CHRIST IN WINTER: Reflections on Faith from a place of winter For the Years of Winter…
Dave and Maggie Lamb came UP from IL to see us a month or so ago. I officiated at their wedding fifty years ago, and they apparently wanted me to know that I had done a good job.
Dave and I were high school friends. He was the Art Editor of “Oak Barks,” the mimeographed [1] newspaper of Oakland City, IN, High School, when I was the Editor. We were part of a group, along with Bob Robling and Donald Gene Taylor, that occasionally filled in on Sundays for absent preachers. We sang as a quartet, and I preached. I was very proud when Dave and Maggie asked me, while still in seminary, to officiate at their wedding.
I went to IN U to become a newspaper reporter. He went to U of IL to become a graphic artist. I ended up as a preacher, and he ended up as the premier “mad man” of the last third of the 20th century.
It was Dave who gave the name of “The Me Generation” to the 1970s. He didn’t cause it, but he recognized it, and so he named it, starting the decade with his “Me and My RC” ad campaign. He created the “Bring out your best” ads for Bud Light, plus their Olympic ads, that won awards at the Cannes film festival, plus many of the other iconic ads of the latter part of the 20th century.
When I have talked about him in the past, I always started with those ads. When they were UP to visit, though, Maggie told us about how he once explained to Frank Sinatra, calling on those old quartet days, how to sing. He was directing an ad for Michelob that featured Sinatra, and explained to Old Blueyes, who was acting more like Old Jerkface, “Then you walk over here, singing as you go, Just the way you look tonight…” Dave himself singing it, to be sure that Frank, as Dave calls him, got it. [I was going to say that he had to take Frank by the arm and lead him to his spot, since Frank may have been using the sponsor’s product already, while explaining how to sing, but Dave doesn’t want anyone to think he was pushing Frank around, as The Chairman of the Board still has friends in low places.]
Now I start my stories of Dave with “I have a friend who taught Sinatra how to sing.” [2]
Dave recently mused about the name of this blog. He said…
In the fall season about two years ago we took our grand kids in Arizona to a Pro Bass store. You know, the frozen zoo, with a hundred stuffed animals and fish in giant glass tanks being leered at by would be anglers. Close to the front door to the right was a book section. (Not very complicated types of reading material...mostly pictures.) But as I examined it closer something attracted, or un-attracted my attention. It was a camouflaged book almost causing it’s 9x12 x 2 and1/2 dimensions to disappear in the overall Pro Bass ambiance.
It drew me closer. What great hunter’s secrets were worth this effort?
What price would be put on something of such intellectual importance,
that obviously was meant to not gather dust but become at peace with it?
Drawing closer there was the glint of a small sophisticated font embossed in gold. The title said “HOLY BIBLE”.
Christ not in just Winter, but camouflaged! Along with Job, Moses and Mary! My first thought was of the “boys” out there in the blind reading it between beers waiting for their appointed task of obliterating mother nature. Such comfort.
I refuse to go to Pro Bass now. It has made me feel so undeserving of my Lord’s grace. I am also afraid to go to church . One never knows what might really be in there.
Dave Lamb
***
True to his persuasive abilities, Dave has made me afraid to go to church, too. I’m too old to encounter grace face to face, and our pastor seems determined to take the camo off the Gospel.
JRMcF
1] Recently Helen and I were eating with a couple of nineteen-year-olds at a family gathering. Have you ever tried to explain a mimeograph machine to someone who’s never heard of them?
2] OK, so I didn’t start with that this time, but I will from now on.
The “place of winter” mentioned in the title line is Iron Mountain, in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula, where life is defined by winter even in the summer!
You are always welcome to Forward or Repost or Reprint. It’s okay to acknowledge the source, unless it embarrasses you too much. It is okay to refer the link to older folks you know or to print it in a church newsletter or bulletin.
{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
Wednesday, October 26, 2011
Monday, October 17, 2011
Sweet Sixteen & a Profile in Courage
CHRIST IN WINTER: Reflections on Faith from a place of winter For the Years of Winter…
The Martin Luther King, Jr Memorial was dedicated this week. Granddaughter Brigid turns sixteen this week. Two important events that for me go together.
Last year, as a high school freshman, Brigid wrote an essay for a Profiles in Courage assignment. It’s excellent, which isn’t surprising, since her mother is the best writer I know. [1]
I had told Brigid at some time in the past, the way grandparents do, about the "open housing" controversy in Normal, IL shortly after we had moved there in 1966. So when the assignment came up, she chose as her profile in courage, Bill Hammit, Sr.
