A Chalice Overflowing With Divinity, Lyn G. Brakeman, blog post, 7/31/2026

 2026.07.31 A Chalice Overflowing with Divinity. . .YES!!!

It will never cease to astound/appall/amaze me how the residents of this retirement community where I live—all stunningly, glaringly and glowingly, proudly white-skinned—dare to presume they are superior to the black staff on whose care their lives daily depend. 

But maybe they/we are not this presumptive. It’s ALL betwixt and between. 

*  * * *  

I have stumbled on the deepest meaning of my book WHITEOUT, on the true and deepest dangers of unremitting racism and the radical need for transformative change. It means some ones must always be excluded!!  I do not argue, as some people think I do, that there is no such thing as racism. I do notice, however, that no live-in help, often dark-skinned, dine with residents or sit at the table with them, even though aids and residents live together in the same apartment, all day long, and all night long. 

This way breaks my heart still, just as it did when I first learned about racism as a child. We’d visit my grandparents, and I experienced the same familiar pain when I could not understand why the same man who created and served wonderful mashed potatoes, lived in the same house, yet was not allowed to sit with us at the table, to dine with us. 

It reminded me of how it  used to be at the altar table. Now everyone gets fed the same, right? We all get our holy food, right? Well, yes now at last!  Children used to have to wait until they were old to “understand” this disembodied Holy Communion meal.  OMG… who understands it? I do, but only from the distant intellectual point of view of evolving policies/rules/church history and performance.

I can still envision little hands, or aging wrinkled hands, reaching out for bread, even a wafer passing for bread. There was/is a yearning to connect. Without a loving touch, a smile, your name, there can be no SOUL—no room for tears or smiles at this communion/community meal we call HOLY COMMUNION?

Now, I release my tears. They are tears of impatience. How long it has taken for racism to be recognized and how long it will take to change? How slow is this process of racial integration to, yes, when will it disappear? I understand the need to pay for your guests at a place like this, a place with a budget! I’m naive and childish I know. 

It takes time for my mind to accompany my feelings. Change takes time!  I stare at the large cup called a chalice, large enough to contain the tragic bloody remains of  those who violated the rules and died for it. 

Suddenly I notice how large the chalice is, the one that supposedly holds enough “blood” of sacrifice for us all. It’s enormous—big enough for ALL tears and fears and cheers. My tears of impatience are in there. I recall the very first time I realized the cruelty of it all, felt it the first time I realized that this Jewish man name Jesus actually died like this!! Horrifying for anyone. We still do things like this and fill prisons with screaming people. SAVE US DEAR GOD FROM OURSELVES.

*  *  *  *

Most of us know too how little time we have to gladden the hearts and minds of those who travel this way with us in this life.

HOW MUCH MORE THEN DOES EVERY LIFE MATTER TO DIVINITY?

Last Suppers

In the closing weeks, now days, of our time here in Gloucester and at St. John’s Church before we move into retirement, we are being treated to many last suppers, breakfasts, lunches, teas and coffees. The bounty is varied and all of it bittersweet.

I can understand the impact and value of the Christian tradition’s focus on Jesus’ Last Supper with his disciples and friends. I know why they picked this moment as the scene that would be re-enacted over and over weekly in most Christian churches to remember the love of God communicated by Jesus Christ— a love so broad, so rich, so free as to include us all as guests without invitation, RSVP or conditions.

I can understand the sacred Friday Shabbat supper with ritual candles and remembrance of God’s faithfulness in the covenant.

I can understand why a prisoner facing execution is given a last meal, whatever he or she want without condition, to say goodbye to earthly life. Grace in a meal.

I can understand why as a child I was offered my favorite meal on my birthday and sometimes while recovering from a bout of some childhood illness. Mine would always be tuna fish casserole sans the peas but with potato chips crumbled on top, chocolate milk and vanilla ice cream with chocolate sauce. Now it’s meat loaf of any variety with peas, potatoes smashed, then red wine and dark chocolate.

And I understand why the Last Supper became the Holy Communion/Eucharist sacrament of remembrance, justice, thanksgiving and forgiving, compassion and hope— the food of grace.

Don’t we all know this same experience around a family dining table when the food is sumptuous, the conversation heartening, and love connects? And don’t we all also know the truth that this ideal is rarely unbroken by more difficult feelings like anger, fear, guilt or sorrow?

But we come to the table anyway—again and again and again—with outstretched hands.

Our “last suppers” have all been holy too— lots of love sprinkled with the sorrow of goodbye and the hope of new life and the fear of loss.

For us the theme of “last supper” had many variations: from tea or coffee with dunking biscotti, to caesar salad with chicken times 5-6, to elegant dinners with wine and quail or some bird or other, to the most precious of all, a dinner out at Friendlys complete with my old favorite vanilla with hot fudge sauce no cherry.