CHRIST IN WINTER: Reflections on Faith from a place of winter For the Years of Winter…
Occasionally folks make responses to a post, or some other item comes across the screen that ought to be shared, so here is some catching up along those lines, especially from Enough Good Memories of 2-19:
Lutheran author and pastor Rebecca Ninke said that she enjoyed appearing in Christ In Winter because it made her think she had accomplished something for the day. So if you’re having a bad day when you feel like you’re not accomplishing anything, let me know and I’ll find some way to mention you.
Kaye Young and I once talked of making a video of some sort to provide good examples for young people. Kaye said he could be the star of a whole series on what NOT to do. That’s one of the things old people do best—telling young people to avoid certain activities because we did them and they didn’t work out. Makes you wonder why WE did them when our older relatives and friends told US not to do them, too. [1]
Bill Linneman says that he sometimes remembers by picking a year. He writes a column for THE NORMALITE newspaper in Normal, IL and recently wrote 3 columns on 1939. I like that idea. I think I’ll start with 1957, because that’s when I met Helen. Appropriately for a retired IL State U English prof, Bill quotes Lord Byron: “All times are good when old.” {He also said, “All tragedies are ended by a death; all comedies by a marriage.” Byron, not Bill.} [2]
Author Elaine Palencia remembered fried Spam sandwiches, with mayonnaise and white bread. I think that is especially appealing as a memory because nobody would dare eat such a concoction in old age. [3]
Retired UM pastor Howard Daughenbaugh says that the word “epizootic” created fond memories for him of a special person, an aunt who was a surgical nurse in New Orleans and who stayed with him during a tricky appendectomy, and who felt that anything that didn’t measure up to being an epizootic was just a passing discomfort.
Of course, there are things we don’t want to remember, too. Epizootic is a wonderful word, but I don’t use it much, because I don’t want to remember the symptoms of an epizootic.
Congrats to “Shammy” [Eugene] and Doris Shambarger, married 55 years Feb. 25. [4]
I received an email from Sandra Escondrias of AUTUMN SAINTS, which describes its mission as developing resources for later life spirituality. I know nothing about them, but their web site looks promising. You can check them out at http://autumnsaints.org/
JRMcF
[1] I met Kaye Young of Mason City, IA because I was in a play he directed, LATER LIFE, by A.R. Gurney. David Aaron Baker—IL State U graduate and stage, TV, and movie actor, currently in “Merchant of Venice” with Robert DiNiro in NYC—calls Gurney “Jack.” That must mean that the “A” and “R” are Archibald and Roscoe. [I’m relatively sure that there are no Archibalds or Roscoes who read this blog, but if there are, I apologize.]
[2] I have to be careful with Bill’s name because my sphelczhek always wants to change Linneman to Lineman. Speaking of THE NORMALITE…. Normal, IL is near the town of Oblong. THE NORMALITE’S most famous headline was, “Normal Man Marries Oblong Woman.”
[3] I suppose the best known Champaign-Urbana author is Richard Powers, but I think the best one is Elaine. Try BRIER COUNTRY or SMALL CAUCASIAN WOMAN.
[4] Shammy was our happily and totally reliable auto mechanic in Arcola, IL. Once when daughter Katie was a graduate student house-sitting for us, some UI friends called and wanted her to come up for a party. She explained that she couldn’t because her car was on the fritz and “the mechanic is out of town.” They were flabbergasted. “There’s only ONE in the whole town?” Well, yes, that’s the way it was.
{I also write the fictional “Periwinkle Chronicles” blog. One needs a rather strange sense of humor to enjoy it, but occasionally it is slightly funny. It is at http://periwinklechronicles.blogspot.com/}
(If you would prefer to receive either “Christ In Winter” or “Periwinkle Chronicles” via email, just let me know at jmcfarland1721@charter.net, and I’ll put you on the email list.)
Iron Mountain ski jump
Saturday, February 26, 2011
Wednesday, February 23, 2011
Finishing Frost
CHRIST IN WINTER: Reflections on Faith from a place of winter For the Years of Winter…
In the spring, an old man’s fancy turns to baseball. It’s spring training time, and any team can go all the way to World Series victory. Sort of like contemplating heaven. So I thought it appropriate to bring out of winter’s back room a baseball poem.
When Hofstra University hosted a conference to celebrate the 100th birth of Babe Ruth, they asked for poems about the Babe. I had just read a statement by Robert Frost in “Sports Illustrated” that “One of my unfulfilled promises on earth was to my fellow in art, Alfred Kreyemborg, to write a poem about a ball batted so hard by Babe Ruth that it never came back, but got to going round and round the world like a satellite.” So I wrote the following poem to fulfill Frost’s promise, sort of. It was read at the conference. Hofstra asked me to come read it myself, but I could not because it conflicted with an Academy of Parish Clergy meeting. [For some strange reason I used to think that being a preacher was more important than being a baseball poet.]
