2022.11.13 What? Lyn G. Brakeman, Spiritual Lemons, blog post

Be patient and do nothing extraordinary. Oh sure! I’m not that type, but thanks for the advice anyway. I’ll keep on trying till I bust, even when it seems as if I’m failing and flawed.

I have to admit this futility is some of what I have felt lately about our world, our country, our planet. I even stopped watching the news. I prayed and read the Bible over and over until everything looked the same to me, except the Psalms, well known for heart-rending laments. Mostly, I’ve felt dry and dull and edgy. 

I was reading a sentence in some book: “No one knew and no one knows.” I kept reading it over and over. Unexpectedly I suddenly felt real fear—real fear like a stab of lightning in my gut. What if this country stops being my home? What if the whole Earth just dies? I thought these thoughts were irrational, but there was nothing irrational about the knot of terror in my gut.

*  *  *  *

Then came Election Day, 2022. I went to bed without waiting up to see at least the first results. Strangely, I slept. 

Not until the evening did I listen to some news. Shocking! The American people went to the polls in record numbers. There was no youthful apathy. They voted. There was no violence. No one got shot. Political predictions of doom did not come true. Yes, the outcomes were according to my own hopes and party, but that wasn’t the point, just as winning is not always the point of a well run race. The point is that something very big had happened: WE happened. 

The American people, we the people, actually voted for our lives together and for our democracy. No one knew and no one knows exactly how or why this happened, despite many theories, stats, and pundits. And no one can predict the future, though many will try anyway.

Jonathan Capehart, PBS News Hour commentator, said “The American people proved they can walk and chew gum at the same time.”  The electorate chose Democracy, period. This could be the emergence of an anti-authoritarian move—proof that we actually know how to get things done without violence or noisy political bullying. 

My gut fear has been replaced by gratitude without reservation for being American.

Jesus told his panicky followers during apocalyptic times: Sit tight. Do nothing extreme. Trust the process. “By patient endurance you will save your lives.” (Luke 20:19) 

What Kind of World? Lyn G. Brakeman, Spiritual Lemons, blog post, 11/6/22

      

People the world over are anticipating a new something. Change is happening. Change must happen. As Sister Joan Chittister declares in her new book Awakening. Prophetic Reflections:  “In the face of every obstacle, I heard the call of God to wake up, to speak out, to leave some melodies behind. Then, perhaps others could sing new songs of the truth within them, too, so that generations to come might also wake up.

IF WE AWAKEN. NOW.”  

What kind of a world do I want?

I want a world that places less emphasis on mastery and more on participatory cooperation. My world would be/have:

-less denominational, more relational 

-less Christian, more Christ-like

-less partisan, more hospitable 

-less preaching, more dialogue

-less assumptions, more asking

-less knowledge, more education

-less reactivity, more communion

-less national, more cosmic

-less denial, more risk

-less hoarding, more sacrifice

-less weeding, more planting

-less mouth, more ear

-less labeling, more accepting

-less hunt, more gather

-less hate, more compassion

-less abortion, more compassion

-less cursing, more blessing

-less sentimentality, more emotional intelligence

-less fear, more gratitude

-less judgment, more prayer

-less despair, more hope

One image for my “world” is a Sycamore Tree—arms of branches embrace, accommodate this planet and ALL inhabitants.

What would I sacrifice for this awakened world? 

-My deep affection for Jesus as I see him in prayer and the Bible? Jesus, however, was only one of several great mediators between Creator and created— not the one and only. Jesus’s uniqueness I’d sacrifice.

-My own life?  I would risk my life for my closest family, undergo organ donation surgery, for example. But I wouldn’t jump out in front of an oncoming bus, just to prove my love. I’m not suicidal. Nor am I the martyr type. 

-Prayer?—not saying prayers but being prayer. I found this connection in early childhood through a book and my mother’s story.  It’s probably not unique to me, nor is it magical, mystical, or particularly religious. It is my fuel—ongoing, intimate, introverted, conversational, inaudible, some of it 911 stuff but mostly more like daily “bread”. 

What if I were unconscious, demented, a “vegetable” as they say? Then God would pray. 

What if 911 doesn’t answer? If I don’t get the outcomes I pray for, you mean? That’s the case, more often than not, and that’s not the point of prayer. I’d cry and rage to God, anyway, but not put God on trial. I’m spiritual, not irrational; nor am I God. 

Occasionally, this listening presence of a deity pipes up with some startlingly new idea, like, what the hell are you doing?  I listen.  

