CHRIST IN WINTER: Reflections on Faith From a Place of Winter for the Years of Winter…
 
IT MEANS MORE TO GOD…
 
In my college days, students were allowed to have a car on campus only if needed for work. I pastored three little churches 16 to 35 miles away from Bloomington, so I got to have a car. This meant I also got other things to do, like picking up a couple of students at Depauw U in Greencastle, IN, 45 miles away, to bring them to IU for a student conference. One was a cute girl. I thought she should ride up front with me, but she ensconced herself in the back seat and read all the way. The other was a nice enough guy, a pre-ministerial student like myself. He sat up front, and we talked the whole way about pre-theological studies and where we might go to seminary.
 
That night there was a mixer for the conference, maybe 40 or 50 students. I saw my new friend across the room and went over to say hello to him. I did. He didn’t respond. I said a few other things to which he did not respond, until finally he said, “Who ARE you?” I was considerably taken aback. We had spent an hour talking with each other earlier in the day. Was I that unmemorable? I told him my name. He looked blank. I explained that I was the guy who had given him a ride earlier, and reminded him what we had talked about. He said, “Oh,” and walked away.
 
Later I did what I have always done when perplexed. I consulted an older and wiser head, in this case, D.J. Bowden, my first religion professor. [1] After I had whined to him about the ungrateful and insensitive jerk, Dr. Bowden said, “Apparently the relationship just meant more to you than to him. That’s why you’ll be a good pastor. Relationships mean more to you.”
 
Looking at the universe, the universe doesn’t give a damn about its relationship to me. It just shrugs and walks away. But looking at Jesus, I can see that my relationship with God means more to God than it does to me.
 
That’s the Christmas message, I think, the message that comes in Jesus, the Christ, the Word of God: even if I shrug and walk away, God stays in the relationship. It just means more to God.
 
JRMcF [John Robert McFarland]
 
1] It is getting harder to find heads older than mine now, so I have to ask younger and wiser heads, but I don’t get perplexed as easily, so it sort of evens out.
 
When Father Rode the Mail and Other Stories of Christmas is available from lulu.com for $10. ISBN = 978-1-300-38566-0. For many years I wrote a story to use as a Christmas eve sermon. Most are auto-biographical, but with happier endings. Providing happier endings is the great thing about being a story-teller.
 
I have faithfully kept an index for CIW so that I would not repeat myself. But that’s a lot of work, and I trust that if I forget I’ve already used something, you will forget it, too. Nonetheless, I do apologize if this is a story I’ve told here before.
 
{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.)

 

 

 

OVERHAIRING THE GOSPEL

CHRIST IN WINTER: Reflections on Faith from a Place of Winter For the Years of Winter

There are a lot of old men with bald heads and white beards. Whenever I see one, I remark on how handsome he is. Everyone who knows what I look like knows why I do this, but younger people also look a bit askance. I mean, just how good looking can an old bald man be, even with a white beard?

 
What they don’t understand is that we were once the young rebels, alpha males with a full head of hair, if a crew-cut can be considered full, and ready to take on the smooth-chinned establishment in the war against hair.
 
And indeed there was a war against hair in the 1960s, the days of Civil Rights and desegregation and Viet Nam. Classical violinists could get away with slightly long hair, but only in back, sort of a mullet-in-the-making, as long as it never actually made. If you did not get a weekly trim, people would ask you, not kindly, “Where’s your violin?” Students who advocated for desegregation or against the war in Viet Nam were told, “Get a haircut.” Middle-aged people seemed to think that the weight of long hair pulled a young man’s brain cells out. Just get a haircut and you’ll understand why black people shouldn’t vote and you should go die in Viet Nam.
 
Beards were even worse. Only a Communist would wear a beard. Many a past president or general or bishop wore a beard, but the past was past. Now it was possible to judge a man’s patriotism by the number of hairs on his face.
 
It was in the midst of the war on hair that I began to go bald. I was only in my mid-thirties. Not-enough hair was considered to be almost as bad as too much hair. I did not want to be bald. So I decided to let my hair grow out long enough that I could comb it over the bald spot.
 
I knew, though, that when people saw I was growing my hair out, it would call attention to my bald spot. My friends would make fun of me and my enemies would accuse me of long-haired perfidy. I also knew that if I grew a beard at the same time, people would fixate on the bottom of my face and not even notice what was taking place on the top of my head.
 
