2023.02.23 TOTTERING. Lyn G. Brakeman, Spiritual Lemons, blog post

As I stood at the foot of the Town Hall steps in my small Connecticut town, about to enter to change my political party affiliation from Republican to Democrat, I froze. What would Dad say? He was in my heart, not my politics.  

Over the years Dad and I had bickered about differences. He was a staunch Republican, preaching his fear of more war, apparently all caused by Democrats. I’d argued, then voted Republican. But it was 1972. Everyone paid attention. Votes mattered as much as party affiliation. For the first time I put a partisan label —Democrat—on my voting. I couldn’t vote Republican as usual. I couldn’t tell Dad. How he voted mattered less to me than my affection for him. 

Now in 2025, similar issues face our country. Will we be able to live as if we actually are We the People? Will we have the courage to  stand up straight and forgive political rivals like President Ford did when he pardoned Nixon? Many thought Ford foolish. I thought him courageously compassionate.

As an Episcopal priest, now retired, I still remember holding my breath in 1976 when the Episcopal Church voted in favor of ordaining women as priests. I had also wept when my long-Presbyterian dad knelt before an Episcopal bishop to be received into the Episcopal Church.

All Creation, I now believe, is non-partisan, politically ordered, and equally blessed. Oh no? Consider the politics of Divinity envisioned by the biblical Job after a lifetime of politicking his particular version of God.  

2024.04.28 PRAYER-ing. Sorting Out Baloney. Lyn G. Brakeman, Spiritual Lemons, blog post

What is—or isn’t—so much baloney about prayer?  

-lists of gripes—one or two is enough, one at a time

-asking God to do something you can do yourself—escapism

-blaming God for causing everything when some things are simply inherent to our humanity or genetically inherited

-expecting miracles and resenting outcomes as if God owed you something, or as if God interfered with the gift of human freedom

-always pray with total emotional honesty, and never condemn your true prayers 

Prayer is most alive when it is in the context of your life—what matters most to you. Make prayer a constant conversation by which you keep in touch with your own longings and desires, then trust God enough to share them all as you would with a trusted friend. Divine power is relational not interventional. Really?

So how do I know this?  Well, because God listened. I read about this amazing God in a kid’s book, plus my mother told me I came directly from God. This was baloney and not a particularly good thing to hear, since she’d told me I came from her and Daddy, like spontaneous combustion or something called “making love.” Not until I got to church, sang in the children’s choir, and actually knew I really was an angel of sorts, did I discover that God made rules, stood up high looking down on everyone, gave lectures and had great expectations for us all, all of which my mother ignored in favor of thinking I was already perfect. More baloney. Still, I chose the impossibly imperfect route, obeyed most rules, got married, had four children, divorced, remarried, and eventually got the Episcopal Church to ordain me against traditional rules, which, it turned out, were baloney.  

So how midst all this baloney did I learn to truly love myself, no baloney?  

-my mother lived through her own baloney and forgave me mine 

-my dad followed me to church  

-my second husband listened to me and waited for me to catch up or share the lead

-all my children listened to me, laughed with me, cried with me, foolishly followed me, still love—my baloney and theirs

-my therapist told me it was damn good to be a raging bull

-my spiritual directors confronted my baloney with Jesus and some of his living life as a prayer

-my younger sister shared her baloney and still does

-my youngest sister once asked me if I too felt guilty after I hung up from a conversation with our mother

-my consistently listening women friends

-my teachers taught me I was smart, baloney aside

-my Bible revealed its own baloney—slowly and gently

-my own reading and writing which cherished all my baloney—except arithmetic

-my publishers published my baloney

And finally, in ancient news, the oddest no-baloney teacher of all: the official Preface to The Book of Common Prayer, according to the use of The Episcopal Church, ratified in 1789:  “. . . thanks to “the liberty with which Christ has made us free . . . this book may be altered, abridged, enlarged, amended and otherwise disposed of as may seem most convenient for the edification of the people, according to the various exigency of times and occasions.”  

