THE FINAL DREAM [Sun, 8-30-20]

 CHRIST IN WINTER: Reflections on Faith & Life for the Years of Winter

Last Sunday morning, at 5:00, time to get up, I woke from my final dream of the night, standing at attention while the admiral pinned my insignia on my white navy dress uniform. I was on a ship that was also a college. A woman I wanted to see was in a room by herself down below—not trapped, but it was sort of secret. I went and knocked on the door. She let me in. Then something happened up on deck, and the halls were filled with faculty types who were pleasant enough but trying to escape something up above. That was when the admiral said to me, “Are you here to visit her?” I acknowledged it. He said, “You need to be with the other officers now,” and pinned something on my uniform.

Clearly--especially since it was Sunday morning, and I always pray for all my preaching friends and all the churches I have attended and pastored during my 3 AM watch in the wee hours of Sunday—a death-prep dream. The dream says that it is time for me to leave Helen and join my preaching friends who have already joined in the eternal goodly fellowship of the prophets: Bill and Keith and Charles and Bill and Jack and Gary and GL and Bruce and Bob and Tony and Raydean and George and Ben and George and Dale and Dean and Jean and Barbara and Kim and Joe and Roger and Thor and Earl and Glenn and John and Perry and Don and Max and Bert and Will and Marcus and Joe and… a great  cloud of witnesses.

I’m not eager to join them, but I think the dream says that I am ready.

I just hope that I die on the day after my birthday. In so many of their obits, my friends have been listed as 80 or 83 or 88 [these are the more recent ones-some died much younger] when they have been only 2 to 4 days short of a birthday. They were really 81 or 84 or 89. I don’t want some obit writer to cheat me out of a whole year, because every day is precious.

In old grave yards, you’ll often see a stone that says some person was 27 days and 3 months and 16 days old when she died, or some other set of numbers. Stone cutters usually charged by the letter, so a stone like that cost a lot more than just saying she was 27. But whoever was paying the bill knew that each day was precious and should be acknowledged.

“This is the day that the Lord has made. Let us rejoice, and be glad in it.”

John Robert McFarland

 

 

MOM, THE BASEBALL GUYS WON’T DISTRACT ME! [F, 8-28-20]

CHRIST IN WINTER: Reflections on Faith & Life for the Years of Winter

I didn’t get to watch the Cincinnati Reds play on TV on W night, 8-26-20, because their game in Milwaukee against the Brewers was postponed. No, not weather. No, nobody tested positive for covid19. Because the Brewers refused to play!

There are plenty of reasons not to watch the Reds play, since their relief pitchers spell relief as “Rolaids,” [for fans] instead of “outs.” And since they misplaced their bats, and thus must go up to the plate and make batting-like swishing motions with their empty arms.

But not getting to see them because the other team refused to play? Why in the world would you refuse to play the Reds this year? In an already virus-shortened sentence, playing the Reds is any team’s dream.

The Reds, wisely, went along with the postponement, but not because they were trying to avoid another loss.

I love to watch baseball. I especially love to watch the Reds, even when they’re bad. It makes me think of Grandma Mac, from whom I inherited my love for the Reds. It’s one of my few distractions from the constant round of shootings and lootings, and political shenanigans and crimes. There are so few games this year. And many of them are postponed/cancelled because some player tested positive for the virus. I look forward to each game so much.

So why did the Brewers refuse to play? Precisely to keep me, and my ilk, from being distracted, the way we want to be, via baseball. Their Jewish outfielder, Ryan Braun, explained it: “The most impactful thing we can do is not play our baseball game, to not distract from what’s going on in the country.”

It would have been better if everyone in Wisconsin had just stayed home and watched baseball. A 17 year old white boy [man, for judicial purposes] murdered 3 people, with a gun, in Kenosha during BLM demonstrations, while praising the police and Donald Trump. In taking him into custody, police did not shoot him 7 times in the back, the way they do unarmed black men, even though he was armed with an automatic weapon. In fact, they didn’t even take him into custody. They let him go home and turn himself in there. Because…WLM.

