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can you hear me now?

Milton Brasher-Cunningham
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6

There are days that writing comes easy and days it doesn’t. There are also a lot of days in between where I find something to say once I get myself up the stairs and put my fingers on the keyboard. Every so often comes a day like today where the issue is not whether it’s easy or hard to write as much as it is whether I feel like I have something to say.

When I get to a day like this, the first fear I have to face is the prospect that I’m on the precipice of depression again. I’ve had moments over the past few days — more like a week, I guess — where I can feel the depression lurking around the edges of my life like a stalker in a Lifetime movie. That it can’t find a way to get inside gives me some hope that my new medication is working and for that I’m grateful. This week marks six years since I took my first dive off the deep end, as it were. Sometimes I think the pull of my depression is as much muscle memory as anything else. And then, of course, this particular January has offered its share of crisis and uncertainty, creating the opportunity for a symphony of emotions.

I’m also struggling to write tonight because I don’t feel very good at what I’m trying to do. I’ve been writing about Darfur because I really want to have a conversation about how I (we?) can respond. When I wrote about the war in Iraq a week or so ago, I yelled so loudly through the screen that I hardly gave anyone a chance to respond, so few did. My las two posts about the genocide in Sudan garnered two comments. I realize way more people read this blog than comment, and I also realized how much I hoped to hear from more folks when I felt my disappointment at seeing zero comments on yesterday’s post.

This is starting to sound as though I fishing for comments, which is not my point. Let me make my point clear: I’m writing about the genocide in Darfur because I want to have a conversation about what we can do beyond calling and writing any and everyone in Washington asking them to wake up. I want to talk about what it means to pray for them. I want to talk about what to do with my sense of helplessness and hopelessness as I look at how the world treats Africa. I want to know how to say all of this in a way that is invitational rather than declarative.

Peace,
Milton

requiem for darfur

Milton Brasher-Cunningham
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2

Just as I was getting to work on Saturday, Scott Simon introduced a segment about a Carnagie Hall performance of Verdi’s Requiem to benefit the refugees from Darfur. I made a mental note and went to the web site to listen to the program. What I know of classical music I mostly learned from movie soundtracks, so the significance of the chosen piece is a little lost on me. I did find this description at Christopher Lydon’s Open Source, who also has a program on the concert:

As great as any of his 28 operas, Giuseppe Verdi’s one Requiem is beyond category among the masterpieces of human affirmation in the depths of suffering and horror. Verdi wrote it in his 60’s to mourn and remember his artistic heroes, the composer Rossini and the poet-novelist Manzoni. The Requiem lives in the choral and orchestral canon as a monument to Verdi himself: his belief, doubt, compositional craft and melodic genius. The work encompasses confessions of sin and guilt, a tour of hell, affirmations of faith and aspirations to heaven. Verdi’s “Dies Irae,” not normally part of the traditional Catholic requiem Mass, has become a Hollywood favorite soundtrack for unidentifiable terror. Prisoners at Terezin, the Nazi camp in Czecholovakia, learned and played the Requiem in defiance of their helplessness. Musicians play it still, not least to remember Terezin.

George Matthew was the conductor for the concert. He was conducting Verdi’s piece for the first time. It was not his first time to assemble a variety of musicians and singers for a cause. He conducted a performance of Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony to raise money for Asian earthquake victims. When Scott Simon asked him why he felt compelled to organize this concert, Matthew said, “We as the classical music community had to say something with our craft.”

When Simon asked why Verdi’s Requiem, Matthews said it is “at once the music of mourning, at once it is extremely stern, and it is at once full of fear, of active terror in the face of death and really what happens to the human spirit when it’s confronted with the prospect of becoming nothing.” He went on to talk about its explosiveness and said following those explosions there was “the silent space which is the fertile ground for action.” To him, the music suggested that “In our human environment, the prospect of a individual dying unnoticed is not acceptable, it is not natural, and it is certainly not conscionable. It’s almost by virtue of the fact that someone is dying, the community must gather and Verdi is speaking to our deepest and best instincts.”

Lydon wrote in his commentary of the interview he did with Matthew, “My question to George is how his grasp of Verdi, and Beethoven, can strengthen our limp notions of what is happening in Sudan; how even a rapt contemplation in listening to Verdi can relieve our very contemporary American distance and indifference to what has become the hellish wallpaper of our media and our minds.”

I haven’t listened to Lydon’s show, but I wonder if Matthew’s answer to the question was much like his answer to Scott Simon: “We as the classical music community had to say something with our craft.” In offering their gifts, the musicians and singers are doing what they can to not let human beings die unnoticed and strengthening our sense of connectedness in the best way they know how.

