2024.07.21 GROUNDED. Lyn G. Brakeman, Spiritual Lemons, blog post

Life is short, and 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.   Henry-Frederic Amiel

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When I lie in bed in the morning waiting for the courage to heave myself up and onto my walker to then tackle my urge to self-empty, I first watch the birds. I notice how long they stay still, eerily immobile, before they burst into flight. Are they sizing up their flight plans? They soon spread their broad wingspan and push up and off. As they trust the support of their wings they flatten their spindly legs up and under against their bodies, so their legs become quite invisible. (Look Ma, no legs!)  Then they are ready to soar. 

Kids are so enamored of this flight process they entertain themselves making paper airplanes to pitch and soar about planting messages of love or taunting wherever they land.  

My own legs await take off. They’ve just been freed of swollen seromas, (collections of fluid under aging thinning skin.) The fluid had gathered uninvited under the skin to create ugly bulges and keep me from wearing any summer shorts. I am more dependent on my own twiggy legs to support my “flight” than any bird. I cannot tuck my suddenly overweight legs up and under for a smooth flight like this Tern can. (Don't check the abs, check the wee legs tucked in tight.)

Yesterday I went to see a vascular surgeon who’d promised to take care of my swellings. He did, and now one of my legs is covered with white compression bandages. The other leg shed its wrappings and my live-in nurse/beloved spouse created a makeshift bandage while I called out critiques. 

The process was fascinating. Dr. D’Addario, whose first name is not “Hi Ho”, sat on a stool at my feet while I posed on the examining table and extended my legs. In a slow and dignified manner, the doctor, punctured my seroma with a razor sharp surgical knife—“just a little prick.” 

As he gently pressed, a perfectly curled fountain arched out until my seroma was flat-out emptied, leaving behind a bunch of aged wrinkly skin around which the surgeon wound or unwound gauze bandage to cover and compress my legs, newly returned to their twiggy best.  

But will these spindles hold me up so I can walk without assistance? Or will they be forced to tuck under while I fly like a bird?  Perhaps I shall grow wings next. Because no one really knows what “aging-in-place independently” will look like for me as I approach my 86th birthday.  

2024.07.14 Me and Charles Dickens and Mr. Adams. Lyn G. Brakeman, Spiritual Lemons, blog post.

It is not hard to imagine how scared, mad, and abandoned Jesus’s eager followers felt when he announced his plans to turn and head to Jerusalem, leaving them to continue the mission. They went from followers to leaders, just like that!

*  *  *  * 

A Tale of Two Cities begins, "It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair, we had everything before us, we had nothing before us, we were all going direct to Heaven, we were all going direct the other way …"

This is why I love, loved and still love the world of the crotchedy old master, Charles Dickens. I was hesitant, critical, not impulsive—yet deeply, shyly, compassionately in love with every morsel of Life, no matter its status.

This was why Mr. Adams, my favorite English teacher in high school, challenged us to think and write true/new thoughts. To every senior who made it into his English class, he assigned a writer for our final research paper. Mine was Charles Dickens. Did he want me to write about Ebenezer Scrooge or Tiny Tim or both at once? I wrote about myself, my own great expectations as a girl, about Miss Havisham raging and raving in her torn wedding dress, and, accidentally, about God or Jesus or some such. How did Mr. Adams know?  

Contemporary theologian, the Rev. Brian McLaren, writes: ”Before Christianity was a rich and powerful religion, before it was associated with buildings, budgets, crusades, colonialism or televangelism, it began as a revolutionary nonviolent movement promoting a new kind of aliveness on the margins of society.” 

I bet it was as hard for Dickens to write his cranky critiques as it was for me to listen to the God/Holy Spirit buried deeply in my own soul. Dickens died in 1870. I’m still alive and writing in 2014, my latest upcoming book is: “My Racisms in Snapshots”. There are saving solutions and hope, despair and ruin all at once. 