How Do I Fight? Sounding and Grounding, Lyn G. Brakeman, Spiritual Lemons, blog post, 6/25/23

Jesus insisted (Matthew 10:34ff.) that this idyllic Kingdom he preached would not be, as some traditional pastoral pundits suggest, all peace and love. There would be violent fighting. Fight is a word, btw, that I detest, because it’s combative, inimical, dangerous, often weaponized. I aspired to “kingdom” membership, so I found a way to fight for it without fighting.

*  *  *  *

Over my lifetime I’ve learned to fight for myself more than against others. I often fail. Still, I know that I can’t do this well, or with accuracy, without, yes, my anger—my fuel, my energy supply. 

I’ve come to call my “fighting” process sounding and grounding. 

Sounding means clarifying my deepest desires, values, yearnings, fears by talking openly to trusted friends, family, professionals. 

Grounding means making sure my emotions—my energy suppliers—are firmly planted in the soil of my own flesh, not flying all over the place. 

I learned how to fight back in the 70s when I didn’t get what I wanted, which was to be ordained a priest in the Episcopal Church. I just kept knocking on doors as if begging for alms of understanding. Some women helped. Some men helped. Family helped. Acting out helped. Love and sex helped. Prayer helped. Good trainings, therapy, and chaplaincy jobs helped. Most of all, my Crockpot helped, because it cooked very slowly and taught me to simmer. 

Simmering, ordination, new love, were not quite enough. I needed to explode. 

I told my therapist I felt restless inside.

She asked if my energy were an animal.

I assessed her as crazy.

She turned away and went to her desk.

Stunned, I pulled out my checkbook to pay for the session.

As I wrote, the bull, unbidden, burst into the scene.

I snorted.

I roared.

I bellowed.

I pawed the rug with my foot.

ROAR.

RAGE.

CALM.

PEACE.

My rage receded, as most storms do. I felt fully grounded inside myself, and fully sounded out by this therapist who had returned to her seat and sat in front of me with a smile—becalmed.

For the very first time—the very first time in a couple of years—I noticed that this woman, this therapist named Carol, was, yes, beautiful, radiantly so.  

2023.02.05 Shining a Light on Bruised Grace, Lyn G. Brakeman, Spiritual Lemons, blog post

How often do you say, aloud or to yourself, Well, it depends. . . 

Pope Francis tends to stay away from formal changes in Catholic Church doctrine, but, according to op. ed. writer, E.J. Dionne, Jr., “Pope stood up for LGBTQ lives” Hartford Courant, 2/4/23. The pope regularly moves the conversation from judgment to mercy, and from condemnation to encounter. 

He does a pretty good job of it. He wrote a handwritten note to clarify his remarks on homosexuality as sin. He said he was speaking of the official Church moral teaching about sexual acts outside of marriage as sin, intrinsically disordered. In itself it's not a crime. The Pope then distinguished between crime and sin, noting that "It's always a sin to lack charity with one another." Now this caveat tops all the rest. It also insists on case-by-case processing. It depends. 

Just think of all the absolutized doctrines—moral laws. They are many of them about sex with the onus on women and their bodies: no pre-marital sex, no divorce, no remarriage, difficulty getting annulments, no birth control, no abortion, not to mention celibacy for all religious vocations—priests, monks, nuns. Personally, I do not think we worship a God whose nature is defined as “moral”—not to suggest that God is immoral, but to say that God is never trapped by moral rules made by human minds.    

It may be cagey to resort to the “golden rule” to silence all protests or lobbies, but consider the office he holds and the multitudes he represents. He does not abandon Catholic moral teaching about sex outside marriage (I and many could be doomed or damned for that one!) At the same time, Pope Francis insists on a case-by-case approach, as in “one must also consider the circumstances. which may decrease or eliminate fault.”  It depends. 

When criticized, Francis responds:”Criticism helps you to grow and improve things, providing protection against a dictatorship of distance…where the emperor is there and no one can tell him anything.”  