Our call is to listen and then go and do likewise.

Peace,
Milton

lives in the balance

Milton Brasher-Cunningham
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2

I’ve spent the better part of my day reading about what is happening in Darfur in preparation for a worship service we are going to devote to what is happening there and in other parts of Africa. Between the news of famine, AIDS, malaria, and all the other things that afflict the continent, Darfur stands out because it is genocide. My research has been colored by this quote from Margaret Mead:

Never doubt that a small group of thoughtful, committed citizens can change the world. Indeed, it is the only thing that ever has.

In his State of the Union speech Tuesday night, President Bush said, ““We will continue to speak out for the cause of freedom in places like Cuba, Belarus, and Burma — and continue to awaken the conscience of the world to save the people of Darfur.” He didn’t give any specifics. I have no need to doubt his sincerity and I don’t think his words or actions are going to be what changes things on the ground in Sudan, if Mead is right. And I think she is. So, with determination to become one of those thoughtful, committed citizens, I share what I found today.


As far as understanding the situation in Darfur, I found the United States Holocaust Memorial Museum description helpful:

Sudan’s Khartoum-based government is fueling ethnic and racial violence by using the Janjaweed militia as proxies against Darfur insurgents who launched a rebellion in early 2003. But it is civilians who are suffering. Government-sponsored actions include:

  • INFLAMING ethnic conflict
  • IMPEDING international humanitarian access, resulting in deadly conditions of life for displaced civilians
  • BOMBING civilian targets with aircraft
  • MURDERING and RAPING civilians

Darfurians who have fled the violence provide chilling testimony. One refugee told New York Times columnist Nicholas Kristof that “the Arabs want to get rid of anyone with black skin. . . . There are no blacks left [in the area I fled].”

The death toll exceeds 100,000 and may be more than 400,000. And the crisis continues—the lives of hundreds of thousands more hang in the balance today.

I also loved that the museum is working to apply the lessons we all say we learned from the Holocaust. They also have a disquieting slide show called “Staring Genocide in the Face.” Please take time to watch it.

Save Darfur.org has a post called Unity Statement that’s worth checking out for the specific things that can be done to help change things in the region, some big and some small. They also have resource packets for worship services of different faiths. In the Christian packet, there is this prayer from a Darfurian woman:

I want to join my prayers to many other voices. Every few months we are driven away from one refugee camp to the other, so far in the desert where nothing, nothing at all exists. This is no way for a human being to live. Now way to live in such a shocking place — uncultivated, waterless, treeless, and barren region. Everything is burning, Lord, around me, around us; in me, in us. Everything is barren — hell, hell. Yet, Lord, we believe you are there beside us. We pray for all the Africans living now our same condition. Bring back peace and tranquility to our beloved country. Peace which is desired by everybody, the old and young, rich and poor, women and men. Amen, amen — let it be so. (© Gloria Silvano, Sudan/CAFOD)

They also offer a sample prayer for use in our worship:

Loving God, we know there are tremendous problems facing the world — natural disasters, civil wars, violence, disparities in resources, and sickness. We confess that there are days when we look the other way, change the channel, or pretend the problems don’t exist. We say that the problem is someone else’s concern or displace the blame. We are not confident that we can make an impact and we fear failure for ourselves and on the behalf of others. We might even think that moving to make a difference will change us in ways we will not like or make us uncomfortable. Before we begin, we desire to give up on our opponents and on the victims. Forgive us for our faintheartedness and selfishness, for failing to love others as we should, and for failing to believe that you have empowered us to protect our brothers and sisters. Remind us, Holy One, that some faithful persons refused to give up on us and that You have not given up on any of us. Amen.

Sojourners also has a worship packet and includes this prayer from the United Nations:

Merciful and compassionate Spirit,
Be present to the suffering people of Sudan
Shelter the widows and the children
Comfort all who are weary and afraid
Bring relief to those who hunger and thirst
Center our thoughts with those who suffer in silence
Move us to recall our shared humanity
Unite us in our determination to respond to injustice
May we never forget! May we never forget!
Hear our prayer. Make our action swift.
Amen.

The prayers bring me to another Margaret Mead quote:

Prayer does not use up artificial energy, doesn’t burn up any fossil fuel, doesn’t pollute. Neither does song, neither does love, neither does the dance.

I don’t know what happens when I pray for Darfur. I’m not giving God any new information. I’m not casting some sort of magical spell. I’m challenged, therefore, to articulate what it is I’m praying for. After today, I’m praying to be changed, to be made uncomfortable. One of the things I’ve said about turning fifty was I felt some relief because I was coming to terms with my limitations. When I was thirty, I thought I was running out of time to change the world. At fifty, I didn’t feel that pressure any more.

