2025.12.07 The Advent of What? Whose? When? Whom? Why? Spiritual Lemons, Lyn Brakeman, blog post

Most small children think that Santa Claus is a real person who will appear in the night to leave them gifts. It’s a hooker as huge as any traditional fairy-tale opener:  “Once Upon a Time”.  What? I hold my breathe still.   

Is it fair to raise a child’s expectations that you have already made unmeetable, like bring Daddy back, or tell Mommy not to tell lies about miracles, such as me. I won’t easily forgot my own experience of finding my wee baby tooth in the medicine cabinet wrapped in a tissue. Some tooth fairy!!  Not to mention that we lived in a NYC apartment and had NO chimney, not that I once caught my mother sneaking in to remove the milk and cookies we left, making sure she scattered a few crumbs and left the milk glass empty with milk on its rim. 

Even the classic Christian answer, about a sixth century Bishop, Nicholas of Myra, who actually did go around and leave small gifts and food at the doorsteps of homes he knew were impoverished.  That was true gift from a real ancient bishop from the far east who really did distribute gifts to children at Christmas time. There is definitely some holiness in such a tradition but few acknowledge it any more.  

There is such a thing, however, as on-the-ground fact, and there also is truth, often called Myth.  A Myth is not a lie.  It is simply a different perspective, a slant, on a common scenario. Most so-called fairy tales are social commentary on cruel situations turned upside down. Cinderella was a girl (beautiful blonde of course) forced into slavery by her Mistress, the “evil stepmother” (aka dad’s new wife) who is driven by jealousy and grief. Truth or fact?  Likely truth. 

Little mice scheme to rescue Cindy by chasing down a handsome prince to rescue her and carry her off to live in the castle, marry her course and thus legitimize her justification, her worth, her lovability. Truth? Possibly. Fact: proposition that does verify her hopes, her dreams, her worth as a woman her marriage-ability—for now.  Myth: Cindy’s happiness lasts forever and ever. Truth: maybe. 

A fact in time does not tie down any event or circumstance forever and ever. A myth makes us feel better, yet it is temporary beauty, never forever and ever for everyone, amen. We have hope and each other—gifts all. 

Grace is a gift free of charge and charges. Fact: God knows. Truth: we are free to choose, also to choose again.  Process: Tell it all and tell is slant!  

Wisdom from Emily Dickinson, a reclusive poet who lived in Amherst Massachusetts (1830-1886). Here below is her take on truth-telling:  Tell all the truth but tell it slant—

Success in Circuit lies

Too bright for our infirm Delight

The Truth’s superb surprise

As Lightning to the Children eased

With explanation kind

The Truth must dazzle gradually

Or every man be blind—

 

ADVENT. Who Am I? Lyn G. Brakeman, Spiritual Lemons, blog post, 12/18/22

 All it takes is one—some ONE—to start a social/religious/political/cultural transformation, to break long-held patterns of behavior, our “ways” we say. 

In treacherous times when change is so needed, we all ask: Are YOU the ONE?

Perhaps a better question is:  AM I THE ONE?

*  *  *  *

As the oldest child, born (1938) from a mother who believed herself a failure because of three failed conceptions, I grew up much too praised and too adored, also with an insatiable need to overachieve and a praise addict, imagining: I am what I achieve.  

It worked for a while. School was my obvious haven, and even Sunday School where I learned that God Himself was the greatest achiever of all time, and I, by proxy became the greatest memorizer/reciter of putative divine qualities—all beginning with omni-.  I mean imagine creating all the whole world and everything in it from atop a cloud. (I’d seen this image in a favorite book, The Little Book About God by Lauren Ford, 1934) That would be the omni-est of omni feats ever—utterly omni-competent. 

My own omni-competence, however, failed miserably in two very important areas in my life so far: motherhood and priesthood. Why? Because neither of these was an achievement. Why? Because I was not in control. I could not make either happen by being competent, equipped, qualified, even desirous. For biological motherhood, I had to offer my body—unconditionally. For ordination as a priest, I had to offer my soul—unconditionally. For both, I had to risk giving myself deeply, and loving myself completely—finite, imperfect, and yes, needy. 

Yes, I did give birth to four healthy children whom I loved without condition, and in the heaving power of my own uterus I knew God. At being the traditional omni-mother-at-home, I failed. I chose to pursue my own needs and gifts; my children felt abandoned; I could not achieve the forgiveness I desired and needed. I could only ask for it and wait. 

And yes, I did, after much struggle and rejection, get ordained a priest in the Episcopal church, and in the powerful force of my own persuasive self-advocacy I knew God. At fulfilling the expected traditional role of parish priest, I failed. I chose to pursue a vocation in pastoral counseling, chaplaincy, writing, lobbying to remove gender from God’s name, and serving as non-stipendiary Sunday Priest Associate in parishes. I could not achieve the forgiveness I thought I needed. I could only wait, be a good writer, counselor, and chaplain, never call God HE, and see what God would make of it all.     

Jesus failed spectacularly at his mission to renew the reign of God. He even cried out to God from the cross: Why have you forsaken me? (Psalm 22) Still, many called Jesus Messiah/Christos, and the renewal of the everlasting covenant between Creator and Creation took new root and growth in Christianity. Jesus could not achieve the fullness of his vision. Did he desire or need God’s forgiveness? I don’t know, but Jesus is remembered as asking God to forgive the enemies who jeered and crucified him. 

Perhaps it’s our own expectations, or society’s for us, that we fail? Of God’s expectations we know not the ongoing details. We live in hope and trust. 

We still fail, and we still pray, and we still wait and call out: Are YOU the One? 

All I know is that I am not the ONE.  I am one of the Ones.  

ADVENT. Who Is She? Lyn G. Brakeman, Spiritual Lemons, blog post, 12/11/22

 All it takes is one—some ONE—to start a social/religious/political/cultural transformation, to break long-held patterns of behavior, our “ways” we say. 

This happens when all their stories are told—and retold.  

