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salted caramel chocolate chip cookies

Milton Brasher-Cunningham
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salted caramel chocolate chip cookies

Tonight’s post is a continuation of my occasional series, “Cookies with Stories.”

As I have mentioned more than once most of my recipes come from my cookie-baking days in Durham, North Carolina. Tonight’s cookie is the first one with a Guilford story attached to it.

We moved to Connecticut for Ginger to become co-pastor of the First Congregational Church of Guilford UCC. Her pastoral partner was Sarah, who was quite enamored of my cookie business. I forget the occasion, but I was going to bake cookies for her and I asked what her favorite cookie was. She said she wanted a salted caramel chocolate chip cookie. I took on the challenge.

The biggest challenge was finding caramel pieces. The traditional Kraft caramels are too big and they are individually wrapped, which is a pain. After searching the internet, I found that Kraft makes Caramel Bits, but they are hard to find. Around these parts, Target is the only place that has them consistently (yes, I have made these with some regularity). The closest Target is about twelve miles from Guilford, so these are a labor of love, but I have also learned to buy several packages so that I have them on hand when I want to make these cookies.

The base of this recipe is my chocolate chip cookie recipe. I will put a note at the bottom that tells you how to adjust the recipe if you just want to make those.

salted caramel chocolate chip cookies

1 cup butter, softened
2 cups brown sugar
2 eggs
2 teaspoons vanilla
2 3/4 cups flour (15 oz, of King Arthur)
1 tablespoon sea salt
1 teaspoon baking powder
1 1/2 teaspoons baking soda
18 oz. chocolate chips
11 oz, Kraft Caramel Bits (1 package)
sea salt for sprinkling

Preheat the oven to 375°.

In a stand mixer, beat the butter and brown sugar until light and fluffy–about seven or eight minutes. Add the eggs and vanilla and mix until they are well combined.

In a separate bowl combine the flour, sea salt, baking powder, and baking soda. Whisk to make sure everything is well mixed and then add the dry mixture to the butter-sugar mixture and turn the stand mixer on medium. When it is about halfway mixed, add the chocolate chips and caramel bits and mix until the dough comes together.

Use and 2 oz. scoop to place the cookies on a parchment-lined baking sheet. Generously sprinkle the tops of the cookies with sea salt. Bake for 12-14 minutes. Makes about four dozen cookies.

NOTE: If you want to make sea-salted chocolate chip cookies, just leave out the caramel bits. If you want straight up chocolate chip cookies, leave out the caramel, reduce the salt in the recipe to 3/4 teaspoon, and don’t sprinkle salt on them.

Peace,
Milton

what matters most?

Milton Brasher-Cunningham
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1
what matters most?

My family and I left Africa for good on my sixteenth birthday. I turned one somewhere in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean on our way to Africa, so there was some poetry in our departure, but it was hard on all of us. We all thought we were going to be in Africa for many more years.

About a month before we left, my mother sat down with my brother and I and said, “When we get to America, life is going to be very different. So I want you to think about what matters to you about our life here and what you want us to make sure we keep doing together.”

Both my brother and I said what mattered most was eating together. Our family ate breakfast and supper together almost everyday.

When we settled into our new life in Houston, eating breakfast together was not so hard to manage, but dinner was another story. My brother was a better athlete; I was more inclined to the musicals and choirs. Some nights we ate late after his practice, other nights we ate early before rehearsals, but we ate together because it mattered to us.

During my twenties, when my parents and I struggled to connect, the mornings and evenings around the table were a profound memory for me. Somewhere in my late thirties, when my mother and I were reflecting on those more difficult days, she said, “There were days we hung up the phone and I thought I might not ever hear from you again.”

“That never crossed my mind,” I said. “We had eaten together too many times for me to be able to walk away.”