*  *  *  *

So here we are once again confronted with what can be called situational ethics. It depends. See Romans 14: “Do not pass judgment on your brother or sister.” Paul elaborates to say that nothing in itself is unclean, yet if someone thinks it’s unclean it is unclean to that person. For example, if you know that your neighbor believes that pork is “unclean” then, do not serve pork chops for dinner, even if you do not think them unclean. To prove what? Your own superior knowledge? Now, that IS sinful!  Paul calls for “mutual upbuilding.” We cannot absolutize specific laws as applicable to everyone. It depends. I guess that is how the Bill of Rights began.  This is also why God does NOT share judgment with us. Only God may judge. Thanks be to God. 

In the beginning God created "original mixed"—my own bottom line for all this squabbling. Institutions have a very hard time making general rules or dogmas because they represent and legislate for so many different and varied members, without considerations.  It depends. 

The Episcopal Church does quite well with trying not to absolutize or dogmatize its canons, and yet the good old C of E (Church of England) just voted against allowing their clergy to officiate at same sex marriages, even though of course no individuals are condemned or rejected. And of course clergy may bless anyone. Such sleight!

*  *  *  *

I recommend the late Brian Doyle’s (1956-2017) Eight Whopping Lies and Other Stories of Bruised Grace. It takes the galloping energy of a poet who cares deeply for his faith to speak of unjust institutional biases with radical honesty and with faith. Bruised grace AND bruised faith. 

Doyle, former editor-in-chief of Portland Magazine, journal of Portland University, Portland, Oregon, cited eight classic lies as examples:  1) This won’t hurt a bit. Said with the large novocain-filled needle hidden at his or her side.  2) It is a peacekeeping operation. The alternative word is WAR!  Human sacrifice is alive and well. 3) My campaign is all about family values. “No it isn’t. If that were the case, why are there fifteen million American children who don’t have enough to eat today?” 4) God is on our side.“No, he isn’t, or she isn’t, and how incredibly foolish to even assign human gender to something we all admit is so unimaginably epic that any shred of claim to knowledge let alone intimacy is lunatic, not to mention murderous.” 

May we move our conversations from judgment to mercy and condemnation to encounter.  AMEN.  

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.  

2022.09.23 Listen to Impossible Possible Dreams, Lyn G. Brakeman, Spiritual Lemons, blog post

I know I tell my small story many times over. It is, however, important to re-tell, re-member, re-live, re-love. This process itself re-generates that original connection with the God, both immanent and transcendent, who listened, listens, and re-listens—always—to any and all dreams and hopes.

*  *  *  *

The “dream” chats I had as a young child were not childish, nor did they die. We all have such dreams and they can expand and mature and modify themselves into vocations or life paths—even great visions, movements for love or justice, or perhaps happily imperfect marriages and parenthood. Favorite childhood books often provide clues about inmost dreams, heart’s-desires, hopes, and actual futures—all derived from early dream particles.

My childhood dreams were not of being president, or a high-hatted church bishop, or Pope, or even God. All I wanted was to be listened to. It wasn’t an impossible dream like Don Quijote’s. It was just a small girl’s peevish protest at having to play second fiddle for a short time each evening to the primacy of Dad's triangle-shaped martini glass. I couldn’t compete with such omnipotence, so I dreamed simply of an attentive listener.

That’s how I first met God. God, the one on the cloud who listened to all the sounds of Earth according to my own favorite book. That God listened to me, too. That’s how I first learned that I mattered, that listening itself mattered as much as talking, even though I did most of the talking. I still do, and I’m 84!  

My listening God, I must add, did nothing at all to make all my little requests come true, according to my expected time table. As I grew up I continued to talk to my listening God and called it prayer. It turned out it was much harder to get the institutional Episcopal Church to listen to my dream-prayers of being a priest of pulpit and altar when I was also the mother of four beloved growing children, than it was to get God to listen. I never stopped my talky prayers, and God kept listening. As the years passed, I too started to listen to God, and seek God’s presence in myself and everywhere. You’d be amazed at how immense God is. I was.  

*  *  *  *

As to the Martini glass? It disappeared over the years. You get sick of things that make you sick after a while.  

As to my focused aspirations?  The Episcopal Church, not the church in which I grew up, finally arranged itself to ordain women priests, and then to ordain me priest in 1988, a scant five months before I turned fifty, not my plan but my joy anyway.