So the Brewers and Reds don’t want me to have the satisfaction of distraction that baseball brings. That really irritates me. But, you know, if a bunch of baseball players, of all people, think we’ve got to take this seriously, apparently we do. They have credibility with a segment of society that nobody else does. Like me.

As much as I love watching baseball, to paraphrase that old camp chorus: I shall not be, I shall not be distracted, I shall not be, I shall not be distracted. Just like a tree that’s planted by the waters, I shall not be distracted.

John Robert McFarland

THE WILL OF GOD [W, 8-26-20]

 

CHRIST IN WINTER: Reflections on Faith & Life for the Years of Winter

[I have told this story before, but I need to tell it again, because “the will of God” is always a problem, especially when one considers the viruses and natural disasters and politics of a time like this, and also it came up for discussion with the Guys in Glenn’s Garage last week, so…] [1]

When my older sister’s 18 and 19 year old sons were killed together in a car crash, I flew to California just to be with her and her husband, Dick, at that tragic time. When I got there, they asked me to do the funeral service. I did not want to. I was not sure I could. But it was the only gift I had to give to her at that time, and I have found that when I needed an extra strength to get through a hard time as a pastor, it always came. So I did the funeral. Two of them, as it turned out.

Two other boys were killed with Steve and Tony. My sister had known them since they were born. She said it was like losing four sons instead of just two.

The first funeral was in the morning, for all four boys, in the high school gym. The gym was filled to overflowing. I said, among other things, “This was NOT the will of God. God does not will that bright young men die in a tearing crash.”

The separate funeral for Steve and Tony was in the afternoon, at the funeral home. So many people came that the parking lot was full of standing mourners. The funeral directors set up loud speakers in the parking lot so everyone could hear. What they heard, in part, was, “This was NOT the will of God. God does not will that bright young men shall die in such a way.

That evening, as the darkness came on, Dick and I sat in his study, no lamps on, not talking much, just sitting together. People came and went in the rest of the house. One who came was the president of the sports booster club. Tony had been the football quarterback, so Dick knew him well. He sat with us for a while, then turned to me and said, “As you said this afternoon, it was the will of God.”

I was flabbergasted. I know I am not the best preacher in the world, but I always thought I was at least a clear communicator. I was told early by a preaching prof that we should preach so well not that we could be understood but so that we could not be misunderstood. I knew it was impossible, but that clarity was always my goal. Now… how could this man…

Then, I think by the grace of God, I got it. He understood what I was really trying to say. What people mean at a time like that, when they say, “It’s the will of God,” is not that God pulled strings to cause something to happen, or even that God is okay with it. They mean, “God is still in charge. God is love, and death does not conquer love. When all else is gone, love remains.” That IS the will of God.

John Robert McFarland

1] Don’t worry; Glenn has a very big garage, so we are adequately distanced.

SECOND COMING WAS LONG AGO, AND NOW [M, 8-24-20]

CHRIST IN WINTER: Reflections on Faith & Life for the Years of Winter

I’ve been reading things men write about their wives. “Other wives are not nearly as interesting as you are,” I told Helen.

“Their writers aren’t as good,” she said.

She has a point. A person’s story is more interesting if the storyteller is good. I used to serve on a committee of The Academy of Parish Clergy to pick The Parish Pastor of the Year. I quickly learned that we were not picking the PPY so much as we were picking the BNW of the Year. [Best Nomination Writer]

It makes me wonder how many times God sent Christ but nobody knew about it because that particular embodiment of Christ didn’t have good writers. Then god sent Christ in Jesus of Nazareth, and he had really good writers.

It would have been better if Matthew, Mark, Luke, John, Paul et al had gotten at it earlier, so we’d have a more complete story, but they did well enough.

In fact, they did it so well that early Christians called what they wrote “the good story.” We usually translate it as “good news,” and that’s most excellent, but it was first called the good “story.”