Of particular interest to me are the stories of biblical women who—ONE by ONE—  mightily influenced the course of Creation. 

Consider Eve, the woman who, drawn by natural curiosity, reached for the forbidden fruit in Eden and started what? She was the first women’s libber/ribber/fibber. Adam of course followed eagerly, looking innocent.  

The late American writer, Joan Didion, once wrote: “We tell ourselves stories in order to live.” It is the stories in the Holy Bible that keep us alive and fascinated with the Mystery of this Divinity of many names—too many for any one religion to own. 

Laurie Metcalf, a movie actor, commented recently about how important the work of a good director, in this case Greta Gerwig, was in helping actors see and understand fully the character they were playing and the story surrounding that character—not just acting out a role. “That clicked with me in a way that was rare. That made it so real to me. It was the first time I was playing a fictional character where I actually was able to think of it as a real woman.” (N.Y Times, Sunday Styles, 12/4/22)   

Would the same not apply to biblical characters whose stories are not fiction, nor biography, but exemplary stories, told to highlight moral and spiritual meaning. Are they true? Yes. Are they literal fact? No. Are they stunningly beautiful even if painful? Yes. They are Schadenfreude—German word built on a combination of shaden (harm or damage) + freud (joy). It is usually understood to mean joy/rejoicing at someone’s else’s misfortune, like secretly gloating at your win or another’s loss as if you deserved all that praise. But what if the power of the joy of ONE could overwhelm the harm altogether? 

I recall a favorite New Testament exam or class question: Who founded Christianity, Jesus, Paul, or John the Baptist?  

What about Mary? 

There was no right or wrong answer to this question, of course. In a God-school exam one had to become an attorney for the defense, or the defensive. I voted for Jesus, thinking that was the obvious right answer for a Christian. But resentment coiled painfully around my gut: Didn’t there have to be a beginning to the beginning? Women, after all, naturally bleed for life— not for war. I filled with bloody joy when I suddenly realized in the deep dark depths of my own body and blood that a woman had to be indispensable to any divine project—Creation, Incarnation, Resurrection—in life and in death, especially one of enough magnitude to save this whole fractured cosmos. 

Who was this ONE in the Bible? Mary. She, with pain and fear and courage, started this Christian faith, this Christmas tradition, this Incarnation, this Christ. She bled for it. 

She was the ONE who labored  in pain and cried for joy. Now we all sing, “Joy To The World” with gusto. 

ADVENT. Who Is He? Lyn G. Brakeman, Spiritual Lemons, blog post, 12/04/22

All it takes is one—some ONE—to start a social/religious/political/cultural transformation, to break long-held patterns of behavior, our “ways” we say.  

Think Rosa Parks, Martin Luther, Alexander Hamilton, Syrophoenician Woman, Charles Dickens, Pope John XXIII, FDR, MLK, JFK, Julian of Norwich, William Shakespeare,Gloria Steinem, Betty Friedan, Jesus of Nazareth, Harriet Tubman, Mary of Nazareth, Mr. Rogers, Toni Morrison, Elizabeth Cady Stanton, Pauli Murray, Karl Jung, Jean Baker Miller, John the Baptist. Who is he? 

                        *  *  *  *

I remember my brilliant young high school daughter singing in the musical Godspell. She sang “All For The Best” and never missed a beat or a word of the high speed lyric rendering of the biblical scenario about Jesus’s gospel, according to Matthew. The song was perfectly emblematic of what happens to people who are confronted with great confusion, great pain, and great hope all at once over a short sweep of time.    

Imagine the confused joy of people, especially those most destitute and those with a surplus of wealth and resources, also leaders, wondering and worrying about the future in chaotic times, just like our own, when suddenly out of the desert and into the crowds came an exotic messianic prophet screaming at people to REPENT NOW. Unburden yourselves of sins and worries now. Prepare!  

A herald’s voice cries in the desert:

Prepare the way of our God,

Make straight the paths of God. 

                            (Mt. 3,The Inclusive Bible)

Would you have listened? I might have sensed the urgency and wondered. I’d engage in lots of obsessive overthinking to prepare for all possible outcomes—known and unknown. I would have felt stirred by fear and hope all at once?  But I might also have condemned the message as crazy. I’d also call my closest most trusted confidantes or an authority figure, for support and answers.  Secretly with tears, I’d inwardly confess my own naked neediness? Then I’d step out and follow.

According to the biblical story, Jesus knew about his cousin John’s eccentricities and the risks of dire political consequences. John tried to persuade Jesus that he Jesus was the one who should be doing these repentance baptisms. But Jesus reassured John, telling him to “leave it this way for now”—in other words, there is a power greater than the two of us in whose faith we trust to make it all for the best. Then Jesus went into the waters for his baptism and began his career as an activist for justice, peace, and righteousness—not being holier than others, but being in right-sized and humble relationship with friend and foe alike.  

How did this new movement we call Christianity, ignited by one brave man named John work out?  In the Bible story, both John and Jesus established a following. Both became proclaimers of justice for all people, in the name of God. Both became heroes. Both were persecuted as enemies of the State. Both died ugly, ignominious deaths (beheading and crucifixion). Neither went unforgotten. 

 

Many still ask: who was that ONE who first cried out?  

2022.11.27 ADVENT—Woes Begotten and Be-Gone, Lyn G. Brakeman, Spiritual Lemons, blog post

The season leading up to the birth of Christ is called Advent, derived from Latin ad + venire (to come). Something worth noting is coming up. Even waiting can make one’s soul tingle, anticipating even God!  

Sadly, Advent often gets run over by the sin of buying, shopping, shoving, crowding, crowing. Sin is whatever separates us from the goodness in ourselves, God and our neighbors. Preoccupation with over-shopping blinds us to this goodness. 

In this country we’ve overstuffed ourselves, offered thanks, and now head for a shopping day we nervously call Black Friday—now extended for weeks.  We also have witnessed  SEVEN days of SEVEN mass murders—one per day. We have witnessed world starvation and weather events of mass destruction. We are traumatized. What will bring hope and healing? 

