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work and wait

Milton Brasher-Cunningham
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9

Our garden is almost planted. The rain finally stopped some time last night so I got out this morning and put in the rest of the tomatoes and a few other things. Instead of annuals, I’ve filled most all of our containers and with various kinds of herbs. Here is the complete list (I think):

  • three kinds of lettuce
  • six kinds of tomatoes
  • white eggplant
  • four kinds of peppers
  • rainbow Swiss chard
  • Brussels sprouts
  • broccoli
  • fennel
  • green beans
  • butternut squash
  • zucchini
  • summer squash
  • garlic
  • sweet, purple, Thai, lemon, and cinnamon basil
  • chocolate, orange, and lemon mint
  • Greek oregano
  • sweet marjoram
  • arugula
  • cilantro
  • strawberries

Wow! That’s the first time I’ve written down an inventory of what is growing in our yard. Pretty cool. Now comes the hard part: waiting both to see what makes it to the bearing stage and to eat what we grow – as well as give a bunch of it away.

After I finished planting, I came in and showered and drove to Plymouth to file for unemployment compensation. The last time I was there was when The Owner laid me off in January. Since the players were still the same in today’s scene, the script, as it were, was still in the computer so my trip didn’t take long. When I was first substitute teaching in Boston I got laid off and had to file as well. They’ve done a lot of work on the “career centers” since then. The office in Plymouth is spacious and clean and the people behind the counter are friendly, at least by New England customer service standards. One side of the office is lined with cubicles where the folks who work there help you get in the system. The other side of the room has a few cubicles with computer terminals where you can go online to look for jobs or take a tutorial. There’s also a long table with newspapers and other employment circulars. There were a couple of folks ahead of me to see a counselor, so I browsed both the print and online versions of the classifieds to see what I could find. The guy who processed my form was nice and efficient and we finished quickly. As I was walking out, I saw the guy who processed me the last time with whom I made a pretty good connection. I stopped at his cubicle to say hello and was surprised at how much of my case he remembered. Then he said, “Hey, I looked at your blog and go back there from time to time.”

I needed that.

I took a back road home so I could stop and see if there were any other interesting vegetables or herbs at some of the small nurseries on Route 53 with a mind to ending up at the gym. I was determined to get there, even though I’m still learning to like it, because it helps with my depression. And it gives Ginger and I a chance to act out one of our favorite scenes from Designing Women when Mary Jo says she likes jogging because it releases endorphins and Suzanne says, “Endorphins – you mean like Flipper?” My body was ready for the exercise today and I got a good workout. Tomorrow is weigh in at Weight Watchers, so I will get to see another benefit from my time on the elliptical machine. (In related news, there’s a new recipe.)

What the three strands of my day have in common is both working and waiting: the now and the not yet, or (perhaps better) the what will be. I planted things that will take anywhere from five to ten weeks to produce what they were created to produce. I set things in motion in Plymouth that will give me some money coming in (starting in a couple of weeks) and create some possibilities for what comes next. I’m going to spend a lot more time watching Sports Center while I work the machine (let the machine work me?) to transform my image of myself both physically and mentally. It’s all good and it all takes time. When it comes to my depression, the same formula applies: work and wait.

Work and wait. The words remind me of William Carey’s words, “Attempt great things for God; expect great things from God.” He is one of my father’s heroes because of his persistence. Carey went to India as a missionary and was there for three years before anyone he met chose to follow Christ. I’m not sure I’m dealing in the Great Things department in my life right now, but I like the combination of verbs: attempt and expect — work and wait.

What is true for great things, I trust, is true for small things.

Peace,
Milton

vive la resistance

Milton Brasher-Cunningham
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2

Some days – perhaps most days – I write because I think I have something to say or I have a conversation I hope to begin. Some nights – like tonight – I write to show (myself) I can make the letters line up in words and sentences to make some sort of meaning. I write to prove to myself I can and to refuse myself the option of falling into the deep.

Today was a good day. In worship we celebrated our confirmands as they chose to become followers of Christ. I had coffee with a friend after church, a good nap in the afternoon, and Indian food with some other friends this evening. And I feel like I’m living under the weight of one of those lead blankets they put over you when you have your teeth xrayed.

Another friend sent me the link to this article by David Grossman in the New York Times where he is writing about writing and says:

It is hard to talk about yourself, and so before I describe my current writing experience, at this time in my life, I wish to make a few observations about the impact that a disaster, a traumatic situation, has on an entire society, an entire people. I immediately recall the words of the mouse in Kafka’s short story “A Little Fable.” The mouse who, as the trap closes on him, and the cat looms behind, says, “Alas . . . the world is growing narrower every day.”

