Sunday, August 13, 2017

2017.08.13 Sincerely, the Sky

 Sincerely, the Sky

Yes, I see you down there

looking up into my vastness.

What are you hoping

to find on my vacant face,

there within the margins

of telephone wires?

You should know I am only

bright blue now because of physics:

molecules break and scatter

my light from the sun

more than any other color.

You know my variations—

azure at noon, navy by midnight.

How often I find you

then on your patio, pajamaed

and distressed, head thrown

back so your eyes can pick apart

not the darker version of myself

but the carousel of stars.

To you I am merely background.

You barely hear my voice.

 Remember I am most vibrant

when air breaks my light.

Do something with your brokenness.

“Sincerely, the Sky” from Dear Sincerely by David Hernandez, © 2016. Aired by permission of University of Pittsburgh Press.
Dear Sky,

Thanks so much for your wisdom and for being blue—or not. When I was a kid I thought the sea was blue like you, too. I know you’re just sun-mottled molecules, or my tendency to project all my dearest dreams onto every scape, but to me you’re the glory of God—divine true-blueness. 

I’m on an island now, surrounded by you and sea and sand. When I’m here I forget all about the many careful distinctions people attempt to draw between science and religion. They just don’t matter when you’re bright blue, the sea is deep blue-green, and the silky white sand sticks like glitter to my salted nakedness. 

I’m in one piece when I’m here. So is the cosmos.

Thank you, Sky.
  
              Sincerely, a Fan.


David Hernandez, born in Burbank California in 1971, is a prize-winning poet who teaches creative writing at California State University-Long Beach.

David is a year younger than my youngest son, which makes me feel old, but not old-mother old. David is four years younger than my other son who aspires to be a poet himself—which he already is. I know because poetry is soul-deep and sky-high.


Thank you, David Hernandez

Sunday, August 6, 2017

2017.08.16 I Love You


Early on, I noticed that you always say it
to each of your children
as you are getting off the phone with them
just as you never fail to say it
to me whenever we arrive at the end of a call.

It's all new to this only child.
I never heard my parents say it,
at least not on such a regular basis,
nor did it ever occur to me to miss it.
To say I love you pretty much every day

would have seemed strangely obvious,
like saying I'm looking at you
when you are standing there looking at someone.
If my parents had started saying it
a lot, I would have started to worry about them.

Of course, I always like hearing it from you.
That is never a cause for concern.
The problem is I now find myself saying it back
if only because just saying good-bye
then hanging up would make me seem discourteous.

But like Bartleby, I would prefer not to
say it so often, would prefer instead to save it
for special occasions, like shouting it out as I leaped
into the red mouth of a volcano
with you standing helplessly on the smoking rim,

or while we are desperately clasping hands
before our plane plunges into the Gulf of Mexico,
which are only two of the examples I had in mind,
but enough, as it turns out, to make me
want to say it to you right now,

and what better place than in the final couplet
of a poem where, as every student knows, it really counts.

"I Love You" by Billy Collins from Aimless Love. © Random House, 2013. Writer’s Almanac, 3/3/17.



August 7th is my 79th birthday and my husband’s 76th birthday.  “How wonderful and insane,” a friend commented.  It’s mostly wonderful and occasionally insane to be a first child and an only child, both under the roaring sign of Leo, living in the same house—married no less. We don’t say I love you a lot. Love comes in small ways, such as a little phrase we exchange as we hit our pillows to sleep each night: “Okay, g’night.” Even if one of us is half asleep he/she responds: “Okay, g’night.”  



What are your verbal “I love you” habits?  In our house growing up I don’t think we said it all that much. We had the kiss-Daddy-good-night ritual and maybe the love finale just before bed, but it wasn’t a standout phrase. It was not a habit, like goodbye. 

When I had children it got more use. My first husband and the father of our children said it a lot, and I believe it was more or less a requirement for him that we answer in kind. I always wondered about that. He, I thought, was more in love with his booze and his job than his family, yet I knew he wanted to share his heart. I’m not quite sure how or when the love seeped out of our marriage unnoticed, or at least unspoken.