Can collective prayer be a "weapon"? Dare we openly, out loud, barrage the God we usually thank and praise with a prayer assault, a prayer war? Love, divine and human, is best of course, yet how much Love is too much Love before it becomes empty of truth? I don’t know. 

Apparently neither does Jesus who, in the face of fear and questioning about ongoing apocalyptic chaos, says: “I don’t know. No one knows, not even the angels of heaven, nor the Son, only the Father.”  (Mt.24:36) I find this harsh truth oddly comforting. I cannot know exactly why trauma and tragedy and unbearable loss happen, even if I can exactly describe and analyze the circumstances. So I live at the edge of unknowing. No one is ever condemned by God for wanting to know, for simply giving up, for wavering in faith, longing to know, or taking one’s own life. 

*  *  *  *

Once upon a time this lonely boy met this lonely girl. In their loneliness they found love. In the love they had found fun and laughter and marriage which, in the 1960s, meant they had to play house—he to work for money and she to home to cook and clean. Years went by. They had their money and their beautiful children, but they no longer could see each other clearly through the dense mist of fear and tears that—slowly slowly— had settled around them. They turned away from each other, said goodbye to each other, to the love they once had and would never forget, but reinvested it in their children and in new love.  

*  *  *  *  

I wonder if this is what Jesus’s followers did when they remembered that he once told them that the world as they knew it would come to an end, never be the same, and no one knew exactly when, why or how, except God who is silent.  

I’m annoyed but not depressed or helpless. I’ve been tempted to choose atheism or feign weak agnostic faith, but damn it, I can’t. Woe is me. And so I pray.  

Prayer will be my weapon, instead of knowledge. Prayer will be my faith-of-unknowing.                   

 

11.29.20 ADVENT FLASH

Every once in a while—requested or not, planned or not, expected or not, desired or not, rational or not, explicable or not—there come a flash of awakening.  It’s not like the slow sleepy arising in the morning. Nor is it the sudden kick in the gut of noticing the obvious for the first time, or the surprise of finding a lost earring peeking from under the edge of the bureau. This flash partakes of Mystery.

We live as everyone the world over is living in near-quarantine in this season of Covid-fear and masks and huglessness. In the midst of this the town where we just moved, Simsbury, Connecticut, had its 350th anniversary. How does one celebrate antisocially?  Town officials decided the best, perhaps only, way was to have fireworks. This phenomenon is bravely American and traditionally reserved to July 4th. The best place to set off the display was at a local golf course. Guess who lives right behind that golf course, bordering its well-pruned green expanses. WE DO!  

Last night Dick and I sat at our window and watched. The flashes came in succession, each one louder and more colorful than the last. In the parking lot below, cars gathered, one with a bunch of young children atop it and all around it. Sounds of their laughter and screams of delight accompanied the fireworks. 

Mysteriously, this 20-minute flash was better than any July 4th I’ve ever seen. It was far better than the costly displays with musical accompaniment, tailored for global viewing to advertise America’s brand of freedom. Now more than ever we need to learn how to live our brand of freedom—not as power but as joy, not as exclusive to us but as available to all living things in nature and human nature, not as dogma but as covenant.

As this flash subsided, I was suddenly suffused with tears—gratitude, inner warmth, hope, awe, and sheer Mystery.

PS.  Simsbury. Thanks for your wondrous fiscal irresponsibility!

2019.12.08 You Do Not Have To Believe In God To Pray, Do You?

The Advent season is paradoxical. It’s full of darkness and ominous warnings about endings—of the world, of human lives, of our whole planet in peril. Simultaneously, Advent also offers stunningly compelling images of light—the light of a single matchstick struck to brighten a small space, the light of a single candle passed around to light other candles, the pierce of a single note or voice, calling now and over time for people to look and see and expect.

Such Advent chiaroscuro is just enough to hold a community at worship, or at war, in thrilled suspension for mere seconds. That’s when you hold your breath and breathe. That’s when you murmur, Oh my God, and you don’t know why, but you think it might be prayer.

Once upon a time, a little boy loved a stuffed animal whose name was Old Rabbit. It was so old, in fact, that it was really an unstuffed animal; so old that even back then, with the little boy's brain still nice and fresh, he had no memory of it as "Young Rabbit," or even "Rabbit"; so old that Old Rabbit was barely a rabbit at all but rather a greasy hunk of skin without eyes and ears, with a single red stitch where its tongue used to be. The little boy didn't know why he loved Old Rabbit; he just did, and the night he threw it out the car window was the night he learned how to pray. He would grow up to become a great prayer, this little boy, but only intermittently, only fitfully, praying only when fear and desperation drove him to it, and the night he threw Old Rabbit into the darkness was the night that set the pattern, the night that taught him how. He prayed for Old Rabbit's safe return, and when, hours later, his mother and father came home with the filthy, precious strip of rabbity roadkill, he learned not only that prayers are sometimes answered but also the kind of severe effort they entail, the kind of endless frantic summoning. And so when he threw Old Rabbit out the car window the next time, it was gone for good.

So begins the article “Can You Say  . . . Hero?” by Tom Junod, originally published in the November, 1998 issue of Esquire Magazine.  The current popular movie, “It’s a Beautiful Day in the Neighborhood,” is the story of Mr. Rogers and Tom Junod and Old Rabbit—and a lot more. Junod is a writer who was assigned to interview Fred Rogers, hero of children’s television and originator of the show for young children: “Mr. Rogers' Neighborhood.”

The most wonderful thing about the late Fred Rogers and his show was not its popularity, but the fact that so far no one—no one—has been able to prove that Mr. Rogers was not really, in true life that is, as nice as the person he created for his show, a person who welcomed everyone equally with a smile into his make-believe neighborhood, who spent time listening to each child no matter how off schedule the filming of his show got, and who consistently embodied his message: “I like you just the way you are.”  Oh my God! 

It was all an act of course, wasn’t it?