Even though we have no idea when this particular stage of our life together is going to be over, I hear more and more discussion about when we will “be open” again. Sometimes it is phrased as “getting back to normal,” though I think very few of us actually think that is what will happen. We can’t go back to life before Covid-19 anymore than we can go back to life before 9/11. But we will not always be where we are right now.

For all the difficulty–and it has been difficult–the break in our routines has given us the chance to see our lives from a new perspective. I have read the stories about how many people have gotten new puppies because they have the time to train them. I have found new life in getting up early before everyone else and reading, writing, and praying–new ground for an extrovert. I have loved that Ginger is home in the evenings rather than spending twelve to fifteen nights a month at church committee meetings.

In these days, I hear my mother’s question with a new relevance: “When we get beyond these days, life will be very different. What matters to you about life right now that you want to keep doing when life ramps back up?”

The question begs to be answered on a systemic level and a personal one. For “the greatest economy in the world” to come a part at the seams in a matter of a couple of weeks should be irrefutable evidence that a greed-fueled economy is not sustainable. And I want to figure out how to keep getting up to read, write, and pray. I also want to eat dinner with Ginger every night.

These waiting room days are a gift. We have a chance to move into the days ahead with intentionality. We can break normal into a million beautiful pieces. We can put ourselves back together again in a way that actually includes us all.

What matters most to you?

Peace,
Milton

the wheels are still turning

Milton Brasher-Cunningham
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3
the wheels are still turning

It has been my practice over the last several years to sort of disappear from these pages after Lent. My absence has never been intentional, but it has been consistent. As the reality of our unfortunate isolation became more apparent, I decided several week ago that I would keep writing every night on beyond Easter, which is still my intention. I just needed a couple of days off to sleep and listen to a lot of John Prine songs. That said, I will do my best to meet you here in the days to come.

One of the illusions of human existence is that of discovery. Rarely in human history has anything actually been discovered–as in seen for the first time ever. More often, what is deemed a discovery is nothing more than a new awareness on the part of the one who claims to be the discoverer. The reality is, as the writer of Ecclesiastes wrote centuries ago, there is nothing new under the sun. If we are willing to take an honest look at how we “discover,” we will find a relational trail that lead us to whatever newness has surprised us.

I don’t remember tonight who pointed me to David Whyte, but his book Consolations is rich nourishment–perhaps even more so the second time through. I started a new book–new to me–called A Tragic Sense of Life. It is written by Spanish essayist, poet, playwright, philosopher, novelist, professor, and obvious underachiever, Miguel de Unamuno, who lived about a century ago. I was introduced to him by Miguel De La Torre, who was introduced to me by Phil Snider, an author and Disciples pastor whom I met years ago at the inaugural Wild Goose Festival.

I have been given much; I have discovered nothing.

Sometimes we begin to see things we have not before because someone or something raises our awareness. I have written before about red bicycles and how they are my go-to metaphor for this phenomenon. If someone asks you if you have seen any red bicycles, you may answer no, but their question will give you eyes to see them all around you.

Early on in Lent, I wrote about the specificity of compassion (thanks to something I read in Pádraig Ó Tuama). I was talking about the stimulus bill and I said, “We do not need to stimulate an abstraction (the economy), we need to help people.” The contrast of abstraction and specificity has been my red bicycle, and I saw one again this morning in Whyte and then again in the opening chapter of Unamuno.

Whyte’s word for me today was giving, which he said was “looking for the imaginative doorway that says I know you and see you and this is how I give thanks for you.” A couple of paragraphs later he said, “Giving means paying attention.”

Hold those words and listen to Unamuno, a philosopher who is not particularly enamored of philosophers–particularly Western ones because of their fascination with abstractions.

We all lack something, only some of us feel it and others do not.

And I am convinced that we should solve many things if we all went out into the streets and uncovered our griefs, which perhaps would prove to be one sole common grief, and joined together in beweeping them and crying aloud to the heavens and calling for God.

It is not enough to cure the plague: we must learn to weep for it. Yes, we must learn to weep! Perhaps that is the supreme vision.

