2026.09.16 The Golden Rule

My father's birthday was August 25.  People these days like to say things like “Happy Birthday in Heaven” —presuming on Divine Grace, not to mention making it sound as if heaven had an address! 

Call me agnostic, naive, or plain dumb, I am sure there is only one rule of life that matters, and it matters equally and the same for every creature on earth, in heaven, or even on Mars! It is gold. It will never tarnish. 

*  * *  * 

It’s true that I don’t know a lot, yet I try not to presume or assume. The darkening sky often itself looks as if it presumes on the science of forecasting. So I just carry an umbrella and pray anyway that lightning will obey Divinity, my word for the author of this quite remarkable golden rule: Love thy neighbor as thyself. 

*  *  *  *

From my window I see a boring parking lot, a numbered space for each car—obviously considerate of ALL residents. I also see a neighboring golf course, green, pruned, and neatly clipped. I see one woman whose swing is perfectly executed—full circle up and over one shoulder, eyes always on the wee ball, then back down to connect SMACK, then full circle—like a halo. 

*  *  *  *

Still, all imagery isn’t so obviously “golden” but more subtle, like this one from Nature itself. Put straightforwardly, there stand two trees, each with its own trunk, branches, and roots. They stand upright and next to each other. Considered poetically, or using emotional intelligence, this image represent neighborliness itself. It’s golden. 

Two trees in love, leaning against each other is the perfect message for a time when we need to connect for the sake of loving our neighbors just as they are— not as we want them to be.

Here are neighborly trees. Look closely to see how they represent neighborliness while at the same time each maintains its own separate identity with the trunk firmly situated/planted in the ground.   

2026.08.07 It's My Birthday,#88—Mmmmhmmm, Lyn G. Brakeman, blog post

I don’t look 88 but more like 68, people tell me. But I know they are wrong, and I have legal stuff to prove my birthright, which is lucky in 2026, because in these days of tyranny in the white house and terrors on the streets of NYC where I was born and grew up, I needed proof!  My own version of “birthright citizenship.” Here I am at 4 with my mother at our summer cottage in Ancramdale, N.Y. She’s happy. I am pouting—it’s the pinafore! Not my style. 

The Holy Bible I got to know in Sunday School proved questionable. The teacher told us God loved us ALL the same. Me too? This supposedly Holy Bible had such an array of holy variations, we had free choices despite what  rules the Church, or our parents, made. Still, it was easy to doubt the whole darn thing. BUT, I kinda liked being me. I prayed a lot and searched about. 

My own biblical proof of faith/existence, became Job. Wrong testament, right guy. Why? Oh, because Job too had trouble proving he was really a faithful Jew all his entire life—and born so. He wanted God, the ONE and ONLY Divinity known by scholars throughout ancient scriptures, to testify to Job’s own faith, despite evidence to the contrary. Did Yahweh God believe in Job?  

Jesus didn’t fare too well with me either. I sidestepped the Jewishness, because my own maternal grandfather was Jewish. It took years to hear about this connection. Was I a Jew masquerading as a Christian?  Well, so was Mary Magdalene, everyone’s favorite sinner to hate. Surely she should be my role model even though I seemed to have the wrong church, the wrong Holy Bible, even the wrong God or brand of religion, and no useless beads! Holy Mary Mother of God pray for me NOW, NOT at the hour of my death—okay?

So God’s own mother, overrode her son and fixed my gaze on a Crockpot, a live-in cook who simmered as I watched. She gave me patience, enough to invent my own specialties, and therefore, like God, I CREATED. One such creation I called “Angels on Horseback” (hot dogs astride twice baked potatoes with cheese strips as their saddles) and my children loved, for the laughs if nothing else.

As to sex, we women had anatomical help from science, and Eve Ensler (Vagina Monologues) and again to the divine creator who made us with our own equipment —a self-satisfying undersized penis all our own. Who needs a guy?  Well, I wanted one who thought like me and loved ALL of me, every ornery bit of me, and was born on the same leonine date. Who else could appear but another Episcopal priest?  Just my style!

                        *  *  *  *

And God said, I created everything/everyone, and it’s ALL good—all kinds & variations of LOVE.                              