It worked perfectly. With one exception. I had to spend a lot of time in front of the mirror. A crew-cut requires only a swipe of the hand—no mirror time necessary. A smooth chin requires only a quick run with an electric razor, not much mirror time. Now, though, I had to comb and trim just so—a lot of mirror time. I did not like what I saw.
 
One day Helen was passing by the open bathroom door as I was peering into the mirror. I said, “You know, I am really NOT very good-looking.”
 
“That’s right,” she said, as she went her merry way.
 
I realized that I had made my remark in order to get an entirely different reaction from her.
 
“Hey, wait a minute,” I yelled. “You’re my wife. You’re not supposed to agree with that.”
 
“Well,” she said, sticking her head back around the door frame, “you’re not very good-looking when you’re only looking at yourself, but you’re very good-looking when you’re looking at me.”
 
I knew that I had overheard the Gospel.
 
Helen has always been the best theologian in the family.
 
John Robert McFarland
 
“For now we see in a mirror, darkly; but then face to face. “ The Apostle, Paul of Tarsus, in I Corinthians 13:12, ASV.
 
As a student at Garrett Theological Seminary, I took a seminar in Soren Kierkegaard and Friederich Schleiermacher, from Prof. Paul Hessert, along with David Buttrick and Ron Goetz and several other students. I’m not sure I ever understood SK’s theology, but I remember, as well as I remember anything these days, his story of being in a cemetery and overhearing through a hedge a grandfather talking to his grandson about the death of the man who was son to one and father to the other. SK said he “overheard the Gospel.” Fred Craddock turned that into a very helpful book on preaching.
 
In the spirit of Neil Diamond, who never once said, “I apologize to those of you who have heard Sweet Caroline before, but I’m going to sing it again,” I do not apologize to you who have heard me tell this story before, in the pulpit or in The Strange Calling or in Now That I Have Cancer I Am Whole.
 
Some of you have wondered how Helen came out in the grape-stomping competition at Iron Mountain’s Italian Fest. Alas, a combination of fasciitis and an out-of-state funeral eliminated her appearance. Next year in the grape pit…
 
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, or make it into a movie or TV series or Broadway musical.
 
{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/}
 
I tweet, occasionally, as yooper1721.
 
I have nothing to do with those double under-linings Blogger puts into the body of these posts, randomly, it seems, to lead you to advertisements, on the web site, http://christinwinter.blogspot.com/ and I wish they would stop that.
 
I have noticed, when folks reply, the mail programs of some of you leave out much of my punctuation, especially quote marks, apostrophes, and ellipses. I want you to know that I DO know how to punctuate, mostly…
 

Occam's iPad

CHRIST IN WINTER: Reflections on Faith from a Place of Winter for the Years of Winter

Daughter Katie would have figured this out for herself, but old people often know stuff, just because we’ve been around a long time, so she thought she could save a little time by asking me who to contact about “reforming African education.” Sounded like a large and unusual request, but I suggested the Africa desk of The General Board of Global Ministries [GBGM] of The United Methodist Church.

 
Turns out that she had read that Nigerian school children were being murdered on their way to school by those elements, and there are far too many of them these days, that want to keep children from learning. Education is always the primary threat to those who want to rule by violence and intimidation and ignorance.
 
So Katie called up the GBGM and said, “Why not give those kids iPads and online courses so they can avoid that dangerous trip to the school house?”
 
They said, “Good idea. We’ll do it.”
 
Took less than a day.
 
A person saw a need, thought of a solution, and contacted those with the means and motivation to put the solution into action.
 
Not everything works that smoothly, and there will be a lot of obstacles before the GBGM actually gets the program into place, but the process is always the same: See the need, think of a solution, involve those with means and motivation.
 
Old people see a lot of problems. We complain about them. How’s about thinking of solutions and asking others to help? Nobody is ever too old for that.
 
John Robert McFarland
                
1] “Occam’s razor” philosophical theory says that the simplest way is usually best.
 
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, or make it into a movie or TV series or Broadway musical.
 
{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/}
 
I tweet, occasionally, as yooper1721.
 
I have nothing to do with those double under-linings Blogger puts into the body of these posts on the web site, randomly, it seems, to lead you to advertisements, and I wish they would stop that.
 
I have noticed, when folks reply, the mail programs of some of you leave out much of my punctuation, especially quote marks, apostrophes, and ellipses. I want you to know that I DO know how to punctuate, mostly…

  

STOMP

CHRIST IN WINTER: Reflections on Faith from a place of winter For the Years of Winter…
 
I didn’t know that Helen has a bucket list, but apparently she does. It’s the only way I can account for her desire to enter the grape stomping contest at Iron Mountain’s Italian Fest next month.
 