So no, I wouldn’t sacrifice prayer for the sake of a better world. Not because it “works,” nor because it’s spiritually powerful, nor because it’s what the Church does, nor even because I’m so good, or so bad. Prayer is not something I could give up, because it’s not mine alone to give. 

  

2022.10.30 New Eyes. Lyn G. Brakeman, Spiritual Lemons, blog post

The little story-snapshot in Luke’s gospel (19:1-10) reveals a lot about every age, specifically: What is revealed when we really look each other in the eye without averting. I’m not talking about staring, but simply catching the eye and meeting the heart.

*  * *  *

As the story goes, Zacchaeus, a wealthy tax collector, has heard about Jesus, this strange Teacher with a new vision. Zacchaeus is intensely curious. The story does NOT tell us why or what Zacchaeus is thinking, but as Jesus approaches Jericho, Zacchaeus climbs a Sycamore tree so he can see. (If you’ve ever seen a Sycamore, you know it can be a vast magnificent array of thick spreading branches— itself a symbol of reaching out to shelter and house each other.) 

Jesus, surrounded by eager followers, is headed for Jerusalem to confront authorities with his gospel of Love and social equity. In Israel one walks up hill to Jerusalem. Paths are rocky and the terrain rough. We’re not talking autobahn here. Jesus’s eyes would have been trained on his steps—looking down.

As the story goes, Zacchaeus looks down, and suddenly, without explanation, Jesus looks up. Their eyes meet—a powerful moment if you’ve ever experienced such a connection. From Jesus we, and they, expect a lecture about the needs of the poor, but NO. Jesus says: “Zacchaeus, hurry up and come down. I will be staying at your house today.”  Zacchaeus, stunned and “delighted” hops eagerly down from his hiding place. The crowds grumble about Jesus’s stupidity—staying at the house of such an obvious sinner, no less! But this is already a mutually transformative moment—a true meeting of the gaze. We know something good will come.  

                                        THE END. 

Luke, however, intent on persuading Gentile followers that Jesus is messiah, cannot resist adding his own coda: Zacchaeus, at this unexpected close-up encounter with Jesus, instantaneously, decides to give half of his great wealth away to the poor. 

Good for Zack, but really! 

Good for any zealous self-righteous preacher, but really! 

And good for Jesus for seeing something more than greed and hoard in those eyes. 

                                       FINALE

Try singing this verse by Michael Hudson in Songs for the Cycle. Fresh Hymn Texts, to the traditional tune for the Doxology.

One face looked up and one looked down,

and each saw in the other’s eye

both window for the grace of God

and reason not to pass it by.

2022.10.23 Naked Humility, Lyn G. Brakeman, Spiritual Lemons, blog post

I’m spiritual, not stupid.  

You know this story in the Bible (New Testament Luke 18) about these two guys in the same holy Temple—both praying. One’s a Pharisee, respected religious leader of his day. The other’s an unpopular tax collector. Already we’re into stereotypes. It’s a set up. 

Then we listen in on each one’s prayers. The Pharisee thanks God that he is so holy and rich and lofty and so much better than the other scum of a guy. The other just asks for God’s mercy to forgive him all his sins. Now which guy do you think gets points for humility? Right, the sobbing sinner.  What think you?

Well, it’s in the HOLY BIBLE, you whine. So yes, we take it seriously—but not stupidly. 

Both of these praying men tell God exactly how they feel. Both of them tell the truth, the inmost truth. Neither lies. I’m grateful for all my wealth and hard work and disgusted at this other poor slob who is crying for mercy all the time, says the Pharisee. I’m scared and worried all the time that I’m unworthy, worthless, and unpopular. No one likes me, even God, says the tax collector.  

Both prayers are emotionally honest. And both are humble if that means simply telling yourself and God exactly what’s on your mind—your truth, your truth right now. That’s not easy to do. Prayer is come-as-you-are. To stand naked of soul before God is humble, even if what you say gets condemned by yourself or others, and you decide that such condemnation is of God. It’s not. Judgments, positive or negative, imposed from without, even those put into the mouth of Jesus, as Luke does for his own purposes here, cause us to feel either superior or inferior. That’s not God’s assessment. It’s ours. Simply so.

Be spiritual, not stupid. 

Neither beg nor brag, just be. 

Stand naked of soul before God. 

2022.10.16 Importunity

Sometime you just need to give something, or someone, or yourself a kick in the butt—or a knock on the knuckles.

