2016.06.26 Give Me Your Poor

Not like the brazen giant of Greek fame,

With conquering limbs astride from land to land;

Here at our sea-washed, sunset gates shall stand

A mighty woman with a torch, whose flame

Is the imprisoned lightning, and her name

Mother of Exiles. From her beacon-hand

Glows world-wide welcome; her mild eyes command

The air-bridged harbor that twin cities frame.

"Keep ancient lands, your storied pomp!" cries she

With silent lips. "Give me your tired, your poor,

Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,

The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.

Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,

I lift my lamp beside the golden door!"

"The New Colossus" poem by Emma Lazarus; lyrics for Irving Berlin musical, "Miss Liberty"

A friend recently told me that Emma Lazarus’s poem had been set to music by Irving Berlin. She said the women’s chorus of which she is a member sang it, and that I should check it out. It would make me weep, she said. It did.

In the context of the current skirmish over immigration and our highest court's split about whether President Obama’s proposal to allow 4 million immigrants to stay here and work here, Lazarus’s message rings sacred. Yes, I know it’s a vision, a dream—two words never to be prefaced by “only” or “just.”

My mother loved broadway musicals. Cole Porter and Irving Berlin were her two favorite idols. The information that Irving Berlin, composer and lyricist for “God Bless America,” first sung by Kate Smith in 1938, the year I was born, had written music for the Lazarus poem only added to my tears.

Mom died 18 years ago. I bet she never knew that music was the only source of income for Berlin, born Israel Isidore Baline (later Berlin, thanks to a typo) in 1888 in Belarus. Music was also the source of income for Mom’s own Jewish father. Berlin’s father had been a cantor in a synagogue. Through his father’s singing vocation Berlin learned to love music—for its spiritual power and its sheer beauty. I don’t know where my grandfather learned to love music, but he made a career of importing classical musical talent—most of it Jewish— from Europe to America.

                                                      Mr. Irving Berlin

With their music, my grandfather and Irving Berlin made this country rich. Neither would have come to America without the invitational hospitality of a Jewish poet named Emma and this country’s foundational principles. 

And neither man would  have come here without being ushered in by the inspired grandeur of the enormous Statue of Liberty, a gift of friendship from the people of France to the people of America. She stands as a symbol of freedom and democracy. She holds a torch of welcome, stands 305’ 1” tall, and weighs in at 27,000 tons. Up close she represents one image of the soul of America.

As a child growing up in Manhattan, I looked up to her as if to a Goddess. I was also a little afraid of her, just because she was so huge and a bit stern looking.

For some of us today the message she carries is frightening. Whom shall we let in? Will we lose our rights, our identities, our properties if we share? Have we become so afraid of “pollutants” from without that we are going to create a toxic closed system within our borders—such that we will stifle—not grow, not evolve?

Lady Liberty, the one Berlin praised in song, in all her glory and her gospel, reflects the God I love and worship, the One who amorizes the whole cosmos, kindling love throughout.  

2016.06.09 Grace Is A Verb

Many alphabets of grace have been created. That’s because grace is both a divine mystery and something everyone experiences, sometimes daily. Usually grace is used as a noun, but it can be a verb, as in “The Queen graced us with her presence.” Or the Pope, or Jesus, or the President, or the one you’d always dreamed would fall head over heels in love with you. 

In seminary my favorite New Testament professor defined grace in an experiential way. I’ve never forgotten his definition and hold it true today. Grace is the experience of being known and loved— at the same time. That sounds passive, and it is because this kind of grace is a gift. When you feel known, through and through to your core—AND AT THE SAME TIME— loved, through and through to the core, you explode. No longer can you say, “They know me but they don’t like me.” Or, “They love me all right, but if they really knew me, they wouldn’t.”  You see what I mean. Grace is a package, and it is divine when it happens to you. Only the verb form can express this explosion of truth in your soul. Like this:

Here is my alphabet:

