Smuggling Grace

I’ve written about this before, but it’s on my mind again this week, so I thought I’d share it once more. I love a particular quote from Frederick Buechner.

This quote has been voiced during milestone events in my life and the lives of people I love. I first heard it when a loved one spoke it aloud to frame my ordination service (that was so meaningful). I have voiced it when I’ve officiated weddings. I wrote it at the beginning of someone’s commencement letter.

There’s something special about this because the quote has become communitied. Ordination services, and weddings, and commencements. . . A whole bunch of people in my wider community know this quote and hold it dear. Here it is:

In the entire history of the universe, let alone in your own history, there has never been another day just like today, and there will never be another just like it again. Today is the point to which all your yesterdays have been leading since the hour of your birth. It is the point from which all your tomorrows will proceed until the hour of your death. If you were aware of how precious today is, you could hardly live through it. Unless you are aware of how precious it is, you can hardly be said to be living at all.

Yes, this is great for milestone days.

But also. . . Frederick Buechner didn’t write this about milestone days. His point is that every day — every single today — is this unique. Every day is a hinge moment. Every day is precious.

So every day this week, I’ve said this quote aloud first thing in the morning. I’ve invited this to frame my days. It doesn’t mean that every day is easy. I’ve actually waded through some challenges this week. It just means that every day is particular. Every day has value. Every day can teach us.

Today is precious.

–Renee Roederer

This quote was originally published in Whistling in the Dark and later in Beyond Words.

On Monday, I was a powerhouse of productivity. I worked through my entire to-do list. But not only that. Each time I finished an activity, I asked, “What should be the next step?” and from that question, I made a new list. Then, I finished that entire second list too. I had lots of energy, resulting in a plethora of check marks on paper.

Then, on Tuesday, I did no work at all. I still had energy, but it was a different kind of energy. I woke up thinking I was going to follow the same trajectory. But every time I sat down to begin, I just couldn’t get going. At first, I was frustrated. I have things that need to be done, and it certainly feels good to move through them. But then, I realized I needed a different kind of space. I needed to let go of a narrative that says, “Productivity is always better.”

Over the last few months, our wider family has experienced unexpected diagnoses and losses. It’s been a lot. On Tuesday, I just needed to tend to some space for that. It wasn’t all sad, actually. It was mostly connective. I felt a lot of love yesterday as I connected with loved ones — about these things, about other meaningful things.

Sometimes, we need to let go of a particular narrative and make space for one that is more foundational to who we are or what we need.

And boy, “Productivity is always better,” can really get in our way, can’t it? That’s a narrative we’ve often internalized. We live in a capitalist culture that tells our our worth lies in what we can produce. Whether we ourselves are Protestants or not, we live in a culture that has been influenced by the Protestant work ethic. I additionally live in a university town where imposter syndrome dynamics are nearly always at work.

“Who are you, and what do you do?”

That’s a question we might ask aloud. But within this narrative lie other questions, often asked of ourselves:

How much time do you work?
How busy are you, and how is that a badge of worth?
How much did you accomplish today?
How does my work compare to yours?
How does my organization compare to others?

Productivity can be fun, especially when it’s connected to what’s most meaningful in our lives. But “Productivity is always better”? Yeah, I have gratitude that we can kick that to the curb.

Bye.

–Renee Roederer

Also, as encouragement for tossing the to-do list aside, here’s a poem I wrote a while back. It’s called For the Goal.

During this season, I’ve been thinking a great deal about gratitude and living more fully in the present moment.

I have found this to be true:

Gratitude helps us
hold lightly, and
hold deeply.

These two things at once.

Perhaps it sounds a bit cheesy to pair those words together, a mantra of sorts, but I have found such a paradox to be true.

The practice of gratitude helps us hold experiences lightly, because we recognize that all things are constantly changing. Gratitude doesn’t seek to control people, situations, or outcomes. Instead, we can receive from all of these as they change.

The practice of gratitude helps us hold experiences deeply, because we recognize their value and are fully present. Gratitude connects us deeply with our daily lives and most especially, people. Gratitude strengthens connections and bonds.

I wonder what’s possible if we practice gratitude more intentionally?

