Smuggling Grace

[Wikipedia: Tig Notaro at Bumbleshoot 2010, by Shawn Robbins/Kata Rokkar]

Have you ever had an inside joke with yourself?

Perhaps you’re in a meeting that’s stretched out for hours, and you instantly find a tiny detail to be hilarious. Maybe you’re walking outside, and while no one is watching (thank goodness) you trip unceremoniously on the sidewalk and do a face plant. Or perhaps while recounting a stressful moment to a friend, it begins to sounds so over-the-top-ridiculous that you can’t stop laughing together.

All of these things have happened to me.  I bet they’ve happened to you too. This is proof that almost anything can be funny. It’s not that everything is a laughing matter. Far from it. But in the right time and context, almost any subject matter can launch us into fits of laughter.

Take for instance, one of the most hysterical, random moments I’ve ever seen in a comedy video. Watch Tig Notaro push a stool around. It’s fantastic!

If we’re in a truly stressful situation today, that isn’t funny. Nope, not at all. But I bet we might find one detail that is. Savor it. It might help.

–Renee Roederer

These words of Frederick Beuchner form one of my very favorite quotes:

“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.”

Interestingly, this quote has woven its way through a lot of important events in my life. I first heard it when someone framed the day of my ordination with it. It became quite meaningful to me. I often voice it to others at weddings. It is the kind of quote that seems fitting for significant life events.

But this quote about ‘today’ is meant to speak about the everyday-ness of life also. We encounter this sacred juncture of yesterdays and tomorrows every time we experience today.

And we can be honest here: There are moments, entire days, and entire years of days that don’t feel so shiny and precious. Sometimes we are in the throes of grief, depression, or anxiety. Sometimes we hate our jobs. Sometimes we love but don’t like our kids. Sometimes we don’t know how we’re going to pay our bills.

We might not be living the today we want.

Yet it is today. There is some possibility in that. And if we can’t find the hope and preciousness in this day, that’s completely acceptable. In such moments, we can invite others can hope and believe on our behalf. No matter where we find ourselves — in an exhilarating day of possibility, or an anxious day of concern — it is a sacred juncture. It’s not the end.

But it is now. Will we open ourselves to it?

–Renee Roederer

[Public Domain Image]

Last week, I recorded a voice text and sent it. “I had a really good week,” it started. I shared the details in a litany of gratitude:
This happened, AND!
This happened, AND!
This happened, AND!

As soon as I sent it, another level of gratitude emerged: I knew this person would rejoice in every part of that list. I could trust and anticipate that connection. Whatever the content — joy, pain, laughter, confusion, or struggle — I am grateful for people who hold the space.

I have called the very same person when my weeks haven’t been so great. In fact, I have a good number of trusted confidants who hear about my best and worst weeks alike.

They give presence.
They show love.
They are great gifts.
To every person who holds the space in our lives, today, I say thank you.

We all have opportunities to participate in this kind of connection. When we love people, we hold the space of their dreams, fears, quirks, frustrations, and hopes. In one sense, this happens quite naturally simply as we come to know each other. But even though it happens naturally, we shouldn’t forget how holy it is.

So I wonder,
. . . Who has held space for you lately?
. . . Or whose space can you easily anticipate, even if it’s been a long while since you’ve talked?

If people come to mind today, tell them, “Thank you.”

–Renee Roederer

On a particular day about two months ago, I returned home on a Sunday afternoon to find something strange taped outside our window. “What’s that?” I asked. I knew my husband was home so I spoke the question in his general direction. That’s when I saw him cutting felt at the kitchen table.

“They’re for the hummingbirds,” he said.

Earlier that morning, at quick speed, a hummingbird flew straight into our window. Ian saw it happen and was quite saddened, recognizing he had not thought about the windows when he placed a hummingbird feeder near our house. To remedy the danger, he was now cutting and crafting felt.

After that hummingbird hit our window, it fell to the ground, and Ian stepped outside to look after it. With some time, the bird began to move, but it was grounded and stunned for about an hour. Ian checked diligently on the little bird every five minutes, and eventually, he was thankful to see it take flight again.