One of the ongoing conversations Ginger and I have centers around preaching. Recently we have been talking about the contrast between those who preach like lecturers and those who preach like storytellers. I will admit my preference is for the latter–and the reason is their attention to detail. A good story is filled with details. Even as sparse as the gospels are, they offer details that connect us to the story in ways, perhaps, we don’t even see at first. Unamuno might say that the lecturer deals in ideas–abstractions–and the storyteller communicates in specifics–humanity.

I am not moved by the idea of dinner or the theory of cooking, but by the hands-on preparation and presentation of the meal to those for whom I have cooked. My gift of a meal is attached to a person. Someone specific. I don’t cook things in general and then decide who needs to eat them. It works better the other way around.

I don’t cook with onions in our house (scallions, chives, leeks, onions, shallots) because Ginger is allergic to them. I love onions. I love Ginger more. I have no need for an abstract discussion about the meaning of sacrifice or attachment. I love Ginger. Onions hurt her. I don’t cook with onions. That is one of the ways I give thanks for her.

Working in the garden alongside of Tom and the others is my specific response to climate change, and to people I know who need food and cannot afford it. I can’t do much about pollution or policy, and I am not much of a scientist, but I can plant tomatoes and cabbage and zucchini. I can weed and till.

I can’t deal with everyone’s isolation, but I can hear the song of our common grief and find ways to say to those around me, “I know you and I see you.” I can weep with them. And make soup and cookies.

Lent has come and gone, the stone has been rolled away, and I am still riding the same red bicycle: we are all connected. Yet, with each turn of the wheels I am learning (again) that the choir of our common grief is larger than I ever imagined.

Peace,
Milton

lenten journal: still saturday

Milton Brasher-Cunningham
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1
lenten journal: still saturday

A Holy Saturday Christian.

I learned the term from Wil Gafney, an Episcopal priest and Hebrew Bible Scholar who teaches at Brite Divinity School in Fort Worth. In a “pastoral letter” she wrote to her students after they had dealt with particularly violent biblical texts she said,

I am a Holy Saturday preacher. I wake in the aftermath – if I have slept – to the knowledge that the Beloved is still dead. And I take comfort in the God who is and has said I AM with you. And I rail and scream and curse at God knowing God hears and is there with me to hear. And I try to sleep one more night to see if it will be easier the next day.

And that is where the sermon ends. It is still too soon to talk about resurrection. But God-with-us sits in her chair grieving with us. Waiting with us, walking with us as we make our way through and make sense of our grief.

As I continue to figure out how to live through these days, I am mindful that the loss of control, sense of isolation, lack of government support, and general uncertainty that are all new to me, at least at the extreme I am living with them, are not new to a large number of people in our country who live at the margins without the effects of the pandemic. For me to say now that Holy Saturday has new meaning is also to say I am aware that there are generations of people whose lives have been nothing but Holy Saturday, as Gafney described.

Often, when we talk about the Realm of God, as in Jesus saying, “The realm of God is among you,” we say things like, “It is both now and not yet,” which is one of those statements like, “The arc of history is long but it bends towards justice.” What comfort we find in them depends on how close we feel to the redeeming end of the arc. For most folks, life feels like we will not be here to get all the way around the bend to the not yet.

Life is, perhaps, more like Holy Saturday than any other day. We hold the promise of the Resurrection, but we live in the middle of the grief.

The irony of this post is most of you will read it on Easter. Actually, thanks to Facebook’s algorithmic distancing, many of you won’t even see it until Tuesday or Wednesday. Easter will have come and gone. And we will still be wearing masks and staying home and doing our best to help the businesses around us keep going. We will keep watching the numbers everyday and hoping that death from the virus doesn’t hit too close. We will keep asking in our own way, “How long, O Lord ?”