I’m wrong. The call to be faithful and committed has no age limit.

Peace,
Milton

Photo is from photo essay, “In Darfur, My Camera Was Not Nearly Enough” by Brian Steidle.

reverberation

Milton Brasher-Cunningham
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2

Several experiences and conversations this week have set me to thinking about the words I both say and hear. My thoughts turned to poetry. Here is my attempt to describe some of what I am feeling.

reverberation

the air in the room is thick with left
behind words from long ago
words from last week
words we just said that took
on lives of their own as they left
our lips and our control

words we picked up off pages
things we repeat because – who knows?
words that ricochet off our shoulders
that haunt us like ghosts
that taunt us like children
that flaunt like lovers

words that break hearts
that wound friends and others
words sent to make up or make right
even though they cannot replace
those that have already cut deep
and taken residence

some dart in and out like fish
in the aquarium of conversation
some hang like wind chimes whispering
of those who talked in these rooms
before we ever stepped inside
others fly out open windows

some change between lip and ear
we don’t remember what was said
but carry away what we heard
what we thought they meant to say
we are so sure that the words
collect like pebbles in our shoes

some are familiar like home
or the curve of the one who matters most
words we say again and again
because there are no better words
I love you I love you I love you
and they shine in the dark like stars

Peace,
Milton

rag tag army

Milton Brasher-Cunningham
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3

My musings on church a couple of days ago led me to look up an old friend. When I was in seminary, someone gave me a copy of The Way of the Wolf by Martin Bell, who was described as an Episcopal priest and a private detective. The book is a series of short pieces built around theological themes. The opening story, for which I think Bell is best known, is called “Barrington Bunny” and is a beautifully sad story about what Jesus meant when he said we must lose our lives to find them. My other favorite is “The Porcupine Whose Name Didn’t Matter.”

Neither of those is the reason I went hunting for the book Sunday night. What I remembered was a small piece on the church called “Rag Tag Army.” Though soldiering has never been a metaphor that has spoken to me very much spiritually, Bell gives it a playful and meaningful turn. I never did find my copy of the book, but I did find the story on line.

Here it is:

I think God must be very old and very tired. Maybe he used to look splendid and fine in his general’s uniform, but no more. He’s been on the march a long time, you know. And look at his rag-tag little army! All he has for soldiers are you and me. Dumb little army. Listen! The drum beat isn’t even regular. Everyone is out of step. And there! You see? God keeps stopping along the way to pick up one of his tinier soldiers who decided to wander off and play with a frog, or run in a field, or whose foot got tangled in the underbrush. He’ll never get anywhere that way. And yet, the march goes on.

Do you see how the marchers have broken up into little groups? Look at that group up near the front. Now, there’s a snappy outfit. They all look pretty much alike-at least they’re in step with each other. That’s something! Only they’re not wearing their shoes. They’re carrying them in their hands. Silly little band. They won’t get far before God will have to stop again.

Or how about that other group over there? They’re all holding hands as they march. The only trouble with this is the people on each end of the line. Pretty soon they realize that one of their hands isn’t holding onto anything-one hand is reaching, empty, alone. And so they hold hands with each other, and everybody marches around in circles. The more people holding hands, the bigger the circle. And, of course, a bigger circle is deceptive because as we march along it looks like we’re going someplace, but we re not. And so God must stop again. You see what I mean? He’ll never get anywhere that way!

If God were more sensible he’d take his little army and shape them up. Why, whoever heard of a soldier stopping to romp in a field? It’s ridiculous. But even more absurd is a general who will stop the march of eternity to go and bring the soldier back. But that’s God for you. His is no endless, empty marching. He is going somewhere. His steps are deliberate and purposive. He may be old, and he may be tired. But he knows where he’s going. And he means to take every last one of his tiny soldiers with him. Only there aren’t going to be any forced marches. And, after all, there are frogs and flowers, and thorns and underbrush along the way. And even though our foreheads have been signed with the sign of the cross, we are only human. And most of us are afraid and lonely and would like to hold hands or cry or run away. And we don’t know where we are going, and we can’t seem to trust God-especially when it’s dark out and we can’t see him! And he won’t go on without us. And that’s why it’s taking so long.

Listen! The drum beat isn’t even regular. Everyone is out of step. And there! You see? God keeps stopping along the way to pick up one of his tinier soldiers who decided to wander off and play with a frog, or run in a field, or whose foot got tangled in the underbrush. He’ll never get anywhere that way!