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When the novelist Charles Dickens died, he had a stroke and fell off his chair at the dinner table. Dickens asked to be buried "in an inexpensive, unostentatious, and strictly private manner," so even though he was buried in Westminster Abbey, it was a secret funeral, early in the morning, with only 12 mourners. But the grave was left open for a week and thousands of people, all types of people, came to throw in flowers for the man whose tomb is inscribed with these words: "He was a sympathiser to the poor, the suffering, and the oppressed; and by his death, one of England's greatest writers is lost to the world.”

AMEN. 

 

2024.07.07 Who DID Write the New Testament Anyway? Lyn G. Brakeman, blog post

When I read biblical readings about politics, the politics of St. Paul stand out! Paul  frantically wrote to fulfill his calling to spread the good news preached by Jesus of Nazareth, or Galilee, or Ephesus, or Corinth, or in your heart. Paul was a convert, not programmed to endear many, and admitting he was wrong—sometimes.   

I remember the omnipresent and ever-irritating examination question in the final exam for the course in New Testament at Yale Divinity School. Students knew it was coming. We had been well prepared. We knew our stuff, yet everyone quivered.

WAS there a “right” answer? 

The question:  Who wrote the New Testament, Jesus or Paul? 

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I plunged fearlessly in with every intention of making my case for Jesus. I ended up with Paul. Why? In short, my personality is just like Paul’s. Thanks to the patriarchal culture of  his day (mine as well!) it took time. This Jesus was not selling yet another religion, or himself as THE Messiah, but rather a gospel full of parabolic stories about people who broke rules for the sake of justice. It got Jesus crucified of course, but Paul picked up the roots and the wings by which ALL Creation could connect and live peacefully. 

The Great Commandment: Do NOT do to others what you would not have them do to you. God, how boldly simple that is?  To call it LOVE is dramatically misleading. You simply have to treat all living things (land, plants, animals, yourself, all neighbors) with compassion and respect, just as their Creator does.  

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In the 1970s in the Episcopal Church, I jumped into my own simmering desire to stand behind an altar as a priest of the Eucharist, rather than kneel at a rail, my hands up, my tongue extended, begging to be fed. I know “they” called such a posture humility, but I experienced it as humiliating. 

The Episcopal Church had its own hoops through which an aspirant would jump.The screening committee told me I would be embarking on a “dual vocation.” I could not be a mother AND a priest. I thought of Paul rushing about nagging anyone who would listen, grabbing himself a travel companion, revising his manuscript as he went, and traversing a huge desert called “holy.” I followed. 

It took me well over the expected time it took anyone to get ordained. I did not get tossed into prison like Paul, but if I had I’d have tried to sing hymns, as Paul did. Like Paul, I found friends and allies along my way. Also, I wrote letters to God who from the beginning had listened to my ramblings, dwelled in my heart, and taken me seriously. 

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My memoir, God Is Not a Boy’s Name. Becoming Woman. Becoming Priest, was published in 2016. Like Paul, I’ve continued to hammer and chisel away at the patriarchal armor through which the expansive love of God continues to shine, no matter what. Like Paul, I trusted divine omnipresence more than divine omnipotence. Paul’s first letter to the squabbling new churches in Corinth felt familiar. “The Spirit searches everything—even the depths of God. . .” (I Cor. 2)

Paul never gave up, broke every law on the books, fiercely and naively insisted that divinity was greater than all our imaginings. He did not found any single church! WE did. 

*  *  *  *

So who did write the New Testament? Paul of course! Jesus didn’t have time to write!

Now I’m 85 years old. I’m still talking and writing without ceasing about that steadfast God Paul trusted. Me too.

 

2024.06.30 THE PERFECT RECIPE FOR WORLD PEACE, Lyn G. Brakeman, Spiritual Lemons, blogpost

 

This Bliss cartoon captures the entire recipe for world peace. Let's get cookin!

The Rev. Lyn G. Brakeman

www.spirituallemons.blogspot.com

978-314-7763

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.   

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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!!! 

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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.  

