Palms To Ashes/Ashes To Palms, Lyn G. Brakeman, Spiritual Lemon, blog post, 4/2/2023

 

Who condemns whom for what? Why can we not settle something—once and for all? Laws may help or hinder, but they do not settle every conscience, every heart.  

 

On Palm Sunday, we Christians wave palms, shout Alleluia/Hosanna, and march about triumphantly singing hymns of joy and triumph. This Jesus is Messiah, and he will triumph. Yes, and…….. some of those palms, symbols of enormous hope, are soon burned to ashes, symbol for repentance of sin. 

Amendment #14 of the Constitution could be a palm or ashes.

The 14th Amendment, created to protect formerly enslaved people, was passed in 1868 and guarantees that “all persons born or naturalized in the United States … are citizens of the United States … and no State shall make or enforce any law which shall abridge the privileges or immunities of citizens of the United States.”

In 1973, writing for the majority opinion in Roe v. Wade, Justice Harry Blackmun said that a woman’s right to an abortion was implicit in the right to privacy protected—under the 14th amendment. Palms.

In the decision to overturn Roe v. Wade in 2022, Justice Samuel Alito wrote: “Guided by the history and tradition that map the essential components of the Nation’s concept of ordered liberty, the Court finds the 14th Amendment clearly does not protect the right to an abortion.”  Ashes.

Different decades, different interpretations. 

If, however, the ERA (Equal Rights Amendment) were included in the Constitution, there would be no doubt that discrimination on the basis of sex was illegal. 

The 14th Amendment was NEVER intended to protect women. So how can it be invoked in discussions about the ERA to justify a private decision, such as abortion, made by a woman, just because she is a woman, not because she has greater moral accountability than a father?  Will he be arrested too? Who makes the decision here—she, he, them, the unborn, or the government? 

*  * *  *

When life is at stake, I usually want the law to protect that life whenever possible. That includes animals. An unborn fetal life, even one as yet unformed, should be protected. However, in the case of abortion there are at least three lives involved—that of the mother, that of the father, and that of the unborn child—not to mention the whole dang family. There is no question in my mind that this is a very difficult—sacrificial—decision that cannot be made without great pain; nor is it a decision that can be made with perfect equity. That is why it must be personal—not mandated by law or church or state. This decision must remain free and left up to the only one whose whole life, not just her body, is most directly and immediately affected by the consequences. 

CASE: I once drove a young 16-year-old girl to the hospital where she would get an abortion. She had already formed dreams of being an attorney. Still, the most obvious, immediate, and dominant fact—one she knew for certain in this moment—was that she was neither willing nor equipped to birth and take care of a child. So her decision, though painful, was entirely her own discernment. It was not a matter of law. She does not regret her decision but continues to grieve the death of her unborn child, a son she intuited, named, and remembers often, many years later. The human heart remembers—always.  Palms and Ashes. 

What the mind must legislate, the heart must mourn.  

In Greek tragedies there is alway a tragic flaw, usually in the main character. The flaw here is in the system not its players. The flaw is allowed by God, the Creator of all life, who relinquished control in favor of a greater gift, that of freedom. All freely chosen decisions are therefore spiritual, that is, made with consideration given to every aspect of this life decision—not just the rule of law or commandment but the total wellbeing of all parties involved in the outcome.  

If this seems impossibly difficult, it is. There is no divine gift more difficult to live out than freedom, also no gift as highly valued. This is why divine mercy is built into creation alongside freedom from the beginning. What is the first thing the humans do in the mythic story of Eden? Right. They do the one thing they are told will bear them ill consequences. They choose freedom. We often do this too—take a chance and bear the consequences. The balance of freedom and love, the interlocking of good and evil, make an abortion decision unbearably, unmanageably, tragic. (The root of the word tragic is from tragos or goat.) 

Such a decision is spiritual—not driven by law, rule, or even sacred oath but arising from the depth dimension—that place some call Soul, and I call the depth dimension. God, I am sure by prayer, is present within this process at every step, allowing our freedom to be free even through agony or error, and even if a decision proves fatal to self or other. 

