Iron Mountain ski jump

Iron Mountain ski jump

Wednesday, December 31, 2014

Waiting for Troubled Water

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

Reader alert: This is about twice as long as usual, and more of a sermon than a story, but it ends well.

At the beginning of the fifth chapter of the Gospel according to John, there is a story of Jesus going up to Jerusalem for a festival. It’s a crowded and hectic scene. But he notices a man lying by the roadside. He has been there for 38 years. Jesus asks him a question: Do you want to be made well?

Not, “Do you want to BE well?” but “Do you want to be MADE well?”

The man answers indirectly. There is a pool there that has healing powers, he reminds Jesus. When the water is troubled, that is, stirred up from below, presumably by the spirit of healing, whoever gets into the pool will be healed. The pool spirit is stingy, though, or maybe it just tires easily, for only the first person in gets healed, sort of like being the fourth caller. And the man has no friend or family member who is willing to wait with him, perhaps for days, or 38 years, until the receptionist finally calls his name and the spirit troubles the water, no friend who is then strong and nimble enough to drag him into the water before someone else claims the healing. So, yes, is the implication. I’d like to be made well, but there is no one available to do it.

If I had twenty minutes to preach this, and I thought you could listen that long, I would point three times at this story, from different directions, and add a poem. But this is winter, and the daylight is limited. So…

…many of us would like to be well, but we have limits. We think there are only certain times we can be healed, only certain times that the water is troubled. We think there must be some doctor or nurse or preacher to push us into the water. If we notice the stranger walking by in the crowd, we pay him no mind, just keep sitting there, stuck like always.

Some of us want to be well, but not made well. Mark Twain said that he liked to learn but he hated to be taught. Jesus asked the man if he were willing to admit that he needed help. He claimed he was willing to accept help, but Jesus knew better. He was willing to accept only certain kinds of help. He’d been there 38 years, after all. That’s some kind of lazy stubbornness.   

Jesus does not, however, require the man to be articulate to be healed. He got close enough to saying he wanted to be made well. One of the oldest prayers around, “Help me, Lord Jesus,” is good enough.

And furthermore… we could make much of 38 years, like “never give up.” But I’ve already stretched the story too far. And not every one will be healed every time. We all die. Death is the only final cure. The point really is simple. There may not be cure for every disease in this life, but there is healing for every dis-ease. There is wholeness, even in the midst of brokenness. Right now. No need to wait for 38 years…

Oh, good grief, I did three points. Might as well add a poem.

Twas battered and scarred and the auctioneer thought it scarcely worth his while, to auction off the old violin, but he held it up with a smile. “What am I bidden, good folks,” he cried, “Who’ll start the bidding for me?” “A dollar. A dollar? Then two? Only two. Two dollars, and who’ll make it three? Three dollars once, three dollars twice, and going for three,” but no, from the room, far back, a gray-haired man came forward and picked up the bow. Then wiping the dust from the old violin and tightening up the loose strings, he played a melody pure and sweet as a caroling angel sings. The music ceased, and the auctioneer, with a voice that was quiet and low, said “Now what am I bid for the old violin?” and he held it up with the bow. “A thousand dollars! And who’ll make it two? Two thousand, and who’ll make it three? Three thousand once, three thousand twice, and going for three,” said he. The people cheered, but some of them said, “We do not quite understand. What changed its worth?” Quick came the reply, “The touch of a master’s hand.” And many a man with life out of tune, and battered and scarred by sin, is auctioned cheap to the thoughtless crowd, much like the old violin. A “mess of pottage,” a glass of wine, a game, and he travels on. He’s going once, he’s going twice, he’s going and almost gone. But the Master comes, and the foolish crowd, never can quite understand, the worth of the soul, or the change that’s wrought, by the touch of the Master’s hand. [Myra Brooks Welch]

John Robert McFarland
johnrobertmcfarland@gmail.com

1] Okay, the Greek word here doesn’t have to be translated as “made well.” Some translations have Jesus saying, “Do you want to get well?” Same thing. Or at least close enough for a preacher.

