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lenten journal: daylight saving time

Milton Brasher-Cunningham
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0

When I was youth minister at University Baptist Church in Fort Worth, Texas many years ago, I started thinking about Youth Camp around this time of year, beginning to work on a theme for the week and to recruit adults who wanted to go hang out with the kids for a week. I loved going to camp. Still do. One year, some of the kids said the hardest thing about the week was having to get up so early. They wished we could flip the schedule around so that we were up all night and slept all day. So we did – at least figuratively. We reset all the clocks in the camp and rewrote the schedule so that breakfast was served around noon, according to the schedule, and the day went on from there. In actuality, things happened in the same part of the day as they always had, but we just decided what time it was. After a day or two, we believed the schedule we had created was true and we had a great week, until I got home and couldn’t figure out what time it was.

I think about that week most every year on this night because “springing forward” into Daylight Saving Time is basically doing what we did at camp on a national scale: we just decide what time we want it to be and go from there. Tomorrow the sun will go down an hour later than it did today not because the sun did anything different, but because we decided to make it an hour later. I heard parts of an interview on NPR with Howard Mansfield who has written a book called Turn and Jump: How Time & Place Fell Apart and thinks Daylight Saving Time undermines our understanding of time:

Daylight Saving Time is like sitting in a room and listening to that gap between the two clocks go. We’ve all agreed. We’ve all accepted the clock is the truth. We always just want to get on with our day. And all of sudden we’re changing it back and forward. And it’s like saying the inch is going to be one length in winter and the inch will be another length in the summer. So wait a minute. So now we’re forced back to say, well, what is time? What is really time? And we don’t know. And it’s just as if we – OK – we all agreed that this is what 6 o’clock looks like and then we change that. It’s unsettling.

Now I hear Chicago singing in my head,

does anybody really know what time it is
does anybody really care

What Mansfield went on to say was we are at a loss because time has become disconnected from place. People used to know it was noon because the sun was overhead. Now, we don’t even walk to the window. We just look at our clocks or watches or smart phones. The clocks keep time and time holds us hostage.

One of the things I remember about growing up in Africa is how differently the people there thought about time. Take church, for instance. In most every church I’ve been a part of in America, worship is on the clock. If we go over an hour (or whatever the designated length is supposed to be), then we’ve shattered the sacred schedule. I remember one Sunday in high school when my father took some time at the end of the service to honor one of our youth sports teams. It was after twelve o’clock and people were restless. They were losing their place wherever they had planned to go for lunch. They were missing the first quarter of the football game. Dad recognized their disquietude and said, “Quit looking at your watches. Ten years from now you won’t remember what time we got out of church today but these kids will remember we took time to say we were proud of them.”

The people got quiet, but I don’t think he convinced them to change their perspective.

In the African churches, the service started when we all got there and it finished when, well, we were finished. The point was not to keep time, or even tell time, but to spend it. Together. If we sang for an hour while the crowd gathered, what mattered most was the singing and the gathering, not the ticking of the clock.

We do our best work with time in the church when we think in spans of time rather than in seconds. This season of Lent is a good example of finding the time that matters. We mark time by the events in Jesus’ life, by the places in scripture where he walked and talked and healed, and then we make of it a season, a time of year where we can expect thin places to encounter the Spirit much like we expect the blossoms on the fruit trees that are harbingers of harvest. Maybe we should give up clocks for Lent.

One of my favorite time phrases in the gospels speaks of Jesus’ birth and says he was born “when the days were accomplished,” which is a wonderful and poetic way to say when the moment was ripe. In these days, when a woman is pregnant beyond her “due date” (according to the calendar), we think the baby is late, as though the kid missed his or her birthday instead of seeing things happening all in good time.

Daylight Saving Time would make a good band name, but the true time of our lives is not marked in minutes or saved by daylight. Renaming the hours will not help the days accomplish anything. The apostle Paul talked about “redeeming the time” and making the most of our days. In that light, Lent becomes a way for us to save time from the arbitrary arrogance of the schedule and what Mark Heard so eloquently called “the curse of the second hand.”

so we nod over coffee and say goodbye
bolt the door it’s time to go
into the car with the radio on
roll down the window and blow the horn

ain’t that the curse of the second hand
ain’t that the way of the hour and the day

Come, let us take time and spread it out like a blanket; let us make time like we make bread, giving it room to rise to its fullness; let us tell time we are here just as we would tell a friend we had arrived for dinner and had come to stay until it was time to go.