Grossman is writing about the effect of living in the midst of the Israeli-Palestinian conflict and (at the risk of belittling his observations by connecting them to my personal state of being) I find resonance in his quoting of Kafka. The world is growing narrower everyday for me.

I also found resonance in this paragraph:

Writers know that when we write, we feel the world move; it is flexible, crammed with possibilities. It certainly isn’t frozen. Wherever human existence permeates, there is no freezing and no paralysis, and actually, there is no status quo. Even if we sometimes err to think that there is a status quo; even if some are very keen to have us believe that a status quo exists. When I write, even now, the world is not closing in on me, and it does not grow ever so narrow: it also makes gestures of opening up toward a future prospect.

Again, he is speaking in more global terms than any individual’s psychological struggle, much less my depression, and I understand how the world can change when I put words on paper. Part of our UCC ritual at confirmation is to ask the young people if they promise, with God’s help, to resist evil and oppression in Jesus’ name. While we were getting ready for church this morning, there was a television preacher who promised a CD that would cure depression if I would just believe enough to send him some money. (His actual tone was less cynical.) Another made it sound as though it were just a matter of my strength of will: if I were sincere enough in my prayers and committed enough in my mind and heart, I would feel better.

Damn. If I’d only thought of that sooner life could’ve been so much easier.

The question to the kids did help me as I asked myself if I promised to resist.

Resist: express opposition through action or words; withstand the force of something; refuse to comply.

The image that came to mind was that of freedom fighters from World War II Europe to Mandela in South Africa looking for ways, both big and small, to keep the world from growing more narrow and to resist what was destroying their humanity. Every person that has refused to comply with whatever sought to narrow their world has gestured toward “some future prospect” that is not necessarily painless or perfect, but is something beyond the status quo. I’m not saying my personal pain is on a par with those is Gaza, Jerusalem, or Darfur. I am saying the act of resistance is a personal act regardless of the size of the oppressor.

One of the things Ginger said to the confirmands today was:

As you face the demons that accompany adolescence and adults adulthood, remember that practicing our faith and praying empowers us to live as Jesus taught refusing to nurture those inner demons who hinder us from being who God calls us to be, hinder us from wholeness, from being all that we can be, wonderfully and uniquely created in the image of God and worthy to be loved.

As a congregation we repeated the words, “I am wonderfully and uniquely created in the image of God and worthy to be loved.”

Though I feel as though I’m living a lead-plated life, I will move my hands to write and resist, looking for words to widen the way to wholeness and connectedness, harboring hope, and refusing to comply with the narrowing way. If I can write it, perhaps I can live it.

Peace,
Milton

no room at the inn

Milton Brasher-Cunningham
-
13

Today felt more like March than May.

I drove up to the Inn about three o’clock to find The Owner and see if I couldn’t get a clearer picture of what is going on. The first person I saw was one of the other chefs I work with who was coming out of the function kitchen rather than the restaurant where he usually works. He told me he had been told I was not coming back. With that information in hand, I went inside to wait for The Owner who had gone to run an errand. When he came in, I asked for a few minutes of his time and followed him up to his office. He sat down and looked at me as though he had no idea why I was there.

Ginger and I have been rehearsing what I might say (and how I might say it – often the larger issue for me) over the last couple of days. I’m not going to recall the whole conversation because I don’t feel the need to embarrass him, but I will say I felt good about what transpired in that little room. I said what I needed to say without resorting to a personal attack or falling into a power struggle. I stood up for myself and got the money he owed me, which was not a done deal when I went in. I also got to say goodbye to the people I enjoyed working with during my eighteen months at The Inn. Then I got in the car, drove to the bank and cashed the check, and went to meet Ginger so we could go to the gym.

He never knew about the nights I drove home and talking to Ginger on the phone and telling her how much I loved my job. He never knew how much fun I had with my Brazilian buddies plating up the steaks for the functions. He never knew because he only knew me as an appliance and not a human being. At one point in our conversation today, I called him on something he had done and he snapped, “I’m the owner; I can do anything I want.”

“Actually, that’s not true,” I answered. “You can’t treat me like I don’t matter and get away with it.” Soon after that, I gave him back his key and left. I drove away both unemployed and unburdened. Whatever is next, my time with him today confirmed that it is time for me to not be there: there is no room for me at The Inn.

As I remember another story, that’s not necessarily a bad thing . . . .