CASE: I was working as a pastoral psychotherapist. A colleague where I worked came to see me to talk about an abortion she had many years ago. I listened and she told me she had pretty much forgiven herself, but she was fretting because she had never named this child she’d intuited as a son. This bothered her to tears. I had no idea exactly what would console her. Then I remembered I was a priest, so I asked her if she would like her son to be baptized and named. She brightened. We got a bowl of warmed water from the kitchen. I consecrated (blessed) the water. She held an invisible infant while I poured water, mingled with her warm tears (some of mine too) over her opened hands and we said the words of Holy Baptism, using the name she chose.    Ashes to Palms. 

Life In Death In Life—Stories, Lyn G. Brakeman, Spiritual Lemons, blog post, 3/26/23

There’s a story in John’s gospel (8:3) about life-choices.The locals complained to Jesus about a woman who was caught in adultery. For this she should be condemned and stoned to death. [NOTE: The Inclusive Bible translation is: “A couple had been caught in the act of adultery, but the accusers only brought the woman.” This contemporary translation completely, and rightly, changes the slant of this story. ]  

Still, according to traditional translations used in most worship settings, we hear about the offender being female. Biblical stories are hefty, whether people take them literally or as symbolic stories. Think of favorite children’s story books. I bet they still tell you something about your personality, your soul, life’s big issues, about sins and graces. 

Sexuality is one such issue in the news daily, although sex is usually private. How did this adulterous woman get caught? You might think that the cunning politicians of Jesus’s day brought this case before him to trap him: Did he know the sin/sex-rules or not? Jesus, no fool, stooped to scribble something in the sand, such as “So where’s the guy?”  We don’t know so we wait. Jesus bought himself time to think before he offered the divine teaching/verdict, which is what these accusers wanted. He then stood to address the crowd: “Let the person among you who is without sin throw the first stone.”  Stoning, then and now in some places, was the prescribed punishment for such a sin.    

Silence fell. 

No stones were hurled.  

“Has no one condemned you?” Jesus asked the woman, who said, “No one, Teacher.” 

 “Neither do I condemn you,” Jesus said, sending her off with a warning not to sin further—not the couple, just the woman, mind you. 

This story speaks volumes about the breadth and depth of divine grace, no matter what our sins. It also speaks volumes about human vulnerability, spiritual naiveté, and ignorance about God’s love under all circumstances. 

Is it a Resurrection story?   

*  *  * *

Jesus went on his way to preach and to heal. Before long he encountered the sisters of his best friend, Lazarus. They were angry because Jesus wasn’t there when Lazarus fell ill and died. To them, Jesus could have prevented the death. A moving scene then played out in which Jesus openly wept over his friend’s death.  

Much has been made of this open expression of emotion. It tells me that we human beings have strong and, even holy, feelings, even when we simultaneously have faith that God’s grace is also always present. Jesus’ tears remind me that Jesus was fully human. Did he weep over Lazarus’s death or because he wasn’t there when the sisters needed him? I don’t know. The story tells us that Jesus went to the tomb of Lazarus and called the dead Lazarus to come forth from the tomb. Lazarus is raised from the dead.

I am far less impressed by this miracle than I am by the tears of Jesus.  

The Lazarus story, however, is a crucial building block in the Christian story. It’s a springboard for theological statements about Resurrection—not as doctrine but as experience as viable as Jesus’ tears. Resurrection stories abound, and all of them create emotional intelligence that is missing in doctrinal interpretations. 

Today, I saw the first Robin redbreast strutting about on the dry un-flowered earth. Resurrection.

Today, I got a message that an old friend had suddenly died. I felt tears well up, then remembered this friend’s robust humor—her regaling clergy at a somber clergy conference with a joke about a poor guy with a highly communicable disease who had to be isolated/quarantined and fed a strict diet of flounder only. Q: Why flounder? A: It’s the only thing flat enough to fit under the door of your room. In itself, this  joke is only mildly worthy of a grin, but when this friend told it, her laughter was robust and contagious. It filled the air with sudden joy as we all fell into peels of laughter. Resurrection.  

