THE SPIRITUAL GIFTS OF AGING [R, 4-16-26]

CHRIST IN WINTER: The Irrelevant Musings of An Old Preacher—THE SPIRITUAL GIFTS OF AGING [R, 4-16-26]

 

Danny called the other day. I’ve known him since he came to IL State U as a freshman, when I was the campus minister there. That was 60 years ago. You know you’re old when all your former students are retired.

Danny and I have been through a lot together over these 60 years, a special bond in many ways, even though we also have some significant differences. Those differences are important, but not enough to keep us from loving and affirming each other…and enjoying conversations about our past times together.

Also, conversations about our current dilemma as old retired preachers. How do you continue to answer “the call” when your eyes and ears and voice and feet all want to do something else?

Danny says that he is learning to use the spiritual gift of loitering. He just hangs around in spots where it looks like someone might need a hand. It’s the old person’s form of “going to the highways and the byways and compelling them to come in.”

I think he can do that because he’s still a junior in the aging process.

His wife says that the aging process is like being in school…you’re a sophomore and then a junior and finally a senior…until you graduate. Sociologists usually use different designations, like new old and middle old and old old. I think Carol’s classification is better, though. We can all understand it. We’ve all been to school.

In this school of life, when you commence, you don’t get a mortar board and gown. You get shoes and a robe to do some walking. “I got shoes, you got shoes…”

I think I’ll add the freshman year to that taxonomy. Aging usually starts with a somewhat confusing transition. Most of us have an adjustment process when we’re not sure yet if we’re ageing, or how to do it.

In fact, some of us are never sure that we’re aging. All these retired “children,” now in their frosh-senior years of ageing instead of those same years in college, remind me that I still have the same needs and desires I’ve always had—love, friendship, baseball, pie…

Like almost every other old person, I don’t feel like I’m old. Yes, in my body, but not in my spirit. However, seeing all these young people act like they are old, it makes me know that I am old, regardless of how I feel.

I’m not sure that loitering is one of my spiritual gifts as I begin my senior year of aging. It’s a little too active for me. If I stand too long, or start walking too quickly, I’m inclined to fall over. Hmm… maybe that’s my new spiritual gift, falling over. Then folks have the satisfaction of helping me up.

It’s always a spiritual gift to help someone up when they’ve fallen. Also, to let someone help you up when you have fallen.

John Robert McFarland

CONSEQUENCES [T, 4-14-26]

CHRIST IN WINTER: The Irrelevant Reminiscences of An Old Trouble Maker—CONSEQUENCES [T, 4-14-26]

 

It was a District clergy meeting. By chance, I was sitting beside the pastor of the biggest church [almost 7000 members] not just in the District or the Conference but in the Jurisdiction [9 states]. I introduced myself.

“Oh, I’ve heard of you. You’re the trouble maker they’re all afraid of.”

He obviously had me confused with someone else. Afraid of? Me? Who could be afraid of me? And trouble? The last thing I wanted was trouble. I liked to tell jokes and stories. I wanted everybody to like me. I wanted to be successful. You don’t get to be successful if folks are scared of you..

“Yes, scared to death of you.” He chuckled a little. “They have no idea what you’ll do next.”

I guess that made sense, since I had no idea what I’d do next.

It did not make sense, though, for anyone to be afraid of me. I was only two years out of seminary, not yet 30 years old, just a campus minister, the lowliest of the low, not even considered to be a real preacher, because I was just “a student worker.” [We hadn’t yet gotten around to saying “campus ministry” instead of “student work.”]

“But who’s scared of me?”

“The Bishop, of course. And the District Superintendents. And everyone else who profits from keeping things the way they are.”

“But why would they be scared of me?”

“Because you don’t care about the consequences. There are more preachers in this conference than you know about who believe the same stuff you do, but they’re afraid to say it, because of the consequences. People will get mad at them. Preachers want everyone to like them. Maybe they won’t get a good appointment next time. Maybe they’ll even get fired from the job they have. Maybe their pension will be affected. They’re afraid of the consequences. The power people count on that. It’s how they keep people in line. They can’t keep you in line, because you don’t care about the consequences.”