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! [This phrase is explained in the post for March 20, 2014.]

I have also started an author blog, about writing, in preparation for the publication, by Black Opal Books, of my novel, VETS, in 2015. http://johnrobertmcfarland-author.blogspot.com/

I tweet as yooper1721.

Tuesday, December 30, 2014

Trudging Creatively

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

The late and lovely Rose Mary Shepherd once said that she needed to plan more serendipity into her schedule. Those don’t really go together.

We don’t normally think of creativity and trudging going together, either. One does not trudge creatively. I have always been a trudger. That is somewhat surprising, since I am also creative, sort of. I can think up a good story, and sometimes a slightly witty remark. And I can trudge.

Strangely, it is when I need the creativity the most that it fails me. When I was diagnosed with cancer, I needed to find a creative way to get well. I didn’t; instead I trudged through 13 month of chemotherapy. While doing that, I needed to find a creative way to avoid nausea. I did not; instead I trudged through vomiting and mouth sores and fatigue.

I’m a little bit proud of being a trudger. Not everyone is good at it, so I can look at my trudging self in the mirror and feel comparatively proud. Unfortunately, there are no prizes or medals for trudging, so no one else really knows how good I am at it. The prizes and medals are all for creativity. I don’t have any of those, either.

Also, I don’t display my trudging ability much, because once I have proved I can trudge through something, I’m satisfied. I trudged my way through the 26 miles and 385 yards of a marathon. I don’t feel the need to trudge through another. I feel the same way about chemo.

I think I’ll create a prize, with a medal, for creative trudging. I think I’ll name it for Rose Mary.

John Robert McFarland
johnrobertmcfarland@gmail.com

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! [This phrase is explained in the post for March 20, 2014.]

I have also started an author blog, about writing, in preparation for the publication, by Black Opal Books, of my novel, VETS, in 2015. http://johnrobertmcfarland-author.blogspot.com/

I tweet as yooper1721.


Thursday, December 25, 2014

Better than Santa

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

One way or another, I tell this story every Christmas…

As Christmas approached when granddaughter Brigid was about four year old, she said to her mother, “You know, Santa and Grandpa are a lot alike. Santa has a bald head, and Grandpa has a bald head. Santa has a white beard, and Grandpa has a white beard. Santa brings toys, and Grandpa brings toys. But Grandpa is better, because he stays and plays.”

That is the message of Christmas. God is not just some Santa, making a quick stop on the roof to throw some toys down the chimney and then hurrying on.

In Jesus, the Christ, God stays and plays.

John Robert McFarland
johnrobertmcfarland@gmail.com

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! [This phrase is explained in the post for March 20, 2014.]

I tweet as yooper1721.

Sunday, December 14, 2014

Death Before Christmas-a poem

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

The lady down the street
has died, two weeks before
Christmas. Her children
are clearing out her house.
They have thrown her Christmas
tree along the curb,
still green, but on its side,
in dirty snow, stripped
of its festive trimmings, ‘cept
for straggly tinsel, and one
small, missed ornament,
a smiling angel, peeking
low, through branches that will soon
turn brown.

John Robert McFarland
johnrobertmcfarland@gmail.com

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! [This phrase is explained in the post for March 20, 2014.]

I have also started an author blog, about writing, in preparation for the publication, by Black Opal Books, of my novel, VETS, in 2015. http://johnrobertmcfarland-author.blogspot.com/

I tweet as yooper1721.

Thursday, December 11, 2014

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


If you know me, or have read this blog before, you have reason to expect a story. That’s what I do. That is what has appeared in this blog before. Some days, though, I do not have a story. I apologize for inflicting upon you rough-draft “poetry,” but some days, that’s what I have.