And yet, the march goes on…

“Make a joyful noise,” said the Psalmist.
“Go and make disciples,” Jesus said.

I can’t find anywhere in scripture where Jesus – or anyone else – says we are to come together as the Body of Christ to make sense any more than we are called to make war. When he knelt in Gethsemane on the night before his death, he prayed, “Make them one.” I remember an old sermon illustration from many years ago that described a conversation between Jesus and a couple of angels after his resurrection. They were congratulating Jesus on all that he had done. One of them asked, “What’s the plan now?”

Jesus answered, “Well, the believers I left behind will tell others and they will come together in groups to worship and take care of one another.”

“Seriously? That’s your plan to save the world?” asked one of the angels.

“That’s the plan,” said Jesus.

“What’s the back up plan?” asked the other.

“There is no back up plan.”

“Uh – good plan.”

Peace,
Milton

Photo is from photo essay, “In Darfur, My Camera Was Not Nearly Enough” by Brian Steidle.

these are my peeps

Milton Brasher-Cunningham
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3

Friday and Saturday were two of the best days I’ve ever had working at the Inn. We worked hard, we worked well, and we had fun. Part of the reason things went as well as they did was we were appropriately staffed – finally. Part of it was Chef made some minor adjustments to the menu that streamlined things in a helpful way, allowing us to do an excellent job on the meals we made rather than feeling like we were stretched too thin and could do little more than just get something on the plate to send to the tables.

Part of it, for me, was I felt differently about being in the kitchen. I was there because I chose to be, not because I felt like I had to be. A big part of the reason I chose to be there was I really like the people I work with. I know I can’t really trust the owner to deal with me other than thinking of me as a commodity and I have to keep my guard up. I have been counseled to remember I don’t owe him any loyalty. I do, however, feel a sense of loyalty to Chef and the others in the kitchen, not because I think I owe it to them as much as I am choosing to make that commitment. The kitchen works because we trust each other, we support each other, and we all choose to be there. It matters to me that we share a relational connection beyond the work itself.

The creative tension between the owner’s stark business approach to life and the relational connection that pulls me to stay there in spite of him reminds me of Jesus’ advice to the disciples as he was sending them out: “I am sending you out like sheep with wolves all around you. Be wise like snakes and gentle like doves” (Matt. 10:16). Jesus used and as the conjunction rather than or, calling us to be both at the same time because life rarely offers us singular circumstances when it comes to dealing with one another. When the offer came to return to the Inn, I responded with what it would take to get me to come back, which they were willing to do. The call to wisdom means I am to remember that I’m choosing to live with a certain level of insecurity; the call to gentleness means I’m called to treat those around me as if I were going to be with them the rest of my life.

Ginger preached one of her best sermons ever today, using 1 Corinthians 12 and talking about what it means to be the Body of Christ. The way she contextualized and presented both the scripture and the sermon was an object lesson on its own: six of us read the biblical passage, the choir broke in intermittently (at Ginger’s prompting) to “They’ll Know We Are Christians By Our Love,” and she also had me throw in a couple of lines from Godspell (with finger snaps): “The eye cannot say to the hand, ‘I have no need of you.’” Her best work was when she went “off book” from her manuscript and spoke to us in the same tone I imagine Jesus delivering the words Matthew records him saying as he sent the Twelve out for the first time, which was one of loving admonition. My favorite line was, “We’ve got some of our teams (that’s what we call committees) who have some issues between them. It’s time to let that stuff go.”

After the service our Church Council met to approve the proposed budget for the coming year in preparation for our annual meeting in two weeks. The group is large – about twenty people – and is a fairly good representation of the various life perspectives in our congregation. In the two hours we were together, we painted a pretty good picture of what it means to be the Body. We worked together, we flailed about a bit, we stumbled here and there, we got frustrated, we felt a sense of accomplishment, we asked good questions, tried to give fair answers, we fussed a bit when our joints creaked, and we supported one another.

We did good work being both wise and gentle.

Church, for me, is like my job in this sense: I choose to go there. Every service I attend, every meeting I go to, every meal I help prepare I do because I choose to do so. My loyalty is not demanded; I’ve decided to be a part of this particular band of Jesus’ people. In our church covenant we say, “We welcome all, excluding none, to join us.” We did a good job incarnating those words today.