Peace,
Milton

lenten journal: it is unfinished

Milton Brasher-Cunningham
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1

“It is finished,” Jesus said, and then (according to old King James) he gave up the ghost.

I know I’m getting ahead of myself, as far as Lent goes, but unfinished things have been on my mind and I find myself looking at that sentence once again. Like any pronoun that begins a sentence, it begs for an antecedent. What, exactly, is finished? Did he mean his life was over? That’s about all that actually ended in that moment. Perhaps he meant he was finished with what he came to do, though he didn’t exactly tie up all the loose ends on his way out. Those who write commentaries and such often look for a more abstract antecedent and some grander theological theme. Bill Gaither wrote a rather moving gospel song, putting the quote to music:

it is finished the battle is over
it is finished there’ll be no more war
it is finished the end of all conflict
it is finished and Jesus is lord

The song builds to a glorious crescendo yet, for all the song’s certainty, the antecedent still lies unexplained, or at least not explained enough. If Jesus was speaking in some cosmic sense, as the song suggests, he was leaning into the future. Even now, two thousand years later, what was supposed to be finished ain’t done just yet. As we walk this Lenten road to the Cross once again, part of the reason is we are living out an unfinished faith: everything was not completed at Calvary, or even at Easter. Such is the nature of our faith, which thrives more in its questions than it’s answers, which takes root in relationships rather than in concrete certainty.

Last week, Elvis Costello wrote a review of Paul Simon’s upcoming record, So Beautiful or So What. The essay is actually going to be the liner notes for the album. He says of Simon’s songwriting:

These days it might court shallow mockery to sing so openly of our humanity, mortality and divinity but not with music to make these themes fly or words containing such wit, grace and humility.

The musical shapes and shades arrive from all over the world and back in time to illuminate the heartfelt intelligence of the writer.

Central to the picture is Paul’s vivid singing and own beautiful guitar playing – which doesn’t always get full measure in the shadow of his writing.

Throughout the record, I kept coming up against what I can only call, rock and roll surprises; not some orthodox formula but indelible, hypnotic guitar motifs and swinging, off-center rhythms tipping your expectations into a new kind of thrill.

After over fifty years of songwriting, Paul Simon is unfinished, and doing some of his best work. Costello provides a link to a song off the new record called “Waiting for Christmas Day” (now I am getting ahead of myself) that I am willing to predict will show up as a part of Advent in many churches. But it’s Costello’s description that grabs me tonight and how he spoke of “rock and roll surprises:” not some orthodox formula but indelible . . . off-center rhythms tipping your expectations into a new kind of thrill.

Into the unfinished.

Every so often in Christian circles, someone writes a book that becomes a lightning rod and a litmus test and the best new thing and the reason God is going to destroy the earth all in one volume. This week, it’s Rob Bell and his new book that questions the reality of Hell and whether or not God is going to send anyone there even if there is one. First of all, I’m not trying to critique the book here because I haven’t read it. Second, I’m not sure I understand why it would be so terrible for God to throw open the doors and yell, “All ye, all ye, oxen free.” Third, neither of those is my point. I wish we could work out our faith and theology together with the same mind that is in Elvis Costello, willing to be surprised, to have our expectations tipped, to be thrilled by the off-center riffs of the rhythm of our God.

The story of God we have so far is one of God showing up in unexpected places from making Sarah laugh to singeing Moses’ expectations in the burning bush, to meeting Elijah in the silence and the Israelites in the manna, to being born in a barn, to lighting Paul up on the road to Damascus, to letting Tom Waits write songs, to speaking through Rob Bell and Elvis Costello.

And God is not finished.

God is not finished breaking down barriers, calling us to new understanding, breaking out hearts and healing them, opening our eyes, blowing the doors off of our theological cages, or letting us get comfortable thinking we’re finished working out our faith and can coast from here on in. There is more light yet to break forth.

It is not finished. And that’s good news.

Peace,
Milton

P. S. — Here’s a little Simon for your soul.

lenten journal: life together

Milton Brasher-Cunningham
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1

One of the informal rituals of our marriage is Ginger asking me, usually apropos of nothing, “Give me three reasons why you love me.” And I do. I have a long list; this is not a difficult challenge. Sometimes, she rephrases the question: “Why did you want to marry me?” Again, easy answer, which is some variation on, “I wanted to spend the rest of my life with you.” We had not known each other long before I knew, whatever direction life was going to take, it mattered that I was with her rather than without her. I was not necessarily enamored of marriage, but I wanted to be married to her. From there, the last two decades have been about taking as many opportunities as I can find to say that over and over. I’m married to Ginger not because I don’t want to be alone, but because I want to be with her.