Babe’s birthday is Feb. 6, and I intended to post this then, but with all the hubbub about Ronald Reagan and Randy Estes having the same birthday, it slipped by.
“For Alfred, From Bob and the Babe, at Last”
The Bambino’s team was mighty,
Nine stories full of fame,
DiMaggio and Gehrig,
Masters of the game.
Lazzeri, Dickey, Berra,
Made pitchers weep at night.
Ruffing, Ford and Hoyt,
They were a fearsome sight.
Yes, Babe’s team, it was mighty,
All members of the Hall,
But they’d never faced old Frosty,
That master of the ball.
Frosty heaved it with a sentence,
Frosty hurled it with a word.
When Frosty threw the horsehide
It split lumber like a sword.
Frosty turned his back on walls,
Unlovable as sin,
Frosty turned and faced home plate,
Where they have to take you in.
He took the road less traveled,
As he stopped beside the wood,
Then he turned and faced the platter,
Where the Babe in splendor stood.
The Babe was rapt and ready,
He gave his hat a tip.
Three runners took their leads,
On the bat Babe took his grip.
Babe pointed to the outfield,
His finger to the sky,
Far beyond the fences,
To the clouds away up high.
Frosty rhymed the spheroid.
Babe took a mighty swing.
The ball was split in even halves,
It was an awesome thing.
Half soared beyond the fences,
Half fell into the mitt.
Half the ball was called a strike,
Half was a home run hit.
Babe trotted ‘round the bases,
As half the ball kept climbin’
Frosty dipped his pen to fans,
Threw verse upon the diamond.
One a poet with the lumber,
One a poet with the phrase
One his bat all full of thunder,
One his arm all full of grace.
JRMcF
This was originally published in Elysian Fields Quarterly and is on the “Baseball Almanac” web site at
http://www.baseball-almanac.com/poetry/frosty_and_the_babe.shtml
{I also write the fictional “Periwinkle Chronicles” blog. One needs a rather strange sense of humor to enjoy it, but occasionally it is slightly funny. It is at http://periwinklechronicles.blogspot.com/}
(If you would prefer to receive either “Christ In Winter” or “Periwinkle Chronicles” via email, just let me know at jmcfarland1721@charter.net, and I’ll put you on the email list.)
In the spring, an old man’s fancy turns to baseball. It’s spring training time, and any team can go all the way to World Series victory. Sort of like contemplating heaven. So I thought it appropriate to bring out of winter’s back room a baseball poem.
When Hofstra University hosted a conference to celebrate the 100th birth of Babe Ruth, they asked for poems about the Babe. I had just read a statement by Robert Frost in “Sports Illustrated” that “One of my unfulfilled promises on earth was to my fellow in art, Alfred Kreyemborg, to write a poem about a ball batted so hard by Babe Ruth that it never came back, but got to going round and round the world like a satellite.” So I wrote the following poem to fulfill Frost’s promise, sort of. It was read at the conference. Hofstra asked me to come read it myself, but I could not because it conflicted with an Academy of Parish Clergy meeting. [For some strange reason I used to think that being a preacher was more important than being a baseball poet.]
Babe’s birthday is Feb. 6, and I intended to post this then, but with all the hubbub about Ronald Reagan and Randy Estes having the same birthday, it slipped by.
“For Alfred, From Bob and the Babe, at Last”
The Bambino’s team was mighty,
Nine stories full of fame,
DiMaggio and Gehrig,
Masters of the game.
Lazzeri, Dickey, Berra,
Made pitchers weep at night.
Ruffing, Ford and Hoyt,
They were a fearsome sight.
Yes, Babe’s team, it was mighty,
All members of the Hall,
But they’d never faced old Frosty,
That master of the ball.
Frosty heaved it with a sentence,
Frosty hurled it with a word.
When Frosty threw the horsehide
It split lumber like a sword.
Frosty turned his back on walls,
Unlovable as sin,
Frosty turned and faced home plate,
Where they have to take you in.
He took the road less traveled,
As he stopped beside the wood,
Then he turned and faced the platter,
Where the Babe in splendor stood.
The Babe was rapt and ready,
He gave his hat a tip.
Three runners took their leads,
On the bat Babe took his grip.
Babe pointed to the outfield,
His finger to the sky,
Far beyond the fences,
To the clouds away up high.
Frosty rhymed the spheroid.
Babe took a mighty swing.
The ball was split in even halves,
It was an awesome thing.
Half soared beyond the fences,
Half fell into the mitt.
Half the ball was called a strike,
Half was a home run hit.
Babe trotted ‘round the bases,
As half the ball kept climbin’
Frosty dipped his pen to fans,
Threw verse upon the diamond.
One a poet with the lumber,
One a poet with the phrase
One his bat all full of thunder,
One his arm all full of grace.