We’ve belonged for several years to the LIFE group of Bay de Noc Community College-West. LIFE stands for Learning Is ForEver. Its programs are designed to help old brains build new connections. Helen and I have gone and sat there each month, resisting brain mushiness, but otherwise inactive, as we are mostly in all things. Last month, though, in a spasm of desperation, the group elected me president. It changed Helen’s relationship to LIFE more than it did mine.
 
All I have to do is tell the secretary which person made a motion. Since I was not in leadership of LIFE before, though, I have not bothered to learn the names of my fellow LIFErs. I was good at that in churches. I made a point of it. By the third week in any new church, regardless of size, I could call 90% of the members by name. But since I don’t know LIFErs, I just make up names for them to tell the secretary. “Moved by Senator Tollefson. Seconded by Myrtle Krepsbach.” If they don’t like their names, they can complain to Garrison Keillor.
 
Helen, however, went into preacher’s wife mode. She welcomed guests. She got name tags for people in wheelchairs and on walkers. She found more paper plates. She had a bunch of old people singing “We are marching to Pee-oria” as she led them down the hall to the restrooms. [One item in that list isn’t completely accurate, factually.]
 
I’ve mentioned before the glamorous young Lutheran pastor’s wife of some years back who told me she hated Helen, “Because she makes being a preacher’s wife look so easy, and it’s not.” Here’s the thing: Helen never tried to be a good preacher’s wife. She just tries to be her best self.
 
I was once called upon to be an interim in a church where the bishop had removed the pastor, for good cause. The people, however, thought that was government interference. When the bishop came to explain things to them, they chanted “We want our pastor,” and threw hymn books at him. The District Superintendent called me and said, “We think this would be a good place for you to pastor for a while.” The first Sunday I said to Helen that perhaps she should stay home. “No way! If they’re mean to you, I’m going to beat up on them.” I’m happy to report that Helen didn’t have to beat up on anyone. I do feel more at ease, though, in my LIFE presidency position, knowing that if anyone tries to run over me with a walker, she’ll be there to block it.
 
Which brings us back to Italian Fest. In competition, old people have an advantage. We have more experience than anyone else. I think Helen will win the contest. She has experience. She has spent her life stomping out the grapes of wrath.
 
John Robert McFarland
 
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, or make it into a movie or TV series or Broadway musical.
 
{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/}
 
I tweet, occasionally, as yooper1721.
 
I have nothing to do with those double under-linings Blogger puts into the body of these posts, randomly, it seems, to lead you to advertisements, and I wish they would stop that.

 

THE NATURE OF POWER, & ONE WHO UNDERSTOOD & OVERCAME

CHRIST IN WINTER: Reflections on Faith from a Place of Winter for the Years of Winter…

 

After supper, Tom Atkins said, rather casually, “I have to go to a political meeting to try to get support for my candidacy for city council. You might as well come along.” His wife, Sharon, suggested Helen stay and chat with her.
 
Turned out that the meeting was a black power rally. All male. I was the only white man there. The others were not at all happy about my presence. I wasn’t very happy about it, either. I think every white person should spend some time as the only one at a minority power rally. It gives you a very different understanding of what minorities experience regularly.
 
The black power guys seemed to think that Tom had betrayed them not just by bringing me to the meeting but my associating with me at all. But Tom, as always, was thinking ahead. He didn’t want just to get elected; he wanted to build a foundation for basic change in the ways we treat one another. He wanted them to support not just his Boston city council candidacy but his approach to people who were different.
 
Because we have just celebrated Independence Day, and because of the recent Supreme Court decision that the Voting Rights Act is no longer necessary, I’ve been thinking about Tom Atkins, and the nature of power.
 
In 1957, Thomas I. Atkins enrolled at Indiana University, part of the elite Residence Scholarship Plan, for poor and bedraggled but bright and motivated students who could not afford to go to college otherwise. We called ourselves Ahaywehs, after Dante’s sign over the gate to hell: Abandon Hope All Ye Who Enter Here. The “elite” status was mostly in our own minds. Tom and I spent a lot of time in Linden Hall-East borassing with the likes of Tom Cone and Jim McKnight and Max Eubanks.
 
