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

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

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

*  *  *  *

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

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

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

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

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

2024.07.23 Who Are The Church? Lyn G. Brakeman, Spiritual Lemons, blog post

The Church is an institution. It is also a community gathered together to discover—over and over, again and again— Divinity/God in their midst. The Episcopal Church functions mostly within a hierarchy, not of values, but of roles with an underlying and powerful assumption that these roles are essentially ordained from above. It is a top-down model. 

Does it function well? Sometimes, yet never, in my experience, without occasional eruptions, thanks to differences that smolder within and do not get aired. The church body pulls itself into order through rituals: Word (what the Bible says in both testaments) and Sacramental rituals, chiefly Baptism with water, and Eucharist, a communion meal. We cleanse each member, as we would a newborn, and then we feed nourish/feed, just as we would with a newborn. We make sure it continues to thrive. Clergy, educated and ordained, serve as professional guides, along with traditions written in books, serving to maintain this upbringing process. 

Along the way there is need for much pastoral care, the fuel that keeps the Church alive. It comes from deep within the hearts of members of this community we call Church. Christians call it Love or Grace—a gift from God. Analogically, grace is like the wind that blows against sails so the boat will move along. It is our job to manage the sails. When sails are pulled too taut the boat capsizes. If sails flap loosely about, it goes nowhere.  Likewise, the Church does not function without givers and receivers, alive in the process, giving and receiving the gracious wind at once.   

*  *  *  *

I am writing about the general lethargy in so many parishes right now. Are we boring? Bored? Is God a bore? Is Jesus the Christ no longer attractive, or it is our own lethargy that seems to be re-crucifying our one-time hero—over and over? 

I think the community we call church needs more verve—a shot of adrenal energy, perhaps a spiritual epipen. I know there are exceptions, often through music and relevant preaching that is not simply warm, fuzzy and lulling. 

I am also increasingly aware also that our Creator is much greater, vaster, larger than any one religion, or culture, or parish church for that matter. I stay Christian, because I'm in love with the gospel of Compassion towards all, preached and lived by Jesus, and expanded by the Spirit and its versatility—expansive enough to search everything, EVEN the depths of God! (I Cor. 2:10)  Simultaneously, I’m aware that God's "will" waits upon OUR willingness.  Have I lost faith enough to blame God for my own lethargy? 

In short, I am simply aware more than ever of human frailty AND the need for more collective shared zeal and effort towards this fragile earth our island home. So far all we do is make more WARS!!! 

*  *  *  *

Am I being judgmental? Am I practicing a holier-than-thou spirituality? I think of Jesus asleep on the boat on the sea of Galilee as a storm whipped up and the disciples were scared. Of course they were. I have been in a boat on that sea of Galilee, and believe me, it can get wind-whipped and very rough, though it did not on that sunny day under the safe direction and timing of our pilgrimage guides. 

But let’s ingest this story with some emotional intelligence. One thing these disciples likely felt was terror. Were they also angry? Why isn’t this Messiah saving us? Isn’t that his messianic role? We can’t do this alone!

I wonder if this stormy self-awareness was the point at which these disciples themselves woke up?  Had they given up their God-given freedom to make good judgments, to make wise decisions for themselves, to manage the ship they knew well? Had they suddenly become judgmental, childishly dependent on Jesus, instead of picking up the ropes and saving the blooming ship? They were fishermen. They knew how to save this ship!   

Likewise the churches—all brands and practices, all religions, all spiritualities.  

 

2014.01.05 On the Elevnth Day of Christmas My True Love Gave to Me—What?

I was meek once.

It happened in a big department store. I was waiting in a very long “Return of Gifts” line some days after Christmas day.  People were pushing and shoving as if they could hasten the coming of the Messiah, or another Santa, take your pick. I waited. I wondered why people returned more than they kept, or some nonsensical koan like that.

Shopping is hard and finding just the right gift for someone you care about is even harder. But let me tell you, returning is downright arduous.

Without warning, a woman laden with a huge bunch of returnables butted into the line ahead of me with such force I was set off balance. This practice I thought rude, tantamount to doing something socially illegal, not to mention the criminality of assault and battery. Many harsh words flooded my mind as I stepped aside to save myself. The woman’s bulk and her churlish expression warned me against even a polite confrontation. I kept silent and instead stared at the dazzling Christmas decor all around. Christmas was officially twelve days long; this was only day number eleven. I spied a tiny creche scene sitting alone on a counter. God, grant me patience and serenity, forget about courage. 

After all, I thought, I’m not in a hurry. Why let her cranky mood contaminate me? All I wanted was a store credit so my daughter could buy her own sweater. I understood her desire for another color but why did I say I’d return the darn sweater? I could have just given her the sales slip, which I’d dutifully saved, just in case. My mother always used to say apologetically as gifts were opened, “You can always return it if it’s not right.” Now here I was doing the returning. Too late to forestall cranky.

As I continued my poor-me litany, resentment seeped in to mock my prayer. So I shifted mental attention to the culture’s crass commercialization of Christmas, worsening my mood.  Jesus, when will this line move along? Calling on the newborn Jesus for help struck me as so hilarious, I laughed out loud.

“What’s so funny?” snapped the overly-packaged woman ahead of me as she turned around. “Oh nothing,” I said. “Just that I’m actually praying to Jesus that this line will move faster.”  “That is pretty dumb. You religious or something?” she said. “As a matter of fact, I am. I’m an Episcopal priest, and let me tell you this line is nothing compared to the centuries-long line I waited in for the church to ordain women.” “What’d you all do to move it along?” she asked. “We got pushy,” I said. “Good for you, sister. Good for you!” I gave her a thumbs up. She didn’t have a hand free to return my sign, this expert in pushiness. 

Still, we’d shared good will. It wasn’t exactly love but it touched the soul of Christmas for just a second—strangers coming together, melting their differences, split-second grace, sort of like divinity and humanity becoming one, just for the sake of love. This was not a Christmas gift to return.  

Besides getting this line moving I wanted something more, not sure what. I started to hum carols in my head to stave off my creeping uncertainty and longing.  

Just then a woman tapped me on the shoulder. Startled, I turned, fearing another assault. She wasn’t even in the interminable line, but she was smiling. I smiled back. It felt almost conspiratorial just to face each other and quietly smile. “My dear, the meek shall inherit the earth,” she said, patted my arm then walked away. I felt oddly small, also confused.


 


Me? Meek?  I winced. Meek means gentle and soft, but I didn’t want to be a softy, even though Jesus in his famous Sermon on the Mount had designated meekness as a blessing, a source of contentment, enough serenity apparently to qualify the blessed to inherit the whole earth. Who could manage that blessing? I was empowered, a liberated feminist who’d fought to  be a powerful woman and a priest. Not meek. The woman was meek, not me, yet I wondered. Could one be meek and powerful?

That day in line I’d met two women. One stole my place, then applauded my courage; the other conferred meekness upon me. One gift fit just right, the other didn’t quite fit, but, well, I’d take it for Christmas’ sake. And who knows? It was better than eleven pipers piping. I might just inherit the earth one day—meekly of course.  

“May I help you?” said the woman behind the counter, which by now felt almost like an altar to me.