Ginger closed her sermon by telling the story of The Legend of San Lorenzo, a walled medieval city, which we learned from our friend Ken. The legend says that a group of conquerors came to the city gates of San Lorenzo and said to the inhabitants, “Bring us your riches.” The people went back inside the city walls and later returned, opening the gates and bringing out their sick and elderly, as well as those who were bruised and broken in body, mind, or spirit. They carried them lovingly and gently on their shoulders and in their arms. They said to the waiting attackers, “These are our treasures.” According to the legend, the conquerors immediately threw down their weapons and took off their armor, exclaiming, “May we come and live here? This is the city we’ve been looking for our whole lives!”

None of us knows what the days ahead may hold. This weekend, I learned again that it is both wise and gentle for me to look at those with whom I’ve chosen to spend these days and say, “These are my peeps.”

Beyond the paychecks and the institutions, that’s what matters most.

Peace,
Milton

tired, new eyes

Milton Brasher-Cunningham
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5

I’ve worked two days at the Inn since I decided to go back and have quickly realized the two weeks away lessened my capacity to work ten and eleven hour shifts. In short, I’ve come home tired, which is one of the reasons I didn’t write last night. My fortnight of forced freedom also brought some changes to my schedule I’m determined to keep even as I go back to work — namely ,I’ve been going to the gym four days a week. Both Monday and yesterday I left the house early enough to work out before I started cooking. The other, more significant activity was having time to sit with Ginger in coffee shops and read (or write). We are continuing to do that on my days off.

I’ve found a new confidence as I’ve returned to work, both in my job there and my ability to see possibilities beyond the Inn. The break helped me see some less-than-helpful patterns I had allowed myself to fall into and also gave me some time to rethink how I want to live. I was welcomed back warmly by the staff – particularly the Brazilian dishwashers. One of them saw me and said, “Good for the Red Lion Inn!”

One of the ongoing lessons (for lack of a better word) bouncing around in my head this week has to do with choices. It was far too easy to think my options could be summed up in this song.

You’re right: I just wanted a chance to post The Clash video with that wonderful opening shot of Ron Howard and his caterpillar mustache. And I have learned, once again, not only that life rarely plays out as a dichotomy, but also to remember I have choices; not always easy or even comfortable choices, but choices nonetheless. Last night, Chef asked me what my plan was, if the owner had held fast to not giving me the raise. The answer that came out was, “To do something else.”

I wasn’t being flippant. Even a two-week wage break caused anxiety at our house. And I had choices. It was up to me how I came to terms with them. It was also up to me to realize few of the choices fell into the Either/Or category. Life is complicated and nuanced and requires of us to think and feel and learn and, ultimately, choose. What we must live with are the consequences.

For instance, I’m choosing, apparently, to state the obvious in this post so far. The consequence may be that you, Dear Reader, have long since clicked away.

What I’m trying to get to is how easily we allow ourselves to feel trapped and without options. Again, I know my use of “we” should have several qualifiers. I can put it in context by saying 71% of Nigerians live on less than a dollar a day, according to Harpers’ Index. I understand I’m not speaking in universals here. And the options available to us are often wider than the field of vision we allow ourselves. Our national discourse over what to do in Iraq mirrors The Clash lyric: should we stay or should we go? Iraqi Prime Minister Nouri al-Maliki said today our troop levels could drop significantly in three to six months if we would provide the Iraqis with more weapons. Most all of our considered options have to do with violence, or the control of violence. Our government has more choices than they appear willing to engage because they are intent on focusing on our national self-interest, which means they never move out of a posture of fear and self-protection.

January and February are budget approval days in most UCC churches, which means at least some discussion of vision and intent as congregations. It also means, in many cases, that the possibilities are tempered, even hampered, by the churches’ choice to begin the discussion with how much money they think will come in during the year ahead. The field of vision is diminished automatically. When our opening question is, “How are we going to pay the bills?” we will see little beyond our own anxiety and the institution’s need for self-preservation. The question is a good one, it just shouldn’t be the first one.

The path, for me, is not so different. Ginger and I have worked hard to talk about more than our fear of how to pay the bills if I was out of work too long. Though finances have been a necessary part of the discussion, we did our best to remember what KQ pointed out a few days ago: danger and opportunity are twins in times like these. I’m grateful I was not out of work for too long and I don’t consider my return to the Inn to be the end of this particular chapter of life.

About a year and a half ago, I started seeing a spiritual director because I wanted to enter into some sort of counseling relationship, but I wanted to do more than talk about my depression, which most of my experience in therapy over the last few years had been. Those sessions were helpful, but I needed a more holistic view: I wanted to look at all of me, not just the ailing part. In the same way, I’m trying to find a view of these days that lets me see more than just my job at the Inn, or even just my job. As I make choices, I’m praying for new eyes that can see my marriage, my faith, my cooking, my writing, those poor Nigerians, and the rest of the world around me such that I’m called to consider things that don’t easily fall into view driving back and forth to Cohasset four days a week. I, too, need a call to choose beyond fear and self-preservation.

