2020.05.24 Ascend?

I heard a sermon once, delivered boisterously from a skyscraper pulpit by a preacher of great surety and voice who announced to the congregation of neck-craning hopefuls below: Christ is the one God and all our prayers go through Him—and Him alone.

And there you have it, I thought.

This was an Ascension Day Eucharist at an Episcopal parish. There was time after the service for comments or questions. I had a sinking feeling. This preacher was not the type to be questioned. Still, one timid soul (not me) asked: “Well, must Christians always pray through Christ?”

The answer came quickly back: “Well, you could try to access God in other ways, of course, but your prayers won’t be valid.”

Guillotined!

Besides thinking the guy was an arrogant Christian jerk and a spiritual egomaniac, I gnashed my teeth. I wanted to rip this preacher’s face off, or at least have a snatch at his clerical stole. Who was he to set limits on God?  I thought to argue with him or send him a curt note about his pastoral bullying, not to mention his bad theology. Instead, I stuffed my face at the spread of sweets—and more sweets—offered for guests in the parish house, and later let fly at my priest-spouse who responded (expletives deleted) and cracked the old Ascension joke about Jesus still in orbit in outer space. 

But I wasn’t satisfied. I prayed, wondered, and re-read the Ascension story in Acts. I knew it wasn’t factual, yet, once I quieted my snarky dismissal of Christian excess, I found the visual image compelling—Jesus’s last recorded act, a full-bodied rising, his feet hidden in clouds and his arms extended in blessing, or farewell.

The image pursued me, dragged me into a Pauline net of awakening—unforgettable blow to the soul, which is the point. Would I be, or am I, one of the goggle-eyed hopefuls gathered here below gawking at the disappearing savior? Historically, perhaps, but now? I’m not a clinger. Or am I?—secretly of course. I could never pray to such a Christ image, I thought. And then tears filled my eyes, followed by these words: Don’t leave me.

I’ll spare you a boring rehearsal of my abandonment issues, and all the reasons why I trained to be a bereavement counselor. If I were one of those people who were alive when Jesus was I would have holed up in terror and confusion in the little room to which his followers fled in Jerusalem. What now? I have often invited retreatants to sit quietly together and envision themselves in that upper room. What would they feel or think or say?  A few quickly spoke of the Resurrection—too quickly. One once said, “Holy shit!. Most stayed silent, and some cried their way through a halting conversation.

The writer and pastor, Frederick Buechner  came to mind. His wisdom was always to follow your tears, for you never know where they will lead. In his book, Listen to Your Life, he wrote: “See it for the fathomless mystery it is. In the boredom and pain of it, no less than in the excitement and gladness: touch, taste, smell your way to the holy and hidden heart of it, because in the last analysis all moments are key moments, and life itself is grace.”

I’d always thought: If only I could just swallow my distaste for the ecstatic grandeur and glory imagery for Christ, I’d be closer to God-in-Christ. I’d accept the almighty, king, judge, son nomenclature. But the words get in the way. I can't see through them. So I follow my tears, knowing they are for the historical Jesus who would agree and who often shunned glorification. But he is gone—risen and ascended.

I pray: Jesus, I know you’re risen and it’s all good. I know you’re here spiritually, but I need you in the flesh NOW. To hell with all the Christology. I need you to descend again, to shed your transcendent almighty masculinity—here and now.  If there is a Second Coming, I need it NOW.  Amen.

This is probably one of the dumbest prayers I’ve ever uttered. I know better. But so what? I laughed, which broke through my doldrums.

I thought back to the offensive preacher and decided he would invalidate all my prayers, not to mention my tears. I knew he would think of himself in the ascending posture—above-it-all, knowing it all, just like all that imagery. I could not follow him.

I stared at the the Ascension image until it got blurry and I saw through it. I had to stare at a Crucifix a long time to see through it to resurrection. Oh, I can easily do it with my mind, but my heart only sees cruel injustice and  sorrow—even on the empty cross, which only dodges the horror of crucifixion—unless you see through it. Looking at is not the same as seeing through.

So it is with the Ascension image. My mind sees all the obvious Glory of magnificent divine overcoming, but when I stare deeply my heart sees through the glory to the pain of soul-binding loss—an image of soaring joy and plunging sorrow. 

