THE HEAVENLY FESTIVAL [W, 7-9-25]

BEYOND WINTER: The Irrelevant Speculations of An Old Man—THE HEAVENLY FESTIVAL [W, 7-9-25]

 

 [Fear not; You believe in God; believe also that there will be a Christian application, sort of, at the end.]

It’s fair and festival season.

It’s time for the Toledo, Iowa “Stoplight Festival.” Toledo now has three stoplights, but the festival celebrates only the first one. It was the only one for many years, starting in 1949. It’s still there, smack dab in the middle of the intersection, on a sturdy metal pole, about five feet tall.

Every town needs a festival, something to rally around, build community, see local girls in bathing suits, eat rubber pancakes, sell raffle tickets to get a new defibrillator for the volunteer fire dept.

If the only thing you have that sets you apart is a stoplight, then you have a Stoplight Festival.

When I pastored in Arcola, IL, we had two festivals, one long-standing and one that started while we were there, because folks felt that one festival wasn’t enough to keep us going.

 

The first is the famous Broom Corn Festival. Broom corn is exactly what it sounds like—a corn-like plant that provided the bristles for brooms. It was grown locally, and so broom factories located there. The most famous of those is Libman. You can see their ads on TV all the time. Now most of the brooms have plastic bristles, and broom corn is imported from Mexico, but that doesn’t slow down the festival. One little patch of broom corn is still grown in Arcola so its harvesting can be demonstrated during the festival.

When we lived there, Arcola started the Raggedy Ann Festival. The connection to Arcola was tenuous. Johnny Gruelle created Raggedy Ann. He was born in Arcola. He moved away when he was two. No one was sure if he ever returned. But if you don’t have even one stoplight, you create a festival from whatever you can find. 

A few years ago, an Arcola bank was robbed. One of the local jokes was, “Now we’ll have to have a Bank Robbery Festival.” [1]

Garrison Keillor paid tribute to the small-town festival ethos with Toast & Jelly Days in Lake Wobegon, MN.

Cities try to have community-building festivals, like the Taste of Chicago. But they fall flat. Too many people and too few tastes. Everybody who lives in Toledo, Iowa passes that stoplight every day. That makes every day a festival.

Most of us, when we think of heaven, just lying around on cloud 9 all day, playing the harp, doing nothing…well, that sounds boring. When we think of heaven, it’s the community we look forward to. [They don’t worry much in heaven about ending a sentence with a preposition.]

If heaven is worthwhile, it’s got to be for the community, seeing all the folks we love who are already there. Which is why I think heaven is just a small-town summer festival. You know everybody. All the old relatives show up. There is music and laughter. Some local kid, who went away and made it big, like Jesus, gets to be the parade marshal. God tells Dad jokes at the talent contest. Isn’t that enough to make you want to go there?

And if that’s not exactly the way it is in the next life, at least it’s fun to think about in this life.

John Robert McFarland

1] A side light on the bank robbery: it was one of several in small towns in the area, done on his lunch hour by a counselor at the county mental health department. He was very dutiful in trying to get back to work on time after each robbery.

PIGS & BELONGING [Su, 7-6-25]

BEYOND WINTER: The Irrelevant Pigs of an Old Man—PIGS & BELONGING [Su, 7-6-25]

 

The Gibson County Fair is July 6-12 this year. Fair time always reminds me of Sadie.

I was a Cub Scout in Indianapolis, but not for long, just a year or so before we moved to the farm near Oakland City, when I was ten. There were probably Cub Scouts in Oakland City, but we lived three miles outside of town, and didn’t have a car, so that was the end of my Scouting career. I like uniforms, and I missed wearing my Cub Scout beanie and neckerchief

However, the Forsythe Church community, where we lived, had 4H. No uniforms, but you could put that four-leaf-clover logo on anything you wanted. All you really needed for 4H was a pig.

At least, that’s what Uncle Ted thought, so he bought me a cute little Hampshire piglet. I named her Sadie, probably after Sadie Hawkins, of the Little Abner comic strip. Barbara Streisand had not yet sung, “Sadie, Sadie, married lady,” but if I had heard it, I would have sung, “Sadie, Sadie, you ain’t no lady.”

