Smuggling Grace

Hello, friends.

I recently had an opportunity to write an article about what I’m up to these days. I’m serving as a Community Chaplain for Nones and Dones. That’s a rather quirky title, but it’s actually a perfect description of what I do. I spend time in the community as a chaplain, especially for people who are religiously unaffiliated and people who have left organized religious institutions.

This article is a part of the NEXT Church Blog. NEXT Church is an organization and a movement in the Presbyterian Church (USA) that discerns visions for innovation, direction, justice, and inclusion in the Church.

Feel free to read the article. It’s called Community Chaplaincy for Nones and Dones.

–Renee Roederer

The image above was taken during a recent march at the University of Michigan. It seems like a fitting expression of Community Chaplaincy — my local campus neighborhood and my most colorful stole.

[Military and civilian personnel attend a Muslim prayer service at the Washington Navy Yard Chapel, Washington, D.C., 2010. Public domain.]

The amorphous they and the amorphous there are very dangerous things.

They often start off as a fuzzy sense of Other. . . .like the violence we shrug off in certain places  because, you know, that’s the kind of thing that happens there to those people. We hear news reports of violence and poverty, sometimes in nations and local neighborhoods that the U.S. government has destabilized, and either because they’re so horrific, or because we don’t want to reckon with our own complicity, we begin to feel nothing. Over time, numbness turns into a lack of compassion, and eventually, that turns into a lack of empathy.

Then the amorphous they and the amorphous there begin to take shape. They become solid versions of they and there with inaccurate accusations and stereotypes. Those people there are like this. They are violent. They are criminals. And though we don’t usually let ourselves say this last part aloud, we begin to believe that they are less than human, certainly less deserving than us.

Once we’ve internalized all of this, we begin to justify our own physical, emotional, psychological, and spiritual violence against these Others. It is a terrible thing.

These days, with this on my mind, I’ve thinking a bit about the parable of the Good Samaritan. It’s a powerful story. Even if it’s been a while since we’ve engaged that story itself, we often hear that phrase from time to time — Good Samaritan.

Perhaps we’ve forgotten how shocking that story was in its original context.

Jesus tells the story after a person seeks to justify himself. That person asks, “And who is my neighbor?” limiting what kind of neighbor he is commissioned to love.

In response, Jesus tells this story: A Jewish man was beaten and left for dead on the side of the road by robbers. A priest comes down that road, but once he sees the man, he passes him by on the other side. The same happens with a Levite. He too passes him by on the other side. But a Samaritan comes, a person considered to be an absolute enemy based on centuries of enmity and mistrust — a representative of they and there — and he goes above and beyond to care for the wounded, Jewish man. He bandages his wounds, brings him to an inn and cares for him there, and then leaves money for his care after he has to leave.

Jesus asks, “Which of these three, do you think, was a neighbor to the man who fell into the hands of robbers?”

The original inquirer cannot even bring himself to say, “Samaritan.” He answers, “The one who showed him mercy.”

Jesus says, “Go and do likewise.”

Go and do likewise. When we hear the term Good Samaritan, we might ask ourselves, “Am I willing to go above and beyond for people who are threatened and harmed?” That is indeed a good question to ask.

But I think we also need to remember how shocking this story was in its original context.

It’s not solely about us and what we’re willing to do. It’s about they and them – that is, a recognition that our enemies are not who we think they are.

So are we going to do in response to that?

–Renee Roederer

Sometimes, the particular needs and urgency of a moment line up, revealing that you are precisely the person called to act. Quickly and decisively. Swiftly, yet with wisdom. At times, with risk, but also, with sure conviction. Not necessarily alone, but yes, definitely you. In this situation, you are the one who must act.

I found myself reflecting upon this after my good friend and colleague Reid Hamilton did just that. Perhaps you remember this recent moment:

Dan Adamini, the GOP secretary in Marquette, Michigan, shocked many of us when he composed and then shared a horrific tweet. Addressing protests at UC Berkeley, he said, “Violent protestors who shut down free speech? Time for another Kent State perhaps. One bullet stops a lot of thuggery.”

This was an unquestionable call to violence against students, referring to the state violence unleashed at Kent State during the Vietnam War protests. The National Guard fired shots, and four people died. Mr. Adamini was not subtle. He mentions what ‘one bullet’ can do and addresses that possibility as a good outcome.

Sometimes, the particular needs and urgency of a moment line up, revealing that you are the precisely the person called to act.