Today, I heard from a friend in a nursing home who is a steadfast atheist. She called to tell me that she was no longer an atheist. “I’ve moved to agnostic!” We laughed together. Resurrection. 

If our Constitution were amended to include the Equal Rights Amendment (ERA)?  Resurrection. 

So let’s get out there, each with our own abilities, gifts, and personalities, and let’s resurrect, revivify whoever, wherever, however. 

RESURRECTION IS  NOW. 

2023.03.19 Blindness Of One and Of Many, Lyn G. Brakeman, Spiritual Lemons, blog post

 

I never forget journalist Betty Friedan, the woman who in 1963, the year my oldest daughter was born, published her first book The Feminine Mystique. It begins:  "The problem lay buried, unspoken, for many years in the minds of American women. It was a strange stirring, a sense of dissatisfaction, a yearning that women suffered in the middle of the 20th century in the United States. Each suburban wife struggled with it alone. As she made the beds, shopped for groceries, matched slipcover material, ate peanut butter sandwiches with her children, chauffeured Cub Scouts and Brownies, lay beside her husband at night — she was afraid to ask even of herself the silent question — 'Is this all?'" 

That question sparked a second wave of feminism in the United States, after the first one led by Suffragettes in the early 20th century under the banner “Votes for Women” brought the painful truth of political lop-sidedness into American life.  Is that all?  Of course not. Friedan’s book would permanently transform the American social fabric and inaugurate a pioneering moment in American history as one of the most influential nonfiction books of the 20th century. For me, I wanted my own self-honesty and freedom, and I wanted to stay close to my children and theirs—at once.  

*  *  *  *

I’m in the 21st century now, and with conversations much has healed in my family, and I still have blind spots. I wonder why God is still clad in masculine gender. Is this all? 

What about larger questions? What about all our warrior language about peace? Do we make war for peace? Do we “battle” cancer? Do we call domestic violence, abuse? Do we “hate” or “demonize” or “fear” people in a political party not our own? Is this all?

Just today an anonymous person delivered a package we had ordered to our door. It meant we didn’t have to travel down to the first floor to get it. It was toothpaste! We laughed. Such a small gesture felt so silly and small and wonderful. This is all. 

May we be courageous enough to be open-minded not single-minded. More dependent than independent?

Jesus and a Samaritan woman, as well as Jesus and a man born blind, had conversations that changed both of them, both perspectives, and left both to ponder. Me too.  Is this all?  YES. 

Patiently Impatient? Lyn G. Brakeman, Spiritual Lemons, 2023.03.12

Some years back my priest-spouse, Dick Simeone, and I performed a dialogue homily using a script I’d written about a midrashic (interpretative) conversation between Jesus and a Woman from Samaria (John 4). In our drama, these two protagonists meet at the well to which she is coming to draw water, and Jesus, an inimical intruder on her territory, shows up and rudely demands that she give him a drink from her well. She refuses, thinking him arrogant. He confronts her with a few rude questions about her sexual behavior, her bad rep. What business is that of his? Hmph. 

The gospel writer, John, goes on to proclaim that Jesus forgives her, gives her “magic” water, and preaches about eternal life. In our dramatization, however, the woman stands her ground; Jesus sasses back but he listens; and we all wonder who converts whom in the story? Is this a story about her bad rep (sin) or her bad rap (sexism)?  Is it about the cultural/religious enmity between Samaritans and Jews? Is it about the humanity of Jesus? Or is it about ancient feminism emergent?  

Familiar, right? What’s a woman to do? What’s a Jew to do? What’s an immigrant to do? What’s a man on a sacred mission to do? How do we heal our tug-of-war politics in church and state? How do we reconcile one with another? Perhaps we have to let go of “winning” or being “right.” “Shaming” or being “wrong.” What?

*  *  *  *

Talk. Get honest. Allow what we think with our minds, what we feel in our hearts, and what we do with our bodies to align—yes align. 

Such honesty is reached through the doorway of grief and loss. We get vulnerable about our fears and our own dishonesties, failures, dreams, truths we do not want to hear, unhealed wounds and memories. “We” means all of us in this drama called Life, with whatever biases we hold, according to whatever religion, culture, or nation we hallow, and through whatever prayers we pray.  