That’s in part because it was not a writing to begin with. It’s like when comedians “write” a joke. Henny Youngman never wrote, “Take my wife… please,” like on a piece of paper. When a comedian “writes” a joke, it just means they think it up.

Stories first have tellers, and if they tell the story well enough, someone wants to write it down. Novelists simply write down stories they have already told in their heads.

We talk a lot about how Jesus is coming again. Maybe he has, lots of times, but just didn’t have good writers, so nobody knows about it.

My guess is that God is getting tired of this and is even now accepting resumes for folks to tell the good story of how Jesus has come again. Go ahead; apply. No experience necessary. You may be better than you know.

John Robert McFarland

 

JOYFULLY SUBVERSIVE [Sat, 8-22-20]

 

CHRIST IN WINTER: Reflections on Faith & Life for the Years of Winter

I was surprised that no worship leaders had asked permission to use my song, “When All the Saints Are Gathered on the Lawn,” which I posted here on R, 8-20-20, until I realized that it would be difficult to sing a line like “Pinko libs and hardshell fundies will dance together in their undies” at home, especially since folks have to make up their own tune. Thus, I thought I’d provide an alternative, since everyone knows the tune to R. Kelso Carter’s “Standing on the Promises.” After all, we hope there will be a bit more time before all the saints are gathered on the lawn, so now is the time to subvert the culture of greed and selfishness and incivility…

JOYFULLY SUBVERSIVE

Joyfully subversive as we laugh and sing                   [Judges 5:21.]

To the work of God divine our gifts we bring            [John 9:4.]

Carried to the righteous fray upon God’s wing          [Isaiah 40:31.]

Joyfully subverting as we go.                                                 [Romans 12:2.]

CHORUS

Joyful! Subversive!

Let us join our voices in God’s loving song               [I John 4:8.]

Subversive! Joyful!

Standing firm against injustice we are strong            [I Cors. 16:13.]

VERSE 2

Subverting hate and prejudice with love divine         [Romans 8:38-39.]

Offering to each hopeful mouth the bread and wine [Luke 22:19.]

With god’s children everywhere we shall dine          [Mark 2:16.]

Joyfully subverting as we go                                      [Romans 12:2.]

CHORUS

Joyful! Subversive!

Let us join our voices in God’s loving song               [I John 4:8.]

Subversive! Joyful!

Standing firm against injustice we are strong            [I Cors. 16:13.]

VERSE 3

Joyfully subversive we stand with the poor               [Matthew 25:31-46.]

And beat our fists against oppression’s heavy door   [Galatians 3:1.]

We’ll sing and work until injustice is no more          [Isaiah 11:6. Amos 5:24.]

Joyfully subverting as we go                                      [Romans 12:1.]

CHORUS

Joyful! Subversive!

Let us join our voices in God’s loving song               [I John 4:8.]

Subversive! Joyful!

Standing firm against injustice we are strong            [I Cors. 16:13.]

VERSE 4

When they draw a circle tight to hide within             [Galatians 3:23.]

When they say we can’t come in because we’re sin [Galatians 3:28-29.]

We shall draw a circle that will take them in             [Acts 10:28.]

Joyfully subverting as we go                                      [Romans 12:1.]

CHORUS

Joyful! Subversive!

Let us join our voices in God’s loving song               [I John 4:8.]

Subversive! Joyful!

Standing firm against injustice we are strong            [I Cors. 16:13.]

VERSE 5

When our days of marching here will be no more     [Matthew 25:23.]

We’ll keep singing as we land on heaven’s shore.     [Luke 6:20.]

While those we served and loved shall open up the door            [Revelation 21:25.]

Joyfully subverting as we go.                                     [Romans 12:1.]

CHORUS

Joyful! Subversive!

Let us join our voices in God’s loving song               [I John 4:8.]

Subversive! Joyful!

Standing firm against injustice we are strong            [I Cors. 16:13.]