That’s what Reid Hamilton did. Reid has served as the Chaplain at Canterbury House at the University of Michigan for the last thirteen years. And before coming to Ann Arbor, he was the rector at Christ Church, Kent. Reid has known the horror and impact of what happened at Kent State, and he lives right here in Michigan, working with our students.

He was the one to act. Certainly not alone, but yes, he needed to act.

Reid called me to ask if I could lead the events at Canterbury House over the weekend because he needed to jump in the car and head north. He drove seven hours and was in Dan Adamini’s office the very next work day. They had coffee together and talked. Their conversation was both personal and productive.

In response to this conversation and a larger groundswell of public outcry, Dan Adamini resigned shortly thereafter.

I know Reid very well. I have permission to write about this story, but I know he’s not seeking an outcome of personal attention. So instead, I want to call our attention to this: We each have an intersection of roles, life experiences, identities, local contexts, personal strengths, and causes that we hold with conviction. When these begin to intersect in a particular moment, we are the ones especially equipped to act. We must choose to do it.

This experience in Marquette caused me to think about this for myself as well. It’s a good idea to think about these things ahead of time. I invite all of us to ponder our own intersections.

Many people are becoming more active, both in the political sphere and in local contexts. While we want to stay aware and informed broadly, it’s important ro realize that none of us can be a point person for every single cause or concern. We simply aren’t equipped to do that, and we’ll get overwhelmed very quickly. But if we identify some causes or concerns that will serve as our primary sphere of action, we have a greater sense about our role. And we should remain connected with people who are active the other areas. We can partner and show up for their actions too. This is an important piece of organizational work.

What are your intersections? Here’s a helpful exercise: Yesterday, I wrote down 8 words in a circle. Some of them are causes, some are contexts, and some are particular abilities in which I specialize. I drew connecting lines between each word and every other word, pondering how this circle contains a particular sphere of action. It doesn’t mean I’m limited only to these, but it does mean I must be a primary actor here. I have to be willing to act at a moment’s notice.

Also, while I did this, I recognized the absolute privilege embedded in this exercise. Some among us don’t have choice about when and where they act. Some have to act because their quality of life and very survival is on the line. We should keep this in mind.

Those realities, in fact, are the points of urgency which call our action. So let’s think now about what we can uniquely bring.

Because sometimes, the particular needs and urgency of a moment line up, revealing that you are the precisely the person called to act.

–Renee Roederer

Yesterday, I had the great pleasure to attend a lecture given by Rebecca Solnit. She is an historian, activist, and an accomplished writer. Her lecture was entitled, “Hope and Emergency.”

Many pieces of this lecture are still swirling about in my mind, but I want to share one particular thought with you. Rebecca Solnit told us,

You can never anticipate what what-you-do does.

I love that sentence and its quirky wording. It’s also completely true. Every day, when we engage the world with action, we create ripple effects that we can’t fully anticipate or control.

You can never anticipate what what-you-do does.

The most powerful, intentional efforts to create change can take on a life of their own, even stretching across multiple lifespans. They can have larger impacts than we anticipated. This is true even if our actions fail to meet their original goal.

Solnit talked about the Occupy Wall Street Movement. It fizzled before it could meet its main objectives. But from its wake, hundreds of activist groups spun off, and they are active around the United States right now. The Occupy Movement also gave us forms of language and framing that have stuck around. We still talk about the 99% and the 1%, and we should, because problems of massive income inequality continue to exist in our nation and world.

You can never anticipate what what-you-do does.

Solnit crafted beautiful words together to talk about connections between movements. What we choose to do today matters, perhaps in ways we can’t anticipate.

She talked about the British suffragettes and the Women’s Parliament Movement. Led by Emmeline Pankhurst, these women took bold, direct actions to demand the vote. On multiple occasions, they walked straight onto the floor of Parliament only to be mocked, harassed, and arrested. It took a long time to meet their objective, and it took a lot of sacrifice.

Though they were despised by many, they also inspired others. One of them was Mahatma Ghandi. Gandhi modeled many of his direct actions on theirs.

And Ghandi inspired others. One of them was the Rev. Martin Luther King Jr. He modeled many of his direct actions on Ghandi’s work.

Like Ghandi, Martin Luther King mobilized others, and led direct actions alongside other leaders. One of them was John Lewis.

John Lewis is one of our leaders right now.

You can never anticipate what what-you-do does.

These ripple effects and connections impact our world all the time, even when the names attached are not the famous ones. You are connected to people who influenced you, and you are influencing others.

So. . .

What forms of liberation do you seek?

What concern won’t leave you alone?

What is your passion?

How can you put direct actions and substantive change into the world, and how can you do that alongside others?