Tom Junod was grumpy about being assigned the task of interviewing Mr. Rogers for a series on heroes. Junod was cynical, skeptical, and irritated. He wanted some “hot shot hero” to interview, someone who was a REAL hero, not a schmaltzy kiddie show host. And on top of all that the editor of Esquire only gave him 400 words. Reluctantly, Junod did his job. He hung out at the edges of the make-believe neighborhood to meet this make-believe man, this silly non-hero. He hovered in the darkened gloom of the studio and watched, scribbling notes on and off. He intended to create something passably publishable and do it with haste. Gradually, Junod edged from the darkness into the light of Rogers’s soft voice and the paradoxical truth of actually being liked just as he was—mile-high shoulder chip and all. Here is Junod with Mr. Rogers.

No, Tom Junod did not learn to pray, although that was something Mr. Rogers did regularly, and in one scene Rogers, played by Tom Hanks, called the entire theater audience into a silence—just a short moment. We all became a prayer—all at once one, not a sound. No, Junod did not have a religious conversion or suddenly proclaim the glory of God.  No, he did not say Oh my God out loud. And no, he did not write a paean to a lost beloved rabbit—not really.

Such a mixed-up experience is a bit like Advent. We move slowly and uncertainly to let in a little bit of light and hope at a time, just inches at a time. We do not magically transform our darkness of mood or circumstance into light. Nor do we change our personality any more than Junod did, but we do begin to live allowing light and dark to meet each other, to co-exist, neither one compromising the other.

You could say this is what being really nice and really real is all about. Oh my God.

2019.12.02 At the Turn of the Year

It is not the calendar year that turns in the bleak mid-winter. It’s the Church year. And the Season’s year. Looking outside at 4 p.m. to see the darkness begin to descend, reminds me that the day is turning itself downwards like the knob on the stove makes the bright fire of the burner’s flame slowly lower and lower and lower.

I understand why people become depressed in this season. I understand why people hasten to put up Christmas lights—prematurely. I understand why we rush to the stores to shop for glitter and glamor. I also understand why the Christian church calls for a slow-down, not a speed-up, a space where candlelight suffices. I understand why my heart thrills at the first silence of the first snowfall, a cold wet blanket of hush that says: Nurture the darkness. Let it wrap your soul in hope. Don’t rush. Wait. Listen. Every single snowflake has it own unique shape and its own silence. So, beloved, do you.

Poets and mystics in all spiritual traditions discover the full presence of the Divine in the stillness. Eastern traditions have lead the way. No wonder the Church sings the hymn, “People Look East” in this season. The East is where the sun rises.

One of the Islamic world’s greatest poets, Jalal ad-Din Muhammad Rumi (1207-1273), was a Sufi mystic, a lover of philosophy and of humanity. His followers began a school of mysticism for people to encounter the divine presence without mediation. The Sufi religious order was a mendicant order, so not noted for extravagance or shopping sprees. But they were noted for wild ecstatic rituals in which they danced and whirled and often howled. It is known to Westerners as “Whirling Dervishes.”

Notice these dervishes are all men. I find that exciting. Whirling wildly is a form of really letting go without getting drunk or high to do it. Women, then and maybe now, do dance wildly but not often in public, which could be dangerous—an invitation to sexual advances or rape.

Here is the poet Rumi to say it best.

Forget your life.
Say God is Great. Get up.
You think you know what time it is.
It’s time to pray.

You’ve carved so many little figurines, too
many.
Don’t knock on any random door like a
beggar.

Reach your long hands out to another door,
beyond where you go on the street, the street
where everyone says, “How are you?” and no
one says, “How aren’t you?”

Tomorrow you’ll see what you’ve broken and
torn tonight, thrashing in the dark.

Inside you there’s an artist you don’t know
about. He’s not interested in how things look
different in moonlight.

If you are here unfaithfully with us,
you’re causing terrible damage.

If you’ve opened your loving to God’s love,
you’re helping people you don’t know and
have never seen.

Is what I say true? Say yes quickly, if you
know, if you’ve known it from before the
beginning of the universe.


(NO, I don’t understand it either. So I just swallow it whole and say yes quickly—into the darkness, into the love, into myself, into God.)

Advent III—What Then Should We do?

Biblical characters are frequently demanding and commanding in the name of God, even to the point of name-calling, like John the Baptist’s indictment of the crowds seeking baptism: “You brood of vipers! Who warned you to flee from the wrath to come?” Trees that do not bear good fruit will be thrown into the fire and burned up. This is harsh. John the Baptist would never win any popularity contests. And yet he sheds glaring, revelatory light on human behavior. What you do matters to you, to your neighbors, and to God.

Does God judge? Yes. Does God condemn forever? No. Does God call for repentance and change? Yes. Does God love with zeal equal to the zeal with which God judges? Yes.

“What then should we do?” the crowds asked John. They, like us, wonder about this kind of God, and feel threatened, a little scared.  

The Baptist’s answers are inconvenient but quite clear: give away one of your several coats; do not extort money falsely; no usury or threats of violence; be content with your own wages. Someone more powerful than I am is coming.

Ah, good: our Jesus Christ is coming with the Holy Spirit in tow. Good news! Whew!

Not so fast. This Christ, whom we think is our Christmassy Jesus, has a winnowing fork and bears exactly the same message as the Baptist delivered. The harsh light of judgment exposes us all, inside and out. It hurts. Certainly no one would dare be silly and sentimental about the power of this Word, this Christ, this God who calls for right behavior.

What then should we do?

The first thing to do is to scrutinize your own greedy habits. The second thing to do is to realize you can’t blame the OLD testament for this one. It is in our NEW testament. Then resist the temptation to blame, even yourself. Historically and today, one of the first reactions when we feel afraid, challenged, insecure, and powerless is to defend self by blaming others, rather than taking into account our own behavior.

