Either/And/Both/Or? Lyn G. Brakeman, Spiritual Lemons, blog post, 2/27/22

We seem to have trouble in this “united” states of North America deciding whether to be pluribus or unum, but rarely both. It’s the same with religions and political parties. 

I am Either

shake my hand

I am And

All hands are banned

I am Both

Full of sloth

I am Or

Without an oar

Wishing more

Daring less

I confess

Oh, do stop playing silly games

We have no time for fuss or fame

We’re all the same

In this raggedy game

both tag or tag-along

and either will do.

*  *  *  *

At the end of my February 20, 2022, blog post, I posed this question: What if there is no either/or, but only both/and?  And what if there is neither but all? 

I wonder if connective and oppositional words are simply of no use in a world that continues to insist on conflict no matter what. We create wars, presumably for the sake of promoting our ideals, and for helping to liberate other radically uneven and unfree societies, and yet war accomplishes neither. War only sows all seeds for more war. In fact, power and might over against self or others for purposes of change toward a shared outcome, such as peace or communication, does NOT strengthen mutual growth, but retards it, breeding only resentment and humiliation. Ask any parent.

For example, Harvard instructor, and researcher, Jessica Stern, herself a victim of rape and the author of a memoir, Denial, interviewed terrorists in an effort to understand their violence. She uncovered consistent underlying feelings of humiliation—the emotional underpinning of terrorism. 

There is a community ritual practice in South Africa called Ubuntu. Ubuntu is a way of thinking about humanity. Young boys are trained in this practice, probably to ensure tribal survival. Ubuntu derives from the Zulu language and roughly means: “I am because we are.”  I became acquainted with this process and practice from church gatherings. I know it has to do with the belief in a universal bond of sharing that connects all humanity.

Even enemies? Or terrorists and rapists? Neither? Both? 

While I was reacting with rage and disgust to the recent Russian invasion of the Ukraine, I thought of ubuntu. I also thought of Jesus, of whom I am quite fond. He not only  advocated for non-violence but also prayed for enemies. All of them? Some days I think Jesus was absolutely nuts! How could I pray for Russian president, Vladimir Putin? Prayer, I discovered, makes me uneasy more times than not. I finally settled on asking God to soften Putin’s heart toward his own humanity and to that of his people. Economic sanctions, after all, hurt innocent Russians as much as war hurts innocent Ukrainians. 

Now I needed comfort. Oh, send me something terrific, I begged. 

And God sent me the Pope. What, you expected a Transfiguration? 

On St. Matthias Day, February 24 of 2022, there was a conference called “Building Bridges: A Synodal Encounter Between Pope Francis and University Students.” Matthias, was the Judas replacement, duly elected by Jesus’s disciples after his death, because of course the work must go on, and they needed to have the correct number: 12 (tribes of Israel, apostles of Christ). The Bible is nothing if not organized disorganization. 

We have 12 grandchildren—irrelevant here but lovely.   

And so I watched the Pope and the young students assembled from all the Americas, including Mexico, and Canada. Was this my consolation from God, or was it one more distractor in my spiritual journey? But I like bridges better than tunnels so I tuned in. The meeting was sponsored by Loyola University’s Institute of Pastoral Studies in Chicago.

In this brief and fascinating two hours I learned nothing new and everything renewed. First, I had to look up synodality. A SYNOD is a meeting, an assembly of clergy and appointed or elected laity. Such meetings make decisions for everyone else. They are usually boring. But this one wasn’t. 

I felt comfort from God through Papa Francisco, as the young, bright, and brisk Roman Catholic students called him. This group of 20-somethings was diverse in gender and race, and eager for just what I myself longed for at 80-something: a little affection with clout. 

The “Papa” began his time with the students by telling them he would speak to them as a priest—not as bishop or pope. He acted friendly—yes, like a friend.

I heard many things. I listened to a few. I comprehended even fewer. I retained some:

-The Pope feels like a fish in water. A fish, he said, runs and exercises very fast. He wiggled his hand like a fish. “I feel like a fish”  And so he was— swimming with us all in the same waters, seeking and seeking, just as we all are.  

-On migrants: “A migrant is a person. I was alone and you welcomed me. First, eliminate the stigmatization. I am a migrant. So are you. It is very important that all of us know our deepest roots. The old ancestors gave us base for the tree, and now you are young, and you must grow the tree.”

-“We say violence for violence. There must be NO violence. Violence destroys. It never constructs.” At Easter, you offer the other side of your faith.” (Remembering the gospel saying about turning the other cheek, I took this to mean that one should never get one-sided and rigid about one’s religious faith. 

-Several students expressed concern about the distance they felt from their clergy. No one speaks to us from the pulpits about climate change and other things that we care about, they told Papa who responded: “The pastor must not manage, but be in front, in the middle, and behind the people.”

-One young woman made this plea: “Please don’t close any more churches. Transform them into our homes.” The Pope grinned and nodded. 

- Most of us have heard the metaphorical image of Christ knocking at the door of the church, or of our own hearts—trying to get in. “The Church must knock at the door from the inside. We have to go out, to change from the inside out.”