Peace,
Milton

advanced calculus

Milton Brasher-Cunningham
-
9

About a month ago, I checked in with the doctor who monitors my antidepressants feeling reasonably confident: I made it all winter without feeling seriously depressed, which is a first in the last six years. I instigated a conversation about cutting back on one of my medications to see how I would tolerate it. He remained neutral about the idea, but willing to follow my hunch, so we set up a two or three month timetable to wean me off the pill. The first step was to cut the pills in half each morning. When I opened the bottle after breakfast the next morning, I couldn’t do it. This week, I’m grateful I trusted my second hunch. The storm clouds are gathering; they don’t call them tropical depressions for nothing, I guess.

Learning about my depression meant learning that sometimes it grew out of circumstance and sometimes it ambushed me through my body chemistry. The source doesn’t necessarily make a difference in how it feels for me (in me? to me?), and part of the beginning of making some meaning out of the darkness for me is found in knowing where I am. This time I know the ambiguity of my work situation is exacerbating things. Over the past six years, the one place I have always been able to find solace is in the kitchen and I’ve been scheduled out. I haven’t helped things by allowing myself to postpone going by The Inn to find out what’s really going on. Wednesday I stayed in the garden; today my car stayed in the shop. I’m determined that tomorrow be a Day of Non-Avoidance.

Gordon posted a link to an article on depression by Norman Bendroth posted at Christian Century online, which referenced William Styron’s Darkness Visible: A Memoir of Madness, a book that has also been meaningful to me. Bendroth quotes Styron:

By far the great majority of the people who go through even the severest depression survive it, and live ever afterward at least as happily as their unafflicted counterparts. Save for the awfulness of certain memories it leaves, acute depression inflicts few permanent wounds.

Man, I hope that’s true. Tonight, it doesn’t feel true. Though I first found a name for it a little over six years ago, I can look back now and see a far less visible darkness present in my life for many, many years. I took the MMPI in 1987 and was on the borderline of being clinically depressed my psychologist told me. I knew nothing about depression then and couldn’t imagine that was me. To come to a place now where I can see the darkness has been a part of my life for almost half of my life compels me to see the depression as part of who I am because it has been a significant factor in the calculus of my humanity, to borrow last night’s phrase. It’s in my mind. It’s in my body. It’s in my heart, my soul. It’s not all of me – or even most of me – but it is part of who I am.

I’m six weeks into Weight Watchers and I’ve lost eighteen pounds. Going to the gym and getting on the elliptical trainer is becoming both habit and ritual for me. Though I’m not ready to claim I like working out, I’m happy to say I like the way I feel when I’m done and I can tell a difference because I’m working out. I’m figuring out how to alter my equation of body, mind, heart, and soul to come up with an answer to who I am that is something other than “the fat kid;” it’s working.

I work hard on the calculus of depression as well, but it’s advanced calculus and the truth is I suck at math. I was, however, always pretty good at the word problems because, I suppose, I always liked words better than numbers. The problem here is to figure out how to live with depression, I think, rather than how to get rid of it. When I worked as a hospital chaplain, I heard cancer patients talk about the importance of thinking of themselves as living with cancer rather than dying with cancer; the semantics changed the equation. My mother was clear of her bladder cancer for nine years – long enough to be regarded as officially cured – when it recurred. She beat it again and she lives with cancer.

I live with depression.

As I sat down to write tonight, Ginger was watching the season finale of ER in the other room. The only thing I heard were the strains of Leonard Cohen’s song, “Hallelujah,” floating in to find me.

Now I’ve heard there was a secret chord
That David played, and it pleased the Lord
But you don’t really care for music, do you?
It goes like this: the fourth, the fifth
The minor fall, the major lift
The baffled king composing Hallelujah

Hallelujah, Hallelujah
Hallelujah, Hallelujah

Your faith was strong but you needed proof
You saw her bathing on the roof
Her beauty and the moonlight overthrew her
She tied you to a kitchen chair
She broke your throne, and she cut your hair
And from your lips she drew the Hallelujah

Hallelujah, Hallelujah
Hallelujah, Hallelujah

You say I took the name in vain
I don’t even know the name
But if I did, well really, what’s it to you?
There’s a blaze of light in every word
It doesn’t matter which you heard
The holy or the broken Hallelujah

Hallelujah, Hallelujah
Hallelujah, Hallelujah

I did my best, it wasn’t much
I couldn’t feel, so I tried to touch
I’ve told the truth, I didn’t come to fool you
And even though it all went wrong
I’ll stand before the Lord of Song
With nothing on my tongue but Hallelujah

Hallelujah, Hallelujah
Hallelujah, Hallelujah

That’s it: “It doesn’t matter which you heard/ the holy or the broken hallelujah.” In the equation of my life – advanced calculus, if you will – with garden dirt under my fingernails, vocational uncertainty unsettling my brain, the blanket of Ginger’s love surrounding me, and the gathering storm of my depression daring to deluge, holy and broken feel like the same thing.