Mmmmmhmmmm

A Chalice Overflowing With Divinity, Lyn G. Brakeman, blog post, 7/31/2026

 2026.07.31 A Chalice Overflowing with Divinity. . .YES!!!

It will never cease to astound/appall/amaze me how the residents of this retirement community where I live—all stunningly, glaringly and glowingly, proudly white-skinned—dare to presume they are superior to the black staff on whose care their lives daily depend. 

But maybe they/we are not this presumptive. It’s ALL betwixt and between. 

*  * * *  

I have stumbled on the deepest meaning of my book WHITEOUT, on the true and deepest dangers of unremitting racism and the radical need for transformative change. It means some ones must always be excluded!!  I do not argue, as some people think I do, that there is no such thing as racism. I do notice, however, that no live-in help, often dark-skinned, dine with residents or sit at the table with them, even though aids and residents live together in the same apartment, all day long, and all night long. 

This way breaks my heart still, just as it did when I first learned about racism as a child. We’d visit my grandparents, and I experienced the same familiar pain when I could not understand why the same man who created and served wonderful mashed potatoes, lived in the same house, yet was not allowed to sit with us at the table, to dine with us. 

It reminded me of how it  used to be at the altar table. Now everyone gets fed the same, right? We all get our holy food, right? Well, yes now at last!  Children used to have to wait until they were old to “understand” this disembodied Holy Communion meal.  OMG… who understands it? I do, but only from the distant intellectual point of view of evolving policies/rules/church history and performance.

I can still envision little hands, or aging wrinkled hands, reaching out for bread, even a wafer passing for bread. There was/is a yearning to connect. Without a loving touch, a smile, your name, there can be no SOUL—no room for tears or smiles at this communion/community meal we call HOLY COMMUNION?

Now, I release my tears. They are tears of impatience. How long it has taken for racism to be recognized and how long it will take to change? How slow is this process of racial integration to, yes, when will it disappear? I understand the need to pay for your guests at a place like this, a place with a budget! I’m naive and childish I know. 

It takes time for my mind to accompany my feelings. Change takes time!  I stare at the large cup called a chalice, large enough to contain the tragic bloody remains of  those who violated the rules and died for it. 

Suddenly I notice how large the chalice is, the one that supposedly holds enough “blood” of sacrifice for us all. It’s enormous—big enough for ALL tears and fears and cheers. My tears of impatience are in there. I recall the very first time I realized the cruelty of it all, felt it the first time I realized that this Jewish man name Jesus actually died like this!! Horrifying for anyone. We still do things like this and fill prisons with screaming people. SAVE US DEAR GOD FROM OURSELVES.

*  *  *  *

Most of us know too how little time we have to gladden the hearts and minds of those who travel this way with us in this life.

HOW MUCH MORE THEN DOES EVERY LIFE MATTER TO DIVINITY?

2026.05.25 AN INVOCATION TO FORGET? Rev. Lyn G. Brakeman, Spiritual Lemons, blog post

2026.05.31    An Invocation to Forget!?

As a resident at Mclean Care Retirement Community and retired from my professional life, I was invited this year to deliver the Memorial Day Invocation.  An Invocation is a short prayer, simply calling on Divinity to listen in as we gather to remember the painful deaths of all those who served to assure the survival of us all and our nation.  Grateful for the sturdy podium, I waited for silence then prayed:

"We gather today to honor and offer thanks to and for all those men, women and children who lost their loves and  loves to serve in any way to assure the survival of our country and its vision. THANK YOU ALL.

WE GATHER AS WELL NOW IN HOPE TO PRAY FOR A FUTURE FOCUS AWAY FROM WAGING WAR TOWARDS WAGING PEACE. . . while keeping alive appropriate military defenses and our CONSTITUTION that defines us as a nation.

AMEN

OPEN WIDE. Lyn Brakeman, blog post, Hartford Symphony Orchestra Concert

Have you ever seen a grand piano miked up—that is with its lid wide open and not one but two microphones hanging down suspended from somewhere high above the vulnerable open-lidded piano?