In a couple of weeks, our quirky little city is hosting an event called “Marry Durham,” playing off of the old playground taunt, “If you love it so much, why don’t you marry it?” The organizers are invited to show their love for the Bull City by pledging their vows in the street between Motorco and Fullsteam, surrounded by food trucks, with the mayor there to stand up for them, Wool E. Bull (the Durham Bulls’ mascot) as “Best Bull,” and the proceeds from the event going to charities that work with those in our number who are struggling to survive for a number of reasons. As Spring officially begins, we will participate in a mass wedding that should make Rev. Moon curious, if not envious, all in fun and intentional articulation of what it means to live together in community.

Last night in our Ash Wednesday service, I was moved by the invitation to confession we said together:

As disciples of Jesus Christ, we are called to struggle against everything that leads us away from the love of God and neighbor. Repentance, fasting, prayer, study, and works of love help us return to that love. We are invited, therefore, to commit ourselves to love God and neighbor by confessing our sin and by asking God for strength to persevere in our Lenten discipline.

We are called to struggle against everything that leads us away from love – from life together. We are called to intentionally work toward everything that galvanizes us that tightens the ties that bind, that reminds us life is a team sport, not an individual event.

One of the prayers of confession to which I continue to return is in the Book of Common Prayer. I go back there because of the particular phrase that asks forgiveness for “the things we have done and the things we have left undone.” In the call to do all we can to love one another and live together, often our omissions are those things that cause the cracks to appear, allowing us to drift apart without realizing what we have set in motion. Yes, we can and do inflict damage by what we do and say, still it seems what gets left undone soon becomes forgotten and paved over by life’s other demands, burying necessary relationships like ancient cities under the dust and layers of modern life.

Christine Lavin has an old song called “The Moment Slipped Away” in which she describes missed opportunities where she left things undone – small, significant chances – leaving both her and the person left unencountered lost in the wake of what might have been. In gestures both small and large, what we leave undone opens a gap that gets filled with something other than love. Consistent, intentional, determined, tenacious love that leaves no stone unturned puts the solid back in solidarity.

Jesus knelt in the Garden of Gethsemane to pray just before he was arrested for the last time and he prayed, “Make them one.” Not keep them safe or let them win or make them rich and powerful. Make them one. He knew what we all learn rather quickly as we grow up: the forces of life are fragmenting. We are pushed apart and pulled away from each other. We learn to blame and to betray. We learn to look out for Number One. We learn we can’t take care of everyone, so we have to take care of ourselves. Not long before he prayed, Jesus sat with his disciples around the table and, as he served them bread, he said, “Every time you do this, remember me.” What if we could hear those words as an invitation to communion and community in every meal, in every cup of coffee, in every beer at the pub: every time you eat and drink, look each other in the eye and remember me, remember the love that binds you and do whatever you have to do to forget the lies you have learned that tear you apart.

The point of life is not to be right, or safe, or famous, comfortable, or rich, or powerful. None of those is a sign of success or God’s favor or significance, particularly when our power and wealth and safety require someone else to be poor and weak and scared. The point of life is to be together. To love one another – all the one anothers – and to struggle against everything that leads us away from that love.

Peace,
Milton

lenten journal: ash monday

Milton Brasher-Cunningham
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5

Ash Wednesday showed up early for me this year because I was given the chance, thanks to my friends Lori and Terry, to hear Garrison Keillor tell stories. Though I have listened to him on the radio for thirty years, I’ve never heard him live. Monday, he showed up unadorned, without any of his Prairie Home Companion peeps or props, without even an introduction. Promptly at 7:30, he strode onto the stage wearing dark pants, a sports jacket, a white shirt, and a red tie that matched both his red socks and red sneakers, and he began to chant. That’s the best way I can describe it. He told a story with the cadence and melody of a priest inviting congregants to the Eucharist, his rhyme and humor calling us into community. Then, for a little over two hours, he talked of family, faith, love, death, and sex in a more intimate and vulnerable way than I had ever heard him on any of those many nights when he began his tale with, “It’s been a quiet week in Lake Wobegon, my hometown . . . “ – a phrase he never uttered in our time together.