A  aerate
B   burst
C   clap
D   drop-kick, delve, dazzle
E   eulogize, effervesce
F   fly
G   God/Godde
H   hallow
I    irrigate
J   jolt
K  know
L   lift, love
M  mourn, marry
N   notarize
O   own
P   potentiate
Q   query
R   reconstitute
S   sanitize
T   thank
U   undergird
V   vivify
W   wonder
X   xylophonize
Y   Yes!
Z   zest

My father when he was alive gave me grace when he completely knew and loved me at once, which wasn’t consistent, by the way, but when he did I glowed through and through. Like the time I, hesitantly, told him I wanted to be a priest and launched into a messy and awkward explanation. I didn’t think he would disapprove; I just thought he might think it silly and laugh. Instead, he said, “I understand, Lynda.” (He called me by my full name when he got seriously angry—or graced me with his full presence. )

Here’s Dad the day he married Mom 82 years ago June. Handsome dude! I got his nose and his hair.

2016.06.12 The Quality Of Mercy

A MERCY BLESSING

May God give you:
For every challenge, Wisdom;
For every stony path, Strong Shoes;
For every storm, a Rainbow;
For every hardship, Support;
For every journey, Faithful Companions;
For every concern, Hope;
For every blessing, Gratitude;
For  every prayer, an Answer;

And may all life's seasons bring God's
        gift of MERCY to
You and those you love.
          AMEN
 (Based in part from an Irish Blessing. Michele Aronica, RSM)

Last week I was on retreat at Mercy Center in Madison, CT.  This blessing was framed and in each room. I awoke to it very morning and its truth sank into me. This is all I want and hope for: not that stony paths, challenges, hardship and all the rest will bypass me, but that I will have gifts to help me keep going, especially faithful companions and Hope. Hope, to me is the greatest of the Big Three spiritual gifts: faith, hope, and love. (St. Paul thought love, but he might've been wrong, ya know!)

  When I told someone that I'd been on a silent retreat for a week, she said, "A whole week?"—followed by, "You and Dick?" Some things are quite astonishing. I told her we weren't rigid about it, and that we convened each evening to sit outside and chat, or just sit and gaze at the natural beauty of the sound stretching before us and all the glorious trees that adorn the Mercy property. I added: "You know the silence, after a while, becomes a friend, one whose comfort you begin to appreciate like an over-soul." (Over-soul is a Jewish descriptor of the affects of a true Sabbath rest.)

Mercy is different from compassion or sympathy, or even empathy. Mercy has the power to soothe, season, or soften all life's aches and pains, all our passions, strivings, even the great and righteous judgments we make, and the social justice causes for which we labor.  James, the most practical book in the New Testament, makes a big deal about the unity of faith and deeds—one no good without the other. Yet even James reminds us, almost casually, "For judgment will be without mercy to anyone who has shown no mercy; . . ."    And btw: ". . . mercy triumphs over judgment." (James 2:13b)  [Italics mine]

Biblically, mercy is translated as divine lovingkindness toward all living things. In Hebrew it's chesed, and in Greek eleo, both rooted in the word which means guts or womb (racham and splagchnizoai)".  I do so love words.

And from Shakespeare's The Merchant of Venice:

The quality of mercy is not strained;

It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven
Upon the place beneath. It is twice blest;
It blesseth him that gives and him that takes:
‘T is mightiest in the mightiest; it becomes
The throned monarch better than his crown:
His sceptre shows the force of temporal power,
The attribute to awe and majesty,
Wherein doth sit the dread and fear of kings;
But mercy is above this sceptred sway;
It is enthronèd in the hearts of kings,
It is an attribute to God himself;
And earthly power doth then show likest God’s
When mercy seasons justice. Therefore, Jew, 
Though justice be thy plea, consider this,
That, in the course of justice, none of us
Should see salvation: we do pray for mercy;
And that same prayer doth teach us all to render
The deeds of mercy. I have spoke thus much
To mitigate the justice of thy plea;
Which if thou follow, this strict court of Venice
Must needs give sentence ‘gainst the merchant there.