Peace,
Milton

to whom it may concern

Milton Brasher-Cunningham
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3

One of the things I’ve learned in a little over a year of blogging is how short the life expectancy of a post really is. Once it moves far enough down the page that people have to scroll to find it, it is truly an archive. So, when I woke up this morning to find a rather lengthy and incisive comment on my post, “can’t wait,” I decided to give it the spotlight so I could respond, because it really got me to thinking. Since I allow anonymous comments on my blog, I don’t know who wrote it, but here is what they had to say:

Your blog entry makes good sense and an honest point. However, I have a few objections. It seems you are trying to make your dent just as many people do and that is through talking and blogging. I don’t know anything about you or things you have done but it seems if you truly believe in the point you are making then you would be on the streets rather than blogging about those who just do things like blogging. You also seem resigned to the fact that you must just keep on waiting for the world to change rather than changing the world. It seems that as creative as you are in making your point, you are simply pointing out observations and taking part in the same do-nothing stance that you comment on. You do not even point to reasons why our culture is responding to the war in the way they are. I disagree with the statement about more people waiting for an Xbox than protesting the war. You might just be making a point in this statement but it is absurd to state that more people waited for the Xbox360 one cold December night in 2006 than have taken the streets across our nation in protest of the war since it began four years ago. I don’t buy that but at the same time realize that even though people DID take the streets, it hasn’t been enough. The way our world connects with each other and expresses mass opinion has changed. This war has not affected enough of our own people and their lifestyles as war used to. The Vietnam war killed nineteen times the amount of soldiers that our time in Iraq has. I believe that if the Iraq death toll of our own servicemen and women was to reach near 58,000 as the toll of Vietnam reached, our nation would have a much stronger uprising. If put in perspective and compared, I don’t think that the level of reaction to this war now is much to critique. The truth is there have been protests and many voices heard in opposition to the war. 70% of the nation is in opposition. The nation voted as a mandate on the war in November, kicking out many Republican because of their stance. The problem is, when the President ignores his colleagues, his generals, our elected representatives, and the voters themselves, it is hard to do much else; especially when the impact of this war on United States citizens is minimal compared to the impact previous wars have had. Sometimes when our voices become hoarse, all we CAN do is just keep on waiting, waiting for the world to change……or in this case the ’08 election…..

I’m printing the comment because I learned something from it and because I want to respond to it.

The first thing I learned (again) is ranting doesn’t create conversation. What I was hoping for in that post was some resonance with my frustration and some sharing of ideas and feelings about how we can help ourselves get off the runway, as it were. The fact that the post engendered fewer comments than most lets me know I missed my mark. in some ways, it seems my writing was the blogging equivalent of putting my fist through the wall. Hyperbole doesn’t elicit much in the way of response., other than to point out my frustration.

The second thing I learned is we, as Americans, are having a very self-focused discussion when it comes to the war in Iraq. We are upset by our troops being killed and wounded; we are worried about our oil and gas prices; the commenter said we are waiting and “it is hard to do much else; especially when the impact of this war on United States citizens is minimal compared to the impact previous wars have had.” We have not spent much time looking at how what we are doing affects the world, much less the people of Iraq.

The third thing I realized is I was writing out of a greater sense of futility than I realized at the time. The commenter said I seemed resigned to not being able to change the world. Not resigned. I feel frustrated, angry, perhaps even hopeless at times, but I am not resigned. Though I’m willing to accept the criticism that joining the host of ranting bloggers is just a step above doing nothing, I write because writing is what I have to offer. My stance may be ineffectual or less than influential, but I’m working hard to figure what to do to be a part of effective and meaningful change.

In response, I do think we as Americans are more enamored of Xbox, Tickle Me Elmo, and our SUVs than we are of significant social change because the kind of change that would alter the world is costly. From the earliest days of our republic, we talked about our inalienable rights being “life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness,” setting us on a course to set individualism above the common good. We have a hard time thinking inclusively, whether on a relational or national level. Though I was mistaken to say more people stood in line at the toy store last Christmas than took to the streets to protest the war, I also think we’ve lost sight of ourselves when we see ourselves as “consumers” rather than contributors.

There’s another element to add here: we are also a frightened people. We are living paradoxes, embodying comfort and fear side by side. What the two share in common is they lead us to isolate and insulate ourselves, as well as teaching us to resist change. We like being comfortable. I know I do. We also don’t like being afraid. To conquer the fear means to walk through the valley of the shadow, and so I write to push myself into disquietude, and hoping to find others looking to become more uncomfortable with where we now stand.

