walkway until about a mile down the road, where everything opened up.

I had discovered this pathway about a week before and walked it many times since. The first time, I didn’t expect the opening, though each successive time was stunning in its own way. The shift was this: This road of trees suddenly opened to unexpected views. The Alps were in the distance on right, and a large, expansive field of wildflowers was on the left.

On this day, I think I was less interested in these, at least initially. I just wanted to be alone. So I walked and huffed. Then I turned left and stood in front of that field of wildflowers.

And I don’t know how to explain this, but something shifted, and I had an experience that felt very transcendent right there in the mundane moment of it all, beautiful though it was. And how to tell this story? Because in one sense, nothing happened, at least externally. There was no great miracle. Nothing fell from the sky. No supernatural action took place before my eyes.

But something happened internally. And it felt deeply spiritual. And I felt the presence of what I would call God, yet how do I name or describe what that means? Above all, I felt a sudden knowing. No voice fell from the sky, but if there would have been one, it would have said this:

There are people in Texas you have to meet, and without them, you will not fully be yourself.

Standing there, that is what I felt and quite suddenly, deeply knew. Something in me then rested in that knowledge, and the anger faded away. I trusted that it would be okay, even a gift to the ones I loved now, for me to become more fully who I was called to become. I knew that was calling me to Texas. I knew that was taking me to particular people in Texas.

And so I went.

When we lived in Texas, I thought of this experience many times. I even told the story a few times too. But I believe all of this resounded most strongly with me when I returned to Texas after the next move, which was to California.

At age 30, seven years after that experience in a field, I flew from Pasadena, California to Austin, Texas, returning for my ordination service. It would be held in a congregation where I did end up meeting an enormous amount of formative people in community.

One night before the service, I was alone in the upper loft of the house where we were staying with friends. I thought about all of this again. Then I wept with gratitude. It was overwhelming… I realized that the very next day, the church would be filled with people present to participate in ordaining me, and with the exception of Ian, to a person, the sanctuary would be filled with people I did not know until I made that move to Texas.

Having known them for years now, these were the kinds of people I could not imagine myself not-knowing. Every single person, and all the people collectively… It seemed that they were the fulfillment of that vision, the people I needed to know, the people with whom I would grow more deeply into myself… now with a myriad of names attached.

This was a deep, rich love with names, stories, and commitments attached.

Whatever transcendence is… whomever that Beyond-Presence is… surely, this calls us toward a deep, rich love with names, stories, and commitments attached.

–Renee Roederer

 

 

 

“But why doesn’t God have arms? I just… I wish God had arms.”

That’s what I lamented as we drove through the Texas Hill Country. The scenery was lush with long, green grasses, wildflowers, a creek, and pastures with longhorn steers. But I wasn’t noticing any of that beauty.

At age 26, I sat in the back of a Volvo and felt devastated about David’s cancer. Like a slow moving storm, I was experiencing the kind of lament that hovered over anger and despair in the five stages of grief, not moving much lately, just churning and pouring it all down.

It was all anticipatory grief. David was still with us and was his typical self too — funny, endearingly irreverent, curious, committed; still voraciously reading, still reassuring and loving of me. He was, in fact, concerned lately about how much pain I was feeling in all of this. The anticipatory grief of this particular, impending loss was enormous on its own, but along with it, this seemed to pull up previous losses I had not fully grappled with before. The cumulative grief demanded to be felt.

So feeling invited to do so, I sat in the back of Ben’s Volvo and lamented. I wanted to be comforted in all of this, and God was supposed to be this cosmic force of ultimate love in the world, right? But… was God just… a neglectful parent? Another example of this gnawing absence I was feeling? I mean, what good is a God that has no arms?

Maybe in some ways, that was a silly detail to fixate upon, but fixate I did. Yet in its own way, it was an apt fixation. When grieving like that, who doesn’t want to be held? Not metaphorically — which was my point — but actually held?