Even after Mary saw Jesus in the graveyard and then the others saw the angel in the tomb, those who followed Jesus were not freed from their grief. They were still huddled in the Upper Room with the door bolted from the inside. Even though they had seen Jesus, they feared for their lives. They didn’t know what would happen. He was alive, but that didn’t fix everything. They, too, were stuck in Holy Saturday though they didn’t know to call it that.

I trust that love is stronger than death. I trust that nothing can separate us from the love of God. Nothing. But that doesn’t mean that all that stuff that can’t separate us will leave us unscathed. But, as Wil said, God sits with us and grieves with us. The way we learn to trust that truth is by sitting and grieving with one another.

Alleluia.

Peace,
Milton

lenten journal: photograph

Milton Brasher-Cunningham
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lenten journal: photograph

photograph

one of the photographs of Jesus
I keep in the wallet of my mind
is of him looking out over Jerusalem.

the sun is burning the last bits of
Judean blue out of the Palestinian
sky, making room for the night.

the long reaches of the last light
catch the tears running down his face
O, that I could gather you up, he says . . .

I pulled the picture out tonight
because I wish we could be gathered
rather than making a verb out of distance

the gospel accounts would have me think
that I possess a one-of-a-kind-photo:
“Jesus Grieves over the Holy City”

but when I pull down the albums
of my heart to find my friends and
see the grief harbored in their hearts,

I know it could have been taken
on any one of the nights he walked
the earth, at most any sunset.

sorrow and love mingle down all
the days and across the distance
my favorite picture of us

Peace,
Milton

pasta frittata

Milton Brasher-Cunningham
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1
pasta frittata

Order an entree from an Italian restaurant in New England and it will come with a side of pasta.

I don’t mean the entree will be served over pasta. That’s a pasta dish. I mean any entree comes with a side of pasta. Night before last, we ordered from Centro Pizza, one of our regular haunts here in Guilford. Ginger got her usual, Tri-colored Tortellini with Alfredo Sauce, and I ordered a dish I had not had before, Chicken Breast Rollatini, which was a flattened chicken breast rolled and stuffed with spinach, mozzarella, and gorgonzola, with a mushroom sauce. My side of pasta–spaghetti with tomato sauce–was in a separate container. Because I didn’t want to forget the taste of the mushroom sauce and it was way too much food for one sitting, I put the pasta in the fridge to be a part of a meal to be named later.

One of the things I learned how to make soon after we moved to Boston almost thirty years ago was a frittata, which is an Italian word that ought to mean “here’s what we did with the leftovers.” Some people describe it as an Italian omelet, but I think that sells it short. The name comes from the Italian verb friggere, which means “to fry.” Another etymology says it means something like a mess, or even someone who is a little bit unhinged.

When I stumbled across this recipe for a Pasta Frittata, it seemed just crazy enough to work. Now, to say “recipe for a frittata” is a bit of a stretch. Yes, this is one, but once you get the hang of it you can make a frittata out of whatever is in your fridge and some eggs. You beat the eggs, add the stuff, oil a pan, start it cooking, throw it in the oven, and frittata!

But I am getting ahead of myself.

pasta frittata

6 eggs, beaten
1 cup fresh grated Parmesan cheese
1/2 pound leftover spaghetti*
1/4 cup crumbled sausage, cooked
salt and pepper, or other spices
2 tablespoons butter or extra virgin olive oil

Preheat oven to 350°.

Beat the eggs in a large bowl. Add the cheese. Chop up the leftover pasta. Since mine already had the sauce mixed in, I left it that way. Add the pasta and the sausage to the egg and cheese mixture.

Heat a large nonstick ovenproof 10-inch skillet to medium high and melt butter or oil. Pour the egg mixture into the skillet and turn the heat down to medium-low. You can even out top of frittata with a spatula or spoon. Let it cook on the stovetop until the mixture begins to firm up around the edges and then transfer it to the oven. Bake just until top is set, about 10 or 12 minutes. Remove, and serve it hot or at room temperature.