JRMcF
This was originally published in Elysian Fields Quarterly and is on the “Baseball Almanac” web site at
http://www.baseball-almanac.com/poetry/frosty_and_the_babe.shtml
{I also write the fictional “Periwinkle Chronicles” blog. One needs a rather strange sense of humor to enjoy it, but occasionally it is slightly funny. It is at http://periwinklechronicles.blogspot.com/}
(If you would prefer to receive either “Christ In Winter” or “Periwinkle Chronicles” via email, just let me know at jmcfarland1721@charter.net, and I’ll put you on the email list.)
Saturday, February 19, 2011
Enough Good Memories
CHRIST IN WINTER: Reflections on Faith From a Place of Winter For the Years of Winter…
Rebecca Ninke, Lutheran author and pastor, was snowed in by the big blizzard, and then a bug treated the GI tracts of her and her children with considerable rudeness. In the midst of that, she had one of those writer deadlines. But rather than wishing her life away, wishing to get far enough ahead that the pukey days of infections and deadline were over, she decided to wish for LAST spring.
I used to wish my life away. Half of it, anyway. For a long time, we barely scraped by financially. Along about the fifteenth of the month, I would start wishing for the end of the month, so I’d get my pay check. Finally I realized, “This is no good. I’m wishing half of my life away just because I have no money. The end of the month will come no sooner with my wishful thinking, and I’m losing the present.”
I changed my ways. We still ate Spam and beans, but I enjoyed it more.
I know all about the need to live in the present and how we can’t live in the past. I think, though, that Rebecca is on to something. Wish for a day before blizzards and epizootics. That’s what memory is for.
It is easy in the cold and snow of winter to waste the days away wishing forward to spring. It is better just to enjoy the days of winter through the joy of memory, wishing backward instead of forward, warming winter by remembering the days of spring and summer and autumn.
Daughter Katie recently gave me a nice quote from Jennifer Lawler: “The sign of a life well spent is enough good memories to get you through to the end.”
JRMcF
{I also write the fictional “Periwinkle Chronicles” blog. One needs a rather strange sense of humor to enjoy it, but occasionally it is slightly funny. It is at http://periwinklechronicles.blogspot.com/}
(If you would prefer to receive either “Christ In Winter” or “Periwinkle Chronicles” via email, just let me know at jmcfarland1721@charter.net, and I’ll put you on the email list.)
Rebecca Ninke, Lutheran author and pastor, was snowed in by the big blizzard, and then a bug treated the GI tracts of her and her children with considerable rudeness. In the midst of that, she had one of those writer deadlines. But rather than wishing her life away, wishing to get far enough ahead that the pukey days of infections and deadline were over, she decided to wish for LAST spring.
I used to wish my life away. Half of it, anyway. For a long time, we barely scraped by financially. Along about the fifteenth of the month, I would start wishing for the end of the month, so I’d get my pay check. Finally I realized, “This is no good. I’m wishing half of my life away just because I have no money. The end of the month will come no sooner with my wishful thinking, and I’m losing the present.”
I changed my ways. We still ate Spam and beans, but I enjoyed it more.
I know all about the need to live in the present and how we can’t live in the past. I think, though, that Rebecca is on to something. Wish for a day before blizzards and epizootics. That’s what memory is for.
It is easy in the cold and snow of winter to waste the days away wishing forward to spring. It is better just to enjoy the days of winter through the joy of memory, wishing backward instead of forward, warming winter by remembering the days of spring and summer and autumn.
Daughter Katie recently gave me a nice quote from Jennifer Lawler: “The sign of a life well spent is enough good memories to get you through to the end.”
JRMcF
{I also write the fictional “Periwinkle Chronicles” blog. One needs a rather strange sense of humor to enjoy it, but occasionally it is slightly funny. It is at http://periwinklechronicles.blogspot.com/}
(If you would prefer to receive either “Christ In Winter” or “Periwinkle Chronicles” via email, just let me know at jmcfarland1721@charter.net, and I’ll put you on the email list.)
Wednesday, February 16, 2011
Remembering Perry
CHRIST IN WINTER: Reflections on Faith from a place of winter For the Years of Winter…
“I hate the Confederacy,” said my friend, Perry H. Biddle, Jr. [1]
“Isn’t that a bit harsh for a southern boy?” I asked him.
“It’s not about North and South,” said Perry. “It’s about life and death. I tried to commit suicide by crashing my car into the Confederate statue in Louisville. I don’t want to blame myself, so I’m going to blame the Confederacy and the people who put that durn statue there.”
I breathed a sigh of relief. I already knew Perry was in the hospital because he had tried to commit suicide. Now we could go ahead and talk about it.
“When the paramedics pulled me out, they were sure I was dead. Weren’t even going to take me to the hospital. Then somebody noticed a breath or something…”
“Other than being so bad-looking they thought you were dead, how did you feel about that?” [2]
“Oh, just so glad to be alive.”