John Robert McFarland

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

WHEN ALL THE SAINTS ARE GATHERED… [R, 8-20-20]

 CHRIST IN WINTER: Reflections on Faith & Life for the Years of Winter

WHEN ALL THE SAINTS ARE GATHERED…   [R, 8-20-20]

 From time to time I get a vision that requires a song. This one comes from the southern Indiana days of my youth, when churches used to picnic after worship on the church grounds. I have a tune for it {Not “Bill Grogan’s Goat” this time}, but since I can’t write music, you’ll have to think up your own.

 Yes, if you’re a long-time reader of this column, you’ve “heard” this before. I just think it’s a nice image to have before us now, so worth a repeat.

 WHEN ALL THE SAINTS ARE GATHERED ON THE LAWN

There is a time to gather, there is a time to scatter,

there is a time to harvest and to sow,

but a time there is that’s coming,

when the banjos will be strumming

and to the final circle we shall go.

 

Will the circle be unbroken, by and by, Lord, by and by,

There’s a better home a waiting, in the sky, Lord, in the sky…

 REFRAIN

There will be singing and laughter, fried chicken ever after,

when all the saints are gathered on the lawn.

No need for sighing or for moaning,

for weeping or for groaning,

when all the saints are gathered on the lawn.

 

The winds were blowing harder, the waves were getting higher,

my little boat was splitting from the blast.

Jesus stopped that wind from blowing,

told Michael to get rowing,

Beyond the Jordan we’ll reach that lawn at last.

 

Michael, row the boat ashore, alleluia

Michael, row the boat ashore, alleluia

 

Some say if God made you different, then you have no place to be.

You’re second class and have no claim on grace.

It’s time for us to take a stand,

to be a part of that Gospel band,

to see the form of Christ in every face.

 

I shall not be, I shall not be moved

Just like a tree that’s planted by the water, I shall not be moved.

 

There the Free Church will be chanting, teetotalers decanting,

the Romans and Reformed will sing the blues.

Pinko libs and hardshell fundies,

will dance together in their undies,

when the banjos start picking out good news. [1]

 

And they’ll know we are Christians by our love, by our love,

Yes, they’ll know we are Christians by our love.

REFRAIN

There will be singing and laughter, fried chicken ever after,

when all the saints are gathered on the lawn.

No need for sighing or for moaning,

for weeping or for groaning,

when all the saints are gathered on the lawn.

John Robert McFarland

[1] Okay, YOU try to rhyme something with “fundies.” In case you can’t, here’s an alternate verse:

There the Free Church will be chanting, teetotalers decanting,

The Romans and Reformed will sing the blues.

Hard shell people and mainliners,

Together will be diners,

When the Lord does host his table of good news.

 

 

 

 

 

LIMITING DISAPPOINTMENTS [T, 8-18-20]

 

CHRIST IN WINTER: Reflections on Faith & Life for the Years of Winter

LIMITING DISAPPOINTMENTS                  [T, 8-18-20]

Ed [1] and I were good friends, even close friends. We were both clergy, in different denominations. We each had two daughters, the same age. It made sense for us to pal around with one another, as individuals and as families.

Once Ed needed surgery, back in the days when patients spent the night in the hospital before surgery the next morning. I waited until the close of visiting hours, the way I always did, and then went to see him. Pastoral visits are better if other people aren’t around.

Ed was sitting on the side of the bed, looking lonely and forlorn. He brightened up when he saw me. “Just a little while ago, I was thinking, if anybody came to see me, I hoped it would be you.” We had a good, deep conversation.

After a while, we both moved on to other states. We kept in touch for twenty years the way you do—occasional letters, Christmas cards, prayers.

Then I was delighted to learn that Ed had moved to my state, taken a congregation only thirty miles away. I called him to invite him to lunch. He wasn’t able to. He was busy. I didn’t think too much about it. So was I.

A little later, though, I got cancer. I really wanted to see Ed. We had a history. I needed his pastoral friendship. I called him again with an invitation to lunch. It would not require much of him, since I was doing chemo in his city, and we could meet after one of my sessions at the cancer center. He was not very enthusiastic. He turned down a number of dates I suggested, but finally accepted one.