Now with grandchildren it’s a definite expectation or closure for us all, as in “Love you” on texts and phone calls. Some are more excessive with love emojis than others, but that's only because they have excessive in their genes.

My oldest granddaughter, just 21, said it to the loan officer at her bank. “Bye. Love you.” She was horrified when she realized what she had said to a complete stranger who had yet to approve the extension of her loan.

To say “Love you” doesn’t have as much gravitas as “I love you.”  My husband and I say it occasionally. He says it,  it seems, more than I do. Probably he needs to in order to get over his irritation at my quirks. For me it usually rises up when I feel a sudden surge of deep affection for this man I’ve been married to for over 30 years. We’ve grown into each other’s souls like puzzle pieces that are misshapen but somehow fit together like no other two pieces.

Old married love, like traditional practices of language, is like a comforter. It’s full of profound devotion mixed with profound annoyance at small differences we never seem to understand and that never change. Habits of communication and ways of managing time—silly things of little moment. We don’t argue over many big things at all. Well, occasionally over a theological nuance, but mostly we agree. 

I suppose I love you has as many meanings as there are people and circumstances. Still, I love that it can be used more routinely with family, because they all deserve it, you know—no matter what.

No wonder Christians believe God  is unconditional love…..because no human person is capable of unconditional love. Well, maybe a dear pet is. The one who can’t help all her or his instinctual ways but whose ways become tolerable because of the steadfast love, presence and companionship given without reserve. 

To say I love you, and mean it deeply, must include I know you. They go together.

The granddaughter who threw off a quick “Love you” to the loan officer at the bank felt mortified.  But I bet the guy experienced a chuckle and a wee resurrection. And who knows, it might have inspired him to extend her loan—which he did.

So Happy Birthday, Dick, I love you truly, madly, deeply—husband, best friend, lover, and companion in mischief and grace.
 
Okay, g’night.

Sunday, July 30, 2017

2017.07.30 Book Review Heaven: God Is Not a Boy's Name...

Jesus’s parables tell us that the reign of heaven on earth is like a pinch of leaven, a tiny mustard seed, a pearl lost in a great field. They challenge us to be pearl, seed, leaven—remembering that our presence, no matter how small, can enhance the reign of divine Love.

As any writer knows, waiting around like some kind of salivating lap dog for someone to feed your hungry soul with a review of your book, can be torturous.


Book reviews are what you want—and don’t. I hope my writings are like the parabolic pearl or leaven or seed. Humble and grateful, the few reviews I’ve received are positive. Here are snippets.
 
Karen Erlichman, DMin, LCSW, a faculty mentor in a Jewish spiritual direction training program, wrote a review, published in the September, 2017, issue of Presence, International Journal of Spiritual Direction. I love that she refers to other faith traditions.

“As a spiritual director I am a curator of personal stories. Memoir is a unique genre that requires a skillful writer to create a personal story that is compelling, but not too dramatic, touching without being cloying, and historically relevant but not overly academic. These nuanced writing skills are particularly important for a spiritual memoir. Episcopal priest, spiritual director, and pastoral counselor Lyn Brakeman has written a stunningly poetic, hilarious, unapologetically feminist, heart-opening memoir that hits the mark beautifully on all of the above facets. God Is Not a Boy’s Name: Becoming Woman, Becoming Priest is a compelling, juicy, passionate, and gracefully narrated account of Brakeman’s life as a child of god, servant of God, and lover of God. She invites us to walk with her  . . .”  

The review goes on to elaborate structure and some details, concluding with the acknowledgment that my memoir will “touch the heart and minds of readers in many faith traditions.” That to me is the highest compliment, because I think such connections can mend a broken world.


Dr. Allan G. Hunter, professor of literature at Curry College, one of my writing teachers and a published author himself wrote on FaceBook. Praise from a teacher is the best.