Bob Thornburg wasn’t exactly right. I cared a great deal about the consequences, but not to me personally. Even though I didn’t want trouble, if it came, well, I still had to keep preaching racial equality. Civil Rights! Voting Rights! No more waiting! Right now!

Racial equality was the issue then. There have been others since. With the same problem for me. I wanted to be liked. I wanted bigger and more prestigious appointments, with bigger salaries. I wanted accolades and affirmations and awards and armadillos… sorry… I got carried away with alliteration…

Nothing really wrong with wanting those things, but they were not why God had called me to be a preacher. I had to speak the truth, even though there would be negative feedback. I had to “damn the torpedoes…” er, consequences.

There is a thin line between bravery and stupidity. Both are defined, though, by not paying attention to the consequences. “Hold my beer,” and “Hang on, Sloopy,” are pretty much the same thing, except that a beer-fueled act is stupid, and hanging on to support the disrespected is love. [1] Either way, there will be consequences. If you think too much about the consequences, you’ll just chug your beer or leave Sloopy to the whims of the overlords.

As it turned out, my lowly status as a campus minister turned out to be an advantage. The principalities and powers were able to say, “Well, he can’t do much damage. He’s just one of those young trouble-making student workers. No one pays attention to them.”

It was true. The no one--the older folks who wanted everything to stay the same, just so they could take it easy--they did not pay attention to me. For them, that was a big mistake, for their children and grandchildren were at my campus, and they came to hear me preach. They did pay attention.

One of the problems of old age is that I no longer scare anyone. Don’t feel sorry for me, though. I had my chance to create what John Lewis called “good trouble.” All you have do to be scary is just ignore the consequences.

John Robert McFarland

1] Along with “We Shall Overcome,” The McCoys’ “Hang On, Sloopy” was what the student activists in the 1960s sang as they marched for Civil Rights.

SOME POEMS [Sun, 4-12-26]

CHRIST IN WINTER: The Mundane Mutterings of An Old Man With a Muted Muse—SOME POEMS [Sun, 4-12-26]

 

I got sidetracked by Lent and started trying to write something useful for others. I forgot that I am now writing only for myself. So, it’s time to become irrelevant again…

Louis Simpson was a serious poet, because he suffered PTSD from WWII, particularly the Battle of the Bulge. He wanted to be a story teller, but he couldn’t hold an idea in his brain long enough for a story, even a short one. He could manage one page at a time, though. [1

I have never been a serious poet, because I am too wordy for one page at a time. I am a story-teller. But there are times the traditional form of story just isn’t quite right. So, I have six or seven notebooks, scattered throughout the house, and the pockets of my cargo pants, plus a folder on my computer, all full of poems that are written just for me. Some, though…well, perhaps you’ll feel something in them, too. Here are a few selections.

RYMAN ECHOES

I’ve never been

to the Ryman

but I hear

the country voices

in the darkness

of the humid Indiana air

my father’s head

bent low

to the radio

in the only

kind of prayer

he knew

 

POET’S REMORSE

Not the failed onomatopoeia

nor the forced and fractured rhyme

 

But a line so bland

it can be compared

to nothing at all

 

Not a windy road

or a whale in deep

nor a tree in spring

or a sled with rusted runners

 

Just a shopping list

from the bargain basement

of the mercantile

that sells used words

After Christmas sale!

Half off!