Can I love both and find in both my life, my own full and fragile life?  I will try.

2020.05.17 A Near-Perfect Graduation Speech

I have attended many graduations, some my own, some my children’s, some my grandchildren’s, some my steps, and others I had to attend. I have heard many graduation addresses—most lumbering, long, and forgettable. I have never been invited to address a graduating class.  If I were, here’s what I’d say:

You have been told many times how great you are, how great your school is, and how happy we all are for your graduation. I have no more words, so I just offer one piece of practical wisdom, one prayer, and one blessing, slightly revised by me.

THE WISDOM:  Stop! Sit down! Shut up!

THE PRAYER:

God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change,
         the courage to change the things I can,
                 and the wisdom to know the difference.

THE BLESSING:  Life is short. We do not have much time to gladden the hearts and minds of those who travel the way with us. So be swift to love and make haste to be kind. And the blessing of Love Almighty be with you this day and always. AMEN.

(Attributions:  Luke Timothy Johnson, New Testament professor, on prayer; Theologian, Reinhold Niebuhr, Serenity Prayer;  Henri-Frederic Amiel, Swiss moral philosopher.)

In my mind, as I stepped down from the podium, leaving everyone stunned, then jubilant, I would mutter a small prayer: And for godssake, and your parents’, do not get drunk-to-oblivion or pregnant tonight. Oh, in case of a pandemic lockdown, flip your tassel and the bird at once.

2020.05.10 Mothers' Day Spiritual Wisdom Bouquet

Dear Mom,

Did you love me too much?
Is there such a thing, really?

No, there’s not, they say.
Yes, there is, they say.
All things are possible with God, they say
Love me as I have loved you, Jesus says.

Which is it?

No matter.

We loved as we did, loved as we didn’t,
many kinds, many ways—again, forever,
    always.

I love you, Mom,

Me



 A prayer for good humor

Grant me, O Lord, good digestion, and also something to digest.
Grant me a healthy body, and the necessary good humor to maintain it.
Grant me a simple soul that knows to treasure all that is good
and that doesn’t frighten easily at the sight of evil,
but rather finds the means to put things back in their place.
Give me a soul that knows not boredom, grumblings, sighs and laments,
nor excess of stress, because of that obstructing thing called “I.”
Grant me, O Lord, a sense of good humor.
Allow me the grace to be able to take a joke to discover in life a bit of joy,
 and to be able to share it with others.              St. Thomas Moore
                                                                    ****

THE VOICE OF GOD 

Ninety percent of what’s wrong with you
   could be cured by a hot bath,
says God from the bowels of the subway.
    but we want magic to win
the lottery we never bought a ticket for.
     (Tenderly, the monks chant, embrace the suffering.)

The voice of God does not pander,
      offers no five year plan, no long-term
solution, nary an edict.

It is small and fond and local.
      Don’t look for your initials in the
geese honking overhead or to see thru
the glass even darkly.

It says the most obvious crap—
put down that gun, you need a
sandwich.
                     Mary Karr, poet
                                                                    ****

On this Mother’s Day, we give thanks to God for the divine gift of motherhood in all its diverse forms. Let us pray for all the mothers among us today; for our own mothers, those living and those who have passed away; for all the mothers who loved us and for those who fell short of loving us fully; for all who hope to be mothers someday and for those whose hope to have children has been frustrated; for all mothers who have lost children; for all woman and men who have been our substitute mothers and we who have done so for those in need; and for the earth that bore and provides us sustenance. We pray this all in the name of God, our great and loving Mother.    Amen.
        - by the Rev. Leslie Nipps, Women’s Uncommon Prayers (Moorhouse Publishing, 2000)
                                                                    ****

Jesus, I love you when you’re angry, for so am I
I love you when you fiercely love the children, for so do I
I love you when your mood strikes terror, for so does mine
And just as quick as anger’s flash
Your swift embrace the flow of grace restores
I pray my will be yours.
         - Lyn Gillespie Brakeman
                                                                   ****




                  The Rev. Roy Parker, OHC

2020.05.03 HUSH

Hush
   
In the beginning
You gave us
all Goodness
all Beauty.