We went on that day to talk about life and death. It was never hard to talk to Perry about anything, ever since we were accidental roommates at an Academy of Parish Clergy (APC) conference in Chicago. He made it easy to talk about his attempted suicide, his wonderment at how he had ever gotten to that point, his disgust with himself that he had always been so willing to listen to others as a pastor but had not been willing to seek out someone when he needed to talk about his depression, his appreciation for the care of his wife, Sue, and the concern of his friends, and how strange it is to be so depressed you want to end your life, and then to be so glad when you failed. It was a telephone conversation, but he asked me to pray with him at the end. He laughed when I thanked God for “these faithful old wives of ours who love us regardless.”
Suicide became a major focus of his ministry. Writing had always been a part of his ministry, so he wrote a book about it, “Reflections on Suicide,” and he wrote “Humor and Healing.”
Preacher types will recognize Perry’s name because he talked to all of us through his many writings for clergy, especially the Abingdon funeral and wedding manuals. Hightstown, NJ Presbyterian pastor and fellow APC member Suzanne Schaefer-Coates remembers following Perry’s funeral manual to get through her first such experience, having no idea she would one day be a colleague of the author. Perry was a Contributing Editor to “Christian Ministry” and wrote for many other periodicals. He and I were writing buddies, keeping up with each other’s work. I appreciated his encouragement.
We continued to talk over the years, on the phone, at APC gatherings, when we stayed overnight with Perry and Sue in Nashville on our way to Alabama to see our new granddaughter, when they would come to Illinois to see their son and his family. We always talked about our writing projects, and gave thanks that our wives were still willing to put up with us.
Perry’s whole ministry has been about life and death, helping people deal with those twin mysteries through Word and words. At the Confederate statue in Louisville he went through death to life. Now he’s going through death to life again. He has been “transferred from the church militant to the church triumphant.” The church triumphant is today a better church, and the church militant has lost a faithful frontline warrior.
I do wonder a little about what will happen in heaven if he runs into those folks who put up that durn statue.
JRMcF
[1] There are four Perry H. Biddles in the line, including Perry’s son and grandson, “Petey,” who tried to steal a little red rocking chair from our house when he was about two.
[2] A man expresses affection and gives support to a friend by telling him how ugly he is, under any circumstances.
[3] “Reflections on Suicide” used to be free from Desert Ministries and may still be. Their web site is at http://www.desmin.org/index.html
{I also write the fictional “Periwinkle Chronicles” blog. One needs a rather strange sense of humor to enjoy it, but occasionally it is slightly funny. It is at http://periwinklechronicles.blogspot.com/}
(If you would prefer to receive either “Christ In Winter” or “Periwinkle Chronicles” via email, just let me know at jmcfarland1721@charter.net, and I’ll put you on the email list.)
“I hate the Confederacy,” said my friend, Perry H. Biddle, Jr. [1]
“Isn’t that a bit harsh for a southern boy?” I asked him.
“It’s not about North and South,” said Perry. “It’s about life and death. I tried to commit suicide by crashing my car into the Confederate statue in Louisville. I don’t want to blame myself, so I’m going to blame the Confederacy and the people who put that durn statue there.”
I breathed a sigh of relief. I already knew Perry was in the hospital because he had tried to commit suicide. Now we could go ahead and talk about it.
“When the paramedics pulled me out, they were sure I was dead. Weren’t even going to take me to the hospital. Then somebody noticed a breath or something…”
“Other than being so bad-looking they thought you were dead, how did you feel about that?” [2]
“Oh, just so glad to be alive.”
We went on that day to talk about life and death. It was never hard to talk to Perry about anything, ever since we were accidental roommates at an Academy of Parish Clergy (APC) conference in Chicago. He made it easy to talk about his attempted suicide, his wonderment at how he had ever gotten to that point, his disgust with himself that he had always been so willing to listen to others as a pastor but had not been willing to seek out someone when he needed to talk about his depression, his appreciation for the care of his wife, Sue, and the concern of his friends, and how strange it is to be so depressed you want to end your life, and then to be so glad when you failed. It was a telephone conversation, but he asked me to pray with him at the end. He laughed when I thanked God for “these faithful old wives of ours who love us regardless.”
Suicide became a major focus of his ministry. Writing had always been a part of his ministry, so he wrote a book about it, “Reflections on Suicide,” and he wrote “Humor and Healing.”
Preacher types will recognize Perry’s name because he talked to all of us through his many writings for clergy, especially the Abingdon funeral and wedding manuals. Hightstown, NJ Presbyterian pastor and fellow APC member Suzanne Schaefer-Coates remembers following Perry’s funeral manual to get through her first such experience, having no idea she would one day be a colleague of the author. Perry was a Contributing Editor to “Christian Ministry” and wrote for many other periodicals. He and I were writing buddies, keeping up with each other’s work. I appreciated his encouragement.
We continued to talk over the years, on the phone, at APC gatherings, when we stayed overnight with Perry and Sue in Nashville on our way to Alabama to see our new granddaughter, when they would come to Illinois to see their son and his family. We always talked about our writing projects, and gave thanks that our wives were still willing to put up with us.