It might involve marches and creative, disruptive actions. It might involve mentoring or opening up your home. It might involve that unique nudge of a calling that keeps returning in your mind and heart.

Act on it. You never know how large its impact can be.

You can never anticipate what what-you-do does.

–Renee Roederer

The sun emerged this weekend and seemed to transform the entire town where I live. 

I wasn’t expecting this. 

A few days before, the weather app on my phone revealed that it would be 68 degrees in February, and since I live in a winter climate, this was already surprising. But the most astonishing thing was watching what it did to us.

I decided to take a short walk in downtown Ann Arbor and on the University of Michigan campus. Immediately, I was stunned at the sheer number of people outside. It seemed that everyone had the exact same idea.

The warmth transformed us, not only because it was enjoyable, but because it helped us relate in a different way, a way we desperately needed. In the middle of winter, people passed each other on the sidewalks while smiling. Strangers began to talk to one another. Panhandlers shared their best music on the street, and people pet each others’ dogs. Kids ran around with joy, and people ate ice cream cones. It was truly something to see.

Perhaps we were aware that this warmth was special. Perhaps we were aware that it was temporary. We made the best of it, and grateful for its surprise, we harnessed its energy into something transformative. 

This caused me to reflect a bit about hope. We all need it. Sometimes, we desperately need it. Hope cultivates a sense of anticipation that moments will emerge – indeed, sometimes, quite unexpectedly – toward gratitude and surprise. Hope invites us harness that energy toward transformation.

In order to have hope, we need awareness of gifts we can count on. The sun rises and sets every single day, even if it is hidden by clouds. 

And in order for hope to come alive, we need to be surprised. The sun shone warmly this weekend and completely transformed the ways we related to one another.

Where is the hope you need? 

If we start by pondering the hope we already know, it might lead us to some surprising, transformative places.

–Renee Roederer

My heart is heavy this morning. It’s heavy as I think about separation.

Separation. . . I grew up in Southern Indiana. During my teenage years, I had a rich and meaningful experience in high school, filled with tremendous opportunities and memories I wouldn’t trade for the world.

But we were separated.

Separation was part of the experience. In some very real ways, it made those opportunities and memories possible. The student body at my high school was almost exclusively white. This was not the case at the other high school in the same public system — still a good school but with fewer resources. I don’t have any official numbers from those years, but I suspect that my high school was 99 point some-odd-decimal percent white.  We had a few exchange students from time to time. But I did not have any regular interaction with people of color, and I did not know any immigrants.

Separation. . . I grew up in the most incredible Christian congregation. Truly, it would be an understatement to say that the love and belonging I experienced there changed the trajectory of my entire life. That community provided me with love and convictions I have not lost.

But we were separated.

Like most Christian churches in the United States, we were largely uniracial, and we approached the racial makeup of my high school. During my earliest years of Christian formation, my interaction with people of color was rare, and I did not have any significant relationships with immigrants.

This is actually pretty common. Among Christians the United States, most of the time with few exceptions, there are white churches, black churches, and churches of immigrants based around shared languages. By and large, we do not spend time with each other. We barely encounter each other. We do not know names, stories, or needs of each other. We do not know the gifts of relationship.

Separation. . . We do not know the value of each other.

And this is serious. It’s not only a diminishment — a profound loss of the particularity of relationship and a dim vision of what Church can be. It’s dangerous.

If we do not know the value of one another, our humanity is reduced. This increases the likelihood that we will say, do, and tolerate inhumane acts toward one another.

Today, I want to address the Christians that I know, a large portion of my audience.

We do not exist in a vacuum. We live in a context which claims to be post-racial, while abuses of power increase contempt and systematic oppression for people of color. It’s not so hard to see this, unless we decide not to see it. . . Unless we separate ourselves from black and brown fellow human beings. . . Unless we separate ourselves from the crucial, inner work, required to ponder our social location in regard to others. . . Unless we separate ourselves from our Christian convictions themselves.

And this important right now because real, human lives are threatened in this moment.

As I grew into my young adult years, I was fortunate to build friendships with people of color. I did come to know immigrants quite personally, especially in other church circles. Right now, they are experiencing increased vulnerability and threat.

Do we feel connected to them, or will we continue to separate ourselves?

Right now, both within and beyond the Church, immigrant families are terrified and traumatized at the prospect of violence and the possibility of being separated from one another indefinitely. College students born abroad but brought here as young children are discovering that they could be deported to nations they do not know. Children are being torn from their parents as they are being detained, recognizing in terror that they might not be united for years. To their horror, international adoptees are learning that their citizenship paperwork was never completed when they were brought to the U.S., and they may be cast out permanently. Last week, a woman sought refuge from domestic abuse, but was instead arrested because of her immigration status.