As we ate, I told him about my cancer, about my fears of dying young, my daughters not walked down the aisle, my grandchildren never having played trotty-horse on my knees. He expressed some minimal sympathy and then launched into a long discourse about the problems he had with the president of his congregation.

I was disappointed. I had really expected a friend who had been so close at one time would be more empathetic. I didn’t think that I should be the one to do the pastoring. After all, I was worried about dying, and the miseries of chemotherapy. He was only worried about dealing with a jerk; that’s every-day stuff for a preacher.

Also, it wasn’t the Ed I knew. I hoped the current Ed had just misplaced the real Ed temporarily. I hoped that someday when he was praying for me, he would realize that I was thinking, “If anyone comes to see me, I hope it will be Ed,” and act like the old Ed, and call me up to go to lunch again. I really didn’t want this current Ed to besmirch the memories I had of the old Ed. Those memories were important to me.

They still are. I am still disappointed in the neglectful Ed, but I still cherish my old friend, Ed.

We’re all disappointed now, in just about everything and everyone. And hardly anyone has the time or the energy to be too worried about anyone else. It’s important, though, that we not let our current disappointments obscure the joys of the past or our hopes for the future.

John Robert McFarland

1] Authors learn early that in choosing a false name for a real person, or just a name for a character in a story, it’s good to go short, like Ed. If you name someone Aloysius, you’re going to waste a lot of time tapping keys and then using sphelczhek. There are other reasons, also, for not naming someone Aloysius.  

 

COMMUNING WITH AUNT NORA [Sun, 8-16-20]

CHRIST IN WINTER: Reflections on Faith & Life for the Years of Winter

COMMUNING WITH AUNT NORA  [Sun, 8-16-20]

 When I was ordained, at the Elliott Hall of Music, at Purdue University, in 1964, Aunt Nora and Uncle Ted gave me a home communion set. It is in a nice black pebbled case and contains four small glasses, a small plastic bottle for grape juice, and a small silver plate that fits on a round container for bread elements. It’s so the pastor can serve communion to shut-ins at home, or patients in the hospital.

 I think that it has always signified my status as a pastor, as ordained, more than any other item I have possessed. More than my pulpit robe, or stole, or certificate on the wall. In the Methodist Church, you must be ordained to serve communion. It’s a special honor to have a home communion set.

 More than that, though, it was special because it came from Aunt Nora, one of the best Christians I have ever known, despite her theology. When I told her about how I had traded my life for my sister’s, how I had told God at age 14 that I would become a preacher if “He” would save Mary V’s life, it was Aunt Nora who assured me that God had, indeed, made Mary V sick to get me to go into the ministry, and that God would let her die if I didn’t carry through on the deal. Aunt Nora always wanted a preacher in the family. [1]

 I did not use the set nearly as much as I thought I would. Partly because I spent a lot of years in campus ministry, and there isn’t much call for home or hospital communion with college students. I served communion to a lot of students, averaging over 100 every Wednesday night by the end of my time at ILSU, but that was in the sanctuary at First Methodist. In the years that followed, though, when pastoring in IL, at Orion and Hoopeston and Charleston and Arcola, from time to time I got to share “the body and blood of Christ” with shut-ins and hospitalized folks. Usually I would just work into our ongoing conversation, at the bed side or beside a chair, as I opened the set and took out the elements, about how Jesus, on the night he was betrayed, took bread and…

 That is a really good communion set. Even after 35 years of active ministry and another 20 of retirement, serving part-time interim pastorates, it still looks brand new. I was looking around for some newly ordained young pastor, one who did not have an Aunt Nora, to whom I could give the set, even though I hated to part with this memento of Aunt Nora and Uncle Ted, when the current pandemic isolation hit.

 Then I realized that the communion set was not done with me yet. Helen and I take communion on the first Sunday of each month with the St. Mark’s service online. Helen is the communion steward, getting bread and juice ready. We serve the elements to each other. From my little home communion set.