Hallelujah.

Peace,
Milton

the calculus of being human

Milton Brasher-Cunningham
-
6

I’ve been surprised with a week to myself because The Owner didn’t put me on the schedule at The Inn – and he didn’t give me any explanation. I called Sunday night to see if I was working Monday (which I have done for the last eight months) and was told they had not yet done the schedule and would call me Monday morning. No one did. I called back Tuesday evening and was told I wasn’t working this week and The Owner was not available to talk about it. I was going to drive up there today to see if this is his bizarre way of telling me I no longer have a job, but I got started spreading the mulch I ordered in the flower beds and opted for a day of feeling productive rather than one feeling frustrated and angry. I can do that tomorrow.

About three this afternoon I came in from the yard, showered, dressed, and drove over to Panera to meet Ginger and our friend Don for coffee. Our conversation lasted the rest of the afternoon and went all around the world. Part of it centered on my father-in-law’s Alzheimer’s, which is steadily worsening. As his memory becomes less accessible he doesn’t seem like the same person and yet he is, still, to his core one of the kindest, gentlest, most hopeful people I have ever known. Don talked about a swami who spoke at an interfaith gathering who talked about the essence of the soul staying the same (at least the way Don remembered it). If you cut off your arm, the swami said, your soul would still have the same essence.

As the three of us turned that over, we began to think a little differently. The relationship between heart, soul, body, and mind is complicated and multifaceted. All four are essential to our humanity and are, I suppose, part of our “essence.” When one is affected, the whole person is affected. When my father had open heart surgery a decade ago even he could see he was fundamentally changed by the experience. He was still recognizable and he was different. One of our friends was in a car accident a number of years ago that left her a paraplegic. Before the accident, most folks saw her as a carefree spirit. In the years since the accident, she has completed law school and is in private practice. She was a nurse before. Her essence has proven to be one of resolve, hope, and tenacity. Coming to terms with my depression over the past five or six years has changed me as I’ve learned to live with a disease that plagues both my mind and my body chemistry.

The picture painted in Hebrew scripture is of heart, soul, mind, and body creating a unity: they are inextricably connected. Rather than one being the essence of a person, the different aspects of our humanity – the raw materials – live in concert, in equation. There is a calculus to being human: when the variables in the equation change, we change. If we learn to think differently, more than just our minds are different. If we face some sort of physical challenge or change, our hearts, souls, and minds aren’t left unaffected. The impact of the change doesn’t stop at our skins. Ginger’s parents have been married almost fifty-one years. The changes in my father-in-law also have an impact on my mother-in-law, on their daughter, on me. None of us can stay the same.

I have been changed by my time at The Inn. I’ve learned a great deal about my craft and I’m a better chef. I’ve even learned a lot about the business, coming to a better understanding of dealing with food cost ratios and other fun stuff. Because I’ve had to deal with The Owner, I’ve had to learn how to speak truth to power without getting defensive or belligerent. I’ve also had to learn how to detach from the soap opera aspect and do my job. I’ve also had to learn to live with uncertainty when it comes to my job security, regardless of my performance. Though I can’t claim to have gone all Barbara Ehrenreich on the world, I have been changed by my first hand experience in the hourly wage, no benefits, no job security world that is The Inn, if not most of the restaurant business. As my equation of heart, soul, body, and mind has changed — so have I.

“Love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your mind and with all your strength,” says Deuteronomy, which I’ve always taken to mean, “Love God with all that you are.” One single aspect doesn’t hold our essence; it’s the whole intricate, complex, dynamic, amazing, and fragile package. It hurts to see my father-in-law slipping away. I hurt for my mother-in-law who is physically and emotionally present as her Loved One disappears.

The calculus of being human is hard work.

Peace,
Milton

no strings on love

Milton Brasher-Cunningham
-
14

I was at a Rich Mullins concert some time in the early nineties when, in the course of his concert banter, his tone took a turn that became as dangerous as it was didactic. “We should all be praying,” he said, “that Bill and Hillary Clinton would be killed in a car accident.” The words he spoke were incongruous with those he wrote and sang. I didn’t know where they came from and was both surprised and angry. Granted, my politics were then and are now closer to the Clintons than to his and I couldn’t understand how Rich could pray for God to kill someone he disagreed with.

