2020.05.31 Pentecost. Whose Birthday Is It?

Pentecost is NOT the birthday of the Christian Church as many have been taught. Pentecost is a much bigger, grander, and far-reaching bomb of a holy day.

Think Mystic Flame, Mystic Wind, Cloven Tongues. Think crowds in the hundreds, Jews gathered to celebrate the 50th day after Passover Shavuoth—liberation and plenitude. Think crowds of thousands— Parthians, Medes, Elamites, people from Pamphylia, Phrygia, Cappadocia, Jews and proselytes, Cretans and Arabs, Gentiles and Jews alike—all assembled, eager to experience Divinity. The huge guest list itself is the meaning of Pentecost in Acts—all drawn to the hearth of God's heart.

We dare not downsize this Spirit, nor confine it to certain sacraments administered by “fatherly hands.” Nor can it be claimed by any one religion or national group. It is the Spirit of deepest contact with the Divine, believers and non-believers. Pentecost is the birth of Internationalism—the spirituality of Democracy.

In 1918, theologian, Vida D. Scudder, said that Peter’s first sermon, carried a democratic message: “To you is the promise and to your children and to all that are afar off, even as many as the Lord God shall call . . .”   The struggle between nationalists and an international ideal was very much part of the story of the early church. How big will we be? How far is our reach? Who is part of this institution and who is not?

Peter, a nationalist, was overcome by the Spirit, which gave him breadth of vision. Nevertheless, he went right on opposing Paul and insisted on circumcision as a condition until the Spirit re-programmed his institutional tapes and shook his soul alive. That’s the goal of Pentecost. Even proper Anglicans get permission to shed decorum and explode with exuberance. 

Flowing from this Pentecostal Spirit are gifts. The first is Tongues. I once heard a woman speak in tongues in a parish church. To my shame, I silently condemned her as mentally ill, simply because I, sane and sensible, could not understand her language.

I was abashed to read Scudder’s interpretation of The Gift of Tongues as the Gift of Sympathy. Sympathy? Yes, feeling for the feelings of another. Tongues means to understand without language. It is the gift of knowing-by-soul, not by words. Habitually, we translate everything into our own language to validate it. I remember my thrill when I first read something in Spanish without translating it into English as I read. Tongues signifies that every stranger and alien, through the pentecostal Spirit, understood God’s revelation in their own language without translation.

When I went to Spain to live with a family, people talked so fast I couldn’t understand a word they said, in spite of my big fat college degrees! I felt scared and left out—alone. Too embarrassed to ask them to slow down, I just listened and watched until I caught the energy, the animation. I felt the people before I comprehended all their words. When I came home my mother asked me what the people were like, and I said: “People are people, the same everywhere.”

Habitually, I break things down, analyze meanings, develop my own arguments and opinions. That’s fine, but there is also a wordless language. Ask any baby. They all speak in tongues. And we listen, babble back, caught up in a transcendent moment of nonsensical connection.

To transcend one’s body is orgasmic. It’s not a sustainable state. For a moment you are both inside and outside yourself, experiencing a mystic self-transcendence, speechlessly beyond the comfort of intellect. Some of us cry out—O God—in such moments. 

When I went to a bullfight in Spain, I felt this transcendence. The howling crowd swayed side to side, following the energy of both toro and torero. To parse it was impossible. To make it mentally accessible impossible. So I lost my mind. I swayed with the rhythmic pulse of Olé. I had no objectivity, so I simply got lost in pentecostal exuberance. My olés were for the bull, but it didn’t matter. The crowd rose and fell in one piece—as one, just as Jesus advocated.

Try not to be offended that I put Jesus, and sex, and and the cruelty of bullfights together. All analogies fall short of Pentecostal immensity. Beyond the birthday of one religion, Pentecost summons us to recognize and realize the intimate transcendent oneness of all living things.

In church Christians gather to receive humble wafers and hear: “The body of Christ, the bread of heaven,” possibly with the addition, "may it keep you in everlasting life” These words are not death sentences; they  do not mean we have to die or fly off to heaven to be with Christ. They mean that right now we are embraced by Infinity—IN God.

Pentecost, the Holy Spirit Presence, I believe, is always, always these things:
    -unitive not divisive
    -expansive not contractive
    -connective not disruptive
    -inclusive not exclusive
    -impartial not partisan
    -potent not passive
    -creative not destructive   
    -international not national
    -interdependent not autonomous

Pentecost is not the Birthday of Christianity. 