“I loved every bit of your memoir, Lyn. What a great read, and what important points, social and doctrinal, you make. I found myself writing extensive notes about the ways patriarchy had squeezed the real energy out of so much religion, and in the process killed so much of the humanity in it. Impressive work, dear soul!” 


Jennifer (Jinks) Hoffmann, spiritual director, poetry editor for Presence and author of "It’s All God Anyway. Poetry for the Everyday."  Jinks gets the patriarchal language issue!

Lyn Brakeman's memoir, God is not a Boy's Name, is simply fabulous! Read it, if you want to laugh and cry, and mostly cheer, for this inspiring, wild, gutsy, and determined woman who decides to become an Episcopalian priest. She will not take no for several answers, and spends 14 years persuading the powers that be to ordain her.

Lyn is blindingly honest, so you will learn a great deal about her childhood, her family of origin and her nuclear family, about addiction, adultery, life and death. . . . and her passion for a religion that is free of male pronouns and bias against women. But mostly you will meet God. If you join her on her journey, the odds are 2 to 1 that your God will show up more in your own life." 


Susan Oleksiw, author of mystery novels and a skilled writer herself. It means a lot that my book passes muster with a “secular” who is sick of spiritual pablum and acknowledges my understanding of rejecting bishops.

“I rarely read books about spiritual awakenings or anything else about one person’s religious life, but the author of this memoir is a friend and I was curious about how she handled topics that could easily ring false. I needn’t have worried. The author’s voice is authentic on every page—funny, wry, self-deprecating, revealing, light-hearted, determined, frustrated, irked, and all the rest that makes us human. This is an honest story of one woman’s struggle to become an episcopal priest, made less than easy by a resistant hierarchy, a deteriorating marriage, and a fear of alcoholism. And the path to priesthood begins and ends, apparently, with Ritz crackers.

One of the more rewarding aspects of this memoir is the deepening understanding of the bishops who rejected her.

This is a delightful, well paced story of one woman’s life that is lived on the path to priesthood.”


The Rt. Rev. Audrey Scanlan, bishop of Central Pennsylvania and former Christian formation director at Trinity Church in Collinsville, Connecticut, my sponsoring parish for ordination, and the parish where my second husband was rector and Audrey’s supervisor and “boss.” Love that she read it in one sitting.

“I spent last night’s insomnia reading God is Not a Boy’s Name. Got through it in one sitting. Me and my Kindle in the dark of the night. It was a wonderfully affirming feminist viewpoint on the Church that we love; it was a stark reminder of how far we have come and how far we have yet to go.  I also loved the real analysis and coming to terms with the complexities of your relationship with your mom. Your relationship with your dad seemed pretty clear, all along, but it was wonderful to see the depth of discovery of your relationship with your mother. So- thanks.”


Thomas Tufts, mentor for the Education for Ministry (EfM) program of  Christian formation. Tom writes from his perspective as a mentor in a program in which the process of Theological Reflection (TR) on lived experience is as central to one’s self-awareness as a minister as is any academic knowledge of the religious tradition.Theological reflection is so integrated into my life I didn’t see it in my memoir! Great advertisement for the formation value of EfM.

“I’ve known Lyn as EfM Co-coordinator for the Diocese of Massachusetts for six years and recently read her book God is Not a Boy’s Name.

My first reaction was that I wished I had read this book six years ago when I was starting EfM and learning what Theological Reflection was from teaching about the 4-step, 4-source model. For me it  is a perfect example of several themes of EfM: wrestling with our faith, deepening our relationship with God, and opening our hearts and minds to others.  I plan to offer it optionally as suggested reading to the members our group, #6069,  in August as an experiment to see if it helps people in September as we practice listening, spiritual autobiography, and theological reflection.  I felt that it took my appreciation of theological reflection to a whole new level in terms of the challenges, rethinking , coherence and integrity these practices can bring to my life not just once, but progressively and repeatedly as I constantly perceive and confront what is new and different in my life.”


All I need is a few more non-Amazon reviews from a Christian or two, maybe an Episcopalian?