Jerry Falwell died today.

According to the story I heard on NPR, he collapsed in his office about 11:30 this morning and could not be resuscitated. He was 73. I don’t know much, if anything, about Falwell beyond his public persona. I also don’t know of much of anything he and I agreed upon. In one article, he described God as “pro-war.” On September 13, 2001, he said, “I really believe that the pagans and the abortionists and the feminists and the gays and the lesbians, who are actively trying to make that an alternative lifestyle, the ACLU, People for the American Way — all of them who try to secularize America — I point the finger in their face and say, ‘You helped this happen.'”

I know that’s not all he said. I also know I don’t think what I consider to be an arrogant and judgmental expression of faith does much to help anyone. Of all the times I saw him on television, I don’t remember one instance where he appeared to be willing to learn something; he was always the one with the answers.

Some years back, Billy Crockett and I wrote a song together called “No Strings on Love,” which grew out of our desire to speak to the wideness in God’s mercy. Here are the lyrics:

got to tell you what I know
there ain’t no strings on love
wherever you are wherever you go
there ain’t no strings on love
you might scream and stomp the floor
pack your bags and hit the door
God keeps coming back for more
there ain’t no strings on love

told you about the prodigal son
there ain’t no strings on love
party time when he came home
there ain’t no strings on love
you’ve been running so have I
got a few more tricks that we can try
we’ll get tired by and by and
there ain’t no strings on love

they say life is all a competition
how can you survive
without some ammunition

lose your looks your hair falls out
there ain’t no strings on love
some of you know what I’m talking about
there ain’t no strings on love
you might live on borrowed time
broken heart a troubled mind
God thinks you’re the keeping kind
there ain’t no strings on love

spend your life keeping score
there ain’t no strings on love
joneses just moved in next door
there ain’t no strings on love
what you learned on grandpa’s knee
was equal reciprocity – forget it
ally ally oxen free
there ain’t no strings on love

they say life is all a competition
how can you survive
without some ammunition

listen to me one more time
there ain’t no strings on love
sunday morning friday night
there ain’t no strings on love
sunny day pouring rain
avalanche or hurricane
God keeps calling out your name
there ain’t no strings on love

When we wrote it, the open invitation was aimed at those who were marginalized. It puts to music what is proclaimed in many UCC churches on a weekly basis: “Whoever you are and wherever you are on life’s journey, you’re welcome here.” I was singing to the unloved, the outcast, the great unwashed, if you will – all those being kept down by The Man. I was singing to the very people Falwell was damning with his words and actions.

If grace is true and God is love, the invitation is for The Man as well. There ain’t no strings on love – even for Jerry Falwell.

That sentence is easier to write than it is to live – and it wasn’t so easy to write. The people I want most for God to judge are the people who have used or are using God like a club to beat people into submission, or at least scare the hell out of them. My righteous indignation remains intact as long as I don’t humanize the objects of my judgment. Then I read things like this:

In some ways, Falwell was an unlikely religious leader. He was born Aug. 11, 1933, and grew up in Lynchburg, the son of a one-time bootlegger who hated preachers. His grandfather was a staunch atheist.

Falwell was working out some old family stuff in the way he lived his life. I’ve done a little of that myself. (I’m not necessarily proud of that, but it’s the truth.) When I read that sentence, I realize he was probably a pretty wounded guy, just like the rest of us. I abhor that he dealt with his woundedness by inflicting pain on others. I think he was wrong – a lot. I have spent a good deal of effort reaching out to those who have been on the receiving end of his vitriol. I think he did damage to the image of Christianity in our country and around the world when he kicked into zealot-with-a-clear-conscience mode. And Jesus ate with the Pharisees just as he did with the sinners.

Sometimes, I suppose, we fall into both categories.

To me, Jerry Falwell was somewhere to the right of Attila the Hun. As a member of the United Church of Christ, I’m one of those who lives in “the last house on the left” in the Christian neighborhood. The boundless, stringless love of God covers the whole map.

I trust, tonight, that God surprised Jerry Falwell when God saw him and hollered, “Ally, ally, oxen free.”