During my young and naive years, that is, before I hit the midlife skids, I’d sit in church pews, listen to the gospel parable called,“The Unjust Judge and the Importunate Widow (Lk.18) and think that “importunate” meant important. I’d wonder how a widow got to be so important—enough to change a high court judge’s decisions about who should be awarded damages and whom be denied. This judge was godless and corrupt—not motivated by justice at all. Still, a mere widow turned his head? She had to be a little important—even to him. 

After I found out that the word importunate means persistent to the point of annoyance and is derived from the Latin importunus meaning inconvenient or unseasonable, I still thought to myself: But a widow? Really, of all the weak sisters to choose as the star of a parable. But then Luke was probably encouraging the Gentiles to engage in importunity to get into the emergent early Christian church.   

I still wonder about widows. I often think about how much I do not want to become a widow—or any variation thereof. I have some female friends who are widows, one twice widowed, one divorced, remarried, then widowed, one too young and alive to be a widow, and one an aspiring widow. They are all lovely, loving, and wiser than ever.  In Scriptures, widows are plentiful and to be pitied, first on the list for charitable giving. The Indo-European root meaning of widow is be empty. Still, God loves them. 

I learned how to be importunate, thanks in part to this little widow and her unjust judge. Such nagging, near-bullying behavior, entered my behavioral repertoire as I was bounced about among a few bishops and committees just trying to be ordained in the Episcopal Church at a time when it was being beset by women—yes, some widows among them. Like the widow in the parable, women wanted justice. The fuel behind my importunity was anger—very far from self-righteous anger, because I knew my own sins and failings, but anger at feeling shut out. I’ve never like slammed doors, and feelings of shame, and fury boiling inside. The Episcopal Church turned out to be pretty lithe for an institution. It changed for justice's sake. 

Every story has transformative power, usually many layers of it, if you read it carefully, then let its many layers of meaning sink deeply into and under your own skin. Every story has its own brand of importunity. 

This biblical story ends with the punch line: “I tell you God will give them swift justice.”  

Still, I do not want to be a widow.   

The Road Called Creation, Lyn G. Brakeman, Spiritual Lemons, blog post, 10/09/22

Creation is not a hurdle on the road to God; it is the road itself. 

I quote from  The Writings of Martin Buber, a Jewish mystic and scholar, Austria-Hungarian and Israeli philosopher. He’s famous for constructing a relational spirituality called “I-Thou”.  His book on this idea was translated from German to English in 1937.

When in seminary in the 1980s I first read Buber. As I read I felt a great surge of sheer aliveness rise up from within me like a giant blush. As a student of language I know that the pronoun “YOU” has two forms, one more formal to use with someone you don’t know very well or are just meeting, the other for your own beloved, a good friend, a family member, or, dare I say, God.  

In Spanish usted is you-formal and tu is you-informal; in French it’s vous and toi. I was surprised when I lived for a while with a family in Spain and heard in their family prayers the “Hail Mary” (many more times than I thought necessary) using the familiar pronoun for the BVM. 

“Blessed art thou among women” was “Bendita tu eres entre todas las mujeres.”  Notice that the English pronoun in the Hail Mary is also THOU, Blessed are thou among women.” AND in the traditional “Our Father” —Hallowed be THY name, THY kingdom come, THY will be done.  I sometimes think all our pronoun problems would be solved if we just went back to using thee and thou and and thine.  And would that in fact, and in spite of contemporary usage of YOU and YOUR, be more honest to our gospel of divine Love?

Which brings me back to Buber and his ethic of I-Thou relationships. Essentially, that means that each individual being regards every other being as worthy of the same respect each accords the other. You see how tangled up in pronouns I get, but you get the idea. Buber advocates I-Thou as a model for effective mutual dialogue. Often relations become monologues, which Buber calls I-It relationships—deaf self-talk. Otherwise, supposed conversation become monologues—deaf.

So do we dare consider such intimacy with God? Most would say NOT. But I wonder if God alone is bold enough to shed his almighty power in favor of  I-Thou  relations with all Creation?  

The parable Jesus tells in Luke’s gospel tells us about his healing TEN lepers who all go leaping away in joy, free of ugly sores and disease. ONE leper returns to thank Jesus for this healing. Jesus asks: Where are all the others? Were they not healed as well?  (Luke adds to the story that the one who returned with gratitude was a Samaritan, that is, a foreigner, a reject, a gentile—enemy of the Jewish majority Jesus addresses.) 

