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. 

2025.01.12 'TIS TRUE. THIS P.U.D. Lyn G.Brakeman, Spiritual Lemons, blogpost

There really are some things that I do NOT believe!  BUT I saw it in the N.Y. Times— such a trustworthy organ that this must be the hard truth.

Add to this the esteem of antiquity, 18th century no less. And, for francophiliacs, the ooh la la allure of the Folies Bergère, incredibly truth revealing a bit more female flesh than a scooped neck but less than a bare bottom. This device is nothing short of miraculous—for women only. What does a woman do when she has to urinate, and she cannot simply pull over to the side of the road to relieve herself. 

Once when we lived in the city of Cambridge, Massachusetts, I was waiting for the bus to arrive, and I knew I could not hold this urge, and I wasn’t old enough yet for adult pampers. I looked desperately around and saw no other way but to leave the bus stop, walk quickly around the corner and relieve myself on a well-manicured lawn. I had no tissue, and even if I had, where would I toss it?  If I had been a man, well you know.

*  *  *  *

All this is a way to thank the NYT Magazine, for publishing an article, entitled Personal Urination Device, under the category of “Letter of Recommendation”.  Included was a gloriously bright red illustration of this new invention, “a plastic conduit provides new pathways for relief.”  The author’s name is Melissa Hart. She who wrote “Downs Syndrome Out Loud.” This writer lives in Oregon and obviously writes the truth, tells the truth, and of course is on social media. I am trained to write thank you notes so I did. 

*  *  *  *

I even wondered if this mighty item would be something female clergy could slip into the sacristy, or sequester in the tiny kindergarten-size, toilet-only. Clergy robes which often resemble effulgent garments women wore in Victorian times. 

Thank you Melissa Hart for your humor, good courage. Also to NY Times’s (2/22/24) for foregoing gender bias for the sake of, well you know.   

2025.01.05 TRUCE, Lyn G. Brakeman, Spiritual Lemons, blog post

Say this word. Say it again. Everyone  everywhere say this word over twice, thrice, over and over. All the world, all earth together, say this word: TRUCE.  

This word came out of nowhere and into my mind just two days ago. Because of its sudden appearance I paid attention, mostly because I knew it wasn’t something I conjured.  Over and over I said this word TRUCE. Of course I know its meaning but I did not at first comprehend its deepest truth.  

I first noticed in this word a combination of two words “truth” and “peace”. Both of these are flung about carelessly and almost desperately these days in this war-torn, frightened world. 

Next I noticed that this word is a process that usually happens  after a long time of being at war, of fighting useless battles often territorial and usually involving more and more death until someone or some huge explosive bomb halts the fighting—for a time. 

Checking with the faithful first source I look in the dictionary for TRUCE. It’s earliest origins, ironically, come equally from the root of words from Dutch (trouw) and German (treue), also English “true”. It was associated with the immediate result: ceasefire, letup, suspension of hostilities.  The immediate result was cessations of hostilities, violence, and lots of death.  BUT ,and there is alway a BUT………without a coming together of national leaders to end fighting, prevent more losses and deaths.

In the Middle Ages it was known as “truce of God”. 

 Today it means stopping the fighting long enough for the human spirit to realize itself, renew itself and often befriend those you had seen as mortal enemies. When my parents put an end to the sibling fighting between me and my younger sister, it usually meant physical separation, temporary isolation, and temporary peace, and required the cooperation of BOTH of us for it to work.  

It is strange today to say that now my younger sister and I, in our eighties, have made TIME to get to know each other deeply, review our history with clarity and good laughter, arrive at accurate/mutual understandings of our differences and the family dynamics, with the result of mutual empathy and enough courage each to tell the truth, the whole truth so help us God.    It only took 85 years! 

This TRUCE will last.  