Perry’s whole ministry has been about life and death, helping people deal with those twin mysteries through Word and words. At the Confederate statue in Louisville he went through death to life. Now he’s going through death to life again. He has been “transferred from the church militant to the church triumphant.” The church triumphant is today a better church, and the church militant has lost a faithful frontline warrior.
I do wonder a little about what will happen in heaven if he runs into those folks who put up that durn statue.
JRMcF
[1] There are four Perry H. Biddles in the line, including Perry’s son and grandson, “Petey,” who tried to steal a little red rocking chair from our house when he was about two.
[2] A man expresses affection and gives support to a friend by telling him how ugly he is, under any circumstances.
[3] “Reflections on Suicide” used to be free from Desert Ministries and may still be. Their web site is at http://www.desmin.org/index.html
{I also write the fictional “Periwinkle Chronicles” blog. One needs a rather strange sense of humor to enjoy it, but occasionally it is slightly funny. It is at http://periwinklechronicles.blogspot.com/}
(If you would prefer to receive either “Christ In Winter” or “Periwinkle Chronicles” via email, just let me know at jmcfarland1721@charter.net, and I’ll put you on the email list.)
Sunday, February 13, 2011
My Guitar Pick
CHRIST IN WINTER: Reflections on Faith For the Years of Winter…
I’ll have a guitar pick with me this afternoon when Helen and I go up to Fortune Lake for the Second Sunday Folk Dances. I don’t play guitar, but I always carry a pick with me. I don’t think Dean Premo will forget his pick today, but just in case, I’ll be ready.
My daughters say that I am the only person in the world who actually carries cargo in his cargo pockets. But I was cargo before cargo was cool. I need a lot of big pockets, because I carry a lot of stuff around with me. Just in case, I like to be ready.
I have pens and a note pad, of course. Sun glasses. A case for my regular glasses. Cell phone.
The usual stuff—keys, billfold. A change purse, because watching an old man count out the correct change is always the highlight of a cashier’s day.
I always have an extra, clean handkerchief. I started carrying one in high school. For some reason, the girls I dated cried a lot.
I always carry three little soft plastic bears—white, brown, and black. You never know when you are going to run into a little child who is having a bad day, in the mall or at Wal-Mart or in a restaurant or in the doctor’s waiting room. As the hunters UP here would tell you, nothing brightens up a day like getting a bear. Especially if you get to choose the color.
I carry a Swiss army knife. You can do anything with a Swiss army knife.
I carry a little pack of craisins in case a diabetic needs a quick pickup. I also have aspirin and Tylenol and cough drops. Chapstick.
I have safety pins of various sizes, paper clips, nail clippers, a basketball inflating needle.
And, most importantly, the guitar pick. I don’t want to be in a situation where someone says, “Gee, we could have music, but no one has a pick.” I never want to be the one who is to blame because there is no music.
JRMcF
{I also write the fictional “Periwinkle Chronicles” blog. One needs a rather strange sense of humor to enjoy it, but occasionally it is slightly funny. It is at http://periwinklechronicles.blogspot.com/}
(If you would prefer to receive either “Christ In Winter” or “Periwinkle Chronicles” via email, just let me know at jmcfarland1721@charter.net, and I’ll put you on the email list.)
I’ll have a guitar pick with me this afternoon when Helen and I go up to Fortune Lake for the Second Sunday Folk Dances. I don’t play guitar, but I always carry a pick with me. I don’t think Dean Premo will forget his pick today, but just in case, I’ll be ready.
My daughters say that I am the only person in the world who actually carries cargo in his cargo pockets. But I was cargo before cargo was cool. I need a lot of big pockets, because I carry a lot of stuff around with me. Just in case, I like to be ready.
I have pens and a note pad, of course. Sun glasses. A case for my regular glasses. Cell phone.
The usual stuff—keys, billfold. A change purse, because watching an old man count out the correct change is always the highlight of a cashier’s day.
I always have an extra, clean handkerchief. I started carrying one in high school. For some reason, the girls I dated cried a lot.
I always carry three little soft plastic bears—white, brown, and black. You never know when you are going to run into a little child who is having a bad day, in the mall or at Wal-Mart or in a restaurant or in the doctor’s waiting room. As the hunters UP here would tell you, nothing brightens up a day like getting a bear. Especially if you get to choose the color.
I carry a Swiss army knife. You can do anything with a Swiss army knife.
I carry a little pack of craisins in case a diabetic needs a quick pickup. I also have aspirin and Tylenol and cough drops. Chapstick.
I have safety pins of various sizes, paper clips, nail clippers, a basketball inflating needle.
And, most importantly, the guitar pick. I don’t want to be in a situation where someone says, “Gee, we could have music, but no one has a pick.” I never want to be the one who is to blame because there is no music.
JRMcF
{I also write the fictional “Periwinkle Chronicles” blog. One needs a rather strange sense of humor to enjoy it, but occasionally it is slightly funny. It is at http://periwinklechronicles.blogspot.com/}
(If you would prefer to receive either “Christ In Winter” or “Periwinkle Chronicles” via email, just let me know at jmcfarland1721@charter.net, and I’ll put you on the email list.)