We moved to Normal in 1966. Civil rights for Negroes, the polite and accepted term at the time, was not yet the law of the land. Many people were committed to keeping civil rights away from Negroes forever. It wasn’t just in the South. That included the otherwise civilized town of Normal, the home of IL State U [2], the chief educating institution for teachers in IL since before the Civil War.
There are some folks who thrive on controversy, but most people don’t like it. There was a lot of resistance to civil rights just because the issue created discomfort. Of course, it had been mighty uncomfortable for black folks for a long time, but when white people had to be discomfited, they just wanted the issue to go away. Another Methodist minister who lived in Normal remonstrated with me that “The country and this town aren’t ready for this yet. You just have to give people time.” I pointed out that it had been over 100 years since the Civil War; that seemed like plenty of time. He was not persuaded. [3]
Open housing became an issue because Charles Morris was hired as a math professor at ISU. Apparently the presence of someone with a PhD from the U of Illinois would drive property rates down, as well as creating other disasters. I agreed publicly, noting if we admitted U of I PhDs, we’d have to admit Purdue people, too, and we all knew what they were like. [4] It turned out, though, that the provenance of his doctorate was not the issue; it was the color of his skin.
There were Normal people who wanted the Morris family to be able to buy a home, but Negroes were legally barred from living in Normal. An open housing ordinance was presented to the seven-man town council. A support movement started. Students led marches. Women, including Helen, hosted coffees for neighbors. Three members of the town council indicated they would vote for the ordinance, but three were against. That left Bill Hammitt, Sr., a Methodist minister, Director of The Baby Fold, a Methodist child care agency [5], as the deciding vote.
Bill asked Gordon White and Clarence Young, the ministers at First Methodist Church, and me, the Methodist campus minister, to meet with him. “You’re my pastors,” he said. “Tell me how I should vote.” Without hesitation, with one voice, we said, “You’ve got to vote for open housing.” “But people will say, ‘Your pastors live in parsonages, houses the churches own. They don’t stand to lose property value.’” Indeed, parsonage life was the rule then, and still is, but none of us lived in a parsonage. All three of us were buying our own homes. “That settles it,” said Bill.
Bill was the deciding vote, and open housing became the Normal law. Over a 30 year career, Charles Morris became a highly valued member of the community and vice-president of the university.
When you are old, it’s nice to remember people of courage, people who stood against those powerful forces that try to deny rights to others, like MLK and Bill Hammit, Sr. Bill doesn’t have a statue, but his profile is up there on that MLK memorial, along with a million other folks who had the courage to say “We shall overcome.” The opportunity to present a profile in courage is always with us, even if the profile is bald and has a double chin.
Even better is to stand with those who are presenting profiles in courage right now, occupying the high ground against injustice, even if the profile is just sixteen.
JRMcF
1] When I was the graduate assistant to James Spalding, the Director of The School of Religion at the U of Iowa, I graded the papers for the class he taught. Brigid’s mother, Katie, was then in 5th grade at Longfellow School, and I also read the papers she wrote. I thought, “Good grief, this fifth grader writes better than these college students!” Later, when she was at Indiana U, Robert Ferrell, the distinguished history professor, asked her, “Where did you learn to write?” “From my father,” she said. “Where did he learn to write?” he asked. “From you,” she said. Needless to say, she was forever after his favorite student.
2] Originally Illinois State Normal College, “normal” meaning a teacher training institution. The college came first, on land a few miles north of Bloomington, so the town that grew up around it became Normal.
3] When I interrupted an Official Board meeting at First Methodist in Normal to tell them that Martin Luther King, Jr. had been assassinated, several people broke out in applause.
4] Needless to say, Purdue is the chief rival of Indiana U, my alma mater.
5] The Baby Fold was originally a retirement home for deaconesses and gradually became an orphanage and then expanded to encompass adoption and care for children with all kinds of needs, especially severe mental and emotional problems. The name is from the image of Jesus as the good shepherd. A fold is a shelter for sheep. Of course, there are still many jokes about how to fold a baby.
***
The “place of winter” mentioned in the title line is Iron Mountain, in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula, where life is defined by winter even in the summer!
You are always welcome to Forward or Repost or Reprint. It’s okay to acknowledge the source, unless it embarrasses you too much. It is okay to refer the link to folks you know or to print it in a church newsletter or bulletin.
{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.)
The Martin Luther King, Jr Memorial was dedicated this week. Granddaughter Brigid turns sixteen this week. Two important events that for me go together.