*  *  *  *

I remember a very anxious young client to whom, after much back-and-forth/dead-end counseling, I said: “In your vulnerability is your power.” She hopped up, ran out and slammed the door. I never saw her again. Later I heard she got a job. 

What about my own frustrated passion to liberate gender from the gender harness?  I keep talking about it. I read wise books. I “zoom” with women friends. I blog. I make friends. I talk with my spouse. I tell God to soften hearts hardened by fear. I know it’s not all my fault or my responsibility. I also know it matters. I feel impatient. I keep on writing. Then I remember biblical heroes like Jesus and the Samaritan woman who kept on being patiently impatient.  

2023.03.05 Dirge With Hope, Lyn G. Brakeman, Spiritual Lemons, blog post

As one whose years are ebbing, I’m grateful that I do NOT have to huddle and fold up, wintry in soul, even though I could receive, if I wished, receive daily ashes to remind me to be humble daily. Soul does not age. Soul simply unfolds. And the dusty path stretches on before me. 

I know people who are struggling to let go of life. It is a life-long natural inclination to grasp for life always. Consider the tiny flowers that manage to grow up against all odds between the concrete seams in a sidewalk or path. I too can be born again and again. 

I pray that God, as Burns suggests, will “assist me to resign” when it is time for me to relinquish this life I have known and still cling to. I will resist. I will weep. I will pray.  I will hug and cling. And I will trust,  just like the birds who awaken me each day as they start their song in the darkness before the sun rises.

WINTER DIRGE   by Robert Burns    

The wintry west extends his blast,
And hail and rain does blaw;
Or, the stormy north sends driving forth
The blinding sleet and snaw:
While tumbling brown, the burn comes down,
And roars frae bank to brae;
And bird and beast in covert rest,
And pass the heartless day.

The sweeping blast, the sky o’ercast,
The joyless winter-day,
Let others fear, to me more dear
Than all the pride of May:
The tempest’s howl, it soothes my soul,
My griefs it seems to join;
The leafless trees my fancy please,
Their fate resembles mine!

Thou Pow’r Supreme, whose mighty scheme
These woes of mine fulfil,
Here, firm, I rest, they must be best,
Because they are Thy will!
Then all I want (O, do Thou grant
This one request of mine!)
Since to enjoy Thou dost deny,

Assist me to resign.    

2023.02.26 Ashen Days/Dusty Path, Lyn G. Brakeman, Spiritual Lemons, blog post

 

Remember that you are dust and to dust you shall return. 

The repeated refrain on Ash Wednesday echoes in my mind. Is it just this one day called Ash, or is it all of Lent, or is there something more universally true about this dusty theme? Is the spiritual life one long unpaved path—straight, curved, twisted, hilly, full of distractions, temptations—tedious and irresistible? What keeps us on this path and why? 

People stream forward up the aisle and stand or kneel before a priest whose thumb, dampened with blessed healing oils presses into a small bowl of black ashes that stick. Over and over the priest smears the black ashes onto each upturned forehead, making the sign of the cross and saying: Remember that you are dust and to dust you shall return. 

This ritual kicks off the season of Lent, and shapes the whole season, one of reflection self-examination, grace and grit all the way to its climactic tragedy of Good Friday. Gloomy to say the least.    

Why is this ritual so popular?  You’d think it would fearful, depressing, overwhelming. Who wants to be reminded of their mortality? Many apparently do. 

When I worked as a chaplain in hospitals, staff would seek me out to get their ashes. Just the one phrase with the smearing and they hurried off to finish their day. Patients as well often requested ashes. I knew there were some who weren’t even Christian, including former Roman Catholics and young agnostics who had left the institutional church long ago, constrained by its rules and its gloom, not to mention their resistance to “organized” religion. Name me something that isn’t organized? Yoga, the spirit-calming practice, is very organized!  