Ian didn’t want a repeat occurrence so he began to ponder solutions. After searching the internet, he discovered he could cut materials into the shape of birds of prey. Other people have done this too and taped them to their windows. As a result, hummingbirds avoid the glass.

Ian placed several of these on our window.

Two months later, when I see them, they still make me smile. In part, this is because they look so goofy. But beyond the surface laughter, a deeper smile emerges within me too. They’re a visible reminder that every living being has real value. Hummingbirds are worth this much thought and care.

And every day, these goofy, taped birds remind me of Ian also. I love a person who lives by this worth, thought, and care. More than anyone I know, he demonstrates this kind of commitment, and he does so quietly without attention. He’s a dedicated vegan. He’s planted two clover patches for the wild bunnies that live in our backyard. And he has created fake, felt predators to protect the hummingbirds.

Ian gives me a greater sense of wonder about the world, and he consistently makes it feel like a gentler place.

And I want to follow his lead.
I recognize that we can all create gentleness, by
slowing down,
wondering more,
mirroring worth,
celebrating value,
finding solutions,
laughing generously,
showing affection, and
loving what is around us.

–Renee Roederer

Disclaimer: You should really only watch this video if you’re willing to have a better day. Because it’s pretty challenging to avoid the joy here. The precious kiddo in the blue shirt just can’t keep it together. When you pair clapping with sudden bursts of silence, it’s . . . well, the best thing in the whole world.

This kid is a gift.

–Renee Roederer

During my very last week of high school, every morning began with a creative conspiracy. It was implemented by giggling, teenage masterminds. Collectively, we struggled to stiffle our laugher as we waited for our teacher to enter the room. Each stunt stranger than the last, we pranked Mr. Youngblood five days in a row. Our very last days of public education were filled with practical jokes.

And what sort of pranks do teenage masterminds create? Fire alarms, smoke bombs, or egg smeared chalkboards? Not these teenagers. We were way too nerdy for that.

Mr. Youngblood entered the room to find us all wearing. . . Ayn Rand masks.

Ayn Rand masks! A classmate had actually taken the time to find an Ayn Rand image, blow it up, print twenty-five some odd copies, and glue them to sticks so we could hold them to our faces and greet Mr. Youngblood as he walked through the door. Once he did, there we were, dressed to the nines in our Objectivism best. He loved it.

I could say that Mr. Youngblood introduced us to Ayn Rand, but it was, in fact, the other way around. Before we ever met him in the classroom, he assigned The Fountainhead as summer reading. We entered our senior year ready to discuss that large work, and we were introduced to one of our best teachers.

In his English class, we learned how to analyze classic works of literature. We learned how to hone our unique voices as we wrote with greater nuance. We had spirited discussions, and we challenged each other. And we laughed. Every day, we laughed.

This last aspect of our experience has been on my mind lately. Within it, I recognize that a larger lesson was present all along. It was never sketched out as a lesson plan, but Mr. Youngblood embodied it in the classroom. It was both simple and profound: He delighted in us as students. He thoroughly enjoyed us as people.

Sure, we occasionally drove him crazy. But most often, he greeted us with a dry wit we also enjoyed. That wit accompanied our intentional learning and created spontaneous moments of playfulness. He believed in our voices. He delighted in us, and we knew it.

Bob Youngblood died two weekends ago, and I have been reflecting on this kind of legacy. Teachers impart great knowledge, but they are also in a position to teach a larger lesson of delight. When teachers delight in their students, their students come to know their own worth. From that awareness, they go on to learn in self-directed ways.

Since our Ayn Rand mask wearing days, my classmates and I have almost doubled in age. This astonishes me. Even more, I am amazed to consider who we have become. We have charted career pathways, formed families, and created meaning. Bob Youngblood would delight in all of this too, I am sure.

Robert Frost once wrote that poetry “begins with delight and ends in wisdom.” [1]

Good teachers spark delight and illumine human worth. From these gifts, a lifetime of learning continues.

-Renee Roederer

[1] Robert Frost wrote this in the foreword to his Collected Poems (1939).