As to God? Well, God still listens with care, and, according to me, takes her/his/their own sweet time getting all religions to figure out how to eliminate all those masculine pronouns that simply don’t fit to describe Divinity. I write and pray this dream: that women, all genders, and all ethnicities will be welcomed and included at all levels of institutional functioning. You’d think that by now God would have acted out in wrath at all this torpor, but God doesn’t do such things, even if lots of good people think God does. I knew that by now. 

As to listening?  It is not an auditory function, it is spiritual—divinely endowed and meant to enliven the collective well-being of all Creation. You listen with your whole being. I try. 

*  *  *  * 

What about God’s own dream? That we all love, respect, listen, and promote the dignity of all humankind as well as the whole created order. Our part is to LISTEN—not agree, assume, persuade, approve, critique, argue, snipe, elect, fight, or shoot. My dream is that we listen with open-mindedness to ourselves and others, even supposed enemies, the insane, the criminal, the rich and the poor alike. I try. 

Easter Six.How To Be We. Lyn G. Brakeman, Spiritual Lemons, blog post, 5/22/22

It’s important to notice that the accounts of Jesus’s postmortem appearances to his close disciples remember the message as Peace! Peace is what the risen Christ offers, not Love but Peace, because Peace is the only way we will love each other as God does.

*  *  *  *

For many years I have sent small and consistent donations to a group called Listening Hearts Ministries. This project, founded in 1987 by Suzanne Farnham, believes that listening well is the key practice to assure goodness and peace in the world. 

That’s a big statement. I believe it, because listening happened to and for and through me when I was a small child of three under a large dining room table with a cloth to the floor and four fat legs connected by flattened cross beams on which I would place my food supply, five Ritz crackers, while I sat cross-legged and talked to God—who listened without interruption or commentary to all my chatter—my every small and large thought and feeling. In time I called this practice prayer. 

God didn’t do a thing I asked; nor did God tell me precisely what to do. God just listened. Thus I learned that I mattered. I also learned that God did not fix the world according to my specs, which were, I thought, quite honest and righteous and right. 

Suzanne Farnham, trustee and founder of Listening Hearts, was married to an Episcopal priest, the late Rev. Barny Farnham. She is the author of many books on this kind of quiet listening prayer. 

We listen for God in the way God listens for us. I have no way to prove the divine presence; I just trust it. However, I do know that the churches and the world could use more listening right now. Listening builds community anywhere, from small family units to large congregations, governments and societies. Here are some guidelines to listening conversations or meetings anywhere for any reason. (Parenthesized comments are mine.)

-Take time to settle, sit down and shut up. (How many times do you rush into a meeting of any kind breathless?) 

-Listen to others with your whole being. (Sometimes, I just surface listen. It helps to take notes, so I do not miss the point entirely.)  

-Do not interrupt. (An impulse I often have, and too often fail to respect, especially if someone else non-stop blats)  

-Pause between speakers. (Impossible but try for a breath or two.) 

-Do not formulate what you what you want to say next while someone else is speaking. (Laughably impossible. Helps to jot one-word reminders.)

-Speak for yourself only—your own thoughts and feelings. Avoid being hypothetical or generalizing. (Sometimes hard to avoid phrases like, “I read somewhere that . . . OR Well, everyone says . . . )

-Do not challenge what others say. (Keep thoughts, such as, ‘What a jerk!’ to yourself.) 

-Listen to the group as a whole—to those who have not spoken as well as to those who have. (I do this well, occasionally asking what the silent one thinks or feels.)

-Generally, leave space for anyone who may want to speak for the first time before speaking a second time yourself. (Yikes!)

-Hold your thoughts and opinions, even your convictions—lightly. (How lightly!?) 

All these guidelines are excellent for effective decision-making, soothing family tensions, and group discernment. They are heavily used in churches and religious organizations, because most spiritual people know that God’s peaceful, loving presence is more likely to be clearly felt in contexts in which we deeply and respectfully listen to each other. 

This is how we can move from the omnipotent “I” to the even more potent “WE”. 