Through the course of the evening, he invited a bluegrass singer to join him on stage, and for us to join them in song: Tom Waits’ “Picture in a Frame,” “You Are My Sunshine,” “It Is Well With My Soul,” and, to close the evening, “Angel Band.” Our voices provided the connecting soundtrack to his stories, which eloquently told how he got from there to here: from childhood to writer, from “sanctified Brethren” to Episcopalian, from son to father, from wherever he was before to our Monday night in Durham, reminding me again of the power and purpose of ritual, or sacred road markers like Ash Wednesday and Lent and Communion that call us to ask and answer the question David Byrne asked best: “Well – how did I get here?”

“We tell two kinds of stories,” Keillor said. “We either tell bragging stories to show we’re better than everyone else, or we tell stories of confession, which are, I suppose, a kind of ostentatious humility to show we’re more honest than everyone else.” From there he meandered into a maze of faith and family, both confessional seed beds, I suppose, commenting almost in passing that Christianity “is a religion of failure.”

With those words it became Ash Monday: Lent began for me.

In the jargon of my students, Lent might be renamed “Epic Fail” – the season of coming up short, the season of stark reality, and the season of forgiveness because it is in failure that both our compassion and redemption take root.

Yes, I know God is both great and good. Yes, I trust that nothing can separate us from the love of God. Yes, I know we are only weeks away from that Great Resurrection Morning when the stone gets rolled away and up from the grave he will arise to show that Death is not the final punctuation mark on the sentence that is our human existence. Even though Death has lost its sting, our story – all the way to that Land To Which We Go – is marked, quite indelibly, by failure. The tenacious love of God calls us to faithfulness, not success. Jesus bent down to wash the feet of the disciples because, John says, he knew “he had come from God and was going to God, not because it was all a brilliant strategy for success and conquest.

The disciples left the Upper Room and failed epically in the hours that followed their gathering only to find themselves still in the circle, still called, and still loved. For the rest of their lives, they did their best work when they simply told that story. The same holds true for us. We do our best work for and with one another when we tell and listen to our stories – and that thought takes me to familiar words worth repeating: Mary Oliver’s “Wild Geese”:

You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
for a hundred miles through the desert repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves.
Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world goes on.
Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain
are moving across the landscapes,
over the prairies and the deep trees,
the mountains and the rivers.
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,
are heading home again.
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
the world offers itself to your imagination,
calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting
over and over announcing your place
in the family of things.

As Keillor differentiated between the bragging stories and the confessional ones, he said the confessional stories were the ones you could count on to be “mostly true.” When we come to the place, however we get there, that we share our despair in order to find one another and remind one another we cannot run out of or away from the love of God, we are true – even in our failure. In the longings and the losings of life we come back again and again to stones we have stacked up and songs we can sing together.

when peace like a river attendeth my way
when sorrows like sea billows roll
whatever my lot thou has taught me to say
it is well it is well with my soul


I’m gonna love you
till the wheels come off
oh yeah

I love you baby and I always will
I love you baby and I always will
I love you baby and I always will
ever since I put your picture in a frame

We are not beginning a sojourn to success. When we get to Easter morning, or any other day for that matter, we will still be people of constant failure. Jesus didn’t come out of the tomb to take his place on the medal stand. He went to the beach and made breakfast for his bleary-eyed followers who had failed, once again. He loved them and he fed them. And he told them stories.

May we go and do likewise.

Peace,
Milton

word play

Milton Brasher-Cunningham
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5

This poem is in response to Random Acts of Poetry over at The High Calling.

word play

I love the way
words yearn
for one another:
the way they
join hands
like children
on the playground,
the way they
laugh at each other
climb up the slide
and then crash
into the leaves;

the way they
spoon together
like lovers
in the night,
holding tight
in desperation,
in hope, in love
waking sometimes
just enough
to pull closer
and then sleep
until morning.

Peace,
Milton

finding ourselves

Milton Brasher-Cunningham
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4

My students are embarking on an annual journey at our school we call the Academic Exposition, or Expo, which is a big research paper and presentation. We take a day at school for everyone to show their stuff and all the parents come to see what their children have learned. It is an arduous journey to say the least.

In past years, the Expo has not been well guided, leaving the students with their topics and a stack of notecards and expecting them to find their way out of the academic wilderness on their own. This year, we decided to be more directive and instructive on the journey, the idea being to make it more meaningful for them (and us) and maybe even a little fun. Being a good guide, I’m learning (again), is hard work.