 

Sadie was the world’s least cooperative pig. She didn’t like being a pig at all. I borrowed Uncle Ted’s cane to direct her around the show ring at the Gibson County fair. Didn’t do a bit of good. She went anyplace she wanted. We didn’t get a blue ribbon. Or red. Or yellow. If they’d had a puce ribbon…I’m not sure they would have awarded even that to us.

It wasn’t just me or the fair judges. Sadie didn’t cooperate with anybody, including her own offspring. When it came time for them to be born, Sadie got her back end up against the barn side so they couldn’t come out. Daddy and I had to keep dragging her away from that wall.

 

Once born, she wanted nothing to do with them, including nursing. When she saw them coming, she would run away, down to the pond lot. They would chase her, going wee-wee-wee-wee, all the way. They’d catch up, and she’d spread her legs and brace herself so they couldn’t get at her. They’d all get on one side and push until their sheer numbers—about a dozen—would overcome her resistance. They’d all jump in and get some dinner and she would grunt and try to ignore them. Until the next time they wanted to eat. They the same scenario would play out.

In addition to Sadie, I also exhibited carrots at the fair. They looked like octopuses. They won a yellow ribbon, which was pretty much like a participation prize. I just didn’t have the right color thumb for being a farm boy, which I guess was blue, since that was the color ribbon the good 4H kids got.

I would have liked blue ribbons, but what I really cared about was being included. That was my blue ribbon—just being a part of things.

I related better to people than to pigs and vegetables. I was elected president of The Lucky 13 4H Club and quickly grew it out of its name. I liked being included so much that I wanted everybody else to be included, too. Any kid I saw, I invited them to join up.

That club won a lot of blue ribbons at the fair. None of them were mine. But that was okay. No blue ribbons. No uniform. But, I belonged. You don’t have to be able to control pigs or grow carrots to be included.

John Robert McFarland

PARTNER WITH THE WORLD [F, 7-4-25]

BEYOND WINTER: The Irrelevant Musings of An Old Man—PARTNER WITH THE WORLD [F, 7-4-25]

There are many different theories of how to deal with the imperfections of living in this world. We are told to bloom where you’re planted, or to make lemonade if life gives you lemons. Good approaches. Good skills.

Here’s a slightly different life skill: partnering with the world.

I’m thinking about that because it’s sweet corn time. That means Art Snider. I learned about world-partnering from Art’s sweet corn approach to life.

When Art retired, he decided to be a “truck gardener,” which sounds like growing trucks but is actually growing vegetables to take to farmers’ markets to sell out of the back of a truck. The problem was deer. There were a lot of them in the area where he lived, and they would eat all his produce as soon as it got almost ready for market. He thought about fencing, but it would take a lot of fence, which would eat into his profits, too, and create its own problems. So he planted a couple of rows of sweet corn all around his huge garden before he put in the other plants. The corn was up and ready for the deer by the time the other vegetables showed their heads. The deer were satisfied with the corn. They didn’t bother the other stuff.

That doesn’t work with the occasional rose bush. Shortly after our daughter, Katie, moved to Iron Mountain, in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula, she planted a rose bush at the corner of her house. She went around the corner to get the watering hose. That took only a few seconds, but by the time she got back to the bush, a deer had run out of the woods—woods are everywhere in the UP, even in towns—and eaten her rose bush.

For the eight years that she and her family, and her parents, lived in Iron Mountain, we, like everyone else, had flowers only in hanging baskets on porches, where the deer could not get them.

Then Helen and I moved “…back home again, in Indiana.” No deer in a college town of 70,968, right? No, not right. Helen decided to get creative with her flowers. She put a pot of those pretty pink flowers--the ones for which I don’t know the name—outside our brick-walled patio so the neighbors could enjoy them, too. I hope the neighbors saw them quickly, for they were enjoyed almost immediately as a deer snack. So, Helen did not curse the deer. She understands. She brought the pot inside the patio. The flowers are pinkly blooming again.

Too often, if we don’t like the way life is, we just bulldoze it out of existence. We always pay a price for that, even if it is not immediately available. Far better to plant a row or two for the pests.

Life works best if we partner with the world.