By all means, do not forget to be merciful with yourself, please. Godde will assist.  

2016.05.10 They Came In Bunches

They came in bunches, like bananas, grapes or coconuts, though much more juicy and entertaining.

They walked two by two in two crooked lines, unlike Ludwig Bemelmans’ little girls who walked in two straight lines in one of my favorite childhood  books, Madeline. Most of us, if we are honest, love books that are like us, and I fancied myself as having the soul of the wee Madeline.

I loved the little girls having adventures in a big city, following their teacher, Miss Clavel. My city was New York and Madeline’s was Paris. But Paris could have been mine for all that my mother extolled France where she’d spent time as a child. She'd adored her governess, Mam’selle—who became my Miss Clavel. Besides being the smallest in my class, just like Madeline, I loved little girls in lines and uniforms like my private school made me wear. Girls in lines in uniform rhymed, like the poetry of Bemelmans' book.

Madeline and I loved the straights lines, and we both had a penchant for stepping out of line. I didn’t dare step too far out of line yet, but I knew that Madeline's spirit was brewing inside me.

To the tiger in the zoo Madeline just said, “Pooh, pooh”


The lines I saw from my window are children from a nearby private school. They have dark skin, and are uniformed in electric yellow T-shirts—shining brighter and closer than the sun itself. I watched a series of processions, worthy of any cathedral aisle, go by in ten-minute intervals. I think I am witnessing the most beautiful sight on this patch of earth right now.

It’s June. The school in our city neighborhood belched out these delicious lines of children all day long. I stopped watching and then was drawn back to the window to wait for the next one.

The little ones came first, by 9 in the morning. They were Madeline-sized and supposed to march. The teachers, one at each end of the line, command them to form straight lines. They just couldn't do it. They were also supposed to hush, to modulate their peeping and chirping voices. But it was June and a sunny day—a day to sing the Gloria about.

Their school is the Benjamin Baneker, School Baneker was the first African American astronomer. Everytime I see these children I can tell they are hopping proud of their school—but not enough to stay all summer, and summer is coming very very soon.  How can they keep from singing?

These bunches were headed for the nearby playground and park where there are swings and slides, climbers and monkey bars— and sprinklers (forbidden, I’m sure, though I bet some will return to school having to change into the extra set of clothes each parent had been instructed to bring at the beginning of the year—for emergencies.) Acres of lush green lawn await them, their souls being led by the Lord their Shepherd.

These kids know this. Their lines easily fell askew as the boys danced jigs along the way. Girls, all except "Madeline"who would be running ahead, grabbed their hands and tugged them back into line. They were crossing a street where evil cars could come and squish them. Nothing could squish their joyful gleeful spirits this day.

Nothing could squish mine either. I believe I had glimpsed God —in bunches.

2016.05.29 The God Between Us: Interinanimator

The Pentecost beat goes on—and on, longest season of the church year. It’s Hers, the Holy Spirit's—all of it. (The Nicene Creed was written using the pronoun “he” for the Spirit, but revisions have toppled this unappealing three-men-on-top arrangement—to the good of humanity and divinity.)

I wrote a book about this Spirit back in 2001: The God Between Us: A Spirituality of Relationships. The God Between is energy, alive and vibrant in the spaces between us, relational spaces we imagine to be empty but which are really crackling with divine connective energy, pulling for healing and wholeness in a relationship or set of relationships.

GBU was published by Augsburg in 2001 and contains midrashim: stories about all kinds of relationships in the Bible—mother/daughter: Herodias and her dancing daughter, Salome, two close men: David and Jonathan, friends: Queen Esther and a palace eunuch, Adam and Eve, and my favorite story of all, “Idle Tale”: about the group of women who come at dawn to the tomb where Jesus has been buried. They come to anoint his body for burial. 