Sunday, July 23, 2017

2017.07.23 The Best Thing Ever

The Best Thing Ever

It’s your first bike
with training wheels
—a trike—
near divine
You are assured
—and reassured—

You can’t tip over.

You pedal slowly
one foot at a time
up and down, then
 upanddown
and up again
fast, faster…….

You don’t tip over

Pretty soon
your legs move so fast
they spin
with the wheels
—whirlwinds—
the spokes and you
 together.

You won’t tip over.

No one can even see that
there are wheels there
—five altogether—
You are flying
flying
—flying—

You’ll never tip over.




















Sunday, July 16, 2017

2017.07.16 Be a Seed Already!

The parable Jesus told about the sower who went out to sow seeds is a very familiar story and many people love it. Why? Because the sower is supposed to represent God, or Christ for Christians, this sower keeps on sowing seeds and more seeds and all different seeds— no matter what.
Jesus seizes all the authority and mastery he can summon, saying LISTEN! A sower went out to sow.  The farmers must have felt excited. Expectant. What would Jesus say? They knew that land was life. Maybe they’d get some hot agricultural tips.  I bet too they might have felt some anxiety, because this was Jesus and he had a habit of challenging them in odd ways.

LISTEN! he said, and listen they did, perhaps too hard, too eagerly, too selfishly.  

What happened to them, happens to us also. Because Jesus elaborated all the different kinds of soil—hard and dry, rocky, choking, no nutrients—and some good soil, they began to focus on the soil. No, obsess. What kind of soil are we, or literally if you were a farmer, do we have?  They, like we, quickly forgot about the faithful sower and the seeds. I’d bet that most interpretations of this parable focus on the soil alone. Is my soil, my church’s soil, good enough to receive, nourish and sprout more God’s seeds?

Let it go—for Christ’s sake.

Most of us develop such a toxic case of soil-angst that we forget about the seed with all its potential.

Still, being a seed isn’t easy. Seeds are tiny. They have no will of their own. They are scattered to and fro, and they don’t know what kind of soil they’ll hit. The destiny of a seed is vulnerable indeed. Yet, seeds have enormous potential—enormous potency. Seeds sprout. It is through seeds that Christ potentiates Life, if not Love.

Living in the city I am continuously amazed at how the tiniest of flowers and grass blades pop up between bricks and concrete stones. What resilience and strength these little seeds have to keep on growing toward light and air through thick concrete. They always sprout—no matter how much concrete we trowel on. Seeds are unstoppable. Just a few days ago, I saw three men on their hands and knees laboriously picking small green tufts of growth and tiny wild flowers out from between the concrete stones on a front sidewalk. They worked for a stone cutting outfit and had been hired to repave the area in front of the garage. But first…..they had to get rid of all the sprouted seeds. I laughed out loud. So you think those little seeds will never return to sprout, do you?

Contrary to all logic, tiny useless seeds sprout amidst concrete—real concrete as well as the concrete that forms around our hearts, the concrete that causes us to have rigid set attitudes and assumptions. God’s seeds always sprout.

When I feel sure that something is right, makes sense, or even is the way of God, I have to FORCE, yes, force, myself to stop and rethink things—not till after I’ve argued my case of course. I could be wrong, or the tradition, or my culture, or everything I learned in school, or what my parents taught me, or my church believed could be wrong. Or it all might need tilling or some more seeds. God the sower doesn’t cultivate wheat fields. God cultivates souls. God willingly and willfully without force, sows seeds and seeds and more seeds—many varieties of seeds over and over and over.
Years ago in Connecticut I worked as a chaplain in an alcohol/drug rehabilitation center. Many patients saw themselves  as “bad seeds” They were ashamed of themselves for their disease, and their relapses, their painful, painful addictive patterns. Oh, they readily condemned themselves—bad seed, bad soil, bad God, bad religion, bad chaplain—everything. They did this all of course with raucous laughter and good humor, which I saw as a sign that they were God’s seeds and didn’t know it.