-Finally, a theological question, implied throughout but stated by one student: We are to replace violence with goodness. How?”

-Answer: “How is God?  Close, merciful, tender, and compassionate.” 

As he left, the Papa’s zucchetto shifted on his bald head. He resettled it. No bobby pins!

*  *  *  *

So I guess that God is neither AND all. Amen.  

Such Visions, Quests and Questions? Lyn G. Brakeman, Spiritual Lemons, blog post

She’s six feet tall

striding the mall

Thin as a rail

leaving a trail

Shoppers awake

each one agape

Is her skin white—

hardly, though light

What does she want?

What doesn’t she want?

Why is she here?

What is her gig?

What’s her m.o.?

Is she a robot?

No . . . but

are you?

I must have glimpsed the above image somewhere among the array of online images that fly past my eyes as I skim quickly down the line of internet posts. Was this from an ad? I have no idea, but I woke up with this image dancing before my mind’s eye this morning, and these words followed, so I jotted them down. What? The thought that I may be going daft, or demented, or any number of strange ailments, crossed my mind, because I could not make sense of this image, or analyze its meaning.  

*  *  *  *

Another image came to mind without warning. It was an analogy articulated by a patristics (studying the early theological writings of the old boys) professor, the late Rowan Greer of Yale Divinity School, back in the early 1980s.  He told us students, emphasizing the intellectual futility of any analogy of course for how Creator God interacts with Creation, that the relationship between divine grace and human free will or agency was like sailing. 

Grace is like the wind, available at all times for better or worse, and free will was like the sailor (or crew). The tighter you pull the sails in, the less play you give to the wind, and the more likely you are to capsize the sailboat, and possibly drown. Conversely, if you let the sails flap wildly in the wind, you and your boat will flounder aimlessly about, getting nowhere. The wind is always there, to one degree or another. Your job is to cooperate with the wind, to allow its omnipresence to work with you and for you.

Your job is to manage the sails/your life artfully. It won’t happen well if you’re too uptight, or too loosey goosey, about your choices and your destinations. Ya gotta know what you’re doing and be careful doing it. Freedom is a precious and extremely difficult gift to manage—and you’re not alone. Ever. 

This as many of you know had been my experience from early childhood, and believe me I’ve been pretty awkward at times managing those “sails.” But I managed them through storms and painful losses and trauma—sometimes very close to capsizing altogether, giving up my own desires and passions to traditional roles. On occasion I have felt  becalmed, abandoned by God and everyone else, even myself—too helpless to go on.

Still, I always picked up the ropes of those life-sails again, and managed to go on. 

* *  *  * 

I may never fully understand the flash image that came to me this morning, but I am pretty sure the tall woman is not a robot, nor am I.  And I’m pretty sure she has life to live, and that she will live it with grace—no matter what. 

*  *  *  *

The last morning image that ran into my mind’s eye this morning was another remembered  image of children at play. These kids were in a Palestinian refugee camp in Israel. Unlike the well groomed, privileged children in Cambridge, these refugee children were unkempt, often scantily clad, living with anxious parents, unfree, and scared.  And still they played with vigor and passion enough, I pray, to, set “sail” even in the face of political and economic upheaval, not of their doing. 

*  *  *  *

Many are fond of bemoaning God’s absence, less fond of praising that presence when things go wrong. They ask: Where was God?  Others are fond of using most all their energy, individual and collective, to praise God’s presence, less fond of expending much of their own energy on the task at hand, be it recovery from trauma or grieving one’s losses with grace. God asks them: Where were you?  

I dare to believe that all these images came to me this morning to spark hope for this world. It’s irrational, I know, but I also know that God does not solve problems. We do, with the help of God whose grace lives within us—in our flesh, as well as beyond us. BOTH/AND.  

What if there is no either/or, but only both/and? 

Still, I do know that God's Spirit does send sparks of energy my way— doses of trust in that windy presence I call God.  

2022.02.13 I Saw It On The Playground. Lyn G. Brakeman, Spiritual Lemons, blog post, 2/13/22

One of my own happiest memories from growing up in Manhattan was the daily trip to the Central Park playground at 94th Street. To my delight, there in our North Cambridge neighborhood just blocks away from where we lived for the first ten years of our retirements, was the “queen” of all playgrounds, Danehy Park, a 55-acre park named after a former mayor. Not only is it spacious, with several athletic fields, three tot lots for young children, walkable paths throughout, with benches along the way for chats or rest, and of course a sprinkler, because there must always be water play for cooling off and wild splashing. 