The Volvo arrived at Mo Ranch, a Presbyterian Camp and Conference Center in Hunt, Texas. We were there for College Connection, a week long event that in involved play, worship, shared meals, and reflection among college students. I was there to be a volunteer leader, assisting in worship and facilitating a small group.

Though I had not met him before, the keynoter for the week was a very beloved speaker in Presbyterian circles, well known for his work in youth ministry as a pastor and now, as a seminary professor. I heard him speak throughout the week and experienced him to be engaging, deep, funny, joyful, and inviting.

For most of the conference, I put on a face in public and pushed through my own leadership commitments. But privately, I felt miserable. Why doesn’t God have arms?

I just kept lamenting that, which was of course, a symbol for everything I was feeling. Then before the last worship service, I let myself voice that aloud once more.

The keynoter had become a friend during the week, and before that last service, we sat outside the hall, waiting for it to be unlocked so we could set up the space. With time then to spare, he asked me how the week had been for me. So I told him the truth. I talked about David, how much he meant to me, and what a gift he was in my life. I talked about cancer and the devastation of impending loss. I voiced the whirlwind of my feelings, and then, I eventually said it again:

“But why doesn’t God have arms? I just… I wish God had arms.”

The keynoter heard me meaningfully. And somehow, that conversation allowed me to enter that worship space with more vulnerability. This was a healing and wholeness service after all, and I let my public, putting-on-of-a-face fade.

I had a small role in that service. We had a time of anointing one another, placing a bit of oil on the foreheads of those who requested it with prayer. I participated in that. But when I was finished, I walked to the back of the hall and just sat in a chair totally dejected.

My eyes were closed with tears falling down my cheeks, so I didn’t really see this coming. But when he was finished with his part, seeing my sadness, the keynoter came to the back with me. I didn’t see him walk there. I only… felt his arms.

He absolutely bear hugged me. And I just melted into him.

I let the sadness be there, really and truly. But then I smiled. I already knew what he was doing before he said anything aloud.

But soon after he started to embrace me, he voiced it it. With great presence, he said,

“God does have arms.”

–Renee Roederer

I’m not a Spring Chicken anymore.

I like it. I’m intrigued by it. I’m curious how this opens different possibilities for conversation and connection.

Last week, over coffee, a young adult and I had a conversation about what it’s like to be a college student during the Trump administration. In the midst of this, I shared what it was like to be a college student during the years of the Bush administration. In the wake of 9/11 and the Iraq War, we witnessed threads of Islamophobia which have grown and contributed to this current political moment. In the wake of the same events, we saw an administration speak untruth about “weapons of mass destruction” in Iraq as justification to go to war. In the years since, we’ve had endless war, under many justifications, though I don’t suppose we often know what they are because we hardly ever talk about our ongoing wars. And lies are increasingly normalized in the current administration. These eras are different yet connected to one another.

When I started working as a campus minister, I was four years out of college myself. Last week, I did the math internally and realized that this politically engaged student was three years old when I started college. And she’s in her last year; this year’s freshmen were born the year I started college.

I’m not a Spring Chicken anymore.

I like it. I’m intrigued by it. I’m curious how this opens different possibilities for conversation and connection. And I am aware —  I’ve especially noticed this the last two years — that this opens a different kind of presence for me on campus. This is not only true in politics. This is true in relationships. Students and I are beginning to see ourselves as parts of different generations. This is new. I welcome it.

I’ve written before about being a Geezer Millennial. My high school class graduated in 2000 and serves as the upper bracket of the Millennial generation. Each year, I spend time with students who are the same ages, but I increasingly get older year by year. So over time in this experience of being a campus minister, I have gotten to know people throughout the range of the Millennial years. Now, this Geezer Millennial is spending time meeting the very youngest Millennials, and we’re right on the line of where a new generation begins.

I minister in very similar ways than I did right at the beginning, just four years out of college. But also, my embodied presence on campus is different now. I like it. I’m definitely aware that I can give from this in new ways.