Wednesday, February 9, 2011
The Clothing of February
CHRIST IN WINTER: Reflections on Faith For the Years of Winter…
As I write this, it is July 26 on Iron Mountain. I am walking this morning without a hat, without long sleeves even. The sky is overcast. There is a little fog. It is one of those few days in the Yooper spaces that slides between the fear of skin cancer and the fear of frostbite.
There is a saying here: There is no such thing as bad weather; only bad clothing. Like most folk sayings, it is true… up to the point where it is no longer true.
Paul, the apostle to those left out in the cold, says the same thing about life: There is no such thing as bad life, only bad faith. If you have the right spiritual clothing, the clothing of the warrior, to be sure–the belt of truth, the breastplate of righteousness, the peace prep shoes–you are set to take on the winter of life. [Ephesians 6:13-15] Like most theology, it is true… up to the point where it is no longer true.
That is the point where the right clothing is just too cumbersome. Sure, you can go out in winter, if you put on the belt of Carhartt and the breastplate of Filson and the shoes of Redwing, but there comes a time when that is just too much to wear, when it is time just to stay in out of the weather and be satisfied beside the fire, even though it may be burning low.
So as I walk in the clothing of July, I think back and forward to the clothing of February. Sufficient for the day is the clothing thereof.
JRMcF
{I also write the fictional “Periwinkle Chronicles” blog. One needs a rather strange sense of humor to enjoy it, but occasionally it is slightly funny. It is at http://periwinklechronicles.blogspot.com/}
(If you would prefer to receive either “Christ In Winter” or “Periwinkle Chronicles” via email, just let me know at jmcfarland1721@charter.net, and I’ll put you on the email list.)
As I write this, it is July 26 on Iron Mountain. I am walking this morning without a hat, without long sleeves even. The sky is overcast. There is a little fog. It is one of those few days in the Yooper spaces that slides between the fear of skin cancer and the fear of frostbite.
There is a saying here: There is no such thing as bad weather; only bad clothing. Like most folk sayings, it is true… up to the point where it is no longer true.
Paul, the apostle to those left out in the cold, says the same thing about life: There is no such thing as bad life, only bad faith. If you have the right spiritual clothing, the clothing of the warrior, to be sure–the belt of truth, the breastplate of righteousness, the peace prep shoes–you are set to take on the winter of life. [Ephesians 6:13-15] Like most theology, it is true… up to the point where it is no longer true.
That is the point where the right clothing is just too cumbersome. Sure, you can go out in winter, if you put on the belt of Carhartt and the breastplate of Filson and the shoes of Redwing, but there comes a time when that is just too much to wear, when it is time just to stay in out of the weather and be satisfied beside the fire, even though it may be burning low.
So as I walk in the clothing of July, I think back and forward to the clothing of February. Sufficient for the day is the clothing thereof.
JRMcF
{I also write the fictional “Periwinkle Chronicles” blog. One needs a rather strange sense of humor to enjoy it, but occasionally it is slightly funny. It is at http://periwinklechronicles.blogspot.com/}
(If you would prefer to receive either “Christ In Winter” or “Periwinkle Chronicles” via email, just let me know at jmcfarland1721@charter.net, and I’ll put you on the email list.)
Monday, February 7, 2011
Debbie Friedman
CHRIST IN WINTER: Reflections on Faith For the Years of Winter…
If you were asked to name a Jewish folk singer from Minnesota who changed the face of the musical landscape, you’d say Bob Dylan, and you’d be right. You would also be right if you said Debbie Friedman.
In response to the turmoil of the 1960s, worship, both Jewish and Christian, began to change to try to speak the language of a new time. When we started doing “contemporary” worship at The Wesley Foundation [Methodist Campus Ministry] at IL State U in 1967, we turned to the folk genre for our music. So did youth camps. All summer campers in the 1960s, Christian or secular or Jewish, sang many of the same songs, like “This Land Is Your Land,” “If I Had a Hammer,” “Turn, Turn, Turn.” We probably even sang some of the same religious songs, like “Michael, Row the Boat Ashore.”
Debbie Friedman grew up in that milieu. She began to compose and sing at Jewish camps where she counseled as a teen, specifically the camp at Oconomowoc, WI. She wrote with those young people in mind, music they could sing around a camp fire, words that would reach their hopeful but uncertain lives. My friend Ben Friedman, no relation to Debbie, remembers singing those songs in youth camps in OH himself. Her first album, “Sing Unto God,” was released almost forty years ago, when she was only 20. She combined American folk music with traditional Jewish worship music in a blend of music and words that touches the soul. She composed almost the entire canon of contemporary Jewish worship music without being able to read or write musical notation.