It almost reminded me of being at the dentist, all bibbed up and feeling apprehensive about the little tray of sharp picks and tools you have spied. Any minute now, the dentist will approach at your right, lean in with a smile, and say OPEN WIDE. 

I do because I’m a good girl. A treat awaits me for good behavior. At the dentist in NYC where I grew up that meant a brand new tooth brush in a small bag accompanied by a small tube of toothpaste, tied with red ribbon and, of course a good mother who I know will take me to the nearby Schraffts for a sweet treat.

This is self-defeating of course but a ritual to be admired. So it was with the Hartford Symphony concert on April 12, 2024. BUT here the treat paid off! 

*  * *  *

First, we heard the pre-concert talk, organized and offered by Carolyn Kuan, the Music Director. She is personable, fun and smart. Usually there is some history about the players, soloists, and composers, yet it’s not heady. If there is a concerto featuring one of the instruments or its soloist that player is invited to the stage to talk about her or his instrument. One I most remember of course is the tuba, and what I remember about that is how very heavy a tuba is, how little it is featured in most pieces, and that the player sometimes polishes it, raising a shine bright enough to reflect his own grinning face. If the tubist were a woman I imagine she could put on a fresh coat of mascara and grin. The line between beauty and vanity is never absolutely clear anyway! And the tuba is always part of a symphony orchestra.

*  * *  *

But back to the yawning piano, all primped and ready for pianist and composer, Brazil-American, Clarice Assad, often known as a musical polyglot. She played the piano inside and out, once even crawling inside to pluck some strings with her fingers to illustrate the theme of connectivity in her musical piece, FLOW.  She wrote the music with the Erie 

canal in mind. 

Geographically, the Erie Canal, was built in 1825 to facilitate commerce between Albany and Buffalo. Simultaneously, it facilitated the “flow of ideas”—what people thought and felt about life itself, their cultures, religions, and the exchange of ideas and feelings—almost like a memoir would.  

Divinity, in its many expressions, must also flow along,  just like the canal, always thrumming the flow of my own heart, and facilitating the divine connective presence in all things. In short, let’s go with the flow. I wonder who will serenade the Strait of Hormuz?  

GO WITH THE FLOW. EMBRACE THE CRAZINESS.  YES, WE DID! 

2026.04.19 AH, SUCH FOOLS WE CAN BE! Spiritual Lemons, blog post

Do we live now in an age in which the search for authority figures to help us thrive happens in a world almost too swiftly changing to read? 

*  * *  *

The Holy Bible, frankly, remains my own best source of truth, imaginative or factual. It has been around for centuries, and has many writers and multiple ideas, and many translations, revisions.  It starts: “In the beginning……” and I hold my breath. Do I want a version of truth or do I want a vision of possible truth?  Or am I just too old at 87  and a retired Episcopal priest? My husband loves me but he has all the same quests and questions, as do my relatives and colleagues. Tears blur my eyes and, yes, clutch at my heart.

Without reason or thought, the prophet Ezekiel comes vividly to my mind. I’ve always loved those elderly, aka ageless, prophets who speak with fierce authority. I imagine an ancient old guy in flowing robes who stands in the wind and rants. He’s a lunatic everyone says, and yet crowds gather, just to see, in case. . .  

Ezekiel talks about a valley of bones, brittle, dry and useless in death. But this prophet remained sure that all these dry bones would suddenly spring into life. I listen into the silence of my imagination. I stand up and grab my walker, walk about the room, look out the window. Everywhere there is no one. Suddenly the ranting of the prophet tells their bones to live. Is he also talking to my osteoporotic old bones? 

It doesn’t matter. I’m crying. I feel my elbows, my knuckles, wrists, fingers, on down to my ankles, feet and toes. I’m too old to kneel but I do kneel anyway, right down in front of my home altar table. I’m facing an aging crucifix. Jesus is on a cross, just hanging there like a jerk, one hand gone, the other limp. Nevertheless, Ezekiel’s words ring loud, screeching. My tears fall, until I sob. Save me.