It also makes for pretty good leftovers.

*NOTE: The recipe I found also gave instructions for cooking pasta to make a frittata. Cook 1/4 pound of linguine, fettuccine or other long pasta. Bring a large pot of water to a boil, and salt it. Cook pasta until barely tender, somewhat short of where you would normally cook it. Drain, and immediately toss it in a wide bowl with 2 tablespoons the butter or oil (which would bring the total for the recipe to 4). Cool it a bit. The recipe also gave instructions if you wanted to add bacon or pancetta that had not been cooked: If you are using meat, add it, and cook, stirring occasionally until crisp, 3 to 5 minutes.

Now I’m hungry again.

Peace,
Milton

lenten journal: we don’t need another hero

Milton Brasher-Cunningham
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1
lenten journal: we don’t need another hero

The subtitle to David Whyte’s book Consolations gives me a smile most every morning as I turn to my word for the day:

The Solace, Nourishment and Underlying Meaning of Everyday Words,

because the words are anything but everyday it seems to me.

(I have to say, parenthetically, that as great as his writing is, it bothers the hell out of me that he doesn’t use the Oxford Comma. But I digress . . .)

Today’s word was destiny. I don’t think of that as an everyday word; it’s a mythic word. And yet, when he defines (describes?) it, the word finds a quotidian home.

When we choose between these two poles, of mythic triumph or fated failure, we may miss the everyday conversational essence of destiny: our future influenced by the very way we hold the conversation of life itself, never mind any actions we might take or neglect to take. . . .

We are shaped by our shaping of the world and are shaped again in turn.

I can’t think of the word myth without thinking of Joseph Campbell and The Power of Myth. He changed the way I understood the word. Myth wasn’t make believe, it was archetypal story–the stuff civilizations are made of. One of the things he talked about was the monomyth of the hero’s journey, where the hero goes on an adventure, wins a victory in a decisive crisis, and then comes home changed or transformed. Jesus is one of the “heroes” he identifies.

I wonder about that.

Set your atonement theology aside for a minute and think about it. The crowd that waved palm branches was in full Bonnie Tyler mode, looking for a hero, as was Judas. And yes, Jesus did his share of healing, but after almost every instance he implored people not to go tell anyone. He kept saying things like, “The realm of God is among you, within you,” and. “You are the light of the world,” not, “Aren’t I the bomb?”

Heroes make for good fiction. I love Atticus Finch as much as the next person. But the truest way we can tell our story is to not make ourselves the hero. From a literary standpoint, the one who tells the story is the narrator, not the hero, nor the protagonist. One of the first things you learn when you study fiction is that first person narrators are notoriously unreliable, but when it comes to the stories of our lives, that’s all we have.

The Rumi couplet that hung with me from Melody Moezzi was

Your wounds may summon the light hereto
But this sacred light does not come for you

The best autobiographies are the ones who know the sacred light is not for them, primarily. They write about what they have learned, or the grace they have found, but not how they saved the world. Self-congratulation, whether fiction, biography, or real life–is not particularly helpful.

We often think we are looking for heroes, but we are really looking for each other. We don’t need to be saved as much as we need to belong, to be included. Rumi, again.

The faithful are mirrors for one another.

I’m not saying we shouldn’t have our moments in the sun, or that it isn’t fun or meaningful to be recognized for good work, or that we cannot bask in our accomplishments. I am saying those things are not the heart of the story. To be the hero is to separate ourselves. To be something other than fully human. The heroes ride off into the sunset; everyone else stays together and keeps on telling the story.

The word heroic gets thrown around a lot these days, often as a way to honor those in health care who risk their lives, which i most certainly want to do. But these folks aren’t riding off into the sunset. They keep showing up. They keep staying at the hospitals so their families are not endangered. They keep caring and doing and loving like human beings, not heroes. They are telling the story of who we are and who we are meant to be. Who we are made to be.