12.29.2024 AGING. OH MY! Lyn G. Brakeman. Spiritual Lemons, blog post

There is no sustainable comfort where there is ongoing loss. Every single day your body will let you know that there is a new loss somewhere—a crick in your neck, a twitch in our left hip, a wheeze, a rasp, the name of a best friend or your latest neighbor in the retirement community, even your latest grandchild. You clean and polish your car thrice daily, make sure it starts, then obsess about that one piece in the jigsaw puzzle over which you have determinedly hunched for weeks, then set out to walk to the dining area an hour ahead of time. Read the same paragraph three times over. You ache with silent missing. The worst attitudes you can adopt are nonchalance, or forced positivity, or secret self-contempt. It’s like the eternal shrug. 

So?  So what?  What now? 

Read or gaze at children’s books. Don’t read or watch the news. Do read the comics. These are the wisest and best therapies any time for anyone. And always have NEW jammies. 

The best times are holidays/holy days. Why? Because adult children or grandchildren bring their children for visits. They do not walk or stroll. They RUN the hallways.  Yesterday as I sat to rest as a father came by with two small female children, one in his arms and the other racing ahead, then back, and so forth. These two were in their jammies, barefooted and ready for bedtime. The older one raced up to me and tapped me to attend. She tapped my knee. 

“We are from Nan and Soooo. No!  It’s  STooo.  sToo.”

“That’s Grandma and Grandpa to you,” said her Dad as he turned to follow the wee barefoot “contessa” racing down the hall. 

Next came a small boy about four or so. He too was racing because small children do not walk. They run.  He was headed to the elevator at full speed. His father called to him to STOP. The boy hesitated, looked back, then ran off to the elevator. “It’s coming. It’s coming. See, here it is.” He hesitated a minute to show me his bright green rubber boots. Now Daddy was running. Sure enough the elevator had arrived, and the door obediently opened. The child ran into the elevator, announcing “The elevator. The elevator!” I could see him pushing all the buttons. The elevator began to close. The boy waved joyfully. Dad made it just in time to hop into the elevator. The last I heard was the boy’s urgent voice: “Push Grandma’s floor! Push Grandma’s floor!”  

MERRY CHRISTMAS EVERYONE!   2025 NEW YEAR'S PEACE ALL ROUND, IN A CHILD 

2024.12.22 FREE TO BE CAREFREE. Lyn B. Brakeman, Spiritual Lemons, blog post

In Boston there is a ministry called Common Cathedral. It is not brand new but it is renewing as it goes. The current executive director, The Rev. Carrington Moore (below) preaches and celebrates the holy sacrament to the gathered congregation— those who live on the streets, often at night, often in the freezing cold where even warm tears freeze on cheeks.  

Most of us  are able to sit in warm homes, sip hot chocolate or brandied liqueur, often in front of a fireplace. We make merry! We are safe. We are warm.

*  *  *  *

One of the things I miss more than others at Christmas is the working fireplace we had in the Trinity Church parish rectory in Collinsville, Connecticut. We lived there in the 1980s 1990s. The fireplace spit and spat and sparked, splaying cinders all about. It was hazardous, yet it never lost its charm nor the spiritual magic of dangerous warmth. 

I try to imagine what it must be like for poor and homeless people when I read the biblical texts full of Christmas joy, love and mangers, I feel embarrassed at such a travesty. Okay, so we do it to bring joy and smiles and hope to young children, just like Bishop Nicholas of Myra did in his day when he brought food and small gifts to all the houses in all the poverty-stricken urban districts. 

Again . . . 

What about Jesus, Mary and Joseph? The contrast is quite the opposite of a peaceful haloed manger scene. They were freezing cold, quite alone, young, frightened, unsheltered, driven into the darkness. They pressed on to find warmth and safe housing as birthing contractions began. One poor man offered his stable, full of hay, dung and darkness. What is real?  Both. 

It is not a matter of being correct or incorrect. No one today was physically alive and present back then. I don’t think it is creating falsehood or error to allow our spiritual imaginations to play with biblical scenes in order to bring them alive, make them authentic to today’s world. 