–Renee Roederer

Last week, I was in the middle of doing mundane work tasks when I saw two Facebook comments from my 1st grade teacher. And my heart kind of soared.

Several years ago, I reconnected with her on social media, and I’m so glad for that. She is one of my most beloved teachers. As I’ve aged and time has stretched on, I’ve recognized the many ways in which she was supportive and influential. Some aspects of that support and influence have been obvious from the beginning; some have become even more clear with age.

I remember standing by the chalkboard and picking up a small violin. I wasn’t sure what I was supposed to do with that chin rest, or even that it was a chin rest, so I… just lay my entire head on it. Like it was a pillow of some sort. How do you hold this thing?

“No, like this,” she gestured, helping me hold it and look at the strings.

“I think that fits!” she said.

We were trying to figure out if this teeny violin would be the right size for me to start playing in the elementary school orchestra. She thought I had musical aptitude and decided to invite me in this direction, thinking that it would be good for me. So I started orchestra three grades early. I was now going to play this super small, stringed instrument with a bunch of 4th, 5th, and 6th graders.

It was good for me. To be honest, I never turned out to be especially apt at the violin, and I stopped playing it for good in 5th grade. But my 1st grade teacher had introduced me to music, and this wonderful direction would last much longer. She had originally invited me into orchestra because she liked my little, singing voice. I would eventually get a degree in vocal music. She initiated that direction.

Now that I’m older, I can also see that she was trying to give me an outlet for confidence, and she was seeking to give me an opportunity that was uniquely mine. While it’s definitely true that 7-year-old-me was capable of being quite a ham in the right setting (are you surprised?) at that age, I was also shy and very unsure of myself. My 1st grade teacher gave me a gift in this direction. To state it clearly, she loved me.

Ultimately, I tell this story today to speak to last week’s story. I want to ponder the gift of those Facebook comments. Most of all, I want to consider the presence of relationship over time.

Last week, my first grade teacher saw some of what we’re doing together in ministry at the University of Michigan, particularly the inclusive kind of community we’re seeking to cultivate, and she just praised it in those comments. Among other things, she called me a “good girl,” which is a remarkably 1st-grade-teacher thing to say.

When I saw that, I made a sound of glee and sat at my computer, beaming like a very old 1st grader.

I started thinking about how time is an illusion in some ways. We age, we grow, and we experience so much, but we are always at once, every age of ourselves at the same time. And this also means that the significant relationships in our lives remain present in very real and vital ways.

This means when we invest our presence toward love of another, that sticks around.

–Renee Roederer

 

 

This sermon was preached at First Presbyterian Church in Troy, Michigan and was focused upon the story that is told in Matthew 8:23-27.  The audio recording is above and a written manuscript is below.

The last few days, and even the last few hours, had been a whirlwind. Jesus and the disciples had connected with so many people — people whose lives existed on a large continuum of social location.

After Jesus finished teaching the Sermon on the Mount, he came down from the mountain, and an enormous crowd was following him. That’s when a leper, a social outcast, had the audacity to come and kneel before him, saying, “If you choose, you can make me clean.” And Jesus did choose, not only choosing to heal him, but also choosing to touch him — one carrying a contagious disease, one who had been cast out from connection in the community.

Then Jesus and the disciples entered Capernaum, a city in Galilee. And when they arrived, a centurion approached Jesus, a person who had been given power and authority. He was alarmed about the health of his servant at home. And Jesus merely spoke the word and healed this servant.

These two moments were extraordinary — the healing of a leper, the healing of a servant merely by speaking a word. The needs were great; the healing was great.

And then next, the need for healing came close to home. Jesus entered Peter’s house and soon learned that Peter’s mother-in-law was lying in bed with a fever. So he healed her, and then immediately, she began to serve a meal to Jesus, Peter, and the disciples. Meanwhile, all of these people from the growing crowds heard what had been happening. That very evening, many people came to Peter’s house, asking for healing. And the story says that “Jesus cast out the spirits with a word and cured all who were sick.”