At the heart of research lies the adage that your paper is only as good as your question. Both the middle school English teacher and I sat with each of our charges individually to hammer out their vague interests into specific and hopefully interesting questions. The topics ranged from concussions in sports to CNC 3-D printing technology to why we turn prisons into tourist attractions to epilepsy. The last one came from Pete, one of my students who lives with epilepsy and, because of his changing teenage body, has had a very hard year regulating his medication and controlling his seizures. When we sat down for his conference he said, “My question is, ‘How close are we to finding a cure for epilepsy?’”

All I could think was, “Not close enough.”

Yesterday during class, we spent time in the computer lab so they could look for sources. As we searched, he found a rather extensive list of people in history who had epilepsy. He called out across the room, “Mr. B-C, Alexander the Great had epilepsy.” As the others surfed and searched, our time was punctuated by his continual uncovering of this geneology of sorts: Napoleon Bonaparte, Michelangelo, Leonardo da Vinci, Vincent Van Gogh – at which point I said, “Do you feel like you need to go paint something?”
“Mr. B-C,” he said, “Theodore Roosevelt!”

One of the other students, weary of the role call, responded, “You know, Pete, not everyone in the world has epilepsy.”

He was undaunted. “But – Theodore Roosevelt.”

Discovery that he was of the house and lineage of people who were known for more than the disease they shared in common was encouraging, even life-giving to this bright young man. He was beginning to understand he belonged to a group that mattered. He was not alone in his struggle, nor in his seizures. I thought of Hemingway’s old man, fighting with the fish and feeling the pain of his bone spur, only to be comforted by the thought that Joe DiMaggio understood how he hurt. The validation that our pain and our wounds are not unique is one of the most profound invitations to community that we receive.

So Pete’s exposition appears to be to go out and find himself, or at least his kinfolk, out there in the great unknown, to find those in whom he recognizes himself, or – better yet – those who help him see his epilepsy as something other than his most defining word. Perhaps, in another generation, a kid will look up from his or her own discovery and say to the teacher, “Hey! Pete had epilepsy, too!”

Peace,
Milton

sunday sonnet #20

Milton Brasher-Cunningham
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0

This morning, in preparation for our church’s participation in the Durham CROP Walk (feel free to make a donation here), we watched a short film from Church World Service about women in Kenya who spent eleven hours of everyday walking to find water until CWS was able to help them build a sand dam which both captured and cleaned water for their use. After the video, one of our church members who is a Kenyan immigrant told us of her life, which pretty much matched the movie. Despite the difficult circumstances she has known in her life, she has a deep and abiding trust in God and in other people that radiates from her. On this Transfiguration Sunday, she let me see the presence of God in a fresh way.

sunday sonnet #19

Today we told two summit stories:
they climbed to meet God in the clouds.
Common folk met uncommon glories
that left them wondering and wowed.

Both stories on the mountain peak –
Ten Commandments, Transfiguration –
tune our hearts to praise and seek
more than just an explanation,

and ask, “Where is God in all of this?”
whether mountain tops or canyons,
to look for light in the abyss,
and live with faithful abandon.

Would I could spend all my days
found in wonder, love, and praise.

Peace,
Milton

oh, say can you see . . .

Milton Brasher-Cunningham
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5

The Durham Bulls put out an open call for anyone who wanted to audition to sing the National Anthem to show up at the ball park last Saturday and take their best shot. I got there about thirty minutes before auditions were to begin, only to find I was sixty-eighth in line. Fortuitously, Number Sixty-Seven was my friend Terry. Neither of us knew the other was coming. Our serendipitous encounter turned the day from a lonely audition to an adventure in friendship. We took our seats on the third base line and waited our turn.

“Number One,” said the first woman who took the mic, and she began to sing, setting the pattern we would all follow. All 164 of us. The paper they handed us in line spelled it out. We were to walk down to the field when it came our turn, take the mic, say our number, sing, and then hand the mic to the next person in line. We had to sing the anthem in seventy seconds or less without venturing from the traditional melody because, should we be selected, we would be leading the crowd in the song, not performing for them. If we were good enough, we would receive an acceptance letter in a couple of weeks, though that didn’t guarantee we would sing at a game. If an opening came up, we would get a minimum of one week’s notice before our turn to sing. The best news for me was the tryout was for real: I got to stand at home plate and sing the song over the PA. Whether or not I get selected, I got to sing the National Anthem at the ball park.