I know what the polls say. I get regular email notices from MoveOn.org and Open Democracy. I subscribe to The Nation and Harpers. I also hunt down Keith Olbermann’s “Special Comments.” There are a growing number of voices speaking up and shouting out across our country, for which I’m grateful. And we have yet to engage most folks beyond how many soldiers have died. How can we figure out a way to converse about our nation’s role in the world as a perpetrator of violence so that we do more than polarize ourselves? How do we begin to talk about leadership and government in more than shades of red and blue? How do we begin to think about engaging the world in a way other than one that requires us to wear body armor?

Thanks to whoever wrote the comment because you helped me realize I’m really waiting for me to change. I would have done better to ask questions than rant and pontificate; you’re right. At least I can say it started a conversation, even if a small one. Beyond the frustration and futility, what I want to feel least in all of this is alone. I can best do that by not allowing myself to be self-focused, to speak out, and to listen as we talk together about what to do and how to do it. That’s what I’m waiting for.

Peace,
Milton

breathing lessons

Milton Brasher-Cunningham
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5

For a mostly white congregation in the suburbs, we do a pretty good job celebrating Martin Luther King Day. It starts with a breakfast (we had fifty people this year) where we hear excerpts from King’s speeches and writings, and then a worship centered around issues of peace and social justice. Paul Nickerson, the Associate Conference Minister for Evangelism, Mission, and Justice Ministries for the Mass. Conference of the UCC, was our guest preacher. He used the texts of Abraham’s call and Jesus’ calling of the disciples to become “catchers of people” as a jumping off place for a great question:

What is God calling you to do that takes your breath away?

I’d never thought about it like that. Abraham stood under the night sky while God told him his descendants would outnumber the stars. Peter, James, and John walked away from perhaps they most profitable catch of their careers because their hearts had been captured by Jesus. They spent the rest of their lives following Jesus and trying to catch their breaths.

After church, a few of us went to see Freedom Writers, a movie based on Erin Gruwell and her experience teaching high school English in Long Beach, California. The film is well done and the story is both moving and inspiring. It also took me back to the seven years I spent teaching English in an urban high school. As different characters emerged in the movie, I heard myself saying the names of kids I saw in them. As I watched her work hard to make a relational connection with kids who had already learned from life to trust no one, I thought about some of the things I did and some of the breakthroughs I had with my students.

The problem for me was, even as I was having fun with the kids, the bureaucracy of the Boston Public Schools beat me up like a mugger in a back alley. At the same time, in ways I did not yet know how to recognize, my depression was beginning to beat me down. Then there was the grading, which I hated. Assigning grades often felt like a betrayal of the relationships I was trying to foster. Towards the end of my tenure, I used to describe how I felt by saying, “Every day while I’m in the building, part of me dies. I have from the time I leave until I go back again to resuscitate the part of me that died; the problem is I can never bring it all back to life.” After seven years in Boston and three in a suburban high school, I left teaching – even though I love working with students – because I didn’t know how to do it in a way that didn’t eat me up in the process.

As much as I love reading and writing with kids, the job didn’t take my breath away. It knocked the wind out of me. There’s a difference. And I left the movie this afternoon feeling a little guilty. The message of the movie is right: teaching is a noble calling; working with city kids is hard, meaningful, and rewarding work. On this January night in 2007, I can look back eight or ten years and see my depression had a lot to do with me leaving the classroom. I couldn’t help but think, “Maybe if I had been emotionally healthier I would still be teaching.”

Maybe not.

Another way to look at it is to see my life in chapters. For a decade, I taught high school English. I loved those days: I did good work, I helped a lot of kids and learned a lot from them, and I wore myself out. For those years, I felt called to teach. Whatever might have been, I don’t feel called to do that now. I feel called to write and cook. If that sense of calling doesn’t take my breath away, then I have not given the Spirit room to capture my imagination with possibilities. When I let myself dream about how my cooking and writing can build relationships and touch lives – and when I take time to notice the ways they have already done so, leaving me as surprised as Peter with his nets – and I understand what Paul was talking about.

And I’m still uneasy. Maybe a little unrest should inhabit our souls on a daily basis, calling us to question and wonder, not so much about what might have been, but what is. When I moved to the suburban high school, I felt guilty for leaving my kids in the city and I found a whole bunch of other kids who needed just as much care for different reasons. Neither Charlestown High nor Winchester High have closed down since I left. I did important work and life goes on without me.