 

PLANNED PREVARICATIONS

In the early morning hours

when my brain is at its best

I plan the lies

that I must tell this day

of fear that I must bear

of hope that is elsewhere

of there that is not there

But always life jumps

from a darkened alley

of the past

with some unanticipated

truth and I must improvise

and obfuscate

with monosyllabic rationalizations

and palliations

so that truth capitulates

and I have vanquished

with thesaurus all

that terrorizes

with veracious perspicuity

 

WHY DID I EVER START THIS POETRY STUFF

three little green lights

on the coffee machine this morning

implored me to put them into a poem

almost arrogant in their pleading

like a bench player to the coach

Put Me In! Put Me In!

that started the whole thing

then the first taste of coffee

wanted a line all to itself

and the apricot jam

thought its taste deserved a whole stanza

and the song about a railroad drifter

you would have surmised

he was king of the road or some such

each one thinking it should have

the place of honor in a line

but disagreeing rather disagreeably

about whether the honor

comes first in line or at the break

I just quit

That’ll show ‘em

who’s in charge here

 

FINDING ANSWERS

Yes, it is true, the answer

is blowin’ in the wind

It is also falling in the rain

and growing in the hollyhocks

and muddling ‘round in the humidity

and floating in the clouds

The answer is not

that hard to find

 

John Robert McFarland

1] From the 3-27-26 edition of Garrison Keillor’s Writers Almanack]

 

 

NOW VS ETERNITY [F, 4-10-26]

CHRIST IN WINTER: The Irascible Mutterings of a Christmas Preacher—NOW VS ETERNITY [F, 4-10-26]

 

As the old preacher story goes, a young woman cooked one of her first meals for her fiancé. After supper, she cuddled up and said, “Just think. After we’re married, we can do this forever.” He thought, “I don’t think I can take this forever.”

Now that the Easter season is over, maybe I can say that I prefer Christmas without sounding too much like a wet blanket. But, caveat lector, this is just a personal semi-screed about Easter. If it does have any positive message, it’s about Christmas. Easter has always semi-depressed me. Christmas? Well, I like Christmas. See, this is personal, not theological.

First off, the Easter message, the resurrection message, is eternal life. Forever. Alive forever. Floating around. Playing a harp, maybe. Even if we are united with that dog we loved so much, playing fetch in heaven forever will surely get boring, for both of us.

Maybe Easter depresses me because it is negative, starting with forty days of deprivation. And self-examination--finding out that I’m still the “wretch like me” again this year. How is that supposed to be uplifting?

Maybe it is because preachers have to work so much during the Lent-Easter season. I signed on for once-a-week, not all that extra stuff: Bible studies and meditation sessions and listening to the confessions of all the self-examiners. Putting up with the criticisms of trustees who are out of sorts because they’ve given up booze for Lent and they’re taking it out on the preacher, because it’s safer than taking it out on their wife/husband.

And Holy Week! Talk about work… Special worship services. Ash Wednesday. Maundy Thursday. Good Friday. Getting all the other churches to agree to a common Good Friday service, and getting Father Bertoldo to remember to come.

Easter sunrise, yet! Of course, it’s the youth who are in charge of Sunrise, of all things, Teens? At sunrise? And they are responsible for the pancakes that follow, which means it’s a bunch of disgruntled parents who are having to ride herd on the fiasco…experience. They are all on the Pastor-Parish Relations Committee, and they’re going to be mad for a year.

Extra Easter morning services because twice-a-year Christians don’t have the sense to be ashamed of showing up when they’ve not been there since Christmas eve. And just try to remember their names as they shake hands afterward, when they’ve all changed their hair styles since Dec. 24.

And trying to convince a bunch of twice-a-year-believers to believe something that is unbelievable…

Of course, religious holidays are really an excuse to get people to buy stuff, and Easter is such a pale commercial holiday when compared to the gifts of Christmas and the candy of Halloween and the gluttony of Thanksgiving and the fireworks of Independence Day. [Yes, all those are religious holidays.]

I mean, how is a puny basket with some colored eggs, that are probably past their use-by date, going to compete with a stocking full of candy oranges and peppermint sticks?

I think, though, the bottom line, of why I like Christmas more than Easter, is this: I can understand--very easily, because I watch Call The Midwife on PBS--a baby born into the physical body and having a life in a limited physical world. It’s much harder to understand a man getting out of a physical body and having a life in an eternal non-physical world.