These stories are all real. Do these experiences matter to us? Is our vision of Church — both its belonging and our calling — large enough for this moment? Most importantly, do these follow human beings matter to us?

I am afraid that some white Christians will soon express more upset and concern about the rising cost of vegetables than the plight of immigrants themselves. Imagine that. Greater anger about the price of tomatoes than the lives of the immigrants who pick them.

What will we do? Will we increase our separation even more, or will we live our convictions at this vital time?

–Renee Roederer

 

 

More than a decade ago, I found myself in a vulnerable position in some conflicted relationships. During that time, this became a mantra for me:

As much as it’s up to me, I will work to be at peace with everyone, but I will not denigrate my sense of peace in order to give them a false one.

That’s the kind of thing that’s easier to say than enact. But still, I tried to hold both of those clauses in tension, and it was helpful to remind myself of these words, and even to say them aloud, as I considered how to act and interact in those conflicted relationships.

Last night, years later, I found myself thinking about these words again. They’re not just words. They’re a relational posture. I found myself wanting to expand them, saying,

As much as it’s up to me, I will work to be at peace with everyone, but I will not denigrate the peace of the most vulnerable to give a false peace to those who oppress them.

This is also easier to say than enact. But still, we can hold these clauses in tension. It may even be helpful to say them aloud.

When I say these words aloud this morning, I recognize that my social location has moved around this framework. A few times, I have been the vulnerable party. At other times, however, I have been the oppressor, representing and benefiting from an oppressive force.

I want to say that I’m grateful for people who refuse to give a false peace.

Martin Luther King Jr. used to say, “True peace is not merely the absence of tension; it is the presence of justice.” And just this morning, I saw a quote from Cornell West as well: “Never forget that justice is what love looks like in public.”

I take both of these to heart.

Jesus challenged us by saying, “Love your enemies.” Now that has never meant, “Love the harm that enemies do to you,” or “Let your enemies continue their oppression unchecked and unopposed.”

No, never. That is not justice, and that is not love.

When we stand up and say no to oppression — when we say, “You will not denigrate the peace of the vulnerable” — we are doing the most loving thing possible. Oppression begins to look a whole lot like inhumanity, and when we protect the vulnerable, we invite, and frankly, demand, that oppressors do the same. That is love in action.

So perhaps we can enact some version of this today,

As much as it’s up to me, I will work to be at peace with everyone, but I will not denigrate the peace of the most vulnerable to give a false peace to those who oppress them.

–Renee Roederer

In 1997, Fred Rogers won a Lifetime Achievement Award Emmy. As he walked on stage to receive the award, the room was filled with so much appreciation for him. Before he ever said a word, there were smiles and tears.

But that appreciation grew even more when he began to speak. In his acceptance speech, Rogers moved the spotlight away from himself toward the people who have shaped us — people unseen, people with names known especially to us.

He said,

“All of us have special ones who have loved us into being. Would you just take, along with me, ten seconds to think of the people who have helped you become who you are — those who have cared about you and wanted what was best for you in life? Ten seconds of time. I’ll watch the time.”

People giggled at that last part.

But then, you could see everyone’s minds go to very loving places. People sat in silence with tears in their eyes, remembering the presence of people who have loved them into being. It was a beautiful span of silence, filled with many memories.

He continued,

“Whomever you’ve been thinking about. . . how pleased they must be to know the difference you feel they’ve made. You know, they’re the kind of people television does well to offer our world.”

Such a sacred moment.

Friends, who loved you into being? How can that love ground you and hold what you need today?

How special it is to have received that love — not only to know it, but to have had the occasion to know that we’re worth that love in the first place. That’s what these individuals gave us. And as thankful as we are for them, they are surely thankful for us.

Have you pondered this lately? If we’re still able to contact these loved ones, perhaps this might be a good day to let them know we’ve thought of them. And even if they’ve died, we can have a conversation with them inside ourselves. That experience of connection still exists for us.

So, who loved you into being?

[Photo by Scott Hanoian, Musical Director of the UMS Choral Union]

From the first downbeat of the music to the enthusiastic standing ovation, Maestro Iván Fischer brought tremendous energy into Hill Auditorium on Friday night.

On the stage, I had the pleasure to sit and listen to the first three movements of Beethoven’s 9th Symphony, then jump to my feet to sing the final Ode to Joy with the UMS Choral Union. Connection, energy, and joy abounded in that music hall.