Now you don’t imagine that all these women were silent, do you? They were women. They talked!—with humor and varying perspectives, about how they will  get into the tomb, and further, how they will convince the men about the truth of what God has revealed to them—mere women, Godde help them. She does.

The principal character of the Bible isn’t God or humanity, it’s their relationship. They fall in love, they break up, they come back together. That’s the biblical pattern.
When couples came to see me for counseling, they usually arrived, each with a sharp, invisible finger pointed at the other: J’accuse! I listened to all the flak, trying not to take sides—not so easy. I could usually tell which relationships were going to make it, and they were not always the ones in which both people reiterated, “We love each other.” There was always a BUT, either before or after the love. Its volume and size told me how much work we all had to do to find the buried “love.” It was spade work.

As soon as I could, I told the couple that neither one of them was the client here. This was a show stopper. I told them that the client was their relationship—wounded and in need of healing.  The deal was that we all would work together on it. We made playful metaphors of their relationship. What did it look like?  Some relationships were suffering from too much distance—malnourished, a starving child. Others looked like roadkill, beaten down and bleeding because too much anger and blame was dumped upon them all the time. Some were simply lop-sided:one side deflated as if one person had stopped holding up their end—flat tire. Both people let go: orphaned. 

It helped if the couple had a sense of humor. It also helped if they were willing to pray for their relationship, rather than simply for self or other to change, i.e. be more this or that—or less.

My book is out of print, but my idea is not dead. Recently, I was thrilled to see it repackaged by no less than an Oxford scholar, John Hare, theology professor at Yale, in an essay: “The Third Life: The Life that is Between Us.” He wrote about unity in Christ and cited a John Donne (17th century metaphysical poet) poem called “Ecstasy”  in which love with one another interinanimates two souls. Now that’s no typo; it’s my type of word.

Hare writes: “The central idea here lies in this word which Donne made up, ‘interinanimates,’ which means, ‘puts a soul, or anima, into, in, the space between, inter, two people, inter-in-animates, so that there is not just my life and your life but the life that is between us, and this third life is stronger, abler than either of our lives on its own.” (Italics mine)

I was delighted to see my God Between again—reincarnated and clothed with a grand new word: interinanimator.  My couples would cringe at such abstraction, of course. They would say that their therapist had gone nuts. They would be right, and we would have a hearty interinanimating laugh together—thanks to the God Between Us.

2016.05.22 Trinity Mystery

We live in a Mystery we do not understand, and we are grateful.

People say the Holy Trinity is a mystery, and so it is. But that doesn’t mean I do not keep on trying to understand it anyway. I am a wondering person. Possibly, I should be more afraid or humble, but I’m neither very well.

With divine mystery everything is up for grabs and too deep to measure. Nevertheless . . . the early Christians discerned a Divinity they called 3 in 1 and 1 in 3. Easy peasy, right? They experienced the ONE God as cosmic, close, and connected—all at once. This they called Father, Son, and Holy Ghost and turned it into a doctrine about the triune nature of God. There followed creeds and liturgies and fights. Holy Writ was born—and a formula of blessing for all things holy. 

Over time calcification set in and the original experience was robbed of its brilliance. But not entirely. Wondering people, great and small, continued to come up with bright ideas for the Mystery we do not understand and for which we are grateful.

St. Augustine         Lover, Beloved, and Love itself.
                                God loves everyone as if each were all
           

Bernard of Clairvaux       Love of self for self’s sake
                                            Love of God for self’s sake
                                            Love of God for God’s sake
                                            Love of self for God’s sake


Jesus   “I still have many things to say to you, but you cannot bear them now. .  .
              the Spirit of  Truth will guide you into all truth . . .  (John 16: 12-15) 


Emily Dickinson     Tell all the truth but tell it slant -

                                 Tell all the truth but tell it slant —
                                 Success in Circuit lies
                                 Too bright for our infirm Delight
                                 The Truth’s superb surprise
                                 As Lightning to the Children eased
                                 With explanation kind
                                 The Truth must dazzle gradually
                                 Or every man be blind —


Douglas Witte, organist and music director, St. John’s Episcopal, Charlestown

 “The three section ‘Piece d’Orgue’ is Bach’s meditation on the idea of the Trinity. The first          section consists of a single voice executing a fleet series of three note figures. This represents God, three persons in one, and the non-stop nature of the section is omnipresence.”