[“Borass” is almost exclusively an IU term. Its meaning has changed a little from time to time over the years, but in our day it basically meant sitting around talking.]
 
Tom came down to Bloomington from Elkhart, where he had been the first black student body president at Elkhart HS. His father was a Pentecostal minister and his mother was a maid. He became not only the first black student body president at IU [while making Phi Beta Kappa] but at any Big 10 school. I was active in Tom’s campaign for IU student body president, as were Ahaywehs in general. Tom campaigned hard and well. We got him into almost every housing unit, including sororities, to speak. We weren’t able to get him into fraternities. Anybody who heard him and saw his winning smile—half of it saying that we have a secret, you and I, half of it saying that the secret is that “we shall overcome”—wanted to vote for him.
 
There were two political parties on campus, Organized [OP] and Independent [IP]. Organized meant fraternities and sororities. Independents were everybody else. The OP always won every election, general or by class, because they were exactly what their name said--organized. The frats and sororities required their members to vote. Only a few Independents bothered to run for office or to vote.
 
It was a divisive campaign. Tom won, though, partly because we managed to motivate more Independents than usual, and partly because a surprising number of those sorority members who heard him speak actually voted for him. There were stories of a number of girls who were unpinned [1] by their fraternity boyfriends because they had voted not just for an Independent but… well, you know why.
 
After IU Tom went to Harvard, where he earned an M.A. in Middle Eastern Studies and went to law school. He stayed in Boston. Like so many other firsts in his life, in 1967 he was the first African American elected to the Boston City Council, in one of the most viciously segregated cities in the country, including the South. Most of the vitriol came from Irish-Americans, whose forebears had been treated just like they were now treating African-Americans. Tom went on to become one of the leading civil rights attorneys in the nation.
 
1967 was a volatile time, the nation angrily and hatefully divided over civil rights and the war in Vietnam. That was the summer I started doctoral studies at Boston U. [That degree eventually accumulated over eight different universities.] That was the time when Helen and I had supper with Tom and Sharon. I knew Sharon also from IU, because we had shared classes as majors in the History Dept.
 
Many years after Linden Hall, the run-down home of the Ahaywehs, no longer existed, Helen and I were back on campus when his university honored Tom with the creation and dedication of the Thomas I. Atkins Living-Learning Center. They had him scheduled up so completely that we didn’t get to spend any time with him, but we happened to be walking from the Union Building [2] to its parking lot when his limo pulled up in the circle drive outside the main doors. When Tom saw us, his eyes lit up, and he ran over and gave Helen a big hug before the suits pulled him away to keep him on schedule. Over his shoulder he flashed me that winning smile, half a secret and half what the secret was, and I remembered what he had said at that black power meeting back in 1967. “Power is like water. You can drink it, or you can drown in it.”
 
Tom drank of that water, but unlike so many others, then and now, he refused to let it drown him.
 
I think Chief Justice Roberts was right when he said that the times have changed. I think he was wrong that the change means we no longer need a Voting Rights Act. The times changed BECAUSE of the Voting Right Act. Times change, but human nature doesn’t. People don’t share power voluntarily. There will always be those who seek to prevent voting by persons and groups that they fear will diminish their power.
 
Sometimes, in the years of winter, when it seems like we’ve worked hard all our lives to make the world better, but it’s still the same old hateful place, then it is good to remember people who overcame, like Tom Atkins, who by his presence and his work helped us change the way we treat one another.
 
John Robert McFarland
 
Dec. 1, 2010, the Thomas I. Atkins apartments in “Southie,” his Roxbury section of Boston, were dedicated. It is a “green” unit. It adds 48 affordable apartments and 3600 square feet of commercial space to the neighborhood.
 
He died in 2008, of ALS, Lou Gehrig’s disease.
 
Tom and I were usually the only two car-owners in our dorm, not counting Frank Merli, our Residence Hall Director. Ahaywehs couldn’t afford cars, but students in general were not allowed to have cars in those days. An exception was made for those, like myself, who needed one for work [pastoring three churches in the hinterlands] and for the handicapped, like Tom, who had one short leg, requiring a built-up shoe, and making it difficult for him to walk long distances]. Mine was a serviceable 1951 green Chevrolet. Tom’s was a ponderous black Packard, circa 1937.
 
1] If a guy gave his frat pin to a girl, she was “pinned,” which was between “going steady,” and pre-engagement.
 
2] When Alex Haley spoke on campus, he noted that no one ever spoke of the Union Bldg without reminding him that ”It’s the biggest student union building in the world.”
 