Peace,
Milton

a time to plant

Milton Brasher-Cunningham
-
4

I got to spend a good deal of the day in the yard cleaning up, pulling weeds, and beginning to fill the various containers we have along the driveway and the fence. Over our years in Massachusetts, Memorial Day has been the beginning of the planting season for me; this year things have warmed up earlier, so I got an earlier start. I enjoyed my day outside, even with the somewhat ominous evidence of climate change. Though I’m pretty good at the flowerbeds, I suck at lawn care, mostly on purpose. I don’t really like lawns. When we moved to Marshfield, we tore up most of the grass in the front yard and created perennial beds. Last year, I filled in the gaps with herbs, a couple of pepper plants, and some arugula. This year, I’m going to do more veggies among the blooms.

I became a planter when we lived in Charlestown. Our “yard” was a two-tiered concrete slab next to our row house put in after the house that was on the lot burned many years ago. We covered it with planters – about fifty of them. A friend was visiting who was way ahead of me on the local food curve, said, “Why don’t you plant vegetables?” The simple answer was I had never thought about it. When we moved out of the city, I cleared out land behind the garage (mostly because I saw that was where my neighbors had their garden) and planted tomatoes. Lots of tomatoes. The next summer, it was tomatoes and zucchini. I missed one of the squash under the leaves for several weeks and it was as big as a baseball bat by the time I picked it. Each summer I’ve added a couple of things. Last year, I learned about Square Foot Gardening and increased both my variety and my yield, adding numerous herbs, Brussels sprouts, eggplant, and Swiss chard to the mix. I may also going to try a bit of Hay Bale Gardening (which I learned about thanks to Tigre) if I get really ambitious.

What I’m learning is I can grow a lot of food if I am consistent in my intentionality and effort. One of the joys of late summer and early fall for me is giving away tomatoes (that’s when we harvest them here). I’ve also learned what it means to enjoy things seasonally. I was allergic to tomatoes until about seven years ago. Thanks to a friend introducing me to NAET, which cured my allergy (I’m telling you it really works) and, for the first time in my life I could eat tomatoes. Our first summer here I grew my own and once I tasted them fresh from the garden I knew the year round varieties they sell in the supermarkets were impostors. I’ve learned a tomato is worth both the work and the wait.

When Jesus told us to “consider the lilies,” part of the consideration had to be they only bloomed for a short time during the year. Learning to live with seasons means discovering some wonderfully temporary things, turn, turn, turn. During our time in New England, I’ve discovered the temporal joy of fiddleheads, and have a great and simple recipe as well that may not be of much use to many readers since I don’t think they get exported much. Hell, they only last a week or two around here.

One of the things that bothers me about The Owner at The Inn is he treats people as a commodity: something he can consume at will without further thought. Our 24-7-365 world has taught us to disregard the seasons and all the other signposts built into creation, which leads to our thinking of the Earth in terms of commodities and production. Most of us can’t find one constellation, much less use the stars to find our place in the world. The steak or chicken we eat comes wrapped in plastic and we know little about how the animal lived or died. Neither do we know much of the plight of the workers who picked the bananas or grapes that were then flown halfway around the world so we could get them on special for seventy-nine cents a pound. (Actually, the bananas were twenty-nine cents here last week. Tell me someone in Haiti isn’t taking in the face on that one.)

Whatever the justice issues are when it comes to food – and they are legion, my day of gardening reminds me I am closer to figuring out a way to incarnate the ethics of living and eating to which I’m attracted when I’m growing at least some of my own food. I am working to live as the folks to, as The Ethicurean says, “chew the right thing.”

Peace,
Milton

call me noah

Milton Brasher-Cunningham
-
3

For the past few weeks, the children’s message at church has involved the retelling of the story of Noah in different ways in preparation for our Church School switching to the Rotation Model curriculum next fall. The first week the story was told with a short drama, the second week we sang the “Arky Arky” song, and today the kids got a rainbow craft project. The woman leading the children’s time explained that when God said, “I will put my bow in the clouds,” God was taking the bow as a symbol of war (as in bow and arrow) and turning it into a promise.” My mind jumped to an alternative ending to her sentence: turning a symbol of war into a symbol of gay pride.

The idea of the Rotation Model is to speak to our multiple intelligences so we hear the story in new ways and, hopefully, in the way we can best hear it. As the ark has floated around in my head the last month, I’ve heard several things. I went back in my mind to a philosophy of religion class in seminary where the professor talked about all the flood myths in various ancient religions. “Does it bother anyone that Genesis says only Noah and his family were in the ark and yet any number of flood stories that don’t involve Noah have survived?”

It was the fact that he asked the question that bothered several of the folks in the class. To me, the variety seemed to speak to some sort of cataclysmic diluvian tragedy they all were trying to explain. That bothered some folks, too.