Ben referenced her after my CIW on healing because of her “Mi Sh’beirakh,” her setting of the traditional prayer for healing. It is a beautiful piece, both in words and music. It reminds me of Natalie Sleeth’s “Hymn of Promise.” Debbie and Natalie both wrote out of their own struggles for spiritual healing in the midst of physical brokenness. Debbie wrote as a Jew and Natalie as a Christian, but any Jew or any Christian can sing either song and be blessed.
Debbie died January 9. She had struggled with MS for many years. She was a month short of 60.Yesterday the seven synagogues of Cleveland joined in a tribute to Debbie Friedman, the voice of contemporary Jewish worship music. I’m sure all the Reform and Conservative congregations in the country, and even some of the Orthodox, will honor her in some way. Hebrew Union College has already decided to name its School of Sacred Music for her. I know about the Cleveland tribute because I once helped do a wedding for Ben Friedman at one of those temples in Cleveland.
In Debbie’s words: “Remember, what emerges from our painful challenges will come our healing.”
Here is a link to “Mi Sh’beirakh.” http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qXm3lX19nQg
Debbie Friedman’s music will be sung in Jewish worship for a long time. I hope it will be sung in Christian worship, too.
JRMcF
{I also write the fictional “Periwinkle Chronicles” blog. One needs a rather strange sense of humor to enjoy it, but occasionally it is slightly funny. It is at http://periwinklechronicles.blogspot.com/}
(If you would prefer to receive either “Christ In Winter” or “Periwinkle Chronicles” via email, just let me know at jmcfarland1721@charter.net, and I’ll put you on the email
If you were asked to name a Jewish folk singer from Minnesota who changed the face of the musical landscape, you’d say Bob Dylan, and you’d be right. You would also be right if you said Debbie Friedman.
In response to the turmoil of the 1960s, worship, both Jewish and Christian, began to change to try to speak the language of a new time. When we started doing “contemporary” worship at The Wesley Foundation [Methodist Campus Ministry] at IL State U in 1967, we turned to the folk genre for our music. So did youth camps. All summer campers in the 1960s, Christian or secular or Jewish, sang many of the same songs, like “This Land Is Your Land,” “If I Had a Hammer,” “Turn, Turn, Turn.” We probably even sang some of the same religious songs, like “Michael, Row the Boat Ashore.”
Debbie Friedman grew up in that milieu. She began to compose and sing at Jewish camps where she counseled as a teen, specifically the camp at Oconomowoc, WI. She wrote with those young people in mind, music they could sing around a camp fire, words that would reach their hopeful but uncertain lives. My friend Ben Friedman, no relation to Debbie, remembers singing those songs in youth camps in OH himself. Her first album, “Sing Unto God,” was released almost forty years ago, when she was only 20. She combined American folk music with traditional Jewish worship music in a blend of music and words that touches the soul. She composed almost the entire canon of contemporary Jewish worship music without being able to read or write musical notation.
Ben referenced her after my CIW on healing because of her “Mi Sh’beirakh,” her setting of the traditional prayer for healing. It is a beautiful piece, both in words and music. It reminds me of Natalie Sleeth’s “Hymn of Promise.” Debbie and Natalie both wrote out of their own struggles for spiritual healing in the midst of physical brokenness. Debbie wrote as a Jew and Natalie as a Christian, but any Jew or any Christian can sing either song and be blessed.
Debbie died January 9. She had struggled with MS for many years. She was a month short of 60.Yesterday the seven synagogues of Cleveland joined in a tribute to Debbie Friedman, the voice of contemporary Jewish worship music. I’m sure all the Reform and Conservative congregations in the country, and even some of the Orthodox, will honor her in some way. Hebrew Union College has already decided to name its School of Sacred Music for her. I know about the Cleveland tribute because I once helped do a wedding for Ben Friedman at one of those temples in Cleveland.
In Debbie’s words: “Remember, what emerges from our painful challenges will come our healing.”
Here is a link to “Mi Sh’beirakh.” http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qXm3lX19nQg
Debbie Friedman’s music will be sung in Jewish worship for a long time. I hope it will be sung in Christian worship, too.
JRMcF
{I also write the fictional “Periwinkle Chronicles” blog. One needs a rather strange sense of humor to enjoy it, but occasionally it is slightly funny. It is at http://periwinklechronicles.blogspot.com/}
(If you would prefer to receive either “Christ In Winter” or “Periwinkle Chronicles” via email, just let me know at jmcfarland1721@charter.net, and I’ll put you on the email
Friday, February 4, 2011
World Cancer Day Sharing
CHRIST IN WINTER: Reflections on Faith For the Years of Winter…
Today is my birthday. Daughter Mary Beth informs me that it is also World Cancer Day. That sounds about right to me, for it was on my birthday that they took me into the operating room at midnight and cut me open from Boston to Los Angeles.
Cancer didn’t even cross my mind. My mother was one of eight children, my father one of seven. I have 28 cousins. None of those aunts or uncles or cousins had ever had cancer. Still haven’t.
In addition, I led a healthy life style. We didn’t eat bad stuff. I was a long distance runner. I was a preacher, for Christ’s sake. Preachers don’t get cancer; we minister to others who have it.