It is the Birthday of Creation.

   

2020.05.24 Ascend?

I heard a sermon once, delivered boisterously from a skyscraper pulpit by a preacher of great surety and voice who announced to the congregation of neck-craning hopefuls below: Christ is the one God and all our prayers go through Him—and Him alone.

And there you have it, I thought.

This was an Ascension Day Eucharist at an Episcopal parish. There was time after the service for comments or questions. I had a sinking feeling. This preacher was not the type to be questioned. Still, one timid soul (not me) asked: “Well, must Christians always pray through Christ?”

The answer came quickly back: “Well, you could try to access God in other ways, of course, but your prayers won’t be valid.”

Guillotined!

Besides thinking the guy was an arrogant Christian jerk and a spiritual egomaniac, I gnashed my teeth. I wanted to rip this preacher’s face off, or at least have a snatch at his clerical stole. Who was he to set limits on God?  I thought to argue with him or send him a curt note about his pastoral bullying, not to mention his bad theology. Instead, I stuffed my face at the spread of sweets—and more sweets—offered for guests in the parish house, and later let fly at my priest-spouse who responded (expletives deleted) and cracked the old Ascension joke about Jesus still in orbit in outer space. 

But I wasn’t satisfied. I prayed, wondered, and re-read the Ascension story in Acts. I knew it wasn’t factual, yet, once I quieted my snarky dismissal of Christian excess, I found the visual image compelling—Jesus’s last recorded act, a full-bodied rising, his feet hidden in clouds and his arms extended in blessing, or farewell.

The image pursued me, dragged me into a Pauline net of awakening—unforgettable blow to the soul, which is the point. Would I be, or am I, one of the goggle-eyed hopefuls gathered here below gawking at the disappearing savior? Historically, perhaps, but now? I’m not a clinger. Or am I?—secretly of course. I could never pray to such a Christ image, I thought. And then tears filled my eyes, followed by these words: Don’t leave me.

I’ll spare you a boring rehearsal of my abandonment issues, and all the reasons why I trained to be a bereavement counselor. If I were one of those people who were alive when Jesus was I would have holed up in terror and confusion in the little room to which his followers fled in Jerusalem. What now? I have often invited retreatants to sit quietly together and envision themselves in that upper room. What would they feel or think or say?  A few quickly spoke of the Resurrection—too quickly. One once said, “Holy shit!. Most stayed silent, and some cried their way through a halting conversation.

The writer and pastor, Frederick Buechner  came to mind. His wisdom was always to follow your tears, for you never know where they will lead. In his book, Listen to Your Life, he wrote: “See it for the fathomless mystery it is. In the boredom and pain of it, no less than in the excitement and gladness: touch, taste, smell your way to the holy and hidden heart of it, because in the last analysis all moments are key moments, and life itself is grace.”

I’d always thought: If only I could just swallow my distaste for the ecstatic grandeur and glory imagery for Christ, I’d be closer to God-in-Christ. I’d accept the almighty, king, judge, son nomenclature. But the words get in the way. I can't see through them. So I follow my tears, knowing they are for the historical Jesus who would agree and who often shunned glorification. But he is gone—risen and ascended.

I pray: Jesus, I know you’re risen and it’s all good. I know you’re here spiritually, but I need you in the flesh NOW. To hell with all the Christology. I need you to descend again, to shed your transcendent almighty masculinity—here and now.  If there is a Second Coming, I need it NOW.  Amen.

This is probably one of the dumbest prayers I’ve ever uttered. I know better. But so what? I laughed, which broke through my doldrums.

I thought back to the offensive preacher and decided he would invalidate all my prayers, not to mention my tears. I knew he would think of himself in the ascending posture—above-it-all, knowing it all, just like all that imagery. I could not follow him.

I stared at the the Ascension image until it got blurry and I saw through it. I had to stare at a Crucifix a long time to see through it to resurrection. Oh, I can easily do it with my mind, but my heart only sees cruel injustice and  sorrow—even on the empty cross, which only dodges the horror of crucifixion—unless you see through it. Looking at is not the same as seeing through.

So it is with the Ascension image. My mind sees all the obvious Glory of magnificent divine overcoming, but when I stare deeply my heart sees through the glory to the pain of soul-binding loss—an image of soaring joy and plunging sorrow. 

Can I love both and find in both my life, my own full and fragile life?  I will try.

