2025.01.26 A Story For All Seasons, Lyn G. Brakeman, Spiritual Lemons, blog post

This story was originally told back in the 1970s by the Very Rev. Francis Sayers, one-time Dean of Washington National Cathedral. It was dusk, and the last tour of the day was winding down. The Dean was waiting to lock up when he spotted this scene.

A small girl, maybe six or so, bored with the drone of the tour guide conducting the last tour of the day, became fascinated by the light reflected from the round Rose Window at the West end onto the floor below. It represented Creation/The Beginning.   

The child glanced back a few times to make sure her mother wasn’t looking and had not yet spotted her straying. Not yet. She kept walking towards the light. When she reached the edge of its circumference, she looked up at the window and down at the light’s reflection. She stood there simply gazing, her small head bobbing up and down. Finally, she put one toe into the light and drew it back quickly. Several times she checked the light’s omnipresence. At last, encouraged, she stepped into the circle of light on the floor. Still checking its presence above her, she began to move about, cautiously at first then with confidence.    

It was then that mama realized her child was not at her side. She began her own frantic search for her child whom she spotted far away. Mama began the journey, first running then slowing to a walk, then faster again, all the way down the long aisle. The dean, still in the shadows, watched intently as this mother reached her goal then stopped, entranced by the sight of her small daughter moving safely and gracefully about. The child, uninterrupted, looked up at her mother and said:  “Look mommy. Look! I’m dancing with the light. I’m dancing with the light”  

With the light.  

I ALWAYS THOUGHT. . .BUT Lyn G. Brakeman, Spiritual Lemons, blog post, 01/19/2025

I think too much sometimes. It could be obsessing, as in racy mind, or it could be careful concern about some important topic, such as why am I so old, or am I just too old even to think about being old? My wise mind wondered whether Jesus performed miracles. Or was he a phony? Was all this adoration/adulation a hoax? 

Today I am obsessing, gently of course, about the utter foolishness of the adolescent Jesus proudly showing off his divine gift as a “miracle” worker. There had been rumors in this messiah-driven culture. Who would God send? Could this gifted boy be Messiah? Save Israel? Perform magic? Do something no one else could to make Israel shine?  Such a messiah, they all knew, might also threaten their own security—social and political, not to mention spiritual. By spiritual I mean their own deep-down feelings of absolute security, superiority. Being Messiah would do it.

*  *  *  *

The Reverend Professor Dr. Kamal Farah led our tour in Israel in 2012. He surprised all of us who were hungry-for-truth as literal as possible to secure Divinity-on-earth: who, why, where, what, how and whose? 

The professor asked what this story was about deep down? We held our breath. This story is about Mary, the mother of Jesus. What? Our collective and well trained patriarchal egos stiffened, ready to dispute this atrocity. My natural curiosity perked up. 

According to the social etiquette of first century Palestine, the host or hostess of the party was responsible for its organization, its etiquette and its manners. Mary was a mother who, like any mother, wanted her son Jesus to shine. She knew him well. When he failed to comply she drew him aside and told him the proper behavior for a would-be messiah. BINGO!  He turned to his mother, offered some resistance, as in “Come on, Mama, I don’t wanna do it!” Mama prevailed however and obedient son turned about, told the wine caterer of this party that the host, his Mama, was upset because they were about to run out of WINE. Jesus called for more wine, and presto the wine kegs filled up—plenty for all. 

I love such impudence and Mary’s firm maternal authority. No mention of God the Father. I don't care much about the water-to-wine miracle, but rather about the greater miracle that this adolescent boy listened to his mother and obeyed. To be true to the laws of proper hospitality, guests come first. This was a woman’s clarity and triumph. The church tradition thinks of it as Jesus’s miracle.  

It is about nothing more, or less, than honoring hospitality for its own gracious sake. Divine. 

2025.01.12 'TIS TRUE. THIS P.U.D. Lyn G.Brakeman, Spiritual Lemons, blogpost

There really are some things that I do NOT believe!  BUT I saw it in the N.Y. Times— such a trustworthy organ that this must be the hard truth.

Add to this the esteem of antiquity, 18th century no less. And, for francophiliacs, the ooh la la allure of the Folies Bergère, incredibly truth revealing a bit more female flesh than a scooped neck but less than a bare bottom. This device is nothing short of miraculous—for women only. What does a woman do when she has to urinate, and she cannot simply pull over to the side of the road to relieve herself. 

Once when we lived in the city of Cambridge, Massachusetts, I was waiting for the bus to arrive, and I knew I could not hold this urge, and I wasn’t old enough yet for adult pampers. I looked desperately around and saw no other way but to leave the bus stop, walk quickly around the corner and relieve myself on a well-manicured lawn. I had no tissue, and even if I had, where would I toss it?  If I had been a man, well you know.

*  *  *  *

All this is a way to thank the NYT Magazine, for publishing an article, entitled Personal Urination Device, under the category of “Letter of Recommendation”.  Included was a gloriously bright red illustration of this new invention, “a plastic conduit provides new pathways for relief.”  The author’s name is Melissa Hart. She who wrote “Downs Syndrome Out Loud.” This writer lives in Oregon and obviously writes the truth, tells the truth, and of course is on social media. I am trained to write thank you notes so I did. 

*  *  *  *

I even wondered if this mighty item would be something female clergy could slip into the sacristy, or sequester in the tiny kindergarten-size, toilet-only. Clergy robes which often resemble effulgent garments women wore in Victorian times. 

Thank you Melissa Hart for your humor, good courage. Also to NY Times’s (2/22/24) for foregoing gender bias for the sake of, well you know.   

2025.01.05 TRUCE, Lyn G. Brakeman, Spiritual Lemons, blog post

Say this word. Say it again. Everyone  everywhere say this word over twice, thrice, over and over. All the world, all earth together, say this word: TRUCE.  

This word came out of nowhere and into my mind just two days ago. Because of its sudden appearance I paid attention, mostly because I knew it wasn’t something I conjured.  Over and over I said this word TRUCE. Of course I know its meaning but I did not at first comprehend its deepest truth.  

I first noticed in this word a combination of two words “truth” and “peace”. Both of these are flung about carelessly and almost desperately these days in this war-torn, frightened world. 

Next I noticed that this word is a process that usually happens  after a long time of being at war, of fighting useless battles often territorial and usually involving more and more death until someone or some huge explosive bomb halts the fighting—for a time. 

Checking with the faithful first source I look in the dictionary for TRUCE. It’s earliest origins, ironically, come equally from the root of words from Dutch (trouw) and German (treue), also English “true”. It was associated with the immediate result: ceasefire, letup, suspension of hostilities.  The immediate result was cessations of hostilities, violence, and lots of death.  BUT ,and there is alway a BUT………without a coming together of national leaders to end fighting, prevent more losses and deaths.

In the Middle Ages it was known as “truce of God”. 

 Today it means stopping the fighting long enough for the human spirit to realize itself, renew itself and often befriend those you had seen as mortal enemies. When my parents put an end to the sibling fighting between me and my younger sister, it usually meant physical separation, temporary isolation, and temporary peace, and required the cooperation of BOTH of us for it to work.  

It is strange today to say that now my younger sister and I, in our eighties, have made TIME to get to know each other deeply, review our history with clarity and good laughter, arrive at accurate/mutual understandings of our differences and the family dynamics, with the result of mutual empathy and enough courage each to tell the truth, the whole truth so help us God.    It only took 85 years! 

This TRUCE will last.