 Of course, everyone else in the congregation gets to commune, too, online, with whatever they have available for elements. Their communion is just as meaningful as that handed around in our house, or the homes of the other retired, ordained pastors in our congregation, who may well be using their own home communion sets.

 I’ve always loved the scene at the end in the Places in the Heart movie, where all the people in the story are in church, taking communion, passing the plates along the row, murderer and murdered beside each other, living and dead all in their places. It was so surprising the first time I saw that scene, but that’s the way communion is for all of us, whenever we take the elements--all the people in our lives, living or dead, together in that act.

 There is a special importance for me in that scene, for all my friends and loved ones are taking from my little home companion set-sort of like everyone eating from just one loaf and a couple of fishes-and the one handing the elements to me is Aunt Nora.

 John Robert McFarland

 1] I tell this story more completely in The Strange Calling.

THE MISSING CLUES [F, 8-14-20]

 

CHRIST IN WINTER: Reflections on Faith & Life for the Years of Winter

I have told this Spencer Holst tale of the Zebra Storyteller often, but I

must tell it here again, briefly, with my slight changes, to make sense of the rest of this column…

 A monkey in the jungle wanted to eat a zebra. But each time he swung down on his vine when he saw a zebra coming down the jungle path, the zebra ran away before he could grab it and eat it. So he learned Zebraic, so that when a zebra came down the path, he could speak to it, and it would stop for a chat, and he could eat it. The other zebras began to realize their ranks were diminishing. They asked the Zebra Storyteller why. He knew he needed to tell a story to explain it. As he walked down the path, he thought, “What if a monkey wanted to eat zebras? And learned Zebraic?” just then the monkey swung down and spoke in Zebraic. The Zebra Storyteller whirled and with one thrust of its mighty hooves kicked the monkey clear out of the jungle, “…because that, after all, is what a storyteller is for.”

 Charlie Matson, the director of special event adult education for St. Mark’s on the Bypass, asked me to do a session of storytelling via Zoom, as a way of keeping church members together, identifying with one another as church, in these isolated times when we can’t gather together, and also just to have a good time and a few laughs, since those are hard to come by now.

 It was a nice invitation, and I rarely get a chance to be helpful to the church or the world anymore, so I said “yes,” without realizing how different Zoom storytelling would be.

 A preacher, public speaker, storyteller depends on feedback from listeners to know if they are getting through. Smiles, laughs, frowns, yawns, changing positions, glances at other people. All those tell us how we’re doing.

 I don’t use notes, and certainly not a manuscript, because if I’m note-tied, I don’t get the reactions. I almost always leave out something that I intended to say, but it’s a good trade-off for the immediacy I get by being able to read the eyes and faces and bodies of my listeners.

 But my forgetter is becoming better as I age, and I thought, “Hey, nobody can see if I have some notes propped up beside my computer as I talk on Zoom, so why not do this the easy way?”

 I had forgotten how much I depended on the reactions of listeners to know where to go next.

 And I had forgotten how much listeners depend on others to give them clues, as to whether they’re supposed to laugh, or clap, or stir around uneasily and look out the window. If Maurice Manbeck laughs, everyone else will, too.

 On Zoom, you get very few clues either as the teller or as listeners. Although I suppose someone leaving his square on the screen empty, to the kitchen to get more coffee, is a fairly significant clue to both speaker and other listeners. 

 Zoom and similar programs are great helps in keeping us in touch these days. I appreciate them. But more than anything else, they are a reminder that we really need one another.

 Others say this better, but I need to remind myself at least: the quickest way to be able to get back together, not as in a zoom box, darkly, or behind a mask, but face to face, is to stay away from one another. At least six feet. No hugging. Wearing a mask, washing hands, staying home—all good clues that we’re doing the right thing.