Jesus and the disciples must have been amazed at it all — joyful and overwhelmed. After all, don’t we feel both joy and overwhelm in times of amazement?

This is the great whirlwind of all that had happened over the last couple of days, and this is the context of what was happening right before Jesus and his disciples got into a boat and began to travel across the Sea of Galilee.

Jesus had seen the large crowds continuing to follow them, and he said, “Let’s go to the other side.” So he got into a boat, and his disciples followed him.

I wonder what they were thinking as they began this journey… Maybe there was a sense of relief. All of this excitement had also been exhausting. Maybe there was a feeling of adventure. All of this had also been quite new, quite engaging. And now, they were traveling to the other side of these waters, and the other side would not be Galilee but Gadara, a city that was a member of the Decapolis and a center of Greek culture in the region. Who knows what they would experience there?

We don’t know what Jesus and the disciples were feeling, but they did enter that boat. They departed, away from crowds, away from excitement, away from exhaustion. Perhaps now, they were expecting smooth sailing, but of course, as we know, that’s not what happened.

The Sea of Galilee is actually pretty small. When we hear a word like ‘sea,’ we expect an expansive body of water. But the Sea of Galilee is only 13 miles long and at its greatest width, only 8.1 miles wide. This was not a large body of water. But despite its small size, the Sea of Galilee was known to produce very large waves, especially during storms.

A storm was developing. The story says that “a windstorm rose on the lake, so great that the boat was being swamped by waves.” The scene turned into chaos pretty quickly. They were on a small boat together, and all of water was entering that boat with them. Even though they were on a small body of water, they were in the middle of it with no more crowds to help them. They were there together, but with a great feeling of being alone as they tried to bail out that water. How could it be possible that they just experienced all of this vitality together just days and hours before, and now, they would conclude it all by sinking and dying in the middle of the Sea of Galilee? This must have felt surreal — how could that be true? And yet, that seemed to be right before them.

And what’s more, they had just watched Jesus do extraordinary things among their neighbors, but right now, in their chaos and panic, they looked over, and Jesus was sleeping. He was sleeping. No doubt, he was exhausted from all that had happened before, but when they saw him sleeping, they must have been terrified. Maybe they were understandably angry too.

They went and woke him up and said, “Lord, save us! We are perishing!” This seemed like the end to them. They were utterly terrified. And then Jesus says something unexpected,

“Why are you afraid, you of little faith?”

How could they not be afraid? The winds and the waves were pummeling their tiny boat. But then Jesus followed his question with action. He got up and rebuked the winds and the sea, and suddenly, there was a dead calm. He calmed that storm with his presence, and they were amazed. They were shocked. They were puzzled.

And they said to one another, “What sort of man is this, that even the winds and the sea obey him?”

And seemed as though they had gone from abject terror to awe. [1]

And while the first involved great risk and peril, the second was unsettling too. Awe can be unsettling in this way. They had feared that Jesus had abandoned him. Now they were in awe that a great presence was with them, a presence greater than they had expected… It was wonderful, and it was unsettling.

And so I wonder, what do we do with a story like this one? Is it unsettling to you and me?

It might be… because we could sit with it and think through its implications in ways that seem to say, “Jesus calms every storm. Jesus turns everything around. Jesus will save us from every peril.” We could sit with that implication, but it might unsettle us, because we know that is not always true.

We do live in a world with cancer… and war… and freak accidents… and poverty… and people who cause what seems to be infinite harm with never a consequence. We live in a world with depression… and family separations… and family estrangements… and addictions… and grief that seems larger than we can handle.

These are real, and sometimes, they seem to be pummeling our lives. Sometimes, it might even feel as though Jesus is sleeping.