Once the ashes I smeared floated down onto a recipient’s nose. She laughed. So did I. No point in being overly solemn or pious, as if we actually knew exactly what we were doing.  While working as chaplain in an alcohol/drug rehabilitation hospital I added a phrase to the traditional line: Remember that you are dust and to dust you shall return. And God by grace will restore you to fullness of life. It was cheap grace, arrogant idolatry, and playing at God, I know, but some of these people were so beaten down by disease. And I had difficulty leaving them in ashes.

I left my own ashes on all day long—profoundly convinced that Ash Wednesday is the most true and honest day of the Christian year. 

-There is not a single soul who doesn’t mess up, clean up, mess up again, and clean up again. 

-No one does anything without two motives, one truly altruistic and generous, the other secretly self-serving. 

-God does not lead anyone into temptation. We do! Then we pray for help from God and others to get back on track, to save us from ourselves. God is far more generous than we are.  

*  *  *  * 

Do you know that our bodies can actually be composted, turned into rich, fertile soil, in which new green life grows? Tis true. Far less costly to the environment than cremation. Now there’s a new beginning!    

2022.02.19 Transfigured? Lyn G. Brakeman, Spiritual Lemons, blog post

I am attracted to words, and today to  words that begin with with the prefix trans. Trans means across.  Transfigure means to move across, as the sun moves across the sky, crossing over the earth and thereby causing the earth’s light to shine. As its light passes it changes, transforms, enhances, illuminates, enlightens the whole landscape. This process is a transfiguration. I ponder trans word, transmogrify, which adds an almost magical dimension to my trans word games ie. a cucumber becomes a pickle. 

All those who witness trans movements feel changed in the moment.

There is a moment we Christians call THE Transfiguration, a time when Jesus chose the big three disciples (Peter, James, John) to accompany him up to the mountain called Tabor as he prayed. (NOTE: Israel is hilly, full of mounts, hillocks, rises, but not huge mountains like The Rockies or Giant Mountain in the Adirondacks in NY)

Imagine that you are one of those chosen disciples. You’re pretty exhausted as you trudge and climb, but you follow, imagining that something may actually come of this futile climb. You have not been forced to come on this journey, but you come—because Jesus invited you. I’d follow out of curiosity and my pride at being a confidante of Jesus whose light I would soon see for real and feel inside myself, for myself. The other two said they also saw Moses and Elijah in that light, but you didn’t, and Jesus seemed to be clueless about it. He just hustled you all down the mountain and continued with the ministry of listening love for all in need. 

Would you follow the light you saw? I would dash home and write all about it as if it might vanish or be forgotten. Would you wonder what it meant? I would. I would never forget it whether I understood it or not, yet I would remember that it all had something to do with prayer. Others in time wrote it all up, and still others would build a lovely Christian Church at the top of Tabor for future pray-ers, because prayer is what connects us all to one another and to God. See?

Mountainous transfiguring grandeur alone is enough to sweep you up, out of your fears, out of your doldrums, for just a minute or ten? You can experience it spiritually without climbing, and even without a mountain. 

Some mornings I gaze at the usual daily scenery outside my bedroom window: lines of tall trees, clipped golfing greens in the background and a few cars grounded in the parking lot. And then I see movement. Birds of course as usual. But this day there are many birds, not swarming but gathering. I count eight. They perch all at once, close and separate, on different branches atop the highest trees. They sit completely still—immobilized. I sit still—posed, paralyzed. I do not reach for binoculars. I just stare. Suddenly, without sound or any detectable warning signal, the birds all take flight at once—in unison, off and gone, vanishing into the sky for the day. I have just witnessed the morning meeting of the birds.  

Why, in that moment, did I not grab for the binoculars? Why did I delay my own purposive daily routine? Why didn’t I even glance at my schedule, check for appointments, make phone calls, bustle about as I usually do?

I saw something slightly different from what I expected. I felt internally transfigured, transfixed. I had no thoughts at all, which tells me that my mind was blanked, halted, yanked away from its thrumming drumbeat of a task: managing my life’s agenda in time and space. And I was conscious. Don’t tell me trance, dissociative shock, fixation or day-dreaming absent-mindedness. Don’t even tell me it was definitely God. 

No. I have no idea what happened to me. None. I just know it was a trans moment, inexplicably mystical and quotidian at once.