2020.05.17 A Near-Perfect Graduation Speech

I have attended many graduations, some my own, some my children’s, some my grandchildren’s, some my steps, and others I had to attend. I have heard many graduation addresses—most lumbering, long, and forgettable. I have never been invited to address a graduating class.  If I were, here’s what I’d say:

You have been told many times how great you are, how great your school is, and how happy we all are for your graduation. I have no more words, so I just offer one piece of practical wisdom, one prayer, and one blessing, slightly revised by me.

THE WISDOM:  Stop! Sit down! Shut up!

THE PRAYER:

God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change,
         the courage to change the things I can,
                 and the wisdom to know the difference.

THE BLESSING:  Life is short. We do not have much time to gladden the hearts and minds of those who travel the way with us. So be swift to love and make haste to be kind. And the blessing of Love Almighty be with you this day and always. AMEN.

(Attributions:  Luke Timothy Johnson, New Testament professor, on prayer; Theologian, Reinhold Niebuhr, Serenity Prayer;  Henri-Frederic Amiel, Swiss moral philosopher.)

In my mind, as I stepped down from the podium, leaving everyone stunned, then jubilant, I would mutter a small prayer: And for godssake, and your parents’, do not get drunk-to-oblivion or pregnant tonight. Oh, in case of a pandemic lockdown, flip your tassel and the bird at once.

2020.05.10 Mothers' Day Spiritual Wisdom Bouquet

Dear Mom,

Did you love me too much?
Is there such a thing, really?

No, there’s not, they say.
Yes, there is, they say.
All things are possible with God, they say
Love me as I have loved you, Jesus says.

Which is it?

No matter.

We loved as we did, loved as we didn’t,
many kinds, many ways—again, forever,
    always.

I love you, Mom,

Me



 A prayer for good humor

Grant me, O Lord, good digestion, and also something to digest.
Grant me a healthy body, and the necessary good humor to maintain it.
Grant me a simple soul that knows to treasure all that is good
and that doesn’t frighten easily at the sight of evil,
but rather finds the means to put things back in their place.
Give me a soul that knows not boredom, grumblings, sighs and laments,
nor excess of stress, because of that obstructing thing called “I.”
Grant me, O Lord, a sense of good humor.
Allow me the grace to be able to take a joke to discover in life a bit of joy,
 and to be able to share it with others.              St. Thomas Moore
                                                                    ****

THE VOICE OF GOD 

Ninety percent of what’s wrong with you
   could be cured by a hot bath,
says God from the bowels of the subway.
    but we want magic to win
the lottery we never bought a ticket for.
     (Tenderly, the monks chant, embrace the suffering.)

The voice of God does not pander,
      offers no five year plan, no long-term
solution, nary an edict.

It is small and fond and local.
      Don’t look for your initials in the
geese honking overhead or to see thru
the glass even darkly.

It says the most obvious crap—
put down that gun, you need a
sandwich.
                     Mary Karr, poet
                                                                    ****

On this Mother’s Day, we give thanks to God for the divine gift of motherhood in all its diverse forms. Let us pray for all the mothers among us today; for our own mothers, those living and those who have passed away; for all the mothers who loved us and for those who fell short of loving us fully; for all who hope to be mothers someday and for those whose hope to have children has been frustrated; for all mothers who have lost children; for all woman and men who have been our substitute mothers and we who have done so for those in need; and for the earth that bore and provides us sustenance. We pray this all in the name of God, our great and loving Mother.    Amen.
        - by the Rev. Leslie Nipps, Women’s Uncommon Prayers (Moorhouse Publishing, 2000)
                                                                    ****

Jesus, I love you when you’re angry, for so am I
I love you when you fiercely love the children, for so do I
I love you when your mood strikes terror, for so does mine
And just as quick as anger’s flash
Your swift embrace the flow of grace restores
I pray my will be yours.
         - Lyn Gillespie Brakeman
                                                                   ****




                  The Rev. Roy Parker, OHC

2020.05.03 HUSH

Hush
   
In the beginning
You gave us
all Goodness
all Beauty.

But we chose

domination over dominion
greatness over goodness
hubris over humility
shepherd over sheep
power over prayer

And now we are choking
on our own exhaust.

You don’t forsake us
We forsake You.


Hush-sh-sh-sh

Faith in flower scent
Hope in bird swoop
Love in life’s laughs
                       Lyn Gillespie Brakeman