John Robert McFarland

This being Independence Day, I think it especially meaningful that the lectionary Gospel for this Sunday, July 6, includes “I have given you authority…to overcome all the power of the enemy…” [Luke 10:19]

HARD WORK FOREVER [W, 7-2-25]

BEYOND WINTER: The Irrelevant Memories of An Old Man--HARD WORK FOREVER [W, 7-2-25]

 

I was thirteen years old. Maybe twelve. Maybe fourteen. Hard to remember, through the haze of 75 years of memory. And through the sweat.

I had lost touch with the rest of the crew. The corn stalks were so tall, way above our heads. And so thick. Even if a fellow “corn jerker” was only two rows over, he was hard to see. [We detasseled the rows on either side of us, so the nearest other corn jerker was always two rows away.] [1]

It was slow work, walking through that long, long corn field of Princeton Farms, pulling the tassels out of the tops of the stalks. I had to reach as high as I could, bend the stalk over without breaking it to get it down to where I could grab the tassel and jerk it out.

It was uncomfortable work. There was no breeze down in amongst the corn stalks. They were wet with dew, and the humidity was always over a thousand percent, so we were drenched. We had to wear straw hats and long sleeves and pants, because the corn leaves were like knives.  

When I got to the end, everybody else was already there. The other guys didn’t worry if they missed a “few” tassels, or broke some. They were just in it for the quick money, fifty cents per hour. They made fun of me for doing the work the right way. Even the foreman was more interested in getting it done quick than in getting it done right, and was disgusted with me for slowing things down.

Yes, they were in it for the quick money, but I was in it for the slow money. Anyone who worked the entire detasseling season, from first day through the last, made an extra twenty-five cents per hour. That was a huge extra bonus. Only two of us got it.

More importantly, I was in it for the satisfaction. No, I didn’t like farm work. I had experience with it already. We lived on a farm where all the labor was manual. I knew all about being hot and sweaty and chigger-eaten and hen-pecked. But I liked the feeling of achievement, of beating the hard work at its own game.

Anne Lamott says that staying sober is “…hard work forever.” I think that is probably true of life in general. I think about that now in this late June-early July season of corn detasseling.

I still don’t like being miserable and uncomfortable, whatever the reason, any more than I did growing up on the farm, any more than I did down amongst those tall corn stalks. But I want to be able to say to myself, on my final day of life: You did it. You did the hard work, and you did it right.

Well, not just my final day. I want to be able to say that on any day.

But here’s the catch: the hardest work is remembering the satisfaction of hard work. Every day, sometimes every moment all day, I need a reminder. At any time, there is that temptation to take the easy way, to break the stalks, to leave some jerks unjerked, to hurry to the end of the row. 

When you are old, remembering the satisfaction of hard work...that is the real hard work…forever.

John Robert McFarland

 

1] I did not know then that detasselers were called cornjerkers. I came across that name when we moved to Hoopeston, IL and the high school teams were called Cornjerkers.

 

 

PLAYING FAVORITES [M, 6-30-25]

BEYOND WINTER: The Irrelevant Memories of An Old Man—PLAYING FAVORITES [M, 6-30-25]

 

Ten years ago today, two of my closest friends died.

 

Ann White scheduled Bill’s funeral for September, and Terri wanted Mike’s funeral right away, so I was able to preach at both of them. 

We had moved from Iron Mountain, Michigan to Bloomington, Indiana only a month before, so it wasn’t a good time to fly to Arizona, but there was no way I would miss Mike’s funeral. I was his favorite friend.

 

At Mike’s funeral, there was a time for people to get up and say whatever they wanted to about him. I never put that into a funeral when I was in charge; too easy for things to get out of hand, especially to get long and boring. But I wasn’t in charge of Mike’s funeral, just the preacher.

The first man who spoke introduced himself by saying he was Mike’s favorite brother-in-law. There was an appreciative ripple of laughter. Then a woman spoke and introduced herself as Mike’s favorite sister-in-law. More laughter. By the time all of Mike’s favorites had spoken, we were having an uproarious good time. The message was clear: everyone was Mike’s favorite, because that’s how he made you feel.

It's tricky, claiming to be someone’s favorite, especially if they haven’t said anything about it. Mike never told anyone that they were his favorite; it’s just the way we felt.