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, or make it into a movie or TV series or Broadway musical.
 
{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/}
 
I tweet, infrequently, as yooper1721.
 

MOVIN' ON WITH JESUS

CHRIST IN WINTER: Reflections on Faith For the Years of Winter…
 
Here’s a song for worship. Probably a jazz or cowboy service. Hank Snow didn’t write melodies for Gregorian chant.
 
I can imagine Joe Frazier singing it at St. Columba’s, or Jennifer Foote Shide at Aldersgate, or Dr. Wilkey at Laws Chapel, or… well, there are lots of possibilities. And since many of my minister friends are moving to new churches as of July, here’s a number for your last service….
 
A word of apology, though, to Mary Rose Faust Jensen, who is a real hymn writer [gardenrosemusic.com].
 
This is to the tune of Hank Snow’s “I’m Movin’ On,” although in my brain I always hear Homer and Jethro singing their version, in which my favorite verse is: The old tom-cat was feelin’ mean, when he got his tail caught in the sewin’ machine, he’s movin’ on, he’ll soon be gone. He ripped a stitch when he hit the ditch, he’s movin’ on.
 
MOVIN’ ON WITH JESUS

The rich man’s barns were quite a site
But God said, “Your soul’s leavin’ tonight”
He’s movin’ on, he’ll soon be gone
He waved goodbye with a tear in his eye
He’s movin’ on. [1]
 
Lazarus was dead and stinkin’ bad,
Mary and Martha were really sad
He was movin’ on, he’d soon be gone
Christ said “Have no fear; get your rear out here. [2]
You’re not movin’ on.” [3]
 
Jesus didn’t just hang out in his tomb
He went to hell and said, “In heaven there’s room,
Keep movin’ on, from here be gone
There’s a place for you with a better view [4]
Keep movin’ on.”
 
The crucifixion was just a blur,
They all thought Christ was dead for sure
He was movin’ on, he’d soon be gone
But love still flows ‘cause up he arose
We’re movin’ on {crescendo and glissando}
 
Following is the benediction response for the service in which the above is used…
 
Some bright morn you’re gonna fly
To your place with God on high
You’ll be movin’ on, you’ll then be gone
But wait a few, you’ve still got work to do
‘Til you’re movin’ on, movin’ on, movin’ on…
 
John Robert McFarland
 
1] Luke 12:16-21.
 
2] Alternate line: But Jesus said, “You just THINK you’re dead.”

Helen says she doesn’t think Jesus would have told Lazarus, “Get your rear out here.” I disagree, since Jesus has often told me to get my rear in gear to go do something I didn’t want to do.

It is also physically correct. Humans can walk upright because of our over-developed gluteus maximus muscles. When we say to someone some variation of, “Move your big rear,”  or “Get your rear over here,” it is simply an acknowledgement of anatomical necessity.
 
3] John 11:1-44.
 
4] Alternate line preferred by grandson Joe: There’s room for all in Heaven’s mall…
    Alternate line preferred by granddaughter Brigid: There’s room for us in the Gospel bus…
 
 
{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 tweet occasionally as yooper1721.
 
I have nothing to do with those double under-linings Blogger puts into the body of these posts, randomly, it seems, to lead you to advertisements, and I wish they would stop that.
 
I have noticed, when folks reply, the mail programs of some of you leave out much of my punctuation, especially quote marks, apostrophes, and ellipses. I want you to know that I DO know how to punctuate, mostly…

 

HELEN'S SONG

CHRIST IN WINTER: Reflections on Faith from a place of winter For the Years of Winter…
 
HELEN’S SONG
 
{TODAY IS OUR 54^TH WEDDING ANNIVERSARY…ONE LINE FOR EACH YEAR…}

 

Every creature has a calling, to each there comes a shout

Of what we are supposed to do, of what life’s all about

Dogs named Ernie love to bark, and meadow larks know how to hark

Wolves are keen to yap and howl, coyotes know to wail and growl,

 But loving you is what I do.

 

Wildebeests migrating, evangelists berating

Lawyers are intent to sue and kittens cuddle up and mew

Long-armed trombonists slippery sliding, icy skaters slickly sliding

A paleontologist names dinosaurs while Boy Scouts prepare to eat s’mores

But loving you is what I do.