Just like the crowd the Baptist warned, we are in disarray, not centered, unclear about what to do, how to behave. Our values are askew, so we blame: Republicans, Democrats, climate-deniers, the media, the atheists, the theists, God godself, science, the White House, the northeast, the southwest, the midwest, Catholics, Muslims, Sikhs, the law, religion, the Bible, the police, car salesmen, LGBTQI  people, THE Institution—on and on. Add your favorite blamee—even shaming yourself neurotically counts. All of this gets us off the hook. Face it: we might just be a brood of vipers who need to get honest.

Throughout history, the preferred blamee has always been the Jews. NOTE: John the Baptist, Jesus, Mary, Paul, the gospel writers, all of our beloved biblical forebears, were Jews.

I worry about this die-hard and deadly habit of blaming the Jews. All -isms are on the rise in our confused world, and anti-semitism is too. It’s always the Jews, or the OT, which is to say the same thing in disguise. Why is that? Cynthia Ozick proffers an answer in her essay “Hep! Hep! Hep!”, published in A Sense of Wonder (2016).

H.E.P. was the call of the Christian Crusades in 1099. It stood for Hierosolyma est perdita (Jerusalem is destroyed.) Hep! Hep! Hep!—a raging marching song, a Christian cry, a Nazi cry, an anti-Zionist cry. It’s the cry of blamers and haters anywhere. If you listen carefully to your deep inner self you might hear the impulse to cry Hep! when you feel frustrated, angry, wanting to vilify another and declare yourself absolutely right. Toddlers do this well.

Such impasses happen everywhere and any time to any society and people, so why do Jews bear more of the brunt than other groups? Ozick suggests it has much to do with: “. . . the forceful powerful resistance to what Jewish civilization represents—the standard of ethical monotheism and its demands on personal and social conscience.”

We’re right back to the Baptist’s cry, to Jesus’s winnowing fork—calling us to high standards of morality. We plain don’t like it. Think Ten Commandments—foundational divine expectations, the manifesto of the Jews.

I think the worldwide symptom of this resistance is that we are stuck in fight mode—spewing toxic, hostile energy, and humor that falls short of being prophetic, into the midst, rather than enough respectful intelligence to open up relationships with and any and all putative blamees.
                                                     *  *  *  *

Still: are we less divided than we think we are, or than we are told we are? As long as we think we have to fight we will have to blame. The space between us will remain contaminated, and that space is where commonly held values live—gasping for air.

Think tug of war. If each of only two teams dropped the rope and abandoned the fighting spirit, the passion to win and to be right, the dust would settle. Could we then see clearly and hear each other clearly? Is this the baptism of the Holy Spirit and cleansing water? 

Is this then what we should do?

2017.12.17 Little Things Can Be Big

Sometimes I say to myself: Lyn, bevel your edge!

What I mean is my critical edge. I can spoil the fun when I’m too serious for my own good or anyone else’s. Ask my sister. She is always excessively joyful and it bugs the bejesus out of me— sometimes, but not always. We joke and laugh about our edges and other things too fierce to mention. We have stopped saying: What’s wrong with you, or what what’s wrong with me? We are differently abled, as they love to say in the world of political correctness, but we have made a relationship of trust and mutuality that works. Not bad for intimate sibling enemies. It only took 75 years.

Still, I am naturally wired to look deep before I make any joy-leaps—wary. Christmas is the season of annoyingly excessive joy, and this Sunday is often but not always called Gaudete Sunday—designated for Joy. Some parishes signal Gaudete with a pink candle on the Advent wreath. “Rejoice in the Lord always: again I say rejoice. . .” (Philippians 4:4)

Joy is that anxious unsettling undefinable energy of anticipation. Something new will happen and it will be good—but not yet.  It’s very hard not to push the season.  Joy isn't happiness and no whoopee; rather it is deep within, nestled in the manger of every human heart. 

Recently I was in Harvard Square walking as I frequently do to get my hair cut for too much money, just because I so admire the owner who does hair and makes me look spiffy and massages my scalp with kind firm fingers.  

Because of a construction site walkers were diverted into a one-lane walkway. That’s when I encountered this beggar in his wheelchair. He wasn’t a new sight. I often give him a little money. He suffers from some crippling condition, possibly Cerebral Palsy. But on this day he, or someone of genius, has placed him directly in the path of the rush of oncoming pedestrians—a startling presence. 

He doesn’t walk or talk; he can only move one arm a bit. He is unattractive, overweight, unkempt, unshaven or badly shaven; his eyes seem a little crossed, but it’s hard to tell because his head stays drooped. He sits slumped in his chair in the same place along the sidewalk—omnipresent. He’s right in my path and I’m annoyed, in a hurry.

I open my wallet. He waits. I have forgotten to get change and have only two $20 bills. Damn!

“Well, look at that,” I say. “I don’t have any smaller bills so this is it for today.”  I retrieve a twenty and start to put it in his pouch. He spots the bill. He looks up. He grins from ear to ear, toothless as well. And then he speaks.

"Thank you, oh thank you!”

“You’re welcome,” I say, or some such vapidity.  I want to move on. But no, he wants to talk.

“You know what I was just praying for?” I shake my head no. “I was just praying for snow” He laughs loudly. “Snow!”

To wish for snow would seem the least likely thing for an outdoor beggar to wish for, and yet the joke about wishing for snow is common. It’s a New England thing. The last thing we wants is SNOW, ever. He knows this and delights in his joke. I react with the horror that is expected. “Oh no, not snow!” 

He motions with his one good hand for me to bend towards him. I lean down. He motions me closer. I follow. He grabs onto my arm and pulls me even closer. I smell his stale breath. I recoil a little. Then he kisses my cheek. The kiss is wet, sloppy,  drooly, and wildly authentic—a tiny moment. As I leave him I tell him I say: “Stop praying for snow, Okay?”  I can still hear his chuckle.

As I walked on I wanted to wipe away the wet kiss using all the proper rationales. But I did not, could not, wipe away this kiss I neither deserved nor expected. I will never forget this little big thing.  

What I tell you happened just as I have said. I dare not say more. So: Amen.