When the apostle Paul described Jesus, he said that Jesus “did not see equality with God as something to be grasped” and so he poured himself into his humanity, not to be a hero but to be one of us. He mirrors the best of who we were made to be. His light was to highlight how we are built to illuminate the world for one another. We are saved when we, like him, immerse ourselves in all the humanity we can find.

Tina Turner was right: we don’t need another hero. We need one another to show up and be us. We won’t ride off. We’ll just watch the sunset together.

Peace,
Milton

lenten journal: seasoned response

Milton Brasher-Cunningham
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4
lenten journal: seasoned response

Spring never comes soon enough in New England or, perhaps I should say, it takes a long time to get here. It teases us in early April, as it did for the last two or three beautiful, crisp, sunlit days, but then come mornings like the one we woke up to that are cold and grey and rainy and make the budding trees look like guests dressed for a costume party only to find out they had been invited to a wake. It’s one thing to live through days like these in early April; it’s another thing to face them in early or even mid-May.

Spring never comes soon enough in New England.

Despair was the word David Whyte unpacked in my reading this morning, and he spoke of it as a season.

Despair is a difficult, beautiful necessary, a binding understanding between human beings caught in a fierce and difficult world where half of our experience is mediated by loss, but it is a season, a waveform passing through the body, not a prison surrounding us. A season left to itself will always move, however slowly, under its own patience, power, and volition.

To let the seasons turn, whether winter or despair, in their own “patience, power, and volition” is easier said than done. Covid-19 is an unexpected season in our lives, with less indication of when it will finally turn than our endless winter. When it comes to waiting on spring, at least I know I’ll get to plant vegetables by Memorial Day.

How, then, do we let this season pass under its own patience as we sit together all alone?

The other book I am reading is The Rumi Presciption: How an Ancient Mystic Poet Changed My Modern Manic Life by Melody Moezzi. Her word today was distraction. She started the chapter with a couplet from Ruminator:

love has not business with the five and six
only upon the Beloved are the true lover’s eyes fixed

She explained that “the five and six” was Rumi’s own shorthand for the distractions of the world: the five senses and the six directions (north, south, east, west, up, and down). Though she wrote the book long before we ever began to come to terms with the virus, she wrote something that has deep resonance for these days:

Never has it been so easy to forget what questions we were asking in the first place.

Distraction pulls us into an artificial world of incessant crisis and endless obligations. Whyte says despair can only stay “beyond its appointed time through the forced artificiality of created distance.” Perhaps created distance and physical distancing do not have to be synonymous. Perhaps, as many are beginning to note, we would do well to realize the goal does not need to be go back to life the way it was.

We can give ourselves room–space, distance, perspective–to remember the real questions we wanted to ask of life, or ourselves, of each other.

Since the forecast was for rain last night, I spent a couple of hours of my late afternoon in the garden, tilling beds, marking beds, and sifting compost. I may not be able to hasten the season, but I can prepare for it. Tom, my gardening buddy, was planting things that are undaunted by April in Connecticut: spinach, carrots, cabbage, kale, snap peas, parsnips. In the middle of Holy Week we were plotting a resurrection that will drag on all summer long.

When he and I met with four or five other folks who were interested in being a part of our gardening team earlier in the year, Tom offered four “Garden Goals.”

1. Pay attention.
2. Treat plants like people.
3. Don’t step on the beds.
4. Don’t forget Number 1.

I had finished writing last night when I got a text from a friend saying John Prine had died. I was on the phone with my friend Kenny with whom I have shared a love of music for thirty years. I finished talking to him and came down to tell Ginger. “Play something,” she said, so I got out my guitar and played “Angel from Montgomery,” which is my favorite song.