Violating the separation of church and state, I used biblical stories a lot to help them see that God wasn’t the vengeful judge they thought God was, and that they weren’t bad seeds. The sower story was very popular, second only to the prodigal son. The stories were seeds to re-potentiated them, give them hope.

I would say something like: Listen! You’re a seed and if you hit a rough patch God/Higher Power will sow you again, and again.” There was a hush. In that hush I would quietly add: “with your help.”

And so it is for us: God never stops sowing you, never stops potentiating you. No matter how much concrete has been slathered on your soul, you are a seed to be sown by God-in-Christ. So listen! Hey!………

Be a seed already.







Sunday, July 9, 2017

2017.07.09 Can You Still Love? Two Healing Stories.

My seminary learning experience at Yale Divinity School took place in a religiously diverse environment—one reason the school continues to thrive and is economically viable. But it isn’t just the sensible economics, or even the obvious ecumenicity, that gives this school, or any school, a soul of its own. It takes real people and real stories.

Nellie was a student with multiple challenges. She’d been in a car accident on her way to begin her college education. Her mother was driving. It was an accident—an accident that left Nellie with severe brain damage, unable to walk or talk except in very halting and barely intelligible ways. I was scared of Nellie. I didn’t know what to do or how to be with her, or what to do with my shame. I admit I avoided Nellie and feared for myself as well—hardly exemplary of a woman who wanted to serve God in ministry or take a shot at christlikeness.

I wondered how Nellie had forgiven her mother. I wondered why Nellie wanted to go to seminary and get ordained in spite of her severe limitations. One professor, an Episcopal priest, worked with Nellie as a tutor. He typed out her words for papers, and made sure she was accompanied safely to and from her classes. It all felt like a full-blown miracle to me—too difficult to digest.

Yet Nellie was a vibrant presence among us stressed-out, worried bunch of first-year seminarians, most of us not knowing a damn thing about this God we were there to study, if not master. Nellie stood out for her smile. Some days I thought she herself was a prayer. How could she seek God after all that had happened to her?  Some students reported that when she had a beer or two her speech suddenly became intelligible. Nellie’s being there among us must have had something to do with the impossible love of God—the love that scared me and made me run the other way. 

Now I wonder if Nellie's passion for God was not for the God the church traditionally presents, the Omnipotent one with all the power, but rather for the God she found in her own broken heart—the same one I’d found in mine as a young child.

I’ve thought a lot about Nellie over the 35 years since I graduated. What ever happened to her?

Google-god!!—the great connective search engine—helped me out.

Nellie did graduate from Hampshire which took her seven years. In that time she felt called to serve God. “Serving God became her salvation,” wrote Michael Vitez, journalist and Director of Narrative Medicine at Temple University’s Lewis Katz School of Medicine in Philadelphia. Vitez has written Nellie’s story for his book on the healing power of story. 

Nellie went on to graduate from seminary and was ordained a deacon in the Episcopal Church in 1993. She served in Chestnut Hill United Church (formerly United Methodist) until 2014 when she retired. It would take Nellie as much as five weeks with blurry vision and one palsied finger to type out 2000 words for a sermon. She then selected different parishioners to read her words to the congregation. Oh Godde, what a privilege! Nellie attended the Episcopal General Convention in Denver in 2000, where a special ramp for the entire altar procession was constructed so Nellie could read the Gospel using her voice box. 

Here is a photo of Nellie on the steps of the Philadelphia Museum of Art. You see she is still smiling that smile I remember so well, the soul-smile that made Nellie shine.
Nellie died in August, 2016, at age 64. 



Only recently have I fully understood and wept deeply for Nelly and for me. The painful beauty Nellie gave me, stirred up as I read about Ed Bennett (1959-2017) in my Yale Alumni Magazine. Ed became a quadriplegic after a diving accident just before he entered his sophomore year at Yale University.

Here is Ed at a wedding in 1990, surrounded by his Yalie friends who called him “Edder”.
“Can I piece a life together?” Ed had asked a rehab psychologist, Lester Butt, when he was facing life with minimal movement in one arm only.

“Can you still love?" Butt replied.