The first woman started singing at ten o’clock. It was ten minutes till twelve when I held the mic for Terry to play the anthem on his harmonica (he rocked!) and about sixty seconds after that I took my turn. By then we had heard sixty-six renditions of the song. I can do without if for awhile. I think we were fifteen versions in or so when Terry turned and said, “It’s kind of fun to hear the different takes and see all the different people here. I wish we could hear the stories behind why they showed up and why they want to sing.”

Yet all we were allowed to do was sing. There was no time for stories. The first woman, white and middle aged, offered a comfortable version, followed by any number of elementary and middle school students. The four older men did a precise barbershop version that was harmonious and somehow lacking in passion. The twenty-something couple offered their version with acoustic guitar and bluegrass harmony and gave the song new life. An African-American woman sang it like a gospel song and almost brought us to our feet, even though we had already heard it twenty-five times. One young boy picked it out on classical guitar, and then a teenager did an electric version without most of Hendrix’s improvisation. The teenage girl right in front of Terry was taken over by her nerves after the first line and two hours of waiting and handed me the mic as she walked away in tears.

It’s not an easy song. The range is wide and the lyrics are, well, a little foreign to us in these days. I think it’s safe to say the only time most of us use the word rampart is when we’re singing the anthem. The lyric is more militaristic than inspiring. I would much rather “America, the Beautiful” took its place, yet there I was on the field, microphone in hand, singing with all the power I could muster. The scene is not without its irony because I don’t have a nationalistic bone in my body. Being an American doesn’t always come easy for me. I didn’t grow up here. I don’t always know how to belong here. Yet, there’s something about baseball that connects me to my country in a way I only know how to describe as a “Field of Dreams” moment. Remember Terrence Mann’s speech in the movie?

The one constant through all the years, Ray, has been baseball. America has rolled by like an army of steamrollers. It’s been erased like a blackboard, rebuilt, and erased again. But baseball has marked the time. This field, this game, is a part of our past, Ray. It reminds us of all that once was good, and that could be again. Oh people will come, Ray. People will most definitely come.

When I took the mic, there were no corn stalks to be seen, nor ghosts of players past. I looked out over the left field wall where the flag hung motionless in front of the Tobacco Road Sports Bar and the office building that houses it. I was singing due north, aiming my voice at our home which lies a little over a mile from the park, beyond the bar and the Performing Arts Center, and the prison, and the Farmers’ Market, and the old Bulls’ park where they filmed Bull Durham, and the skate park, and Fullsteam – my favorite pub. I sang because I love to sing, I love baseball, and I want to feel connected to my country even though that’s not always comfortable. I sang and, in that moment, I felt unabashedly American.

And when I finished, I wanted a hot dog with everything.

Peace,
Milton

sonnet #19

Milton Brasher-Cunningham
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0

The lectionary is still camped out in the Sermon on the Mount. Today’s passage was Matthew 6:24-34, best known for Jesus saying we cannot serve two masters and that the lilies of the field know how to trust better than we do. Ginger and I had good discussions about how we were to read the verses when we know there are Christians who die of hunger everyday and whose needs are not met. Then we began to talk about this passage as a follow up to Jesus’ outlandish words about living non-violently and began to see both as calls to community and generosity: when I can trust God to be generous without making sure I’m taken care of first, I can begin to feel a little more lily-like.

Ginger finished her sermon this morning asking us, “What would it take for us to humble ourselves before God?’ I’m still working on my answer.

sunday sonnet #19 

The question is just what we’re after
while living our days on the planet:
we’ll choose between God as our master
or ourselves in control, just like Janet.

The lilies we’re called to consider
as trust in it’s best incarnation;
Jesus we don’t take for a kidder –
the image requires explanation.

“Don’t hit back,” he said just before –
the point being to pull us together,
the self-centered hunger for more
eats away at life’s basic tether.

The lilies compel our ability
to live out our faith with humility.

Peace,
Milton

declaration of . . .

Milton Brasher-Cunningham
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0

we may hold
these truths
to be self-evident
life, liberty, and
the pursuit
of happiness

however
even truths
have their limits
when we wrote
those words
we were young

and isolated
and thinking mostly
of ourselves
now, we are older
and established
and powerful

and something
has been lost
in the translation
of your cries
for freedom:
our gas prices

are going up
along with our
fear and anxiety
we know
you have suffered
but the world

was working
pretty well
like it was
change is hard
when it costs us
for you

to be free
we hope
you understand
perhaps this truth
or, at least,
reality lives
in the shadows:

our comfort and power
matter more (to us)
than your freedom
we do understand
your yearnings
can’t that be enough?

Peace,
Milton

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