And when you’re old and tired, “eternal” life doesn’t sound all that great.

Don’t worry. I’m still singing He Lives with my morning songs. But I’m also already humming Away in a Manger. I trust that God loves me, regardless.

That’s the true story of why I prefer Christmas to Easter—God is already here, in this life, no need to wait for resurrection--not, as some might tell you, because December is a better time for mincemeat pie.

John Robert McFarland

PLEASE DON'T TALK ABOUT ME WHEN I'M GONE [W, 4-8-26]

CHRIST IN WINTER: The Irrelevant Musings of An Old Questioner—PLEASE DON'T TALK ABOUT ME WHEN I'M GONE [W, 4-8-26]

“No shirt, No shoes, No service.” “We reserve the right to refuse service to anyone.”

“No service” seems to be trending these days. “At his request, there will be no service.”

“Please don’t talk about me when I’m gone.” [1]

Jesus didn’t have a funeral, so maybe the folks who demand that we not talk about them when they’re gone are just trying to be like Jesus.

Jesus knew he was going to die. Had a pretty good idea when it would be. He didn’t say anything about a funeral service, though.

He did say, however, that we should talk about him after he was gone, every time we broke bread together.

Some folks sort of tried for a service for him. I mean, they used herbs and spices on his body, the customs of the day. A kindly man loaned his tomb. But that wasn’t really a funeral or burial. No crowd at the funeral home. No graveside service. No taped version of “Peace In the Valley.” Was it because Jesus knew he’d be resurrected, so a funeral was irrelevant?

My great, late friend, Jack Newsome, died during covid days. His wife said there would be a funeral later. But then she moved to California to live with a daughter. Then she died. No one to organize a funeral for Jack, which was very sad, for there were so many good stories to tell about Jack. So I decided to organize an online funeral for him, among his still-living friends. We emailed “Jack” stories back and forth. It was nice. It wasn’t adequate.

We knew Scott as a coffee shop owner, but he had once been a seminarian and student pastor. The day after Thanksgiving, a woman from his church came to see him. She told him that the day before, the whole family had gathered at her mother’s for a big Thanksgiving meal, as they always did. The food was on the table, everyone was seated, Grandma brought in the turkey, took her place at the end of the table, took a gun out of her apron pocket, put it in her mouth, and blew her brains out.

Was that a way of requesting no funeral service? Certainly no one would want to talk about it in public, the way we do at memorial services. “Remember the time that Grandma…”

Well, it was about having control, right up to the very last moment…and after, because who is going to forget a scene like that?

Most folks aren’t quite that controlling, but there are those who still want to have the last word, even when they’re dead.

Are they afraid of what people will say at a service, afraid they will be embarrassed? Or are they so humble they just want to save folks the trouble?

Anyway, Scott realized he had nothing to say to that woman. He knew right then, he said, that he was cut out to be a coffee shop guy, not a pastor.

I understand. I’ve done some funerals in those kinds of situations.

But isn’t the funeral for the survivors? Why do you even care? You won’t be there. It will make no diff to you.

And why stop there? If you are so eager to control everything that you say no service, why don’t you just go ahead and tell your loved ones that after you’re dead, no movie, no Florida vacation, no pickleball, no jalapenos?

I enjoyed thinking about my funeral when I thought I would die at 55--what songs folks would sing, what they would say. Not so much now that I’m so old that nobody will be there, since all my friends are either dead or unable to travel.

Maybe Jesus knew he would be resurrected so a funeral was irrelevant. Maybe those folks who say “no funeral for me” are just resurrection believers.

Anyway, if you’re thinking about telling folks, no services for me, think about it some more…and if you care about those you leave behind, remember why we say GOOD GRIEF! rather than NO GRIEF!

John Robert McFarland

1]. Sam H. Stept and Sydney Clare wrote it in 1930. Ethel Waters sang it first, in 1931.