But we of little faith… sometimes, just a little faith… come to discover moments, unexpected moments, when we sense that a presence greater than we have previously imagined is with us. Can you recall moments like that? I imagine we might have stories to share. And we experience moments like that, we feel awe… a sense of wonder, a sense of the sacred, mixed with perplexity, and mixed with a little bit of hope. Today, wherever we are and however we are, we are invited to rest into that, maybe even just a little bit, discovering that this presence loves us and is holding us fast.

Jesus himself will not be protected from all peril. In fact, the Gospel goes on to tell us that he loved so deeply, so broadly, so radically that the powers-that-be were threatened. He was unjustly arrested. He was unjustly murdered by the state.

It seemed as though all hope had been lost. But even here, we discover God’s presence — the presence of God found in Jesus found even on the cross, that instrument of ancient torture. We discover a God that says, “Where you suffer, I suffer. I am profoundly with you. I am profoundly for you.” And in the resurrection of Jesus, we discover a God that says, “I am calling you to new life, even here. Even in destruction, even in heartbreak, even in death.”

And here is one of the greatest mysteries of all. We ourselves are being invited to embody that kind of presence in this kind of world — this world that knows all of these things. We’re invited to step into that and perhaps invite ourselves and our neighbors to experience awe.

Years ago, when I was in seminary, I remember a classmate saying something so simple but so beautiful. In a prayer, she kept repeating a rhythm and a refrain. She said words like these, “God, may we add our care to your care. May we add our compassion to your compassion. May we add our presence to your presence.”

Maybe that is our prayer collectively today, that we might discover the presence of God as we dare to embody the presence of God in the world — not that we ourselves are God or little gods, but that our lives are truly accompanied, beckoning us to accompany other lives.

Perhaps this story unsettles us.

But perhaps, it also calls us. . .

(From here, our sermon moved toward celebration of communion)

–Renee Roederer

[1] I appreciate the commentary of the Rev. Robb McCoy on the Pulpit Fiction Podcast who spoke about the movement from fear to awe in this passage.

Photo: My very good friend Amanda sewed this labyrinth for me on the occasion of my ordination. It’s relaxing and fun to trace your finger toward the center.

Sometimes, we have to do the tasks we don’t particularly enjoy doing.

and

Sometimes we have to be present to aspects of life that are difficult, or unjust, particularly in community.

Both of these, though very different, take certain forms of resolve and commitment. They take resolve and commitment to be present, and they take resolve and commitment to participate in moving the larger picture toward creativity, restoration, wholeness, and vitality.

To do this, we have to keep a sense of purpose at the core of our reflection and action.

To do this, we have to keep joy at the center.

What gives you joy?

How do we bring it to the center… of our thinking? of our acting?

I’ve asked questions like these a few times lately on this blog. I think they’re important. They’re important to me now as I try some new endeavors.

It’s helpful to keep these at the center, so that when we come to the moments of

… needing to do the tasks we don’t particularly enjoy doing, and

… needing to be present to aspects of life that are difficult, or unjust, particularly in community,

we are energized for them — or at least, energized enough — because we are connected to the center of what gives us joy. We are connected to the larger picture and the why-we’re-doing-this of it all.

These give me joy:

-Hearing stories from students and young adults — large stories of formation and calling, and tiny, silly, wonderful stories from the daily-ness of life,

-Cultivating spaces where people feel a sense of belonging through connection, relationship, community, place, safety, a sense of return, and a sense of investing oneself,

-Connecting people to people in a myriad of ways — (have you met this person? do you know this group?) working on shared ideas, endeavors, and belonging in community groups; helping people feel connected to a larger sense of being rooted and related to one another (sometimes with wonderful surprise!) thinking expansively about care and connecting people toward care of one another (also sometimes with wonderful surprise! belonging is healing and life-giving!)

These are joy at my center.

What about you?

–Renee Roederer

This post is part of a series this week. Feel free to read the other posts as well:

Trying New Things
Trying New Things: Following the Leads