–Renee Roederer

 

I participated in leading worship at Northside Presbyterian Church yesterday, a congregation that always has an extended period of time for children in the midst of their worship service. It’s called Children’s Storytime, and it’s typically interactive in some way. Yesterday, this ended up being true in a playful way, and it impacted the service over all. That’s because Northside Presbyterian Church met a new friend — one, particular stinkbug.

While sitting on the floor with the kids, I asked them if they noticed anything different about the sanctuary. They did. The chairs were facing a different direction, and the color purple was displayed in a few places. I was wearing a purple stole myself, and I asked the kids if they wanted to each put it on. “We’re all ministers,” I said.

Then I asked the kids if they knew why some of these things had changed. “It’s Lent!” I answered. I went on to talk about seasons. I asked about the seasons we typically have outside, and then I shared that the church has seasons too.

“You know, on may way here, I saw that some of the snow has melted, and I could see the grass. Have you ever had winters — or maybe certain parts of the winter — where the snow is so big that you don’t see grass for a long time?”

“Yeah,” they said.

“Sometimes, it can feel like we won’t ever see the grass again. But we will. It’s always there. You know, a lot changes inside our church sanctuary with church seasons, but one thing is always the same. We just find ways different ways of saying it. It’s that God loves us, all the time, no matter what. And we’re invited to love each other, all the time, no matter what.”

And that’s when a five year old said,

“Hey, guess what? There’s a stinkbug!”

Sure enough, there was a stinkbug crawling up the leg of the chair next to us.

“Should we tell this stinkbug that God loves stinkbugs? All the time?” I asked.

“I’m gonna tell him that it’s Lent!” the five year old said.

“Great!”

“IT’S LENT!” he said enthusiastically, though it was more of a loud whisper than a yell.

Ah, a chance to practice proclamation playfully! We’re all ministers after all.

After this time together, the kids went downstairs, and service took a serious turn as we addressed last week’s gun violence. But, believe it or not, we weren’t finished with the spontaneity of this particular stinkbug.

Whenever we prepare to receive an offering, in addition to giving resources in the moment, I always invite people to meditate on how they feel called to offer themselves this week in a sense of calling. I said something like that before we passed the plates. Then the music started.

After the offering was received, we all sang the Doxology, and I prayed in front of the person who held the offering plates. As soon as that was finished though, she then turned around and said to everyone. “I have to tell you this. The stinkbug is in the offering plate.”

Sure enough, the stinkbug was in there, crawling through the money, becoming an offering.

Then, as the service was ending, I gave a benediction while the stinkbug was walked around the rim of the offering plate. These are the kinds of experiences you can never plan. I’m so grateful for spontaneity! I’m so grateful that proclamation can start with play.

–Renee Roederer

Yesterday, Emma Gonzales, student at Marjory Stoneman Douglas High School in Parkland, Florida, spoke powerfully, demanding an end to gun violence. Have a watch: We Call BS.

Our children are rising up. Will we?

This sermon was preached at Northside Presbyterian Church in Ann Arbor, Michigan and is based on Matthew 5:21-43. A recording is above, and the written text is below.

–Renee Roederer

Today’s piece is a repost (which will be obvious since it mentions 2017!) but I thought it’s appropriate to today. Love comes in many forms. Love is loving us to being in many ways. Love is opening us to wonderment in many directions.

When was the last time you allowed yourself to truly receive? Or perhaps, when was the last time you opened your awareness more fully toward the gift of receiving?

Some of us have been socialized to be givers. And no doubt, giving can become an act of receiving too. It feels good to give from who we are and to experience connection with others.

But when the last time you allowed yourself to truly receive?

We might think of the big things — times when people reached out to us, nurtured us, created space for us, made a meal for us, gave us a gift. But we might think of the small things too — the sky is demonstrating its blueness, the chair is holding us up, the bird is singing.

I wonder if shifting our reference toward receiving — noticing it, allowing ourselves to be energized by it, resting in it — might change our day. I wonder how it might help us remember that we belong. I wonder how it might invigorate us. I wonder how it might increase our gratitude. I wonder if it might shift what’s possible.