[This is the highest peak of Mount Halti in Finland. Image, Wikipedia]

Norway wants to give Finland a mountain. Really.

It’s a birthday present. Next year, Finland will commemorate the 100th anniversary of its independence. The nation will celebrate its history and people, and it may have an occasion to express gratitude for its Norwegian neighbors also. After all, these are the kinds of neighbors who would move mountains for you. Or, at the very least, they’ll move their border so you can set a new record for your highest peak.

“Let us take Finland to new heights!” This is an enthusiastic statement of commitment from some Norwegians who started a Facebook campaign for this very purpose. They are encouraging the government of Norway to move their national border 490 feet to the north and 650 feet to the east. This small adjustment would place the highest summit of Mount Halti inside Finland. It would break Finland’s previous record for highest elevation.

To date, the Facebook campaign has received more than 16,000 likes, and the idea has come to the attention of Erna Solberg, Norway’s Prime Minister. “There are a few formal difficulties, and I have not yet made my final decision,” she told national broadcasters. “But we are looking into it.”

In our world, we hear frequent reports of enmity between neighbors as hostility festers across national borders. Donald Trump, the Republican nominee for President, promises that he will build a wall along the U.S.-Mexico border. He has made it part of his official platform, along with a commitment to deport 11 million undocumented immigrants who are living in the U.S. When he announced his candidacy on June 16, 2015, he stated, “I would build a great wall — and nobody builds walls better than me, believe me — and I’ll build them very inexpensively. I will build a great, great wall on our southern border, and I will make Mexico pay for that wall. Mark my words.”

[Source: Pixabay, CC0 Public Domain]

When I woke up this morning, the chorus to John Folgerty’s song, “Centerfield” was stuck in my head: “Put me in, coach! I’m ready to play. . . today!” “Kudos,” I said to my subconscious brain. “You picked the right song for the day.” I was amused by this silly choice.

The situation became a bit more ridiculous once I searched for the song itself on Youtube. First of all, I thought it was a Bob Seger song. Wrong. Then, after realizing the title was “Centerfield,” instead of “Put Me In, Coach,” (which also sounds like an airline song),  I accidentally searched for “Centerfold” in my tired stupor. That’s when I then got the J. Giles Band. This was all spiraling down a silly pathway.

But then, I found the actual song itself and allowed myself to listen to it playfully. It’s appropriate to August 1, after all. A few weeks ago, I decided that August would be “All In Month.”

Yes, all in.

I was driving on M14 East when I had the recognition. Suddenly, an exhilarating feeling washed over me. Come August, I would be positioned to do one thing  — the thing I have come to dream most about. I would be able to put my energies toward organizing Michigan Nones and Dones full-time.

This community is ten months old. It contains a number of people who are religiously unaffiliated (Nones) and a number of people who have left established, institutional churches (Dones). It includes people who remain connected to various traditions but want to reform what those look like (Christians who want to see reforms in churches, for instance), and a people who practice a variety of mystical traditions and spiritual disciplines. We talk about spirituality, the teachings of Jesus, and our personal journeys with both. We’re building a network of friendships, and I believe that web is about to get stronger.

With excitement and many great hopes, I want to see this community vision thrive. So I’m going to chase it. Starting especially today, I’m “all in.” I feel a sense of joy. I feel a sense of risk too: This is the least lucrative pathway I’ve ever chosen! (I’m brainstorming financial ideas these days. Any thoughts? Email me). But even that realization feels exciting in its own way – not because it’s risky, but because it involves a decision to trust the calling itself. The “all in” feeling is glorious.

So I wonder if you’ve tapped into a similar feeling before? We’re all called to particular ways of living and serving. We each have unique visions and strengths to put into the world toward the betterment of one another.

So. . .
– What about you?
– What energizes you these days?
– How can you allow that energy to take up more space within your being or
within your acting?

I wonder what beckons you.  Are you “all in?” It doesn’t mean you have to do it full-time, though you might. But are you ready to let its commitment change you?

Let me know.
Let’s be “all in” together.