But we chose

domination over dominion
greatness over goodness
hubris over humility
shepherd over sheep
power over prayer

And now we are choking
on our own exhaust.

You don’t forsake us
We forsake You.


Hush-sh-sh-sh

Faith in flower scent
Hope in bird swoop
Love in life’s laughs
                       Lyn Gillespie Brakeman

2020.04.26 Up, Down, and All Around

As a child, my eyes were trained upward, peering through the jagged line of city skyscrapers, trying to get a glimpse of God on high. I saw many clouds and sun and rain. As an adult, I look downward for glimpses of God in my own heart, in the faces and actions of people on earth. I see smiles, and kindness, and tears—signs of what Jesus called the Kingdom of God, the dear truth of a holy society envisioned here on earth.

For centuries many have prayed:  “Thy kingdom come; thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven.” Do we expect that all this will happen without our help?

According to Vida D. Scudder in her book, Social Teachings of the Christian Year. Lectures Delivered at the Cambridge Conference, 1918, republished in 2015, the appointed Scriptures in Eastertide “keep us strictly to earth, at her homeliest and most difficult. The Risen Lord with the marks of His Passion on Him, moves among His own in old scenes, in the familiar ways. As they tread dusty roads, as they eat their suppers, as they ply their trades; in rooms where they were wont to gather, or by the lake whose waters have known the tread of His holy Feet, suddenly He is with them.”

Suddenly, someone verifiably dead appears—not in a dream but in a vision, earthbound in a sensory way and often with a life-changing message. Some of us have had such visionary experiences of someone to whom we’ve been very close. These are mostly personal and private. We are afraid we’re crazy, so we don’t tell anyone. But a child will always tell. A child I knew once announced: “Daddy called today.” Daddy was dead. Mommy argued truth, but the most she could get from the child was an agreement that she would not to tell anyone else. Such things just do not fit into rational boxes. Jesus’s followers were just as blown away as we are.

Still, let’s remember that the very first person to “tell” about such a strong vision had never seen Jesus alive, but only after he was dead in a vision with a message to TELL the world. That person was Paul, persecutor-in-chief of Christians. He was so radically converted by this vision that, once he digested what had happened to him, he never shut up. So we ought never dare dismiss such an experience as “just a vision.”  The child knew the sound of Daddy’s voice and heard it through the phone—so strong was the sensory memory backed up by the truth of Daddy’s love still in her heart. This was true for the gospel writers—and for us as well.

What’s odd is that these extraordinary spiritual experiences happened in mundane ways and were nothing new. As Scudder puts it, Jesus was “still bent on training his followers to create the Beloved Community.”

This Lord/Christ—alive, dead, resurrected—was/is consistent and insistent. With few exceptions, this Jesus addressed them when they were gathered in a group.

Today we are the group. Some have interpreted these appearance visions to include instructions to organize the Church to be the Kingdom. Scudder warns, with wry humor that “there is scant evidence of this in the Bible and the idea of the Kingdom is belittled when confined to the partial and imperfect expression in the Church visible here below. The Church is doubtless the natural, the appointed instrument of the Kingdom, but it would take an inveterate optimism to identify the two.”  

This vision, this message, this God, was to be proclaimed up and down and all around, all at once, and not restricted to any one religion, including Christianity. 

I find this limitless spirituality helpful today when we are all of us together yet trapped in solitary confinement because of a lethal virus sweeping the globe. We are caught in a paradox we cannot, and are not supposed to unravel: the more alone we are the more together we become.

Can anything good come out of this crisis?  I believe that a cultural shift of massive proportions will occur to move us from global selfie-ism to a god’s-eye-view perspective—up and down and  all around— in every major institution: arts, business and commerce, religion, politics, science, medicine, education, social organization.

Why so? Because we have lived with solitary confinement; we have lived surrounded by death; we have lived in the throes of collective angst and hope, death-in-life. And we will grieve and live to begin anew in a catastrophically changed and strengthened world. Oh yes, we will live with the cruel bruises of this pandemic on our souls and bodies, and we will write new bibles, work to love and heal our Earth, tell old and new stories, sing new songs, never forget.