 John Robert McFarland

 

 

THE LONELINESS OF THE SECRET-SHARER [W, 8-12-20]

CHRIST IN WINTER: Reflections on Faith & Life for the Years of Winter

THE LONELINESS OF THE SECRET-SHARER    [W, 8-12-20]

 When I was a junior in high school, my Uncle Johnny, my mother’s youngest brother, and my best friend, even though he was 16 years older, got me a job working for one of his good friends, Moe [John] Conley. Moe owned a… I guess you’d call it a convenience store, although that term was not around in 1954, at least not in Oakland City, IN. It had two buildings and two gas pumps. One building had a hydraulic lift, for oil changes and lube jobs. The other was a very small grocery store, mostly milk and bread and pop and cigarettes and lunch items. [Not the place  pictured above, but much like it.]

 Moe liked to sit with his friends in old mismatched kitchen chairs, drinking cokes, at one end of the store, while I drained the water from the pop coolers and refilled them with blocks of ice, and swept up, and stocked the shelves. If a car came for gas, when it was someone Moe knew, he waited on them. Otherwise he let me pump the gas. We always included cleaning the windshield with a shop rag, and checking the oil.

If someone came for groceries, I sliced the bologna and got a can of beans from the shelf, while Moe chatted with them. Early in my time there, Moe did the lube jobs and changed the oil and filters and fan belts, but he taught me as we went along, so by the time he felt okay to leave me there on my own, I knew all I had to in order to keep the business going. Sometimes I’d be under a car when someone came in for a pound of cheese and I’d quickly wipe off my oily hands as best I could and grab the cheese roll out of the display case cooler and start slicing. We were not the most sanitary place in town, but we were the only place that was open early and late and Sundays and holidays.

Moe liked to sleep late, and go out at night with his wife to socialize, and soon he turned the store over to me to open in the morning, and close at night, and work all day on Saturdays and Sundays and holidays. [1]

Those were the times when Clyde [not his real name] would come to the store to get a slice of cheese or pickle loaf or a loaf of bread. We hear these days about people living from paycheck to paycheck. Clyde lived from sandwich to sandwich.

He lived in one of several houses down a dirt road behind Moe’s that could be called shacks only to be charitable. They were inhabited mostly by people who were alcoholic or shiftless or retarded [that’s the word we used] or mentally unstable. Except for Clyde.

He worked at hard physical labor. Day labor. Whatever he could find. Usually the hardest kind of ditch digging or making hay. But he was well-spoken, pleasant, thoughtful, always used good grammar. Without his workman’s clothes and sweat, you might have guessed him as a teacher, although I’d be surprised if he’d gone beyond fifth grade.

Clyde would peek in at the back door of the store. If he saw me alone, he would come around and enter through the front. If Moe and his friends were there, he would come back later. I think he was embarrassed in front of them, for they were successful men, men who could afford cokes. So I was the one who heard him in his loneliness.

Each time he came, as I wrapped up his order, he would say one thing to me, about how things were going, usually not going, with his family. Each time he seemed to trust me a little more with his life and his loneliness. Each time his one statement was a little more personal. Each time, I handed him his parcel and said, “Thank you.” He always replied, “No, thank you.”

One day, he said, “I caught my daughter with that retarded Billy, the one who lives across the street, in bed. She’s so simple, she doesn’t know what she’s doing. My wife’s no help. I don’t know what to do.” As he always did, he made his one statement and left.

It was incredibly sad, that the only friend, the only person this man had to talk to, the only person he could trust with his woe, was a 17-year-old kid at a run-down little combo gas station and lunch meat shop. I think at that moment I was almost as lonely as he was.

Maybe you know someone who is lonely in this isolating time and needs someone to talk to. Here’s something you can do for them. The National Alliance on Mental Health has a 24-hour help line, at 800-950-6264.

Also, it goes without saying, in a Christian context, and so I don’t often say it enough: It’s not a bad idea to talk to God, or Jesus, or whatever you call “the ground of being.” After all, “what a friend we have in Jesus.”

John Robert McFarland

1] Later Moe was elected, several times, as the sheriff of Gibson County, even though, to the best of my knowledge, he had no law enforcement experience. But “Moe’s” was located on the main east-west highway through the county, and he had pumped gas and drunk cokes with everyone in the county.