I wrote recently of how I told my doctor’s new nurse that I was Dr. V’s favorite patient, by accident, when I was trying to say that she called me perfect because of the way I presented symptoms to her.

It was very embarrassing when Olivia told me that she had asked Dr. V if I were, indeed, the doctor’s favorite. I mean, that’s so arrogant, so hubristic, to claim to be the favorite.

It’s okay, of course, to claim the favorite spot, if there is no competition. Brigid can rightly claim to be my favorite granddaughter, Joe my favorite grandson. [Just to be sure, I often tell them that.]

It took me a long and somewhat fretful time, though, to understand why Grandma Mac no longer referred to me as her favorite grandson. That happened when I was ten and my cousin, Paul, was born.

We all want to be favorites, don’t we?

Remember how James and John asked to be the favorites when Jesus became king? They wanted to sit on either side of him at the banquet table. [Mark 10:35-45]

 

Sometimes we want a favorite status for someone else. In Matthew 20:20-28, it is the mother of James and John who asks Jesus to give her sons preference, the favored status of sitting beside him at the kingly banquet.

Jesus, of course, said that he came not to have the status of favorite, to be served. He didn’t claim to be God’s favorite, even though he was The Christ. “Even the Son of Man comes not to be served but to serve.” [Mark 10:45]

We all want to be favorites, and we are. Jesus didn’t claim to be God’s favorite, because he knew that you are God’s favorite.

John Robert McFarland

 

 

THE FIXING AND HELPING DILEMMA [Sa, 6-28-25]

BEYOND WINTER: The Irrelevant Reflections of An Old Man—THE FIXING AND HELPING DILEMMA [Sa, 6-28-25]

 

Rachel Naomi Remen makes a useful distinction between fixing, helping, and serving. I call it the FHS dilemma. It’s a dilemma for anyone, but especially for professionals in helping professions.

Indeed, by referring to doctoring and nursing and pastoring and teaching and social working, etc as “helping” professions, we are setting up ourselves and our patients/clients for failure.

Not total failure, of course. Most of us are better off-- at the physical level of need--if we are fixed and helped. But fixing and helping also diminish us at the spiritual/human level of need.

Remen is an MD, and has Crohn’s Disease. She had an ileostomy when just a young woman, and the bag ever since, of course. She makes the FHS distinction both as a physician and a patient.

 

She notes that as a physician, she is constantly tempted first to fix and help. As a patient, she understands that what we need most is service.

Fixing and helping are efficient. They make the fixer/helper feel good. “I have done something worthwhile.”

Fixing and helping make the “patient” feel weak and diminished. “I cannot be a person on my own; I require someone else to fix and help me.”

Like Dr. Ramen, I had intestinal surgery, for colon cancer. Unlike her, I did not end up with a colostomy and the subsequent bag. Neither of us could have done our own surgeries or recovery regimens. We needed fixing and helping… no. We needed doctors and nurses. But as they work on us, doctors and nurses can serve us instead of fixing and helping us.

The end result physically is usually the same, but the attitude is different, and so the emotional outcome for both server and served is different.

The difference is in approach and attitude.

Remen tells of a doctor friend who had delivered hundreds of babies when one day he had to make an emergency delivery. Even before he could hand the little girl to her mother, she opened her eyes and looked straight at him. He suddenly realized that he was the first person in the whole world that she had seen. He would always be that person. It was a spiritual bond. It felt like he needed to welcome her to the world. He said that she was really the first baby he ever delivered, because she was the first he delivered through serving, welcoming her to the world, rather than fixing and helping.

I have always been a fixer/helper. That’s why I wasn’t a very good pastoral counselor. People who come to a pastor don’t need fixing; they need pastoring. When I stuck to pastoring rather than counseling--listening and being, instead of providing solutions--I did better.

Most of us who are old now were trained, by parents and culture and education and life, to be fixers and helpers. But we don’t have to be. Now, even in small every-day exchanges with people, we can choose to serve rather than fix or help.

By serve, I don’t mean being a servant, as in a maid or hired man. Serving is the attitude of: I’m not better than you. I don’t have something you don’t have, something I can give you out of my superiority. We are spirits together in this mysterious life, and we can fix each other, and help each other, without fixing and helping.