2021.11.07 My "Racism"—Brief Anecdotal History. Part Twenty-four. Seasoning All Saints

Although an ordained priest for over ten years, I hardly felt like a pro. I had given parish ministry a try and found it not a fit for my gifts. I did not have the stamina, skill, or desire to manage a small business, let alone the politics and the stress of loneliness. I had wanted to be ordained priest of Word and Sacrament, not a manager of money, and of mostly all-male vestries. I was surprised, therefore, when the Suffragan Bishop of Massachusetts, The Rt. Rev. Bud Cederholm, called me to ask if I’d be willing to mentor a new priest. I said yes. 

Scene LXVII.  My Little Mentee

I moved to Gloucester, Massachusetts in 1997 where Dick had accepted a position as rector of St. John’s Episcopal Church. I would establish my pastoral counseling/spiritual direction practice in a neighboring UCC parish and serve as a non-stipendiary Sunday Priest Associate at St. John’s with regular opportunity to preside at Eucharist and preach. Perfect!  

Dick and I had tried to secure a joint rectorship in Connecticut, but no one was ready for that “heresy,” or for a divorced couple, the female, me, with a lingering reputation as a reject and possibly a seductress of innocent clergy. We both, however, had discovered after over ten years of marriage that the hardest thing about divorce was not overcoming the Episcopal Church’s attitudes, but the grief of missing the proximity of most of our growing children. Oh yes, everyone could visit, but you know it’s not the same. 

So we settled in a new diocese for a new start. Bishop Cederholm took office in Massachusetts in 2001. He decided that it would be a good idea for newly ordained diocesan clergy to have seasoned clergy mentors who would lend them support and counsel as they started out. I was invited to be a mentor. Hardly seasoned, I was about to be a mentor myself now. 

My mentee, the Rev. Stephanie Spellers, a young vigorous and gifted African American woman was ordained priest in 2006. Stephanie is a small woman. I called her “my little mentee.” I meant nothing racist by that. We both were small women. I had no idea why I was selected as her mentor, nor did she, but we hit it off. She lived in Boston and hopped on the train about once a month to come see me. I picked her up at the station. We would enjoy lunch together and have lively talks about heaven knows what. As I recall we had lots of laughs, a bit of serious ministry talk, discerning gifts and ambitions, and a shared passion for the Episcopal Church.  

Stephanie and I didn’t talk directly about racism, but I knew it had to be burbling under the surface in us both. I never felt uncomfortable with Stephanie, and I hope she felt the same with me. We would joke whenever we ran into each other at diocesan events about whether she had a boyfriend—no, the right boyfriend—yet.  

Then once at a diocesan gathering she showed me a picture of her guy, and we had a hug and a laugh. I do not think marriage is the only goal of anyone, but I do know Stephie wanted that. In fact, in her latest book, The Church Cracked Open. Disruption, Decline, and New Hope for Beloved Community, she wrote for him this acknowledgement: “To Albert DeGrasse, . . . patient, smart, kind, not woke-but-waking White guy who nodded as I read aloud (and loudly) from racist eighteenth vestry minutes, fed me fruit and veggies, did laundry and built fires like a boss. Yeah, you, the one out there teaching the Doctrine of Discovery to seventh graders. The one who put that ‘Beloved Community’ sign up over your classroom door. The one who agreed to marry me in the midst of this madness. You inspire me every day. Now let’s get after it.”   [The Doctrine of Discovery, a version of White Supremacy, was used for centuries to justify seizure of indigenous lands and subjugation of populations. It was in time repudiated by the United Nations.]  Stephanie and her beloved were on the same political and spiritual track to go forward together, to carry on as White teacher and African American priest, together.

 

I knew Stephanie was both talented and ambitious. She was on the road to happiness and a sterling career as a writer and a priest eager to lobby against racial injustice in her beloved Episcopal church. It wasn’t long before she became the priest for a ministry called The Crossing in Boston, a ministry for those who lacked access to adequate resources, including the liturgical ministrations of Christian liturgy. She wrote her first book called Radical Welcome, urging the Episcopal Church to be more hospitable—genuinely welcoming to all “sorts and conditions” of humanity as one of the confessional prayers in the Book of Common Prayers identifies all people.