 

Rhinos charge wildly while therapists speak mildly

Outfielders catch flies and entomologists do likewise

Soldiers march all longly and sinners act all wrongly

Kinsey’s wasps are galling, Linus is a Pauling [1]

But loving you is what I do.

 

Ghosts have to boo and cows have to moo

There’s an old woman who lives in a shoe

Mourning doves do their cooing and woodland choppers do their hewing

Detectives look for clues, and even cowgirls get the blues

But loving you is what I do.

 

Seismologists predict earthquakes and martyrs laugh at fiery stakes

Meteorologists prognosticate and soothy sayers tell your fate

Sailors sail upon the sea, garden pickers take a pea,

Old men on couches take a nap, birds in trees take a flap

But loving you is what I do.

 

Chimney sweeps look down the flue, a virus likes to give the flu

The birds from out the trees done flew, and boozers like to chug a few

Quarks go outside when protons collide, in a backwards school they seek and hide

Teens use their thumbs 2 txt 2 their chums, math professors add up sums

But loving you is what I do.

 

Johnny sang about a boy named Sue, Jack planted a stalk that really grew

Lizzie gave it 40 whacks, Jehovah’s Witness hands out tracts

Kenny G sort of plays the sax and politicians spurn the facts

Hester had to wear an A while Ahab whaled away all day

But loving you is what I do.

 

Pandas like to munch bamboo and witches love that old voodoo

Cows chew cud and say moo-moo, just like they do upon The View

Kangaroos like to hop, pigs love to eat that slop

Maltida comes a waltzing, Germans wurst are salzing

But loving you is what I do.

 

Presbyterians are predetermined, the March to the Sea was led by Sherman

Real estate agents host open house, fire fighters a blaze will always douse

Spring lambs like to take a gambol, Nat Cole’s rose just takes a ramble

Charley Brown kicked and missed which made him genuinely… unhappy

But loving you is what I do.

 

The snake got Eve to eat an apple and stayed around to invent Snapple

Noah took animals two by two and used the ocean for a loo

Samson used an ass jawbone and politicians are likewise prone

Jesus healed and did no wrong and Chuck Wesley wrote it in a real long song

But loving you is what I do.

 

Dentists make you brush and floss, some Rolling Stones do gather moss

Artists paint and draw and chisel, barkeeps stir with a stick called swizzle

Dr. Biggs dispenses pills to cure all and sundry kinds of ills [2]

Bassoonists toot the bedpost musical and the Chad Mitchell Trio sings quite cruisical [3]

But loving you is what I do.

 

Catchers squat behind home plate and pirates say “Aarrg” to the mate

Koalas on eucalyptus munch and church ladies eat Jell-O at lunch

A mando commando plucks on strings until the fat lady finally sings

Fifty-four years is not so long, I never really could go wrong

For loving you is what I do…

 

JRMcF

 
Okay, so it’s more than 54 lines, but I’m hoping for more years.

***

1] Alfred Kinsey was famous for his studies of gall wasps before deciding sex was more interesting.

 
2] For those who did not see my FB post yesterday: At coffee hour after worship on my first Sunday as pastor in Arcola, IL, a four-year-old came up to me, announced that he was wobbiebigs, and held out his arms. I took them. He waited. I got the idea that I was supposed to twirl him. I learned later that my predecessor, Glen Bocox, had started that tradition, which wobbiebigs and I continued until I got cancer and he got big. I’m sure it was all that twirling that got his head on straight so that today Dr. Robert Biggs passed his family medicine boards. Congratulations, dr. wobbiebigs.
 
3] We went on our one and only cruise with The Chad Mitchell Trio.
 
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, or make it into a movie or TV series or Broadway musical.
 
{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/}
 
I tweet, occasionally, as yooper1721.
 
I have nothing to do with those double under-linings Google puts into the body of these posts on Blogger, randomly, it seems, to lead you to advertisements, and I wish they would stop that.
 
I have noticed, when folks reply, the mail programs of some of you leave out much of my punctuation, especially quote marks, apostrophes, and ellipses. I want you to know that I DO know how to punctuate, mostly…
 
 
 

HOSTS OF THE WORLD

CHRIST IN WINTER: Reflections on Faith from a place of winter For the Years of WINTER

 

 

Some time back, Helen and I attended an event that involved a large number of people from her past. As we talked about who might be there, and how we would recognize them, she named a certain woman and said, “Now Gayle’s been in love with you for a long time, so you need to pay some attention to her.” [1] 

 
This was disturbing on several levels, including the fact that Helen knew Gayle had been in love with me for a long time, and I didn’t. 
 