The rest of Ed’s wheelchair-bound life was spent living the answer to that awakening question in the affirmative. He was the first quadriplegic to graduate from Yale College and went on to attend Yale Law School and Yale Divinity School but did not complete those degrees. He didn’t think his temperament was suited to pastoral work, although friends remember Ed as one with an “uncanny ability to bring people together.” Note that smile! The church could have used him. I wish he and Nellie had met. Obviously, they both could still love.

Ed wrote this in an essay for YDS in 1995:

“I have thought a great deal over the past few years about what is important to me. Perhaps my paralysis, maybe my acute experience of mortality  . . .  something has forced into my intimate, quiet moments the sense that God matters. My friends matter. The suffering of other people matters. And when I look at my profoundest satisfactions—friends, ideas, helping others, family—I do not see political or intellectual connections among them. Instead, I see a world of subtlety and wonder that lives in the spiritual world.”

Can you still love? 

I’m trying, Ed and Nellie. Thanks to you, I’m trying. And thanks be to God whose Hope incarnate forgives me—over and over—in my own clumsy efforts to love. And thanks to the Spirit who gives me eye and heart to spot healing stories, call them gospel, write them down, and send them forth—seeds for healing.  











Sunday, July 2, 2017

What Really Do We Celebrate On Independence Day?

It’s July 4th, almost, a time when Americans wave American flags and celebrate our independence from British occupation and control of our land. We appreciate the liberties we enjoy, and we know there are other nations who do not have such freedoms. Some of us wonder if we're as free as we think we are. Still, we wave our national flag with pride.

Our flag has great colors. Fifty white stars on blue, each representing a state—the pluribus (many) of us. Then the thirteen red and white streamers, flowing freely and representing the thirteen British colonies that declared independence from Great Britain and became the first states in our union—unum. We are meant to be many AND one. Our nation is only 241 years young, and we are having trouble with the unum of our motto E pluribus unum. Yet we still wave our flag.


I like our flag. I do not, however, like our national anthem. "Oh, say can you see. . ." doesn't see far enough. It is time-limited, written to celebrate a particular military victory, and full of the language of bombs and war—hence fireworks with rockets and booms of bombs "bursting in air" through the night. I don’t mind making noise to celebrate but I admit to resenting the consistent language of war and destruction attached to patriotic celebrations.

Warlike language is also attached, disastrously I think, to issues of health, mental and physical—we “battle” cancer, “fight” depression or a cold, enter “combat” against diseased parts of our very own body, then speak of “winning”or “triumph” when we feel better? What is this odd war we wage right within our own flesh?  And what if we don’t “win”?  Warlike language is a habit to change.

On July 4th do we celebrate battles and victories won, or are we celebrating— with light and sound and loud booms in the sky— the sheer joy of our diversity "bursting in air?


The spiritual meaning of this day, I believe, goes far beyond our own nation’s independence. There’s no" us" and "them". We honor ourselves, and we must also honor national freedom and dignity for all lands. It’s a day to remember the mutual interdependence of all humankind, all species of animal life, and all vegetation—an interdependence founded in the measureless vision of a Creator God. Trying to live too independently is perilous. We live well together or we perish together.

I feel the same about my religion. It’s mine and I cherish it. But other hearts have faith as worthy and beloved as mine. We live well together or we perish. That’s worth a firecracker or two! A vision to keep us alive.

Nothing expresses this spiritual magnanimity better than the beautiful music of Jean Sibelius (1899) and the expansive lyrics of the Finnish national anthem, Finlandia.


Finlandia

This is my song, O God of all the nations,

A song of peace, for lands afar and mine.

This is my home, the country where my heart is;

Here are my hopes, my dreams, my holy shrine;

But other hearts in other lands are beating

With hopes and dreams as true and high as mine.


My country's skies are bluer than the ocean,

And sunlight beams on clover leaf and pine;

But other lands have sunlight too, and clover,

And skies are everywhere as blue as mine.

O hear my song, thou God of all the nations,

A song of peace for their land and for mine.