Some saint proclaimed
that when my name is called
upon that day of final reckoning,
“Settlement Day” come ‘round at last,
I shall be called to task
for every thing of beauty I did not enjoy.
Saints are always right,
but it is not just beauty missed
that is a blot upon the record and the soul.
I shall be called to account for
every chance for love that I did not embrace,
every moment for giving thanks when I was silent,
every step when someone faltered
and I did not extend an arm to steady,
every opportunity for praise
that I squandered in self-pity.
Why lose even one precious second
mired in mud
when my soul
has wings?


John Robert McFarland
johnrobertmcfarland@gmail.com

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! [This phrase is explained in the post for March 20, 2014.]

I have also started an author blog, about writing, in preparation for the publication, by Black Opal Books, of my novel, VETS, in 2015. http://johnrobertmcfarland-author.blogspot.com/

I tweet as yooper1721.


Tuesday, December 9, 2014

Songs & Suicides

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

I find that singing is more important to me as I age. I have always enjoyed singing, but now I have so many memories that go with the songs.

A snatch of song comes up from somewhere, and with it a host or memories.

Even simple little songs, like “Jesus Loves Me.” I used to sing that to tiny grandson Joe when he was in the hospital with cancer.

One problem is that when you hear a song in public, and the memories come, people look at your strangely when you are crying during a happy song or laughing during a sad one.

My hippo-campus is sort of like a random-play iPod. This morning “Balm in Gilead” came up. It always makes me think of Catherine and Scott Smith, with appreciation for their friendship. We were already friends when their 20-year-old son, Bob, committed suicide, in the same university building where his father taught Physics, but we became very close through that experience. We sang “Balm in Gilead” at his funeral. Scott and Catherine often spoke of how much that song meant to them.

Old-age singing is a balm, “to heal the sin-sick soul.”

John Robert McFarland
johnrobertmcfarland@gmail.com

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! [This phrase is explained in the post for March 20, 2014.]


I tweet as yooper1721.

Friday, December 5, 2014

FUNDAMENTAL SINNERS

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

There are three types of fundamentalists—atheistic, scientific, and religious. They commit the same fundamental sin: if I can’t understand it, explain it, and control it, then it cannot be real.

I call it “sin” instead of just a mistake because sin, at its root, is separation. Sin breaks relationship, with the world, with other people, with our own true selves, and with God. In Christian theology, this fundamental sin is called “original” sin.

It is not evil in itself. But it puts us, our understanding and explanations and control, in the place of God. When that happens, when we become God, all sorts of evil, all sorts of breaking of relationships, become not only possible but inevitable. That is why Paul VanBuren and William Hamilton and other theologians of the 1960s proclaimed “the death of God.” They weren’t saying that God does not exist, but that fundamentalists of all three varieties have taken over the world.

John Robert McFarland
johnrobertmcfarland@gmail.com

Scientific fundamentalists accept that they cannot control the world, but that is only because their understanding is not yet complete. They believe, however, that someday it will be complete. Then they will be able to control thinking, aging, space, whatever. And if it cannot be controlled, they will at least understand why. You see this sort of fundamentalism in the writing of social science fundamentalists like Jared Diamond and physical science writers like Micio Kaku.

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! [This phrase is explained in the post for March 20, 2014.]

I have also started an author blog, about writing, in preparation for the publication, by Black Opal Books, of my novel, VETS, in 2015. http://johnrobertmcfarland-author.blogspot.com/

I tweet as yooper1721.

Monday, December 1, 2014

The Foes Arrayed Against Me-a poem

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

The foes arrayed against me
are many,
and mighty,
filled with violence,
and fueled by hate.
I must be ever ready,
and vigilant,
shield up, high,
sword steady
hand strong, though trembling,
eyes forward, clear.
Although each day I lose,
and retreat a grudging inch,
I shall not admit defeat.
I shall fight until I die
and count that as victory.

John Robert McFarland
johnrobertmcfarland@gmail.com

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! [This phrase is explained in the post for March 20, 2014.]

I have also started an author blog, about writing, in preparation for the publication, by Black Opal Books, of my novel, VETS, in 2015. http://johnrobertmcfarland-author.blogspot.com/

I tweet as yooper1721.