Noah’s Ark is one of those stories that can cause people to throw lightning bolts at one another. When I searched for web pages, I found articles and exhibits across the continuum of feasibility and belief. I found a page that lists the various flood stories, a Christian site that takes the story quite literally, an explanation at JewishEnclyclopedia.com, and a BBC story about a guy who has built a replica as a way of calling people to faith. In a book I have here at home, I found this interesting comparison:

Christian and Jewish historians and theologians give slightly different interpretations to the Noah story. For Christians, Noah represents an ideal faith in God – marked by trust and obedience and for which Noah and his family were saved. For Jewish interpreters, Noah represents a reluctant faith marked by Noah being one of the last to enter the ark as a sign of reluctance. This suggests his faith may not have been so strong. (The Intellectual Devotional 14)

And I found these words from Karen Armstrong:

Religious truth does not stand or fall by the historicity of its scriptural narratives. It will survive only if it enables people to find meaning and value when they are overwhelmed by the despair that is an inescapable part of the human condition. When we are discussing the meaning of life and the death of meaning, the historicity of the flood becomes an irrelevant distraction from the main issue. We are dealing not with history or science but with myth.

Today in popular parlance, a myth is something that did not happen, so to claim that a biblical story is mythical is to deny its truth. But before the advent of our scientific modernity, myth recounted an event that had – in some sense – happened once, but which also happened all the time. It was never possible to interpret a myth in terms of objective reason.

There were two ways of arriving at truth, which Plato called mythos and logos (reason). They complemented each other and were of equal stature; both were essential. Unlike myth, logos had to relate accurately to the external world: from the very earliest days, we used it to create effective weapons and to run our societies efficiently.

But humans are also meaning-seeking creatures, who fall very easily into despair. When faced with tragedy, reason is silent and has nothing to say. It was mythology and its accompanying rituals that showed people how to acquire the strength to go on.

Ever since the children stood at the front of the church this morning waving their rainbows and reminding us that God keeps promises, I’ve been thinking about Noah in a different way: as a study in depression. Whether Noah was determined or clueless or both as he began to build the ark, his task was an isolating one from the first cubit. Genesis chronicles the ridicule and the questions he endured. But Noah didn’t live in isolation. As the boat came to completion and the storm clouds began to gather, Noah had to come to terms with leaving friends – all his friends – behind to drown. His daughters-in-law couldn’t bring their families. Sometimes it sucks to be the standard-bearer.

I’ve always wondered what the sanitation system was like on the ark. The rain lasted for forty days, but when you add up all the time it took for the water to dissipate, they were in the ark for nigh on half a year. Our Schnauzers can only last about ten hours inside before sanitation becomes an issue. Six months?

The last thing that crossed my mind I had never thought of until today: the ark had no means of propulsion. All it did was float. Granted, in a flood, floating is important, but it was going nowhere. Put it all together – isolated in a boat that’s not going anywhere and is filling up with crap – and you have a pretty good picture of depression. “It was mythology and its accompanying rituals that showed people how to acquire the strength to go on,” Armstrong says. So it is. I’m acquainted with both floods and rainbows in my life and to find traces of that which most haunts my existence in the stories my faith uses to make meaning of life as a whole is strangely comforting. I know of days that feel as though I’m sinking in excrement, or endless days tossing about on an endless, restless sea, and days when the clouds break, the rainbow forms, and my feet find solid ground.

I know this story; I’m living it.

Peace,
Milton

capturing light

Milton Brasher-Cunningham
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As I was wrapping scallops in little bacon blankets this afternoon, I heard a great story on All Things Considered about plans for a new telescope to replace the Hubble Telescope, which has given us some amazing images of things we had never been able to see before. The new one, to be called the James Webb Space Telescope will be sent into orbit over a million miles away from Earth and will be able to capture light from over thirteen billion light years away, which means that light will be thirteen billion years old when we see it for the first time.

One of the most intriguing things they said in the story was when they first came up with the design for the Webb Telescope twenty years ago it required ten technologies that had not yet been invented. I love that their dream was not tethered to their sense of limitation. The story didn’t say whether the ones building the scope also invented the ten technologies they needed or if other folks did those parts. Either way, the brilliance of their dream is the first bit of light captured by the Webb Telescope, even before it is built.