I recalled my own experience, way back in the late 1960s in Alabama where my first husband and our three young children lived for a short time. The “uptown” Episcopal Church had a “warning” sign about its segregated status—Whites only. The downtown church welcomed black people, although their worship was more Baptist than Episcopal. I stayed home and wondered what White was—really. I guessed it had much to do with culture, geography, and varying styles of worship, each according to how their people saw God and proffered Jesus.

Stephanie Spellers brought her joy and zeal into her church, dancing her way and jumping through the hoops of the Episcopal Church’s political ecclesiology, while never losing sight of her vision. My “little mentee” now serves as Canon for Evangelism, Reconciliation and Creation, serving Episcopal Presiding Bishop, the Most Reverend Michael Curry, himself a spirited black man. (Stephanie’s charge as Canon is mighty spacious—just like her own soul and her God.) 

Canon Spellers has been my mentor-model for me as I hope I was for her. We both know what it takes to stay true to one’s own passion for justice, while hanging onto a broad vision written into Stephanie and Albert’s marriage covenant: “Life is short and love is precious”  

For me, the Church and seminary, oddly and despite obvious statistics, were not the first but the richest contexts in which I encountered racial diversity. Living too much of my life without black people has been, for this white woman, like living half a life, and certainly spiritually too shallow. 

Scene LXVIII. A Deep Conversation     

Usually when clergy get together at the annual clergy conference they want either to gossip among themselves, confront the bishop about some itch, or whine, sit in the bar for idol chit-chat, or maybe even a serious conversation. 

At such a conference in 2019 we gathered to listen to the dynamic black woman priest, the Rev. Canon Kelly Brown Douglas, theologian and president of Episcopal Divinity School (EDS) at Union Theological Seminary, New York, and Canon Theologian of Washington National Cathedral, who told us many wise and true things about racism in the institutional Church. What I remember most was her anguish about her growing son’s safety, even thinking fearfully about sending him away somewhere. Would he be safe? Would he stay alive? Such questions I have worried about as well, mostly in relation to alcohol abuse. I have felt frightened for a son who nearly died after surgeries. But I never had to say: “Will my son be shot to death?” 

During the afternoon break, Dick and I decided to engage two black clergy friends over lunch and through the break time. It felt urgent to get serious about personal experiences with racism. Each of us shared out personal experiences with racism. I spoke about Carol Lee and the racist decision I had made as a child and still remembered. Each of us shared a unique experience and emotions to go with it. I learned how hard it is to be brown thanks to mixed parentage, and how difficult it is to be able to “pass” for either color—but not really. And what it means to be definitely dark black and originally from another country where color consciousness was an issue, only because whites stood out as different. I learned how hard it was to have trust and closeness to black friends whom your parents know by name only—until the time comes for your parents to meet/see your dear friends. Our deep conversation was fruitful for us all, and we stayed friends over some time and met for more lunches filled with wit and soul. 

I was invited to preach at St. Cyprian’s in Boston where one of these friends was the Rector and the other the Deacon. It was a scarily thrilling experience for me to look out upon a large congregational gathering and see no white faces. I focused on the Gospel’s awareness of justice for all peoples and spoke directly to the growing concern about voting injustices. My sermon was punctuated by a few “say it, sisters” and “amens”—so supportive. When I concluded the whole congregation burst into applause. I asked the Deacon “Do they always do this.” He shook his head from side to side and grinned. I think I flew all the way home with sure and certain knowledge that the Episcopal liturgy and ritual could be a force for uniting the races. 

Scene LXVIX.  Blessing All Saints

When I presided at the Eucharist, I would touch each child’s head gently as I used a paraphrase of ancient biblical words to offer each one a blessing at the altar rail. They kept their small heads bowed, humbly obedient to their parents’ wishes that they not receive Holy Communion until they were confirmed. One Sunday, a very small saint, standing and white-knuckling the altar rail so as not to topple over backwards, tilted her head up to give me a broad grin and a giggle. A blessing.

May God bless you and keep you

May the face of God shine upon you

—and from within you—

This day and always.  (Numbers 6:24, YHWH to Moses, paraphrased)  

AMEN.  

(and please!)