Last year, as a high school freshman, Brigid wrote an essay for a Profiles in Courage assignment. It’s excellent, which isn’t surprising, since her mother is the best writer I know. [1]
I had told Brigid at some time in the past, the way grandparents do, about the "open housing" controversy in Normal, IL shortly after we had moved there in 1966. So when the assignment came up, she chose as her profile in courage, Bill Hammit, Sr.
We moved to Normal in 1966. Civil rights for Negroes, the polite and accepted term at the time, was not yet the law of the land. Many people were committed to keeping civil rights away from Negroes forever. It wasn’t just in the South. That included the otherwise civilized town of Normal, the home of IL State U [2], the chief educating institution for teachers in IL since before the Civil War.
There are some folks who thrive on controversy, but most people don’t like it. There was a lot of resistance to civil rights just because the issue created discomfort. Of course, it had been mighty uncomfortable for black folks for a long time, but when white people had to be discomfited, they just wanted the issue to go away. Another Methodist minister who lived in Normal remonstrated with me that “The country and this town aren’t ready for this yet. You just have to give people time.” I pointed out that it had been over 100 years since the Civil War; that seemed like plenty of time. He was not persuaded. [3]
Open housing became an issue because Charles Morris was hired as a math professor at ISU. Apparently the presence of someone with a PhD from the U of Illinois would drive property rates down, as well as creating other disasters. I agreed publicly, noting if we admitted U of I PhDs, we’d have to admit Purdue people, too, and we all knew what they were like. [4] It turned out, though, that the provenance of his doctorate was not the issue; it was the color of his skin.
There were Normal people who wanted the Morris family to be able to buy a home, but Negroes were legally barred from living in Normal. An open housing ordinance was presented to the seven-man town council. A support movement started. Students led marches. Women, including Helen, hosted coffees for neighbors. Three members of the town council indicated they would vote for the ordinance, but three were against. That left Bill Hammitt, Sr., a Methodist minister, Director of The Baby Fold, a Methodist child care agency [5], as the deciding vote.
Bill asked Gordon White and Clarence Young, the ministers at First Methodist Church, and me, the Methodist campus minister, to meet with him. “You’re my pastors,” he said. “Tell me how I should vote.” Without hesitation, with one voice, we said, “You’ve got to vote for open housing.” “But people will say, ‘Your pastors live in parsonages, houses the churches own. They don’t stand to lose property value.’” Indeed, parsonage life was the rule then, and still is, but none of us lived in a parsonage. All three of us were buying our own homes. “That settles it,” said Bill.
Bill was the deciding vote, and open housing became the Normal law. Over a 30 year career, Charles Morris became a highly valued member of the community and vice-president of the university.
When you are old, it’s nice to remember people of courage, people who stood against those powerful forces that try to deny rights to others, like MLK and Bill Hammit, Sr. Bill doesn’t have a statue, but his profile is up there on that MLK memorial, along with a million other folks who had the courage to say “We shall overcome.” The opportunity to present a profile in courage is always with us, even if the profile is bald and has a double chin.
Even better is to stand with those who are presenting profiles in courage right now, occupying the high ground against injustice, even if the profile is just sixteen.
JRMcF
1] When I was the graduate assistant to James Spalding, the Director of The School of Religion at the U of Iowa, I graded the papers for the class he taught. Brigid’s mother, Katie, was then in 5th grade at Longfellow School, and I also read the papers she wrote. I thought, “Good grief, this fifth grader writes better than these college students!” Later, when she was at Indiana U, Robert Ferrell, the distinguished history professor, asked her, “Where did you learn to write?” “From my father,” she said. “Where did he learn to write?” he asked. “From you,” she said. Needless to say, she was forever after his favorite student.
2] Originally Illinois State Normal College, “normal” meaning a teacher training institution. The college came first, on land a few miles north of Bloomington, so the town that grew up around it became Normal.
3] When I interrupted an Official Board meeting at First Methodist in Normal to tell them that Martin Luther King, Jr. had been assassinated, several people broke out in applause.
4] Needless to say, Purdue is the chief rival of Indiana U, my alma mater.
5] The Baby Fold was originally a retirement home for deaconesses and gradually became an orphanage and then expanded to encompass adoption and care for children with all kinds of needs, especially severe mental and emotional problems. The name is from the image of Jesus as the good shepherd. A fold is a shelter for sheep. Of course, there are still many jokes about how to fold a baby.
***
The “place of winter” mentioned in the title line is Iron Mountain, in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula, where life is defined by winter even in the summer!