One time when I attended the outdoor Eucharist, it was colder and more windy than usual. Still, the people gathered to stand and receive their “jesus-food”. Were they nuts? There were shelters. Oh my god, I sounded just like Scrooge!  Or royalty, saying let them gather the crumbs. I did not know what I could do until I spotted a man spastic with shivering with no coat or hat or mittens or hope. I took off my very extra warm scarf, a Christmas gift from a beloved daughter, and approached the man with it. I waited to get his nod then placed the scarf around his neck and wrapped it tightly. His smile was the best gift I could have ever received that Christmas.  

Spare yourself righteousness or guilt, just do what you can, whenever you can, wherever you are with whatever you have.   

         

FREE TO BE CAREFREE, step by tiny step.    

2024.12.15 'Tis The Season of MEH? Lyn G. Brakeman, Spiritual Lemons, blog post.

There’s an attitude in the air. It’s gone public. Some call it “meh”or more sophisticatedly, SO?  

Meh is boredom, a version of blasé, perhaps carelessness. At any rate, the world seems to have attitudinal MEH right now. The origins of the word is NOT, mercifully Latin and might be Yiddish, paraphrased as “I’m not really impressed right now.” A public yawn!

Meh is contagious and highly tempting right now in this United States, which is also frightening. I found one example in a small story that first appeared in the Washington Post newspaper about the concert violinist, Joshua Bell, who agreed to participate in a street experiment in 2022. He played several famous classical pieces of music standing on a subway platform with a beggars’ cup for coins. Passersby (1,097) passed by. A few tossed coins ( $32.17) in his cup, and a few made lethargic comments as if to say MEH.  

The story made me weep and wish for a small child who would stop, pull at her/his parent’s coat tails and beg—yes beg, even tantrum, perhaps begin to dance to the busker’s tunes, even threaten to “moon” in public.  But no MEH!

*  *  *  *

Do we stop and listen today?  It’s 2024 and holiday time. Do we STOP to listen —actually HEAR, each other? Aging is no excuse for practicing meh. 

I close with a small/huge spiritual reminder for meh prevention from Rumi, ancient thirteenth century Islamic poet and wise theologian:   

THERE IS A FORCE WITHIN YOU THAT GIVES YOU LIFE. SEEK THAT. 

2024.12.08 ADVENT—War AND Peace? Lyn G. Brakeman, Spiritual Lemons, blog post

I confess that I feel afraid of some of the recent, and perhaps inevitable, developments in this country.  Yes, it does seem to me that traditional logic—the more wars we make the more peace we will get—is painfully flawed. 

Here is Doris "Dorie" Miller,  a U.S. Navy sailor who was the first Black recipient of the Navy Cross and a nominee for the Medal of Honor. 

As a mess attendant second class in the United States Navy, Miller helped carry wounded sailors to safety during the attack on Pearl Harbor. For his heroic behavior he died.  But did things really change?  And now there was a martyr to praise, our consciences relieved— until the next conflict arrises.

   

I remember a time in my own life when I felt all alone and helpless. The parish church offered quiet days for people to sit or kneel in silence to pray. I sat there for a while. Then I kneeled, stared up at the crucified Jesus, and cried. My tears startled me. I brushed them away, looking around to make sure no one saw me. I just sat there thinking Jesus must have been a total idiot to fall into this trap. What was he trying to prove? 

What are we proving today with all our wars? Do wars make heroes? Just so we can weep and worship one more martyr? Are we soothed by our tears? Well, yes— until the next conflict arises.  My tears turned out to be about fear and hard personal choices. 

*  *  *  * 

Is that what our country faces today, trapped in a twisted paradox: the more war we make the less trustworthy the peace that follows? I mean school kids are afraid to go to school. “What if a gun happens to me today?” Having a license to carry a gun is as common as having a drivers license. Violence is reported every single day on the News. The next slogan I expect to see is “GUNS FOR PEACE” !  

When in history has WAR solved territorial disputes or political disagreements?  WWI was known as the “war to end all wars.” Did it?  WWII did, you will say. NOPE! On and on! 

Wars don’t make peace. But I can—and so can you.