As I was reading about distraction and despair this morning, and thinking about how we stay attentive to the changing seasons, I could hear Prine songs in my head that all spoke to how we live through this season of despair and distance.

you know that old trees just grow stronger
and old rivers grow wider everyday
but old people just grow lonesome
waiting for someone to say
hello in there–hello

come on home, come on home
no you don’t have to be alone,
just come on home.

surround me with your boundless love
confound me with your boundless love
I was drowning in the sea, lost as I could be
when you found me with your boundless love
you dumbfound me with your boundless love
you surround me with your boundless love

Medieval poets, gone-too-soon folksingers, and brave new seedlings are all singing the same seasoned response. Let’s sing along.

Peace,
Milton

lenten journal: a bite-sized life

Milton Brasher-Cunningham
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8
lenten journal: a bite-sized life

One of the most magnificent failures of my life was as a church planter in Boston.

Ginger and I moved to Charlestown, Massachusetts a few months after we married to try and start a church there. We worked hard at it and we had no idea what we were doing. Two or three years in, we had what is now the second worst winter on record in Boston (twelve blizzards!), and when it was over the Bible study group that held the promise of becoming a church was nonexistent.

I got a job as a substitute teacher at Charlestown High School because I needed to do something to make money and teaching seemed like worthy work. Ginger was already holding down two jobs as part-time youth minister and the First Congregational Church of Winchester, Massachusetts and as a chaplain for the Visiting Nurse Association in Stoneham.

What started as a sub job turned into something more permanent. About two weeks into the school year, one of the English teachers went out on long-term disability and I ended up with his classes. The chance to teach set me on a path to get my certification, which meant I had to go back to school for a teaching certificate, first, and then a Masters in English. I kept teaching full time through all of it.

Each of the four semesters of my Masters, I took two seminars alongside of the five classes I was teaching. I left as soon as school was out, caught the 93 bus to Downtown Crossing, cut over to the Red Line at Park Street, rode out to the JFK/UMass stop, and then rode the shuttle to class at UMass/Boston. At night, I did what I had to get ready to teach. On the weekends, I read for my seminars. As each semester began, I would say to Ginger, “I can do anything for twelve weeks, right?”

Part of the reason I could live with the stress was that I could see when it would end. I knew why I was doing it and I knew it would be over. I wouldn’t have to live that way forever.

When my father died, I experienced a grief I had never known before. I also experienced a new reality in my life: my father was dead. I would live the rest of my life without him. That was not going to change. There was nothing to life through, only a grief to live with.

A friend who was farther down the road of grief than I was gave me a helpful word. “Chop up the day into bite-sized pieces. Pieces you can digest. If all you can take in is the next fifteen minutes, then just live through the next fifteen minutes, and then live through the fifteen minutes after that.”

Their words were life-giving

It seems to me that these days hold some of both scenarios. At some level, we know life will not always require of us to be physically distant and confined to our homes except for the necessities. We will not always have to fear being gathered too close or touching someone. At the same time, we don’t know when that ending will come. And, as each day passes, the pandemic gets more personal. I know people who have, or have had the virus. I have yet to experience the death of someone in my immediate circle, which means I am fortunate. Though life in the time of Corona will have some sort of ending, we have no idea when it is, and so the grief feels like a stretch of open road that we are required to travel.

Both scenarios call us to cut life into pieces we can digest. I get up in the morning to read and journal before I start work, which is also reading. Around 10:30 or 11, I take a walk. The next marker on my schedule is a phone meeting with my colleagues to check in around 1:30. Four o’clock has become nap time, then another walk, dinner, another walk with the pups, and then writing again before I go to bed. Like my days in graduate school, I chop the days into pieces small enough to see my way through; like the grief after my father died, I hope the days into pieces small enough to see my way through.

Hear me clearly: I am not saying I have a handle on this, by any means. I am chopping the day into bite-sized bits to try and create a reasonable social distance between me and my depression. I have days when, as I said to Ginger, I don’t feel like I am depressed; I am deteriorating. And then there are hours in the afternoon, like today, when I dug garden beds in the evening sunlight and felt, briefly, whole. Most days, I live with a persistent disquietude–something I can see on the faces of most everyone I meet, even from six feet away.