You are always welcome to Forward or Repost or Reprint. It’s okay to acknowledge the source, unless it embarrasses you too much. It is okay to refer the link to folks you know or to print it in a church newsletter or bulletin.
{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, October 9, 2011
ON HATING HELEN
CHRIST IN WINTER: Reflections on Faith from a place of winter For the Years of Winter…
Barbara followed me into the kitchen. She was almost in tears. “I hate your wife,” she blurted out.
We were hosting a pot-luck in our parsonage in Hoopeston, IL for the other ministers and their wives. It was a good fellowship. We were a wide range theologically, conservative and liberal and everything in between, but only one minister in town boycotted the Hoopeston Area Ministerial Association. Everybody in the HAMA came to our potlucks.
Barbara was the wife of Dirk, the Lutheran pastor. She looked like a super model, and Dirk was a George Clooney type, except younger and good looking. I figured Helen and I had more reason to hate them than the other way around.
We didn’t hate them, though. In fact, when their church building burned, we invited them to share ours.
We had enough empty classrooms that we could accommodate their Sunday School at the same time as ours, and we worshipped at the same time, too, with Lutherans in the fellowship hall while Methodists were in the sanctuary. It was quite unusual for Missouri Synod Lutherans.
We loved it. There were so many people in the building, so much activity. The way you know your church is a going concern is whether you have to stand in line for the rest room. We felt bereft when their building was rebuilt and they moved out.
I couldn’t believe that Barbara hated Helen. There were people in the churches and towns where I pastored who hated me, but everyone always loved Helen.
Barbara blew who super-model nose into the napkin from the plate she was placing on the counter and said, “She makes being a preacher’s wife look so easy, and it’s not.”
“That’s because she doesn’t try to be a preacher’s wife,” I told Barbara. “She is just herself. That’s a lot easier.”
I don’t know if Barbara ever got to be herself. The Lutherans moved out of our building, and the bishop moved us to Charleston. No more HAMA potlucks at our house. But it’s Sunday morning, and I always pray for my preacher friends on Sunday morning, including all the wives who hated Helen for making it look easy.
JRMcF
The “place of winter” mentioned in the title line is Iron Mountain, in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula, where life is defined by winter even in the summer!
You are always welcome to Forward or Repost or Reprint. It’s okay to acknowledge the source, unless it embarrasses you too much. It is okay to refer the link to older folks you know or to print it in a church newsletter or bulletin.
{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.)
Barbara followed me into the kitchen. She was almost in tears. “I hate your wife,” she blurted out.
We were hosting a pot-luck in our parsonage in Hoopeston, IL for the other ministers and their wives. It was a good fellowship. We were a wide range theologically, conservative and liberal and everything in between, but only one minister in town boycotted the Hoopeston Area Ministerial Association. Everybody in the HAMA came to our potlucks.
Barbara was the wife of Dirk, the Lutheran pastor. She looked like a super model, and Dirk was a George Clooney type, except younger and good looking. I figured Helen and I had more reason to hate them than the other way around.
We didn’t hate them, though. In fact, when their church building burned, we invited them to share ours.
We had enough empty classrooms that we could accommodate their Sunday School at the same time as ours, and we worshipped at the same time, too, with Lutherans in the fellowship hall while Methodists were in the sanctuary. It was quite unusual for Missouri Synod Lutherans.
We loved it. There were so many people in the building, so much activity. The way you know your church is a going concern is whether you have to stand in line for the rest room. We felt bereft when their building was rebuilt and they moved out.
I couldn’t believe that Barbara hated Helen. There were people in the churches and towns where I pastored who hated me, but everyone always loved Helen.
Barbara blew who super-model nose into the napkin from the plate she was placing on the counter and said, “She makes being a preacher’s wife look so easy, and it’s not.”
“That’s because she doesn’t try to be a preacher’s wife,” I told Barbara. “She is just herself. That’s a lot easier.”
I don’t know if Barbara ever got to be herself. The Lutherans moved out of our building, and the bishop moved us to Charleston. No more HAMA potlucks at our house. But it’s Sunday morning, and I always pray for my preacher friends on Sunday morning, including all the wives who hated Helen for making it look easy.
JRMcF
The “place of winter” mentioned in the title line is Iron Mountain, in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula, where life is defined by winter even in the summer!
You are always welcome to Forward or Repost or Reprint. It’s okay to acknowledge the source, unless it embarrasses you too much. It is okay to refer the link to older folks you know or to print it in a church newsletter or bulletin.
{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)