I wanted the pain to go away, though. So they cut me open to get at it. The pain was caused by a tumor that was penetrating my bowel wall. They cut out the tumor and about a third of my colon. I’ve been trying to learn the correct usage of a semi-colon ever since.
My first oncologist said I had a year or two to live. Two sounded like so much more than one. I desperately wanted that second year. That was 21 years ago. Under the circumstances, I feel pretty good.
Judith Unger, a friend ever since Wesley Foundation days at IU, gave me a book, Bernie Siegel’s Love, Medicine, and Miracles.
In Siegel’s book, he says the single most important thing that any cancer person needs to hear: “Not everyone will be cured, but everyone can be healed.”
Sin and sickness fragment us and our relationships, break us up into little pieces. My wonderful friend and one-time associate pastor, the late Max White, used to pray in worship: “Bless those of us assembled here.” Being broken apart by sickness gives us a chance to be assembled, put back together, made whole.
There is a day for curing. That’s a good day. Some day will be a day for dying. That’s the day of final curing. But every day is a day for healing, for being made whole, even if it’s a cancer day.
E. Paul Unger accused me of being a bad influence, since other people we know began to get sick after I had started the trend. I can’t help it; I’ve always been a fashion leader. That’s why our daughters ask Helen to check my outfit before I leave the house. They know that once I’m out there, everyone else will want to be just like me.
So I’m not surprised that the World Cancer people decided to put their day on my day. I’m glad to share. After all, it’s the sharing that makes us whole.
JRMcF
My apologies to those who have already read all the above in NOW THAT I HAVE CANCER I AM WHOLE: Reflections on Life and Healing for Cancer Patients and Those Who Love Them. If you haven’t read it and want to, you can get it lots of places on line very cheaply. Or I can send you a signed copy for $11.
{I also write the fictional “Periwinkle Chronicles” blog. One needs a rather strange sense of humor to enjoy it, but occasionally it is slightly funny. It is at http://periwinklechronicles.blogspot.com/}
(If you would prefer to receive either “Christ In Winter” or “Periwinkle Chronicles” via email, just let me know at jmcfarland1721@charter.net, and I’ll put you on the email list.)
Today is my birthday. Daughter Mary Beth informs me that it is also World Cancer Day. That sounds about right to me, for it was on my birthday that they took me into the operating room at midnight and cut me open from Boston to Los Angeles.
Cancer didn’t even cross my mind. My mother was one of eight children, my father one of seven. I have 28 cousins. None of those aunts or uncles or cousins had ever had cancer. Still haven’t.
In addition, I led a healthy life style. We didn’t eat bad stuff. I was a long distance runner. I was a preacher, for Christ’s sake. Preachers don’t get cancer; we minister to others who have it.
I wanted the pain to go away, though. So they cut me open to get at it. The pain was caused by a tumor that was penetrating my bowel wall. They cut out the tumor and about a third of my colon. I’ve been trying to learn the correct usage of a semi-colon ever since.
My first oncologist said I had a year or two to live. Two sounded like so much more than one. I desperately wanted that second year. That was 21 years ago. Under the circumstances, I feel pretty good.
Judith Unger, a friend ever since Wesley Foundation days at IU, gave me a book, Bernie Siegel’s Love, Medicine, and Miracles.
In Siegel’s book, he says the single most important thing that any cancer person needs to hear: “Not everyone will be cured, but everyone can be healed.”
Sin and sickness fragment us and our relationships, break us up into little pieces. My wonderful friend and one-time associate pastor, the late Max White, used to pray in worship: “Bless those of us assembled here.” Being broken apart by sickness gives us a chance to be assembled, put back together, made whole.
There is a day for curing. That’s a good day. Some day will be a day for dying. That’s the day of final curing. But every day is a day for healing, for being made whole, even if it’s a cancer day.
E. Paul Unger accused me of being a bad influence, since other people we know began to get sick after I had started the trend. I can’t help it; I’ve always been a fashion leader. That’s why our daughters ask Helen to check my outfit before I leave the house. They know that once I’m out there, everyone else will want to be just like me.
So I’m not surprised that the World Cancer people decided to put their day on my day. I’m glad to share. After all, it’s the sharing that makes us whole.
JRMcF
My apologies to those who have already read all the above in NOW THAT I HAVE CANCER I AM WHOLE: Reflections on Life and Healing for Cancer Patients and Those Who Love Them. If you haven’t read it and want to, you can get it lots of places on line very cheaply. Or I can send you a signed copy for $11.
{I also write the fictional “Periwinkle Chronicles” blog. One needs a rather strange sense of humor to enjoy it, but occasionally it is slightly funny. It is at http://periwinklechronicles.blogspot.com/}
(If you would prefer to receive either “Christ In Winter” or “Periwinkle Chronicles” via email, just let me know at jmcfarland1721@charter.net, and I’ll put you on the email list.)
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)