 

2024.06.17 Creating Community In Place, Lyn G. Brakeman, Spiritual Lemons, blog post

Two lions stand together, side by side, a young male and his elder named Morani. The sun rises in the Maasai Mara National Reserve in Kenya. Morani is about 14 years old, one of a group know as the Four Musketeers, and the oldest known and last-surviving elder of the “musketeers.”  (The Nature Conservancy, Spring, 2023)  

These lion “musketeers” are Papas who support and provide for spouse/lionesses who are at home cooking, cleaning their lairs, nursing and feeding their cubs as they await the return home of the papas—for a good night’s sleep, safe from attack and free for leonine sex. This has been the pattern of survival with contentment and safety, and when these father-musketeers die, the community will break down.  

What about the human animal?  We also live by patterns set by Nature and habit and tradition. We all have been mothered and fathered—guided, beloved, hugged and walloped, criticized and praised in many ways by men and women, some of whom birthed us, nurtured us, gave us bit of their hearts, and some who failed our expectations. 

What about letting go of special days, relentlessly rooted in biology and genes, and simply dedicate every day to honor those who, regardless of role or gender, from our beginnings and along the way, have provided wisdom, serenity and courage enough for a lifetime of daily gratitude?  

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Now, what if we intentionally built “Reserves”— stored up mental and physical and spiritual energy enough to prevent extinction by wars, massacres, starvation, violence, and despair?  Could we free all of us for the sake of—all of us? It’s an idea within our reach. 

In fact, in this COVID era men and women already have paused for perspective on traditional patterns of social organization that entrap us all in rigidly defined roles and rules. When rules distort and limit life’s flow, we can change. With change, some have discovered and rejoiced: Hey look! Now we BOTH have time, with mutual consent, control, and commitment, to CREATE new patterns. We are even free enough to conceive, birth and nurture a child together. And to LOVE our “creation” for its own precious sake.  

With such breaks in traditional patterns, older people can rest from their labors and enjoy the affections they have—in sickness and in health. Most can still laugh, and cry, and hope, and pray together—and lock no one out. We can create something new together. 

WE CAN CREATE COMMUNITY IN PLACE!   

Wherever you are, with whomever you’re with, be who you are—bedridden, or disabled, alone or accompanied, parent or child, serene or enraged, happy or sad, you can share yourself, and yes, embrace yourself and others. We can only do this together wherever we are, however we are, and with communal and personal prayer—the silent connector of Souls-in-Hope.    

5/19/2024 PENTECOST. Lyn G. Brakeman. Spiritual Lemons, blog post.

Once I preached a sermon at Pentecost in which I declared that this day when we celebrate the MINISTRY of the Holy Spirit, NOT the arrival of that unitive spirit of God! She has been here from the beginning of all Creation. 

After the Sunday worship ended with a dismissal, a woman came to me and said: “But Pentecost is the BIRTHday of the CHURCH!” I chose to disagree but not argue. 

How in the world could we Christians restrict/confine the spiritual activity of the ONE GOD /CREATOR to one day, one people, one time, one religion, one church, one doctrine, one spirit called holy?  

HUMBUG.  

*  *  *  * 

I am extremely pleased that the Diocese of Massachusetts elected a woman for our diocesan bishop, a first. Her speech was short, sweet and tender. We so need such a voice, such a clear softness without sloppiness.  “I will love you,” she said. 

And Connecticut already elected its first (as far as we know) openly gay diocesan bishop.

Pretty soon the HS Herself will penetrate the Roman Catholic patriarchy too!  The present pope is on it—slowly and surely, trying not to become a dead martyr like Lincoln or Kennedy, et. al. 

As to Pentecost, the Holy Spirit Herself must not, can not, should not, will not be disregarded for Her inclusive non-gendered politics. This Holy Spirit did not arrive on one day, in one doctrine, inhabiting one gender, one religion, dressed in one color, for god’s sake! Jesus was a Jewish man on earth.  The Risen Christ has no gender, no one religion. Plus, we’ve always been smart enough to pray with and to all the Mamas!    

Ya think the Spirit of Pentecost has ONE gender?!   Or ONE religion?   Or ONE doctrine?  Or ONE people?  ONE history or ONE story? Good lawd ‘amighty.  

Get a grip peoples.