2016.12.18 Along the Way: Christ-Spotting

I'm really quite fond of the God of Jesus. Jesus was a remarkable spiritual guru in his day, one so gifted as to be deemed as divine as he was human. Jesus's God dares to be vulnerable and glorious at once. That's my kind of divinity. 

Along the way of life I practice christ-spotting. I watch for glimmers of divinity in humanity all the time. I call it the christ option. One does not have to be a Christian to be a christ.

Of late I've been sleuthing a persistent cough, consulting many doctors, getting some answers and unearthing more questions. My cough is temporarily better, thanks to steroidal medication, yet I'm still in Nancy Drew mode, following clues—driven by hope and my own sweet refusal to settle.

Along the way of christ-spotting I have had many experiences and learned many things. On occasion I meet this Christ by accident. One such occasion was in a doctor's office where I waited, and waited and waited some more. I waited in the waiting room, and I waited in the exam room. So much waiting was odd, because the normal pace at this medical center is swift and efficient. Finally, this old doctor ambled in and asked me what was wrong. He never touched the computer, never smiled, and never used the stethoscope. He was slow, very slow—old, very old (probably about my age:) I secretly thought he had the relational skills of a newt—some kind of fill-in doctor, worse than a substitute teacher, and old-fashioned like the stereotype of the country doc who made house calls.  His manner unsettled me so I talked very fast to articulate the case for my cough. Then he left. I waited. When he returned he told me he'd read my whole record. Really? Then he smiled—a smile deep and wide as the Jordan River of song. It drew me into his sphere and I listened— rapt— while he rambled on about bacterial spectra and other esoterica before he listened to my struggling lungs.

This old doc declared that we were going to do a preemptive strike. I envisioned war and bombs. He meant pneunomia. He gave me a diagnosis of bronchitis, a prescription—and something more. He gave me hope. I had gone back in time. I had stumbled into an experience so counter-cultural it lifted my soul and gave me hope enough to stay in pursuit of whatever might lie beyond preemptive strikes.

Along the way I learned how to wait impatiently, and that to be human is to be vulnerable—not sinful, just vulnerable like the god of Jesus. I found myself wishing that God had done a preemptive strike somehow to prevent the crucifixion—of Jesus, yes, but of anyone. 

After Jesus died it took a LONG time for his followers to discern resurrection, over fifty years before they wrote it into gospel form. Along the way they spent time in the waiting room—wondering, talking among themselves, grieving mightily, asking questions, and living on glimmerings—christ-spottings full of irrational, indefensible, and potent hope.

We do the same as we follow along the way. We are never quite sure, for certain sure. Strength and hope come in small doses. Some leave us wonderstruck; some leave us bewildered. An Advent hymn by Michael Hudson, Episcopal priest and rector of Christ Church, Cullowhee, North Carolina, says it best.

We wait for Christ, our Advent Light,
a brightness like the sun;
we find a rabbi with a lamp
and ask, "Is this the one?"

We wait for Christ, the Lord of Hosts,
a thousand battles won;
we find a stubborn man of peace
and ask, "Is this the One?"

We wait for Christ, our Advocate,
for justice swiftly done;
we find a friend of the oppressed
and ask, "Is this the One?"

We wait for Christ, the King of kings,
a nations' favored son;
we find instead a servant-sage
and ask, "Is this the One?"

And so he comes, again he comes,
and faith is yet begun
as open hearts are drawn to Christ,
the Unexpected One. 

     from Songs for the Cycle. Fresh Hymn Texts. © 2004, Church Publishing

2015.12.20 Nativities Everywhere

Nativity means birth, plain and simple, full of labor and pain, and the emergence of a tiny new life, entering the world with gusto.  It's a story fundamental to all human life. It is also a mystical story, fundamental to divine life—always calling us to See the New!

Traveling this season to see beloved family, we also took two days to visit old and cherished friends, all of whom well into their 80s and all in more advanced stages of decline since our last visit. I felt overdosed, overwhelmed, afraid for my own future, and sad. I called a friend to make sure she was still 61! This is the first time in my 77 years I've thought: Shoot me first.  

My anxiety shared and expended, I began to see the new in the very old. Each circumstance was different, yet each beloved friend shone with some peculiar newness within the clear, and new, advancement of the diminishments of age. One friend had even had had a new cancer which turned out not to be cancer—medical error or miracle? No matter, there was renewed rejoicing!

I listened to one 89-year-old friend speak about how grateful she is to be able to pick up the phone and order an egg in the morning if she's feeling "collapsed." What does collapsed mean, I shouted, because I knew she'd lost one hearing aid, and the other is "somewhere in the bed where I spend most of my time." Despite several reminder calls, one just 20 minutes before our arrival, she didn't remember we were coming when we arrived. Still, she appeared, after another 20 minutes,—downstairs, out of bed, not collapsed, and full of toothless cheer to see us.

A Nativity.

My friend chattered on as we ate sandwiches in the dining room of the residence where she lives. I listened, interjected some queries, and struggled mightily to make sense of all the pieces of roaming story my friend related—until I gave up and, without reason, felt sweet all over. It was terrifying and exquisitely tender all at once. The many intriguing unhinged tidbits, loosely strung together and unbound by requirements of time and space mattered as much as anything ever could. Like the Bible, I thought, mercifully free of facticity yet full of grace and truth. Whether you believe or understand a story or not is not what matters.

Take Mary, mother of Jesus, full of grace and truth we are told. Her story is a whopper. She is the most famous woman in the world, making it onto the cover of the current National Geographic magazine. But in the New Testament her story doesn't get much play, and only four times does she speak:
1) To ask an angel, who delivers terrifying news about pregnancy and the birth of a son called Son of God: "How can this be since I am a virgin?"
2) In the wake of the angelic elaboration, Mary hears the punch line: Nothing will be impossible with God and utters her brief acceptance speech of the the angel's proclamation and her role in it: "Let it be to me according to your word." (In other words, Ok I'm in!)
 3) Mary rejoices and delivers her lengthiest oration, the ancient hymn, Magnificat, to her cousin, Elizabeth, also miraculously pregnant, though in her old age.
4) Mary's last speech is to an adult son, Jesus, something like "We've run out of win, son. Time for a miracle."