–Renee Roederer

Sometimes, we let ourselves believe that experiences are valuable and valid only. . . if they’re explainable.

Of course, sometimes, marvelous things happen, and that ignites our curiosity. “How is that possible? How does that work?” This kind of questioning is expansive in its energy, deeply curious about how the world works and how we function within it.

But another kind of questioning can show up in ourselves that’s simply dismissive. “How could that be possible? Surely, that isn’t so. That’s ridiculous.”

Skepticism can be healthy and helpful. Needed, even. I’m certainly not knocking that in total. Instead, I’m talking about those moments when we stop being curious. When we’re so sure we know how the world works that our questioning (or our explanation points) become contracted instead of expansive. We stop marveling. We cease to believe that more is possible beyond what is easily explainable. We also come to this conclusion: Experiences are valuable and valid only. . . if they’re explainable.

We make explanation the benchmark.

But sometimes, marvelous things happen that we can’t explain. Sometimes beauty remains, unexplained. Maybe the beauty is more important than the explanation.

A few months ago, I wrote a post in a large Facebook group of clergy. I said,
“Unpopular Church Opinions. Go!”

330 comments followed. I’ll leave the details confidential, but many of us described beefs we have with church life. Some shared minority theological perspectives, wondering what folks in our congregations would think if they knew we had shifted our thoughts. And then, some (and I didn’t expect this) felt courage to share for the first time that they had experiences that might be thought of as mystical in some way. These were experiences beyond what is typical or explainable. People seemed to be encouraged by seeing this in one another. “Wait, you too?” “I never get to talk about this anywhere!” In our communities of faith — often, very cerebral communities — people would probably disregard such experiences.

Well, last week, I had a beautiful experience that I will leave unexplained.

I was in the midst of doing some work, specifically, reading on my laptop Kindle app while some music was playing on Pandora, and all of the sudden, I stopped because I had this sensation. It was a feeling of calm, followed by a feeling of awareness. In the awareness, I said,

“Someone’s praying for me right now.”

This is not something that happens to me typically.

I sat with it for about three seconds, and then said, “It’s Ellie.”* Somehow, I had a sense that it was Ellie. She’s my friend in the U.K. And I did feel a remarkable sense of calm. I looked at the time because I wanted to remember it. It was 1:37pm.

Later that evening, Ellie and I ended up chatting on Facebook about something else entirely when I said, “How many hours ahead are you from Eastern Standard Time?”

“Five.”

“Okay, this may sound really weird. . . but were you praying for me today? Because I had this sense that you were. And it was at 1:37pm EST.”

“Yes, I was! And that was it, exactly. I was walking outside on my way to a 7pm meeting at a local pub. It was about 6:40pm, and during that walk, I prayed a blessing for you — that you would feel peace.”

“Ellie, I did. It reached me!”

I can’t explain this. I don’t need to. It’s beautiful. I’m going let that beauty remain, unexplained.

Even if untypical, there may be a very natural way to explain such a phenomenon. Perhaps we are more connected than we think we are (I tend to believe this strongly!) I welcome the expansive, curiosity questions.

But my concern, the point of this post, is that we are so internally dismissive of some of our own experiences, that we may miss very real ways of perceiving, very real ways of being connected, very real ways of marveling because we’ve been socialized to discount them. But still, the beauty remains, unexplained.

–Renee Roederer

*Friend’s name changed

One of my best friends has a nightly ritual with both of her daughters. They are three and a half and one and a half,  both completely precious. Every night, after reading to them, my friend says these final words before they go to sleep:

“Who loves you?”

Then both girls go through this litany of naming who loves them (sometimes with help) — parents, grandparents, teachers, and friends. Sometimes the stuffed animals get named too.

I think this is a very dear practice. It’s wonderful that these girls rehearse love right at the end of the day before they fall into sleep.

Perhaps we’ve never taken a moment to go through a list of people in our minds like this, but. . . maybe that would actually be a good idea today. We never outgrow the need for this kind of awareness, a calling to mind of those who love us.

So I’ll ask us all the same question today:

Who loves you?

–Renee Roederer

Yesterday, I spent some time reading Elizabeth Drescher’s Choosing Our Religion: The Spiritual Lives of America’s Nones. It is truly an excellent book.