The rule of our thumbs is that I notice people and Helen notices wall colors and window treatments.
 
Rules of thumb are useful, but they are not scientific, so they are not always accurate. In this instance Helen noticed the person, and I didn’t. And occasionally I notice walls and window treatments. One thing I have noticed about window treatments is that no matter how recently a window was cured, it gets sick again very soon and needs another treatment.
 
Gayle wasn’t there, so it was an exhausting day for me. I had to talk to EVERY woman present, just in case someone else had been in love with me but ignored all those years.
 
It’s not remarkable that some random woman was in love with me; I’m used to that. [2] It IS remarkable that Helen wasn’t jealous or resentful of Gayle; she was concerned about her. She didn’t want her to feel left out.
 
We old people have been around long enough that we are now the hosts of the world, not the guests. We’re responsible for seeing that everyone is included at the party. Pay attention to those younger people. Help them to feel at home. One of them may be in love with you.
 
John Robert McFarland
 
1] Gayle is not her real name, of course.
 
2] Bazinga!
 
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, or make it into a movie or TV series or Broadway musical.
 
{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/}
 
I tweet, occasionally, @yooper1721.
 
I have nothing to do with those double under-linings Blogger puts into the body of these posts, randomly, it seems, to lead you to advertisements, and I wish they would stop that.

 

 

 

ALL THE DAYS OF MY LIFE

[Well, it happened again. For some reason Blogger decides to disappear what I'm working on and I have to start over.]

 

CHRIST IN WINTER: Reflections on Faith from a place of winter For the Years of Winter…

 
Sunday’s worship focus was the 23^rd Psalm. It reminded me of an old preacher story about a little boy in the Sunday School class of a rather stern maiden-lady, Miss Murphy. One night his parents heard him praying Psalm 23: Surely good Miss Murphy will follow me all the days of my life.
 
My Sunday School teacher has followed me all the days of my life. East Park Church in Indianapolis doesn’t exist anymore, but Mrs. Darringer does.
 
Mrs. Darringer was a formidable woman. Like Miss Murphy, I don’t think she had a first name. Even her husband referred to her as Mrs. Darringer.
 
As our pastor, Paul Mallory, preached very helpfully on Psalm 23 last Sunday, comparing it to a run-away truck ramp, an opportunity to slow down beside still waters, as I approach closer to that valley of the shadow myself, I was renewed by the knowledge that I’m in Psalm 23, because I’m in the Bible story. Because of Mrs. Darringer.
 
The Bible is not God’s book of theology or philosophy. It’s not God’s book of helpful hints for healthy living. It is not God’s science book. Theology and philosophy and helpful hints are all a part of it, but not in and for themselves. They are there only as a part of God’s story. The Bible is God’s STORY book. The great good news is that we, you and I, we are a part of God’s story.
 
Salvation is neither through beliefs nor works. We are saved when we stop trying to write our own story and become a part of God’s story.
 
When I was nine years old, Mrs. Darringer gave me my first Bible. In it she wrote “For Johnny McFarland.” Underneath she wrote, “From Mrs. Darringer.”
 
The one person I knew who had the authority to put my name in the story had done so, and just to be sure everyone understood, she added hers as well. My name is still in there. I’m sure Mrs. Darringer is no longer in that formidable body, but her name is still in that book, along with mine.
 
With you in the story,
Johnny & Mrs. Darringer

 

 
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, or make it into a movie or TV series or Broadway musical.
 
{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/}
 
I tweet, occasionally, as yooper1721.
 
I have nothing to do with those double under-linings Blogger puts into the body of these posts, randomly, it seems, to lead you to advertisements, and I wish they would stop that.
 

 

 

FUNERAL WORDS

CHRIST IN WINTER: Reflections on Faith from a place of winter For the Years of Winter…

 

{Once more I must apologize for the length, twice what it should be. If you’re pressed for time, skip to the last three paragraphs.}
 
I was willing to accept the $10 the county would pay for the graveside service for the “homeless bum” who died, without identification, while passing through town, but I was attracted more by the honor.
 
I arrived at the cemetery at the appointed time. The funeral director and the sheriff were chatting beside the hearse. I walked up to them. “Oh, he’s over there,” the funeral director said, motioning in the direction of a very plain coffin suspended over a grave. He went on talking with the sheriff. I wandered over to the grave. I opened up my Book of Worship and read the entire funeral ritual, aloud. I was the only speaker.
 