A Nativity.

All this is a very long way to say that in this 21st century world so full of violence, war, terror and genuine inhumanity, the best stories to notice, and to praise as signs of divine presence, are those which intrigue us, hold our attention, are new to us, have beauty, no matter how strange, make us exclaim in wonder and joy, and infuse all life with hope. All Nativities. Here are three more.

Urban Sacrament:  This week across the street, construction workers are building a house. We have watched from our windows as it evolved from foundation to rooftop. It has come in pieces, all ready and put in place atop the sturdy foundation. Today we saw the crane. I'd seen cranes before but never up close. This one was enormous and bright orange-gold. Wonderstruck, we watched as the crane, manipulated by a skilled operator, himself coached by many men shouting and swarming to make sure things fit right in their proper places, module by module, slowly descended without knocking down trees in the way. The crane did the heavy lifting and never dropped its charge until the exact right moment into the right place. In one day a whole house was born, while people gathered about gawking, craning their own necks to look up at the splendid machine, pointing and exclaiming with joy at this "miracle"—something completely new in our neighborhood.  





Nativity: Unto us a child is born............

 

The artist who created this beautiful image of human birth within groves of evergreen trees—ever green—is MaryKay Eichman, RSM  You can see more of her work at www.mkaycreations.com

Little Reader:   Dylan Robert Brakeman, age 16 months, loves his books even more than stuffed animals. He is the youngest of 12 in our brood of grandchildren from our blended family group.

Nothing will be impossible with God. Nothing therefore is ever new to God. Nativity everywhere. Just notice. See the new. 

2014.11.23 Book Review and a Touch of the Reign of Christ

 BOOK REVIEW:   A CALL TO ACTION. Women, Religion, Violence, and Power by Jimmy Carter

This Sunday marks the Feast of the Reign of Christ in the Christian church. It is the last Sunday of the Christian year—a final blast of triumph for God's intervention before Chicken Little season: Advent when we all cower in fear and call on God to change the world, which Godde does four weeks later on Christmas through child birth.  It is also our 28th wedding anniversary.

There are a lot to things to be thankful for. Jimmy Carter is one.

Jimmy Carter may be our most famous EX-president. Right now he is the oldest at 90, and his voice is strong and more courageous than ever. In this book he packs it all in—everything you would want to know about the issues facing women in the world and church today. This book is a reference book—and more.

Carter roots his amazing capacity for justice in his childhood: biblical religion, the church community where he is still a member, his family, and the deep south. As a young boy, Jimmy felt the incongruence between the free spirit of interaction he experienced with black children and adults, and the segregations imposed on them by his church and culture. How come they couldn’t grow up together being together?

To this childhood truth and question, he devoted his life—understanding this strange injustice and doing something about it. His “Mama,” I’m sure, gave his politics a push. At a White House function she once exclaimed to the King of Morocco, who gave her an enormous bottle of Chanel #5, “You’re just like every other man off on a trip without his wife!”

I first “met” Jimmy Carter on television in 1969 when we were living in Alabama, a foreign country to my cold-conditioned dour New England bones and my, sometimes snarky, feminist discontent. He was campaigning for the governorship of Georgia. I was suddenly arrested by his voice. Who was this man—a deep-south southerner named Jimmy? Not usually my type, but I was hooked. I couldn’t vote, but I hoped he’d win.  

We moved back north within a year, and I forgot about Jimmy Carter until he turned up running for President as a political outsider talking about truth in government in the wake of the Watergate scandal. Political truth-telling sounded refreshing. I voted for Gerald Ford because I was proud of his courage in pardoning Nixon, but Carter won. He wasn’t a charismatic president, however he kept his word about truth, staying true to his early egalitarian vision. 

In the midst of my midlife madness, I more or less forgot about him again. But when, in 2000, Carter, a third-generation Southern Baptist, severed, after 70 years, his ties with their Convention over its opposition to women serving as pastors, I finally knew what I’d seen in him that day in Alabama. He had religious convictions, not just political positions. 

Then I read A Call To Action and found all Carter’s theology, spirituality, religion, politics, and bits of his personal story articulated in a way that turned me into a fan for life. He argues that “the deprivation and abuse of women and girls, largely caused by a false interpretation of carefully selected religious texts has a devastating effect on economic prosperity caused by the loss of contributions of half the human beings on earth.”

Carter and his wife, Rosalynn, have risen above many things that keep the world and the church  warring, while maintaining their own deep religious and moral convictions and spiritual practices. Such equanimity is remarkable, especially in this age of fear and narcissism.

The Carters oppose abortion, extramarital sex, and other practices that today in some circles and countries are acceptable, yet their governing belief transcends personal ethics, especially when it comes to non-violence and the dignity of all living things. It sounds like the Book of Common Prayer's baptismal covenant, our code of ethics in the Episcopal church.

The overarching issue that drives this book is eradication of violence against women and those made vulnerable by poverty, disease and other conditions.  “Violence and sexual abuse is easy if the “victim” is considered inferior—even by God.” Carter includes a lot of biblical interpretation and condemns literalist male clergy who preach in ways that perpetuate injustice and confuse God’s will with their own for the sake of keeping their power in tact.

Well before liberation theology became official theology, Jimmy Carter noticed that Jesus Christ was the greatest liberator who ever lived, and that the lex talonis (eye for an eye morality) was more important to Christians than the teachings of the Prince of Peace. 

This book is thorough to a fault—really an elaborated reference book. Chapters include: The Bible and Gender Equality, Full Prisons and Legal Killings, Sexual Assault and Rape, Violence and War, Women and the Carter Center, Genocide of Girls, Slavery and Prostitution, Spouse Abuse, “Honor” Killings, Genital Cutting (justified by NO Holy Scriptures,) Child Marriage and Dowry Death, Politics, Pay, and Maternal Health.