–Renee Roederer

This was not entirely by choice. For some reason, our electricity has spontaneously gone out a number of times this summer. I was just about to transition to some writing when the lamp went dark. “Again?” I wondered. Yes, our electricity had disappeared once more.

Thankfully, my computer was still charged so I continued in what I planned:
I began to write my last sermon.

In a matter of hours, I knew would say goodbye to St. Andrew’s Presbyterian Church. I’ve served this congregation for the last ten months as a temporary pastoral leader. All week long, I’ve thought about what I want to say. Now it was time to put it on paper. So I sat in the dark with a candle burning beside me. Crickets resounded through an open window.

And I began to write words for my fourth last sermon.

See, I’ve done this before. Three other times, I’ve said goodbye to congregations I’ve loved. Each time, I’ve expressed gratitude for people who have shaped me. They’ve made me more human. They’ve helped me love more deeply. They’ve helped me know who I am and what I care most about.

As I wrote this last sermon it its particularities, my mind experienced an array of memories from the other places. I recalled the other last sermons too. Most of all, I remembered people with names and felt a lot of gratitude.

If you are a part of any congregation, I want to tell you this: When your pastors make transitions and leave, they still love you. We remember you fondly for decades. We make important decisions to get out of the way so other leaders can follow and thrive. We want to support them. But we don’t love you any less after leaving, and that experience is a gift to us. I hope it’s a gift to you too.

Years ago, I read a touching news story (I wish I could find it again) about Alzheimer’s patients and the changes they experience in their bodies after someone has visited them. Sometimes, the patients don’t recognize their visitor, but even then, forms of connection linger after the visitor has left.

I suppose that happens on a large scale when any of us – not just pastors – leave a community. We say goodbye, but a presence lingers both within us and beyond us. In each chapter, we meet people who particularize us. They make us more fully who we are. Since these forms of presence become a part of our very identity, they can’t really be lost.

So today, I say goodbye again, and I’m aware this will be my last last sermon for a good while. Sure, I’ll continue to give sermons in various places, but imagine it will be a long while before I’m ever anchored in a traditional congregation again as ‘the pastor.’

Though I love the people I’ve met in these traditional congregations, I’m purposefully stepping away from this kind of leadership in order to organize new forms of community. This new vision with Michigan Nones and Dones has marked my life too, and I want to chase after it alongside the very people who are making it their own.

So today, when I say goodbye,
a presence will linger within me and beyond me.
As I think of this,
it seems fitting to close with a prayer from Dag Hammarskjöld:
For all that has been, thanks.
For all that will be, YES!

–Renee Roederer

In a huff of frustration yesterday, I turned my car around and backtracked to my house. Thankfully, I wasn’t very far away. I had forgotten something I needed for a meeting, so I turned around to retrieve it. Once I was quickly out the door again, I learned that traffic was stalled on the interstate I needed. For a variety of reasons, I was surely going to be late.

I had worked hard all day, trying to meet a number of deadlines. In actuality, it was a day of productivity, but I felt constantly behind. This was the last straw. I was an irritated driver.

I took note of my frustrations while I waited for a red light to turn, and at that very moment, I realized I had a voicemail. I try not to use the phone on the road, but I was just sitting there, and this voicemail was from my dear friend Adrian. I decided to listen.

I’m so glad I decided to listen.

“I feel so happy every time I have to drive this way,” she said, “because sunflowers are in full bloom now. We have these huge fields and fields and fields of sunflowers being grown as crops, and they’re just so pretty. Unfortunately, they’re not ever in a place where I can pull over and take a picture because they’re on the freeway, and there’s not much of a shoulder. But I wanted to tell you about that, because I thought that is something that would also bring you joy like it does me.”

Could she have possibly shared these words at a better time?

There was so much wonder and gratitude in her voice as she shared this image me, and my heart was suddenly filled with the connection of friendship.

We all have the ability — at any moment —
to share simple gifts with one another.

We all have the capacity — at any moment —
to open ourselves toward connection.

Sometimes, the simplest occasions for connection are the most profound.
Thank you, Adrian.

–Renee Roederer