Please note that Jesus praises the grateful one, does NOT condemn all the others, AND proclaims that the reign of God is already in our midst. THIS DOES NOT MEAN HIMSELF, (Christians, take note) BUT RATHER THE JOY OF HEALING ITSELF AS WELL AS THE GRATITUDE FOR IT. 

This story teaches us all to be I-Thou with ALL today’s “lepers”—those we secretly imagine and secretly fear, to be the “It” to our “I”?   

Who on this road of Creation would you avoid?—a Republican? a Democrat? a Muslim? an anti-vaxxer? an Evangelical? an immigrant? a Queer or Trans? a trillionaire/fat cat? a criminal? a feminist? a schizophrenic? a Jew? an addict? a Pope? a demented one? a dirty street urchin? a beggar?  or, God forbid, someone whom you cannot call THOU? 

2022.10.02 Mercy By The Sea, Lyn G. Brakeman, Spiritual Lemons, blog post

Last Sunday my beloved spouse and I attended the 50th Mercy celebration of the retreat and conference center, Mercy by the Sea—a place where we both had experienced the grace of divinity and humanity in long hours of retreat silence and solitude in a contemplative setting—merciful to body and soul, inside and outside. We had not been there for retreat in some twenty years. It was a long, tiring day, and worth the renewal.  

It was lovely and quite wonderful for me to roam the bounds of this cherished place, heart of my spirituality and place of my deepest self-knowing and God-knowing. After fears of financial ruin, Mercy by its small portion of seashore lives!!  I belong there, not as a nun but as a one-time wannabe nun turned Episcopal priest and Mercy Associate. Somehow the enormous grandeur of the Weeping Beech Tree overlooking the entrance to Mercy Center will always be to me an icon of Creative Divine Mercy.

How Divine Mercy Recently Whupped Me Upside The Heart!

An odd little healing story from my own life helps me find deep Mercy within a small sliver of realized connection.  

My mother suffered a great loss at age twelve when her Jewish father died. She grieved but never told me and my sisters about their Jewish grandfather, save to say how much she adored him, and that he loved music and worked in New York City as an Impresario who imported European musical talent to the United States. We learned of her secret from a cousin. The knowledge was, frankly, thrilling, but my mother couldn’t share this because she was dead.

Given the social contexts and cultures in which Mom grew up, as well as her aspirations to marry into a wasp-ish family, and live in Darien, Connecticut, it is understandable that she hid her Jewish identity. The consequence of her hiddenness tailored her extraverted personality to be bright and happy on the outside and vulnerable and pained on the inside. As her oldest daughter, I received extravagant praise while I longed for her warm heart. The inner cool of her secret made her unable to hug, hold close, and nurture with open-hearted warmth. Her own heart I suppose needed inordinate attention. My sisters felt this distance as well. The grandchildren loved her fun-loving cheer and the attention she lavished on them all, especially the girls. 

All my life I have searched for that warmth in myself and in other relationships while also grieving my mother’s distance. Recently, I saw a television special on Stephen Spielberg in which his story revealed that many, many Jewish musicians, created and gave yiddish chutzpah to the Broadway Musical genre. Think Irving Berlin, Leonard Bernstein, Stephen Spielberg, Stephen Sondheim, George Gershwin, Rodgers and Hammerstein, Jerome Kern, and more. Who will ever forget the yiddish flavor of Tevya singing the song “Tradition” and the mournful plaintive tones of the fiddle in“Fiddler on the Roof”?  

Mom pushed Broadway musicals and had a profound affection for Broadway. In college I fell in love with classical music, some of which my grandfather brought to America from Europe. Both of us, I think, paid tribute to our Jewish roots and to Mom’s father, Avon Franklin Adams, who, as a young boy, emigrated from Prussia to America with his father Adolph Adams and his Polish Roman Catholic mother, Marie Kaleski. A curious second cousin and I researched and actually found Adolph’s gravesite in a cemetery near Boston, Massachusetts, as well as the marriage certificate of my mother’s mother, Marguerite Hall of Medford, Massachusetts, married to Avon Franklin Adams in an obscure chapel in NYC. All hidden yet all blossoming through music. 

It occurred to me recently, in the way sudden flashes of intuitional insight happen, that my mother found her father’s love of music and his Jewish soul in these musicals. No wonder my mother was so attached to the. Every time she went to a show she heard her father and her own Jewish soul call out. 

No one, of course, can prove the factual truth of an intuitive insight yet everyone can experience the joy and the healing mercy that accompanies an awakening.  Aha!