*  *  *  *

Years ago when I went regularly on silent retreats at Mercy Center, I would visit their chapel late at night. I would kneel there, pour out my heart-prayers, and stare up at a large non-traditional crucifix created over twenty years ago by Sister of Mercy, Mary Daly. Instead of the drooping crucified dead body of Jesus, there is a huge and beautiful rose. How lovely, and loving, and beautiful.

*  *  *  * 

Time shifts and I’m back at my computer. I glance upward and there, taped to the wall, my own version of that crucified rose—thorns of my own life’s journey and all my hopes in one image with one message: I am a rose. You are too. We two rise.

 

2026.04.05 JESUS WEPT? Lyn G Brakeman, Spiritual Lemons, blog post

Do you ever wonder whether you wonder—maybe too much?

My maternal grandmother often said of me: “What is the matter with that child? She always asks too many questions. It’s plain rude!”  She would say such things as she herself stood up on the bed screeching for her daughter, my mother: “Peggeeeee, get the broom there’s a mouse in here!!

If I were a cartoonist, I would add the correct caption: EEEEEEEK!   

*  *  *  *  

I admit that as I read the Holy Bible I often feel like screeching EEEEK!— especially at ironically comic scenes like the one described by the prophet Ezekiel.  In my mind’s eye appears a scene in which the people of ancient Israel all gather around, faces upturned, to listen to one of the great biblical prophets tell them good news of hope—all about a valley of dried up brittle bones that suddenly leap up, find their proper attachment bones and joints, ready for their God to breathe LIFE into the buried hopes of ancient Israel. My own heart beat faster as I envisioned myself at the scene. Then suddenly I’m humming a Negro Spiritual: “Dem bones, dem bones dem dry bones. Now hear the Word of the Lord!”

My own mother used to hold me in her arms when I was an infant/toddler as she danced about the room singing about dem bones. 

Is that not how ancient words come to life and lift our hearts thousands of years later?  The circumstances are different, the enlivening spirit the same. 

*  *  *  * 

Yes, but that’s in the OLD testament, some people, especially airtight Christians, would say. What about Jesus? He was an itinerant Jew living in ancient Israel who taught his people how to understand and to live the Torah, the historical story of Jewish identity and teachings, all their laws, and much more. Jesus was called “Rabbi” and was itinerant. He traveled on foot all over these ancient lands we call Israel. People followed—longing for wonders, begging for healing, desperate for belonging with security.  

Jesus had to be a fascinating interpreter and inspirational speaker, because everywhere he went, people of many languages, creeds, fears, and plain need, listened and followed, eager to know more and more about what?  THEMSELVES.

Many followers came away healed of diseases of all kinds, yet no one knew how that happened.  

You can read all about it in god knows how many different interpretations of Scriptures, and rules, and religions—all claiming the truth, none possessing all of it, and few daring to admit ignorance!  In fact, the more we insist we know, the more ignorant and foolish we actually become, imagining we can tie down Mystery itself.

Be wary of experts who boast, yet heed the witness of people who have been healed and avoid bragging.

  *  *  *  *

I’d say no one knows in the sure and factual way for which we clamor. When I read the fourth gospel I always think it’s too wordy. And this John wrote much later in chronological time than the other three New Testament gospel writers. Are they ALL right?  Some are? Which ones? Scholars have written much wisdom about all this, and yet here I am at 87 years old, with many years of good education, ordained priest in the Episcopal Church, etc.etc.—and  still I’m not sure I know just how Divinity works. 

Even Jesus had no answer that satisfied, so he cried. Yes, he shed tears when he heard the news that his best friend Lazarus was near-death. Also, in part because he had chosen to fit just one more healing miracle in before he rushed on to save the life of his very best friend, Lazarus. In that moment of delay/procrastination, Lazarus died AND Jesus wept. BOTH—one and the same. It’s laughable, no?

I don’t pretend to comprehend this fierce union—this bond between GRACE AND GRIT. I also love the truth that Jesus like me is BOTH saint and sinner at once—ALL incarnate in human flesh, NONE restricted to a single religion or perspective.   

Today in Jerusalem there is atop the Western slope of the Mount of Olives a church, named Dominus Flevit (The Lord Wept) shaped like a teardrop. No/YES.