Throughout the entire concert, I found myself reflecting on how unlikely this moment was. Many factors could have prevented it from coming into being, but there it was, a real gift and a moment we desperately needed.

The Budapest Festival Orchestra was almost unable to travel to the U.S. for its scheduled international performances. One of their members has dual citizenship in Hungary and Iraq. He would have been barred from entering the U.S. due to the recent travel ban executive order. Iván Fischer and the rest of the orchestral community were not going to leave their friend and colleague behind, so they had to push hard and advocate for their member. The outcome was quite uncertain, but eventually, with the recent judicial stay, they were able travel into the country as a full orchestra.

Iván Fischer would never leave his colleague behind because he knows the harm that discrimination can bring. Quite personally, he knows the horrific doors it can open. Maestro Fischer’s grandparents died in the Holocaust.

I found myself reflecting upon this as well when he began to conduct the music on Friday night. In addition to his tremendous musicality, Maestro Fischer is famous for bringing his orchestra to play at the sites of abandoned synagogues where Jews were taken and then killed.

I watched him initiate that music on Friday night and pondered how his grandparents would think he is an absolute miracle, which of course, he is.

So there we were on stage, bringing music to life. It may have never found its way to this particular moment, yet remarkably, it did.

And the music did really come alive.

With a lot of enthusiasm, we performed Beethoven’s 9th Symphony. We’ve all become somewhat accustomed to Beethoven’s signature sounds, but his music broke so many rules from his era. It stood outside the box, inviting people into awe, wonder, and mischievousness of their own.

And considering the most unlikely factor of all, this glorious, joyous, complex 9th Symphony was composed after Beethoven had completely lost his hearing. A Deaf man gave us this gift to hear, and he is deservedly famous for it.

We heard it again on Friday night, and at the end, everyone stood to their feet enthusiastically and roared with applause. In a time of uncertainty in our own lives, joy had found us.

In response to all of this, a silly memory popped in my mind. It seems kind of funny to move from soaring Beethoven to eccentric Jeff Goldblum, but that’s where my mind went on Friday night. I suddenly remembered that scene in Jurassic Park when Dr. Ian Malcolm finds those unexpected dinosaur eggs on the island. “Life finds a way,” he says.

I think it does. Despite the harm and trauma we continually unleash in the world, I think in the end, it really does.

–Renee Roederer

With joy, these words are still ringing in my mind and heart. . .

“If you’re with us… Join us!”

“If you’re with us… Join us!”

“If you’re with us… Join us!”

Students chanted those words yesterday when they entered the Michigan Union. With just a couple days notice, Students4Justice organized a sit-in in the Union to respond to a growing number of incidents of racist violence and intimidation at the university. Most recently this week, students from Computer Science and Engineering received anti-Black and anti-Semitic emails with violent epithets and death threats, and a reflection room was defiled when someone urinated on a prayer rug. All of this is utterly shameful.

It’s also dangerous. These students want the administration of the university to take greater action to protect them and carve  out a healthy learning environment.

Hundreds of students participated in the sit-in which lasted until 2 am. And I’ll never forget that moment when we first walked into the Union together. We revisited a chant from the Student Walkout in November, also led by Students4Justice:

“If you’re with us… Join us!”

The events that made this sit-in necessary are serious and hard, yet when we chanted these words continuously, I had an enormous smile on my face. I knew I was watching something special unfold. That chant seemed very fitting. 

While the sit-in stood firmly and fiercely against certain things — white supremacy, Islamophobia, violence, and intimidation — from beginning to end, students also demonstrated what they are for.

The are for each other.

They are for another way of relating.

They are for another way of protecting.

They protected each other last night and put it on stunning display. They didn’t merely say there is another way. They made another way happen. From beginning to end, it was obvious. You could see and feel it present. 

When I came home, I read a number Facebook updates from students who have truly had a difficult time at this university over the years. They shared the impact of this event – that they felt welcome, protected, and valued. Some felt that in thr university space more strongly than they ever have before. And they knew they made that happen. 

They did. The administration didn’t make that happen. They did.

And now the administration needs to follow their lead:

“If you’re with us… Join us!”

Those words ring in my ears and heart. As a friend and chaplain at this university, I can’t begin to tell you how much I have learned and grown in the presence of these students in the spaces they continuously create. Their passions, visions, and expressions of community care and justice are phenomenal.

We can step into that way of living if we turn against the most sinister forces among us and within us and begin to see human worth and value for what it is – worth proclaiming, worth protecting.

Are you with us?

Join us.

–Renee Roederer