Jesus, in announcing his purpose in the world, said: “I am among you as one who serves.” [Lk 22:27.]

John Robert McFarland

GORDON MORRISON IN IRAN [R, 6-26-25]

BEYOND WINTER: The Irrelevant Friends of An Old Man—GORDON MORRISON IN IRAN [R, 6-26-25]

 

The old song of “Bomb, bomb, bomb Iran” becomes more relevant every day. We finally got around to doing it.

That song was written by Fred Fassert in 1979, and set to the familiar and popular and simple tune of Barbara Ann, which made it easily singable. Fassert himself had written Barbara Ann 20 years before. Bomb Iran hit the airwaves in a recording by Vince Vance and the Valiants.

As I hear Bomb, bomb, bomb Iran, I think of Gordon Morrison. Gordon was a year behind me in high school, so I did not know him well then. In high school, you pay attention only to the kids who are older than you, except for pretty girls.

But while we were students at Indiana University, we got better acquainted, enough so that we kept up a steady and deep correspondence when he graduated and went to Iran as a Peace Corps volunteer for two years, with a later three-year stint as the director of youth work for The Episcopal Church for the whole nation.

He was a Methodist prior to Iran. I think he became an Episcopalian just because he wanted to study Islam up close and personal, and so took that job with the Episcopalians so he could go back to Iran. One of the few things his 2013 obituary says beyond the usual listings of jobs and survivors is that “He was a deep thinker about the theological connections between Christianity and Islam.”

During our IU days, he thought that he might be called to be a preacher, but wasn’t quite sure. By the time he returned from Iran, however, he was convinced of his call, and a convinced Episcopalian. He spent the rest of his life as an Episcopal priest in several different congregations.

As he moved first to Alabama and on to Kentucky and then to Maryland, we lost touch, the way you do as life gets in the way. He was 73 when he died after an automobile accident.

Now I wish that he were alive and available. I’d like to hear what he thinks of our current program of Bomb, bomb, bomb Iran.

In 1953, an Iranian “regime change” was engineered by the US CIA and the British MI6. It deposed the democratically elected prime minister and reinstalled Mohammad Reza Pahlavi as absolute monarch, the Shah. The problem? Iranian oil. US oil companies wanted its profits [40%] and the British wanted the rest. The elected government of Iran thought the profits of Iranian oil should benefit Iran. The Shah was quite happy to let Westerners have the oil in return for putting him and keeping him in power.

Gordon’s years in Iran were during “the white revolution,” which wasn’t a revolution but a program by the Shah to modernize Iran. He enlisted the minority Sunni Muslims to help him create it. The Shite Muslims and Sunni Muslims have hated one another for a thousand years for reasons that make no sense to anyone on the outside, so the Shah was inviting the majority of his citizens to rebel. They did, especially the clergy. [Clergy are notorious for opposing change!]

As the Shiites resisted the white revolution, the Shah’s regime became more and more brutal in putting them—and anyone else who opposed him--down, primarily through his dreaded secret police, the SAVAK, who were trained and equipped by the US, which was intent on keeping the Shah in power and keep the oil flowing. It’s not all that surprising that the US became known in Iran as “the great Satan.”

As things got worse and worse, the Iranian people became bolder in demanding change. This time, it was the folks inside who wanted the regime change. They especially resented the way America helped the Shah in his authoritarian ways to keep them oppressed and American oil companies rich. In 1979, the US embassy was invaded and the equally repressive Khomeini regime started. The clergy got their revenge. The common citizens, as usual, got disappointment.

All of this fueled Gordon’s interest in Muslim theologies. He never lost his love for the Iranian people, both Sunni and Shiite. He would not think that Bomb, bomb, bomb Iran is the best policy. He thought that the best thing Christians could do was to create a strong church in Iran, as some sort of safely minority middle ground, a place where Sunnis and Shiites could talk to one another.

He was my Oakland City Acorn brother in faith, faith in God rather than in bombs. I miss him.

John Robert McFarland

Whole books have been written about the confusing history of Iran over the last century. Of necessity, I have just recalled a few facts that help explain Gordon.