Life will go on beyond this crisis. What life will look like, I don’t know. When we get past this part of the pandemic, thousand of people will have died, millions of people will have lost their jobs, and the world, as we know it, will be different. We are not walking towards a happy ending. We don’t have a great deal we can be sure of, other than we can take care of each other. Whatever life looks like on the other side, it is worth it to keep going. Together. That we know things will not always be like this means we have reason to hope.

That’s all I’ve got.

Peace,
Milton

lenten journal: figs and feasts

Milton Brasher-Cunningham
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lenten journal: figs and feasts

We mark the days of Holy Week as though Jesus was on a schedule that culminated in his execution on Good Friday. We give ourselves one or two things to think about each day and then move on to the next.

John wrote that if he had written down everything that happened in Jesus’ life the world would not have been able to contain the books. Though John’s sense of the world was much smaller than ours, it still seems a rather outlandish statement about someone who was killed at thirty-three.

I was in Memphis in February with a group from our church on our annual Civil Rights History Tour. As we came out of the National Civil Rights Museum housed in what once was the Lorraine Motel, I remarked to Ginger that I wondered what our nation might have been like had King, Malcolm X, and Robert Kennedy all lived to be old men. King was already moving to an emphatic denouncement of the Vietnam War. Kennedy shared much of King’s vision for equality and inclusion. Malcolm was going through his own changes and had so much to say.

But all we have are what they did in their short lives and what they wrote and said.

The world loses when people’s lives are cut short. I can think of several friends who lost not just loved ones but those they loved the most. Their lives were drastically changed. Their story has never been the same. Part of the impact of the pandemic will be many of us will have to learn this truth over and over.

Jesus didn’t come to teach us how to burn out, or to see how quickly we could get ourselves killed. Sometimes the way we read the story of Jesus’ life makes it sound like he was the embodiment of Edna St. Vincent Milay’s poem “First Fig.”

My candle burns at both ends
It will not last the night;
But ah, my foes, and oh, my friends –
It gives a lovely light.

What if Jesus had had a chance to grow old? What more would we have learned about what it means to be fully human?

It is hard to believe that the one who preached the Sermon on the Mount and healed people with a word or a touch had done and said everything he had to do or say in his early thirties. What sermons did we miss because the Romans wanted him dead?

I remember someone talking aboutDietrich Bonhoeffer and saying that people of varying theological perspectives ally with him because he died before he had a chance to say everything he had to say. I don’t know that any of us get to say everything, but I wonder if we couldn’t say the same thing about Jesus.

On this Holy Monday, as we call it liturgically, the story we tell about Jesus is that he cursed a fig tree for not bearing fruit. Some traditions read the story of Jesus “cleansing the Temple” (talk about your polite euphemisms) on this day as well. We might do better to lean into the blues and call it Stormy Monday, but we never really get to know what Jesus had on his mind.

What would we have learned about Jesus, and about ourselves, had he lived long enough to bury more friends than just Lazarus, to visit Jerusalem for more than a Passover or three, to share more experiences with his disciples than a handful of seasons on the Sea of Galilee?

Stanley Kunitz is a poet who lived a long time. Late in his life, he wrote a poem called “The Layers,” part of which says,

When I look behind,
as I am compelled to look
before I can gather strength
to proceed on my journey,
I see the milestones dwindling
toward the horizon
and the slow fires trailing
from the abandoned camp-sites,
over which scavenger angels
wheel on heavy wings.
Oh, I have made myself a tribe
out of my true affections,
and my tribe is scattered!
How shall the heart be reconciled
to its feast of losses?

As we work our way through our schedule to the Last Supper, I wonder what our lives and our faith would be like had we gotten to share in a larger feast of losses with Jesus.

Peace,
Milton

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