I loved to walk over to the park, sit on a bench, watch kids play on swings, slides, and climbing devices, witness the occasional spill, rejoice with their exuberant shouts, often in several languages, for praise: “Look at me, Daddy, Papa, Auntie, Grandma” as their small legs pedaled trikes at astronomic speeds. Play that includes daring challenges like monkey bars is essential for the souls of children, if somewhat nerve-wracking for parents or caretakers. Probably the most frequently heard adult shout to a child was: “Be careful!! You’ll get hurt if….”  Hurt happened, yowling in pain happened, bloody knees and noses happened, even the occasional spat about whose turn it might be. Without exception, some kind of rescue, comfort, arbitration happened as well. I did not see much scolding, lecturing, shaming, or punitive consequences. The kids were comforted, cleaned up, and off they sprinted right back to play exactly as they had been—not a single warning heeded. And often children themselves stopped their games to make sure a playmate who fell was okay. I also saw gracious sharing of food. I mean most kids know what to expect in their lunch bags, they know what their own preferred adult would have prepared for them to munch on. But other parents, of course, made better snacks. One must learn, after all, to develop one’s cuisine—an appreciation for different foods and fluid ethnicity. I’m sure I missed ambulance arrivals and more, but I never saw them. I’m also sure that I am an idealist, yet I will not deny that what I did observe lifted my hope quotient, reinforced my faith in God, and warmed my heart.  

What I saw on the playground was children’s playfulness let loose. There were children of many colors, languages, and cultural or religious dress in this neighborhood. Such diversity must be the gift of this USA, I thought. If only we could honor this gift. If only we could, well, NOT grow up and into the prejudices of our assigned group. No wonder Jesus pointed to a young child and told his followers to be like a child in order to realize the poignant words many of us so glibly, thoughtlessly, pray: “Thy kingdom come on earth as it is in heaven.” 

My limited yet profoundly real experience in this playground led me to think about play as a spiritual gift, a blessing best embodied by young children. I saw mutually enlivening play. I saw such play as proof of the sanctity of Being itself—proof as well that our cherished biases, and all -isms, are not inborn, but they are taught and learned as if they were hard and fast and aggressive social rules—reasons to justify ignorant enmity and war. But they are not present in young children at play. 

 

Mutually enlivening play is a passport to Heaven, understood as a metaphor for complete, all-embracing, no-holds-barred Love. Only in heaven can you ride a trike at Mach whatever. And be caught if you fall by an angel just your size. 

2022.02.06 Paschal Mysteries, Lyn G. Brakeman, Spiritual Lemons, blog post

The Christian Church’s central proclamation is called The Paschal Mystery, in caps to make sure everyone knows it’s of ultimate importance—and, well, crucial to my own wellbeing, now and forevermore. 

I remember once asking a church official with a higher title than mine: What really IS the Paschal Mystery anyway?  He coughed, cleared his throat, looked down on me and said, “My dear, you should know that one!”  Then he walked away, leaving me feeling ashamed and angry.

Why then am I wondering and worrying over this doctrine now? Because I’m 83.

I’m a word person, so I make sure I know, again, that “Paschal” means pascha Passover/ Easter, from Greek pascha, from Hebrew Pesach  or Passover. Good, it’s Christian and Jewish, nicely inclusive. My maternal grandfather was Jewish, so I’m all in, saved from all sides. Yes, but, I already learned all this in seminary, drank it into my flesh, practiced it regularly for 34 years as a priest at the altar of the sacrament, and wondered at its power. The Paschal Mystery. The Mystery part of it, I notice, is taken for granted. It’s like a way to field and discourage too many annoying questions like mine. Yet here I am asking it again—not because I doubt it, exactly, but because I doubt it, sort of. Am I saved, and if so, will it hurt much? 

What helps my old-age distrust, when words grow tiresome, is graphic art, pictures that tell me more than words, images that call my heart to attention.   

In this superb painting, called Creation and painted between 1508 and 1512, by Michelangelo Buonarroti Simoni for the Sistine Chapel, I at first see what I’ve always seen, even in Italy: the old man God, his anatomy delicately draped in a swath of cloth, looking feminine save for the beard, and surrounded by many cherubic faces in the clouds, creating the handsomely sinewed Adam, apparently on earth though not very distant. I’m fascinated. As I stare, my eyes fall on HANDS. I look down at my own hands wrinkled with veins, more blue and evident than they were when I was younger. Just now all I see in this painting is those two hands with perfectly drawn muscles, reaching, stretching, both together each one reaching with all its might, toward the other, their forefingers not quite touching—not quite. I stare and wonder at the depth of this mutual yearning between God and Humankind, between God and me, perhaps all Creation.

This, I think, or rather feel through my tears, is how much I, and maybe all human beings, yearn for connection with God—and how much God yearns back. And sometimes we do connect,  just lightly, just briefly, through a kiss, a laugh, a smile, a touch, a poem or music, a child, a ninety-some year old woman who misses her mouth with most every bite, chuckles, and keeps on going, the sight of a tiny bird swooping by outside, or a ladybug crawling about on the window ledge, going nowhere. Then each night, as I snuggle down for sleep, I reach my hand towards Dick’s. Aways warm, his hand reaches back.

In all these small ways I learn again that The Paschal Mystery is not tie-downable (lovely new word). It’s not even strictly Christian, nor magically distant. It is plural. It is perennial—within the enchanting repetitive cycling of life-death-new life—and again—each cycle more beautiful than the last, each spark of life a brief affirmative certainty.