This book is a result of research project in which Drescher traveled across the country and conducted in-depth interviews with people who are religiously unaffiliated. Often, when asked about their religious affiliation on surveys, a sizeable, growing portion of people in the United States choose the answer ‘None.’

This only represents a demographic bracket, of course. Those who choose this answer are not monolithic in their beliefs or practices. Drescher seeks to enter deeper conversations that hear religiously unaffiliated people on their own terms. This is why I like her work so much. Many of the studies out there define Nones — even through the word None itself! — by what they are not (religiously affiliated) rather than who and what they are. Drescher takes a completely different approach. A much better one, I believe.

Yesterday, while reading her chapter about ethics, I found this to be interesting:

Of the 100 people Drescher interviewed about ethics, 20 people independently brought up the parable of the Good Samaritan in their conversations. They shared that they admired this story and wanted to see people live this way.

It’s kind of stunning that this came up 20 different times. Some of this, undoubtedly, is connected to the fact that many Nones were raised in Christian congregations before they deaffiliated. But the content of the story itself resonates with a desire to see ethics practiced in a particular, relational way. One that is willing to love to the point of risk, even when — and perhaps especially when — presented with difference.

Drescher writes, “The appeal of Jesus to Nones has nothing to do with the institution developed by his followers, but rather with his willingness to walk across religious and other social boundaries, through the lives of ordinary people, attending to their suffering, healing their afflictions, welcoming them into conversation, and sharing stories of hope. For Nones, this stands in contrast to the doctrinal professions of faith of that have characterized the Christian tradition since the Reformation.” 1

Simply put, many Nones responded that they don’t often see these kinds of ethics practiced in Christian congregations:

“Few churches, it seemed to Nones, expressed their identities in prophetic, radically other-oriented registers, even to their own members. For many, Jesus is the cute, swaddled infant of Christmas pageants; the kindly Good Shepherd who leads us beside still waters; the regal risen Christ who triumphs over sin and death. But, he is not often a dude who would leave the comfort of a cozy church coffee hour with folks of his own social milieu to part with cloak and coin for the benefit of the dazed Iraq war vet with two pit bulls at the highway underpass down the road from church.” 2

Not all interviewees were directly critical, but they expressed a desire to see people stretch their ethics of care beyond their own circles:

“Still, even those who did not criticize or condemn churches and their members for failing to live up to the Good Samaritan ethic seemed to feel that institutional religions were not up to the challenge of offering genuinely self-sacrificing service to others. Lily Hampton, an Agnostic, argued,

‘The big church organizations— Habitat [for Humanity] or whatever— will do things like that. Or, maybe after a hurricane. But day to day, week to week, you don’t really see [church members] where you live being involved— out on the streets with homeless people or protesting injustice. I think most of them are just trying to hold on to the members they have, to make them happy and comfortable. They take care of their own, in my experience.'” 3

Even if Christian congregations practiced such ethics in ways that were more visible, Nones would not necessarily affiliate in traditional ways. There are other cultural factors that influence how Nones relate generally to affiliation.

But. . . may I share one more quote? I also ran across this one yesterday from Walter Bruggemann:

“The crisis in the U.S. Church has almost nothing to do with being liberal or conservative; it has everything to do with giving up on the faith and discipline of our Christian baptism and settling for a common, generic U.S. identity that is part patriotism, part consumerism, part violence, and part affluence.” 4

I think many religiously unaffiliated people would love to see Christians live in greater alignment with Christian ethics. We Christians (I am one of them) fall short even when we do seek to practice them, but. . . have we allowed such ethics to be crowded out by other drives and forces?

This parable came up 20 times. Perhaps our ethics need conversation and confession.

–Renee Roederer

1 Drescher, Elizabeth. Choosing Our Religion: The Spiritual Lives of America’s Nones (Kindle Locations 4671-4672). Oxford University Press. Kindle Edition.

2 Ibid. (Kindle Locations 4645-4649). Oxford University Press. Kindle Edition.

3 Ibid., (Kindle Locations 4629-4634). Oxford University Press. Kindle Edition.

4 You can find the Walter Bruggemann quote here.