Quotes and documents about every aspect of the political process toward peace and justice are included. There are fascinating stories and details about human rights heroes around the globe, and specific examples of what Carter and Rosalynn have done for the cause, not the least of which was to found, in 1982, The Carter Center—Waging Peace. Fighting Disease. It's a non-governmental, not-for-profit organization.

Jimmy Carter is not a prophet like MLK, or a charismatic orator like JFK; he is a steady-state, devoted plodder and activist for the common good. This book is no page turner. Its very thoroughness, as well as the clear and dispassionate writing style, can get boring. Nevertheless, it is a book for study and enlightenment, individually and communally, and a book for every parish library.  

From Rita Sharma, Cofounder and President of Women Thrive Worldwide: 

There is no religion that despises women.

Hatred cannot come from the heart of God . . . only humans

 have the capacity to see and treat others as less than they truly are.

It is our minds and hearts that must change to release

women, girls, men and boys

from the bondage of gender-based limitation or violence.

 That change is coming, have faith.  It will be here soon.

2013.12.22 What Are You Looking For?

                                                                 

I’ve followed many a shiny star
into many a stinking stable
to find it
empty.
Leaving, I look back—
Wait!
A streak of light
on a strand of straw
bids me stop,
look,
listen.
        
The spiritual power of seeking is in the search itself more than it is in the finding, especially when you stop seeking because you imagine you must have definitive answers.

Actually, the finding is in the seeking—for why would you seek for something unless you'd already experienced it in some small way and found it desirable? 

In Advent we long for Christmas and dream of sugar plums and the shiny new whatever we think will satisfy our heart's desires. Christmas comes and we get that gift. Alas, soon we are full of longing and seeking once again. What for?

What's the point? My dad used to say this all the time. Once I tried to answer his burning question and found myself tangled up in feckless theological platitudes.

Is it all a vain search for ineffable mystery? Yes, but look again anyway and never stop.

No desiring is in vain and all who seek find something—something.  

2013.12.01 Wait-and-See Advent

Outside the church we are already commercially and spiritually focused on Christmas and its trappings. In this age of instant everything many of us are conditioned NOT to wait.  I get cross with my computer if it doesn’t pop into action at my touch. I can’t wait.

The comic strip, “Heart of the City,” features a kicky little girl who protests to a local store owner about Christmas paraphernalia on display even before Thanksgiving arrives. Heart carries placards, bravely pickets the store, and argues with its owner. She loses the battle to commerce, but wins the war. Few miss the point:

In our haste to get to the “good part” are we not missing the “best part?”

I remember my anticipation as a child. The baited breath suspense of Advent was as full of new life as Nativity. Waiting built up the Spirit, made Santa Claus, also Jesus,  all the more wondrous, and gifts all the more delightful when they came, even if they weren’t exactly what we wanted. 

Advent was the best part simply because as its days grew shorter and darker the world around lit up. Both darkness and light happened simultaneously. At the same time!  It made my eyes pop with awe.  I awaited the dark with as much eagerness as I did the light.

I feel it as an adult too. I don’t complain when days get dark early, unless it’s just to join the chorus of grumbling I hear all around me. But deep inside me I feel oddly comforted when we pull shades before 5 pm and turn on lights, maybe slide the thermostat up a tiny bit.  It’s cozy; it’s hearth; it’s holing in for the evening.

Advent is the interior season, the safe-and-warm-inside season— prayer, softness, dim glow, the color purple-blue, quiet womb, wait 'n see.

Yet in Advent I always think more about homeless people in this season. I don’t wait for Christmas to see Jesus in church pageants.  I see christs on the streets slumped against buildings, huddled in blankets, asleep on benches, sometimes mumbling thank you.  I can’t make them cozy or warm.

As a young child in the city I’d beg my mother for a nickel to throw in a cup or the bucket of a bell ringer.  Clink!  I’d ask: Why are they sleeping? It’s too cold to sleep outside. Don’t they have beds?  My questions were childish—or were they?  I couldn’t make them cozy and warm.

The Episcopal Diocese of Massachusetts has an active street ministry and employs a street priest to celebrate Sunday Eucharist outside on Boston Common and organize pastoral care. This church is called Common Cathedral. Some of my church “taxes”go to the diocese to support this ministry. 

I’ve visited this outside cathedral  and once gave my scarf to a man who looked cold. I admit I felt awkward, guilty, not wanting to be perceived as Lady Bountiful—but also a little scared. I wish I could be brave and easy like street priests, lay and ordained, but I’m not. I wish I could be more externalized, more of an activist, but I’m an indoor priest. I wait, watch and hope with every “advent” bone in my body, through prayer and Christ’s Eucharist meal, that others with more vocational will and guts will take such generosity outside with them. 

There is hope. I just read (Boston Globe 11/29/13) about blanket ministry, administered in part by our Cathedral Church of St. Paul but the brainchild of Boston’s homeless community.  Some foolish christ asked them what they needed. Blankets, they said!! The blankets are folded to the size of a deck of playing cards in a small pouch. They are silver Mylar space blankets—extremely lightweight and very warm, the kind worn by astronauts and marathoners after a race. Inexpensive too!

You need something warm while you wait outside for a home inside.

The precious blankets are not distributed from shelters or agencies but by volunteers who have been homeless on and off themselves. Over 8000 blankets have been purchased and sent to St. Paul’s. The homeless christ-priests recognize their own on the streets, pull a small blanket pouch out of their backpack, and hand it out—sort of like Eucharist, a tiny wafer on the tongue or in the hand, blessed, as are the blanket pouches, and distributed. Neither solves life’s many problems nor fills an empty belly, but each helps. Oh, each helps as we wait.

To me the whole city world begins, metaphorically, to look eucharistic, open-hearted giving and receiving —wafers inside, blankets outside—as we wait together, but not precisely for Christ for christ is here in the heart of the city.