One of the phrases that caught my ear was “capture the light.” The Webb will not take pictures per se, but will capture the light using infrared technology to generate images of things we would not normally be able to see. Capturing light is not an easy thing to do. The image is something I’ll take to work with me tomorrow since the orbit of the Inn might as well be taking place in a black hole. Even now, there is light to be captured somewhere in the Inn. So I keep cooking and trying to capture new light, or at least new to me.

For now, I’m going to go close my eyes and enjoy the dark.


Peace,
Milton

hopper, harare, and hot sauce

Milton Brasher-Cunningham
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Today is Ginger’s birthday.

We drove into Boston around two because, thanks to a friend in the church, we had tickets to the Edward Hopper exhibition that just opened at the Museum of Fine Arts. Ginger and I have different viewing practices when we go to a museum. She moves through the room intuitively and I a bit more deliberately, reading all the notes and captions in the same way I stop to read historical markers on the highway when I’m by myself. When we finish looking, we spend some time in the café comparing what we saw and felt and, I think, expanding the impact and understanding of the art work for us both.

The exhibit fell in two major groups for me: buildings and people. He also had a few landscapes, but even then he seemed more interested in how the buildings fit in the picture. There were a lot of houses. One that particularly caught my eye was “Rooms for Tourists,” which showed the house at night. The various sources of light intrigued me.


I also liked this one of pharmacy. The caption said the guy trying to sell his paintings kept trying to get Hopper to take the word “Ex-Lax” out of the picture. He didn’t.


The other one that grabbed me was “Sunday Morning,” a row of shops laying fallow on the Sabbath. It was as if all the buildings had stories to tell and had not had a chance until Hopper painted them in solitude, without the crush of humanity, so their stories could sneak out and show themselves in the silence.


His paintings of people weren’t as narrative. This one, called “Automat,” shows a woman by herself with a cup of coffee. Only the title reveals where she is. There are few details to contextualize the moment; she is simply there, in solitary.


“Nighthawks” is arguably his most well known painting, and it is equally enigmatic: one man remains faceless; the street outside is dark; and there’s no way to know how anyone got in or out of the diner.


From there we made a stop in a wonderful little coffee shop called Uptown Espresso to wait for friends – actually, better identified as our intentional family here in New England — to join us. The folks working there were friendly and good at making coffee. From there we crossed the street to follow the recommendation of another church friend about an exhibit of sculpture by artists from Zimbabwe who call themselves Friends Forever and have joined together to figure out how to get their works to parts of the world where people can afford to buy art so they can make a living. These stones were full of stories. In fact, the man introducing the exhibit spoke of how the artists begin with a big slab of stone and “wait for it to speak to them.”

We quickly became attached to the work of one sculptor in particular, Colleen Madamombe, one of the few female artists and the creator of these wonderful stone women who told their stories through their posture. (Of course, at this point it would be great to show a picture of the piece we bought, but my camera is without batteries. Here a couple of others, though.)

From there we drove to Redbones Barbeque in Somerville where we were joined by one more family member and we continued our practice of laughing, talking, and eating together regardless of who is having the birthday. To some observer, painter or not, outside looking in, I suppose we could have been captured in a moment not unlike Hopper’s people, hanging in space without context. But the picture I see around the table with some of those I love celebrating the person I love most is too multidimensional to fit on a canvas or even a blog entry. To come to the table together reminds us there is no distance between the meals we have shared, regardless of how much time has passed. Our memories stack up like stones for an altar, one on top of the other, enabling us to live those moments in concert rather than a string of situations held together by the gossamer threads of time.

Since today really was a spring day, we took the top off of Ginger’s Jeep Wrangler. As we drove through Somerville, a car pulled up next to us and a man with a very recognizable African accent said to me, as I sat in the back seat, “I think this car is perhaps too small for you” and he smiled. The sound of his voice unlocked memories of my childhood in Africa that had been petrified like some of Hopper’s people. The melody I hear when an African speaks English sets my heart to dancing and sets the stories free.

So does celebrating Ginger’s birthday. Milestone days are stones that talk. They remind us where we have been, call us to ask where we are going, and implore us to continue to chip away at life until we can see ourselves as works of art. Though, I’ll admit, I can easily picture myself in Hopper’s diner, encapsulated in the melancholy and shadow of life as he sees it, the work of art that moves me most shared a cheese plate, a cup of coffee, and some hushpuppies with me, smiled and giggled when she opened her presents, and will lay down beside me in just a little while as she has done for almost as many nights as I can remember. I can hear the stones talking, telling me that out of these formidable rocks of remembrance as well as the sand pebbles of everyday living we are sculpting a portrait of love.

Peace,
Milton

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