                                 All changed, changed utterly
                                    A terrible beauty is born.
                                                                 -W. B. Yeats

2020.04.19 Cupcake

I first met Cupcake fifteen years ago in a memoir writing class. Her first read-aloud memoir piece had us all laughing out loud. She wrote about walking along some street in Boston when construction workers called out to her, “Hey Cupcake!” This classic wolf whistle put a spring in her step. With superbly sarcastic wit, Cupcake riffed on the many possible meanings of that appellation. I’ve called her “Cupcake” ever since.

One of the early class assignments was to design a cover for our memoir-to-be. Cupcakes’s cover, as I recall, showed an empty chair, such as one that would be placed at a dining room table. The chair was an image that evoked her feelings of isolation and exclusion in her family of origin.  Cupcake had hoped and prayed that her mother would, one day, set a place for her at the family table at which there was a place set for everyone but her. The mystery of why such cruelty happened is not mine to know, but I do know that Cupcake today would make sure that everyone, even a stranger, would have a place at her table and in her heart. 

I once told Cupcake that there was always a place for her at the Holy Communion altar-table of God. Like clockwork, every March 25th on the anniversary of my ordination as an Episcopal priest, Cupcake sends me a card to honor my anniversary. That would be lovely enough, but she also always includes a check! Usually it’s for $35, but this year it was for $50—possibly a raise for my advanced age.

A retired Boston school teacher who lives alone with two small dogs who don’t talk back or bite, Cupcake has a robust sense of humor and a gigantic heart—not extroverted but authentically truth-bound, a quality of soul ironically common in people who have survived profound early wounding. A lover of detail, Cupcake will often mention the orange dress with the flared skirt I wore on my ordination day underneath my liturgical vestments—myself a flirtatious potential “cupcake” at heart.

I recently asked Cupcake why she remembered my ordination anniversary in such a consistent way. She wrote this:
Psalm 110 tells us "thou art a priest forever."  Celebrating your anniversary is a small statement of who you are to me - Episcopal priest, counselor, teacher and friend. When I missed a writing group one day, you called to see how I was. My dog had been diagnosed with a terminal illness and I asked you to pray that God would give me the grace to get through the situation. And you did and I did.
When I heard of my ex-husband’s death, you were the only person who asked how I was doing. No one else has ever even hinted of his significance in my life.
I remember your ordination because you are always priestly to me.
I remember your ordination because Maya Angelou exhorted us to "try to be a rainbow in someone's cloud." 
You are my rainbow. 
 

I felt undeserving of all that praise until I remembered the popcorn. I’d once commented on how much I love popcorn. The next thing I knew a large carton full of individual bags of popcorn arrived at my doorstep. Too much! But this is Cupcake, a hopeless gift giver, generous to the point of embarrassment. Her joy in giving quickly erased my discomfort in receiving, along with my shrinking from the gift of praise. Cupcake knows how to keep Easter going, no matter what.

If Cupcakes’s own Roman Catholic tradition permitted the ordination of women priests, she would be one if she so desired. But she needs no pope, or archbishop, or brother priest to formalize what God has already planted in her soul—a priest forever in God’s sight.

Thank you, Cupcake.

2020.04.12 Easter Images

I can only downsize Easter a bit, expand it to include all Creation, take it out of heaven, and lift it very far away from pearly gate jokes or even serious theologies of divine condemnation or hell fire.  So I have photographed some images that have personal meaning to me and also capture the joy and the sorrow and the love of Easter.

Here are three images of a cross moving from black through scarlet into white. The small cross necklace was a gift to me long ago from the man I eventually married. It conveys the steadiness of Christ's love with us— no matter what.

 And here are my very broken glasses. They dropped out of my pocket as I was walking in our neighborhood. They were getting fogged up because of my Corona mask, so I removed them and slipped them safely into my pocket. Not safe! They fell out. After two trips around my route by flashlight, with my husband, and in the sunlight they finally appeared—broken. Note that the lenses are still intact. Easter!

 

And here is a multicolored work of art, a cross created several years ago by my oldest daughter and her then husband, an artist. Its power lies in its creativity. Today it hangs on our front door, a sign that we celebrate the depth and breadth and width of Love itself. Easter.