Pastoring in a retirement community, Suzanne Schaefer-Coates has done a lot of funerals over the years. Sometime back she conducted a discussion group on Facebook about whether it’s appropriate to have an “open” period in the funeral/memorial service for people to share their memories of the deceased.
 
Those of us in the winter years have a vested interest in this discussion, since our own funerals are not that far away. We hope that there will be more folks at our funeral than a marginal pastor who inserts “homeless bum” in the funeral ritual whenever the decedent is to be named.
 
Any of us who have opened up a funeral service to the congregation, or been to one where that was done, know there are a lot of potential pitfalls. There are people who want to talk, whether or not they have anything to say. They use acquaintance with the deceased to talk about themselves.
 
In most of the years of my ministry, open sharing wasn’t even an option. The minister conducted the funeral, period. He [and it was almost always a “he” in those days] was the only one who talked.
 
In fact, in seminary we were encouraged not to talk about the deceased at all! The reasoning of our seminary professors was that a funeral is a worship service and it is about God and eternal life and such and not about the person who died. That sounded right, but it didn’t feel right, so I didn’t buy into it, not very far. I’m sorry, though, that in my early years I too often gave scant mention to the life of the person we were memorializing.
 
At some point I read, in one of those very helpful preacher periodicals that don’t exist anymore, a simple little funeral formula: Say a word about God, a word about Christ, and a word about the deceased. That worked for me.
 
If you’ve been to seminary, you don’t have much problem saying a word about God or one about Christ. It’s sometimes hard, though, to say a word about the deceased. Pastors don’t often get homeless folks no one knows, but we often have to conduct funerals for people we barely know. Twice in my career I had to do funerals for long-time members within the first 3 days after I had moved into town.  I’ve done funerals for children whose families never brought them to church.
 
Mourners usually want to talk, share their memories with the pastor prior to the funeral. I have always done my best to contact everyone I could who knew the deceased, to listen privately to their memories, to learn where the contradictions were [so that I didn’t extol someone in a way that half of the family would think inaccurate] and to learn what the themes of that person’s life were. Then I tried to pull those memories together in a coherent way in the service.
 
I have no problems with sharing the service with others who are designated beforehand, some family members or friends who are selected by the chief mourners, but I do think it’s best not just to open the service up to anyone who decides on the spur of the moment that they would like to say something. I’ve been to “open mike” funerals where words were spoken that hurt good grieving instead of helping it.
 
Helen and I happened to be back in Sterling, Illinois, taking our granddaughter to see a friend, when we saw Eunice Snider’s obit in the online edition of the Charleston newspaper. We drove down to LaSalle from Sterling, even though we had no funeral clothes with us. [1] When we walked into the church, Art asked me if I would be a “sharer” in the service, as their former pastor, who had done their son’s funeral, along with Max Chapman, as a long-time friend, and Susie Hay, who had shared a career with Eunice. That strikes me as a good approach, a few people selected ahead of time who can speak to different aspects of the person’s life.  
 
The main person who should speak at a funeral, though, is you. At George Paterson’s memorial service, which featured a lot of jazz, the kind of worship for which George was so well-known, Pastor Barry Tritle read a message George had left for us. “Don’t burden yourselves unnecessarily about my passing.” George lived his life as hospital chaplain, and as a chaplain to everyone who knew him. Even in death, he was still teaching us how to grieve well.
 
I’m not saying everyone should leave a message, but in case you’re wondering, it’s okay. Write your own obit if you wish; that’s okay, too. Old friends Pat and Lyndon Dean recently asked me if they could print my poem, “I’ll Walk the Last Mile with You,” on their funeral bulletins, because they were going to talk details with their pastor. Talking with your pastor and your family ahead of time is an excellent idea. Tell your pastor who you want to speak at your service, and if there’s someone you want to be sure does NOT speak, tell him/her that, too.
 
So, here is the list of those I want to speak at my funeral… oh, wait, I’ll probably outlive them all… so if there’s ANYBODY who wants to say something… even a marginal pastor to homeless bums…
 
John Robert McFarland
 
1] I’m not exactly sure what “funeral clothes” are anymore. I’ve been to funerals in recent times when I was the only person wearing a shirt with a collar, and where at least one pallbearer wore shorts so low that he must have been training to be a plumber.
 
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, or make it into a movie or TV series or Broadway musical.
 
{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/}

 

I tweet, occasionally, as yooper1721.