Part of God’s message to Abraham on that starlight night was he was just one of the stars. His descendants might outnumber all the little lights he saw, but he was only one light that would fade and be forgotten by a fairly substantial number of those descendants. God was saying, “Right now you don’t feel like you matter. Follow my lead and you will leave a trail like a comet.” Abraham only got to see only a small percentage of his progeny, but he trusted the gasp he heard himself make out in the dark.

I had good and meaningful years as a minister and as a teacher. Somehow I breathe easier now that I am not doing either one. Both are essential and important and I’m not called to either, at least for this chapter. I am a writer and a cook. I get a little lightheaded just thinking about the possibilities.

Peace,
Milton

to believe in this living

Milton Brasher-Cunningham
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5

Several years ago, I was singing for a church banquet and came to the point in my set where I was going to sing “Angel From Montgomery,” my favorite song. I prefaced the song very simply — “I relate to this song more than any song I know” — then I started to sing:

I am an old woman named after my mother . . .

Not exactly what I meant, but I kept going. Besides, John Prine wrote the song. He must have felt the same way. Today, I feel like this woman more than any other:


Wednesday I called the Inn to tell them I would consider coming back to work if they would give me a raise. For me, it was a way for both of us to save face: they got me to come back and I got to come back with some dignity. Ginger and I got home last night a little after seven to find a message from the Inn on the answering machine telling me the owner wouldn’t go for my offer but would I come back anyway. I called back this morning to say, “No, thanks.” I meant what I said and that was that.

Twenty minutes later, the phone rang again. It was the Inn calling to say the owner had reconsidered and would give me the raise. Please come back. I told them I would think about it. A couple of hours later, I called back again and told them I would be there on Monday. When I went upstairs to check email, I found this note from Gordon who said Blogger had not allowed him to leave it as a comment on “The Next Voice You Hear,” so he sent it straight to me:

Let me begin by saying that I’m sure you’ve already thought of what I’m about to write. I’m not writing it in the spirit of instruction, but more as an affirmation to something that perhaps is already running through your mind.

I’d like to suggest that this new development with The Inn is not an all or nothing situation. It’s not a choice between swallowing your pride and your values and going back to work for the devil, or doing the right thing and telling them to go to hell.

You have now learned something about this place or at least about the owner. You can’t trust him or them (whichever it is). You certainly don’t owe them any more loyalty than they have given you. So perhaps you go back to work for the money, which is an honest reason to work. Many people work in places they don’t like in order to put food on the table. Heck, that’s even a heroic thing to do. I mean, it’s not as though you’re work is hurting children or something like that. You just know that this place cannot be trusted.

But now you can start looking for something new. Perhaps a new restaurant will become available in a few weeks or months. When you find the new thing that is right for you, you say goodbye to The Inn and hello to the next chapter of your life. You give them whatever notice seems right to you, but you don’t spend any time worrying about how they will get along without you.

Perhaps this new development is bit of grace in a hard situation. Just enough grace to get you to the next place.

Enough grace to get to the next place. I like that.

In the past two weeks, the shake up in my life and schedule has given me a chance to see my life from a new perspective, forcing me to look anew at my job, my passions, my time, and our money. I’ve made it to the gym four times a week – enough for it to feel like part of my regular routine. Ginger and I both have worked hard to pay close attention to every penny we spend, not knowing how long I would be out of work. Thanks to words of encouragement and support from several folks, I’ve seen new possibilities for my writing and my cooking. I even made cold calls at a couple of restaurants where I would like to work that may prove promising later on. Standing up for myself on the salary front is new ground for me as well.

Though I am going back to the same place, I’m not the same going back and I’m not going back to the same thing, mostly because I have a different sense of myself. This gut check has made me more sure that the two things I love and want most to do in my life are write and cook (and probably in that order). I’ve also learned, as Gordon said, that choosing to return, in part, because I need the money is not a bad thing. I understand the ground rules at the Inn; I also understand there’s a larger world out there.

The final verse and chorus of “Angel From Montgomery” say

there’s flies in the kitchen, I can hear ‘em a buzzin’
and I ain’t done nothin’ since I woke up today
how the hell can a person go to work every morning
and come home every evening and have nothing to say?

make me an angel that flies from Montgomery
make me a poster of an old rodeo
just give me one thing I can hold on to
to believe in this living is just a hard way to go

What I learned – again – this week is believing in this living doesn’t happen because of a job or a paycheck, but because I don’t let myself believe I have nothing to say. I learned – again — that love and grace are not bound by circumstance. I learned – again – to be thankful that I have choices. I learned – again – that I am rich when it comes to friends and family.

All of that adds up to enough grace to get to the next place.

Peace,
Milton

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