 

THE 8TH DAY [M, 4-6-26]

CHRIST IN WINTER: The Irrelevant Mutterings of An Old Curmudgeon—THE 8^TH DAY [M, 4-6-26]

 

I’d hate to be a Monday. Everybody hates Mondays,

Even cartoonist Jim Davis’ Garfield the cat. Especially Garfield. People ask, “Why does Garfield hate Mondays? For a cat, isn’t that day no different from any other?” But they underestimate Garfield. He is a theologian. He knows that Monday is not the first day of the week, or even the 7^th, Or the 2^nd, if you think of Sunday as the first. Or the third, if you’re a 7^th Day Adventist.

 

But there has to be a Monday. And it’s not the first day.

Garfield knows that Monday is the 8^th day, not the first. It is such a problematic day, because that’s when God let us into the mix, when the world really began after the creation, after God had rested.

Workers tell us that we should never buy a car built on a Monday. Or a house. Or potato salad. Monday is the day the line workers and the carpenters and the cooks are hung over.

I was having lunch with old friend, Bob Butts, one Monday. Our waitress brought the wrong food. He looked at our waitress and said, “Big weekend?” “I just got mixed up,” she said. Bob replied, “I taught college for 30 years. I know a hangover when I see it.”

Monday is such a bad day that preachers don’t even try to work then. What’s the use? We claim we take Monday as our day off because we are so tired from Sunday, and the week that went before it, but it’s really because nobody is going to pay attention to a preacher, or anything else, on a Monday.

Addicts know the 8^th day is dangerous. You’ve made it through a week and so you think you deserve a reward. No, not a sobriety pin. You think you deserve a drink, or snort, or bet. Everybody else celebrates that way. Why can’t I? If you can get through that 8^th day, well, that’s not just another day of staying clean. That’s an 8^th day of staying clean, regardless of where you are in the sobriety count you keep for your sponsor and your support group.

The eighth day is dangerous. Little chicks of pastel coloring to do something with. Same with a bunch of non-resurrected eggs. Chocolate smears everywhere. Bonnets and baskets to find a storage place. Trying to make sense of the gibberish the preacher used to try to explain resurrection… It’s enough to make a person say, “I’m not going back there until the end of the year…maybe the week before the end of the year…”

So, be extra careful today, this day after Easter, this Monday, this 8^th day. We’re riding high on sugar and ham and resurrection. A lot can go wrong in that condition. Just be patient with this 8^th day. There will be a first day tomorrow.

John Robert McFarland

UNENDING STORY [Easter Sunday, 4-5-26]

CHRIST IN WINTER: The Irrelevant Musings of an Old Story Teller—UNENDING STORY [Easter Sunday, 4-5-26]

 

As a writer, I have found that the ending is hardest, whether it be a sermon, or a short story, or a novel, or even this column. I think that is because there is only one story, and it has no end.

As writers, we think there has to be a conclusion. Or, just because we’ve run out of time or pages, we go ahead and provide an ending, a conclusion, that often does not belong there.

We do that with relationships, with society, with…

One of the worst novels I ever read--an early effort by a now famous author…  It was so good for about 380 pages. There were a dozen interesting sub-plots. I was eager to see how each one got resolved. At the end, though, the narrating character is sitting on his back porch and says something like, “I realized that I would never know who killed the preacher, and what happened to the baby, and if the building burned down, and where the treasure was hidden…”

What do you mean you don’t know? You’re the author! That’s unfair. If you raise the expectation of a conclusion, you need to provide one.

The cross was not the end of the Jesus story. Neither is the resurrection. That’s why we keep saying, “Christ will come again.” There won’t be an end to the story until that happens.

But we like conclusions. We want conclusions. We don’t like this open-ended non-ending. When I get frustrated with the ending problem, I go to Natalie Sleeth’s great “Hymn of Promise,” especially the way she writes the last verse…

In our end is our beginning;

In our time, infinity;

In our doubt there is believing;

In our life, eternity;

In our death, a resurrection;

At the end, a victory,

Unrevealed until its season,

Something God alone can see.

 

John Robert McFarland