Lyn G. Brakeman, priest and author

    Author, Book, Readers.

    The Author has a grand idea deep within;
    She muses upon it, ripens it, and writes it down in a Book;
    Readers read the book, digest it, and spread the idea, according to their own styles


The author dies, the book goes out of print, readers forget. The Idea lives on.

2016.08.05 A Pentecostal Family Weekend

I  just got home from a family weekend. The term alone—“family weekend”—conjures up about every reaction, from groaning dread to breathy hope. Such occasions are archetypal—fondest hopes and worst nightmares inextricably bound. Many hilarious movies have been made about THE family weekend.

Our family is normally abnormal: mom, stepfather ( already not the “real” thing”), 2 daughters, 2 sons, 2 daughters-in-law, one son-in law, five grandchildren, aged 16 to 2, a teenage friend, and four dogs.

Our family weekends used to be more frequent. We’d relapsed for good reasons, and now we were trying it again. It was  my idea. I’d thrown out the suggestion gingerly—the understanding mom to perfection. Waffling doesn’t get very far, so I persisted. “Does this mean a lot to you, Mom?” someone asked. “This means the world to me,” I said, for once omitting: “BUT I understand how busy you all are.”

We set our rules: a date in spring all of us could make, a place that would accommodate 15, no more than 4 hours away for any of us, with 5 bedrooms (not all bunk rooms) with bathrooms, a comfortable gathering space, functional kitchen, and affordable. My son researched and reported back his findings with online sites we all could inspect.

I had high hopes for this weekend. My mind was cautious. My heart had thrown caution to the winds and beyond.

Miracle #1: he found us a place in N.H. that met all our requirements + a working fireplace. Miracle #2: everyone weighed in favorably. Only one granddaughter couldn’t come, and we missed her.  Miracle #3 took more time: collecting the rent from everyone.  Miracle#4: grim, cold weather turned sunny on Saturday.

Miracle #5: The weekend was everything I’d hoped for, despite an infestation of ticks, several mice, a rustic ski lodge, OLD and used, full of holes, but clean and spacious, some loss of sleep the first night. I slept like a baby. The actual baby, at first, did not.
 
We laughed like crazy, loved each other like crazy, ate together, played rousing games, engaged in some quiet serious conversations as well as in raucous clowning, including an inflated golden crown for anyone who said anything silly or stupid. Here we are: The Glorious Frontenac Ski Lodge Gaggle, minus the bear, the ticks, and the mouse.

On the way home most of us texted back and forth, extending the humor and good feeling of the weekend. I wrote: “No ticks or mice can daunt love. AND it’s Pentecost/Holy Spirit Sunday. We felt some of her stuff.” A text flew back: “Church nerd?”  All of this was accompanied by many creative emoticons, including ones of ticks and mice.  

I guess we know each other well enough at last to appreciate, not just tolerate, individual quirks and differences. You laugh like crazy and come away crying. Family weekend are mixed blessings which are essential to your soul.

And yes, when the real world settles back in on everyone's shoulders, all of its pains and are still there. Still, we made a memory worth remembering. No one can take that away. 

P.S. On Monday morning Dick, known as Sim and Grampy Sim, was getting dressed when I spied a small black thing on the back of his right leg.  I yelped and told him to hold still, which he found hard to do, being "in a hurry." Sure enough, it was a TICK, a N.H. tick who had followed us home. How sweet. I plucked the tick off and she or he is not in sewer heaven. (Thank Godde we don't have a dog!)  We wept with laughter.