 

 

OLD TECH DOGS & NEW TECH CARS [M, 8-10-20]

 CHRIST IN WINTER: Reflections on Faith & Life for the Years of Winter

I did my usual hour walk this morning. I have become so efficient and proficient at it that it takes me only 45 minutes now. My gerontologist is quite impressed. My psychotherapist less so.

 As I went along, I saw a man walking in a side street, wearing a blue bathrobe and brown house slippers, bare-legged and talking on a cell phone.

 I don’t know why I point out that it was a cell phone. Obviously it was not a land line, even though these days land lines aren’t on the land and don’t have lines. And “cell” is a leftover from when mobile phone transmitters looked like bee hives, with lots of cells. They don’t have those anymore. But I suppose we’ll keep saying that we dial phone numbers and roll down car windows, too.

 Anyway, I figured the isolation had finally gotten to the man in the bathrobe. He just had to get out of the house, right now. I mean, surely he would normally be embarrassed to be seen in public mixing blue and brown that way. [Yes, I know guys on TV do it all the time, and they should be embarrassed.] But when he got to the main street, he stopped and looked both ways for a while, then went back toward his house.

 I walk by his house regularly, so I know he got a new car, and it was not in his driveway, so I surmised that it was one of those new self-driving cars, and the isolation had gotten to it, too, and it had just taken off. I mean, cars these days don’t even get to go out to the gas stations.  The man was probably talking to the Bluetooth in it, trying to convince it to come home, looking anxiously down the street to see if it had gone to visit a friend in another driveway.

 There are other explanations, like looking for a dog that had decided it had gotten too much iso, too, and thus bolted the house [Interesting how “bolted the house” can have opposite meanings, isn’t it? A contranym.] I have run out into the street myself in a blue bathrobe when a dog was involved [but not with brown slippers].

 I like the car explanation best, though, because it gives us a glimpse into the future. Dogs are old tech. They’ve been escaping to look for treats for years.

 Like the one our friends told us about. One day it just picked up its water dish in its mouth and moved across the road to live with the neighbors. It was an amicable divorce. “It still comes back to visit, but it lives over there now. The neighbors are sort of mystified. They don’t know why, either.”

 Cars don’t usually go off on their own like that. Although my Grandpa Mac did have a Model T that was sort of a self-driver. He propped it with a 2x4 while he used the crank to start the motor. But once the engine was rumbling and he pulled the post from the tires, the car would go on its own, and Grandpa had to jump into it as it went by.

 There’s no point to any of these observations. But they have nothing to do with viruses or police brutality or the end of democracy, and sometimes I just need to think about dogs and cars that leave because they can’t take it anymore. I understand.

 John Robert McFarland

 

SOMEWHERE, ON THE GRANDPA SCALE… [Sat, 8-8-20]

 

CHRIST IN WINTER: Reflections on Faith & Life for the Years of Winter

SOMEWHERE, ON THE GRANDPA SCALE…  [Sat, 8-8-20] 

I am fearful for a friend I shall not name here because I think he is guilty of child abuse. To wit: he made his 11 yo grandson read this blog last week, so that they could talk about it on their weekly zoom call. The assignment, of course, makes sense at one level. I prefer to think that my attempts at humor are more mature, of the 14 yo variety, but an advanced 11 yo would be able to “get” it. Nonetheless, requiring a 21^st century kid to read a blog designed for 20^th century people, created by a 19^th century mind, is surely at least a 3 on the scale of evil.

But my friend’s grandson did enjoy my own grandson’s notice that it’s not an adventure unless something goes wrong, and he understood weird love, and also he liked the column about opossum rehabilitation. Of course, who wouldn’t be interested in opossum rehab, what with the opioid crisis, and all? However, if we’re really interested in opossum rehab, we should start by restoring their original name of O’Possum, which they had in Ireland, before the 18^th century Guinness shortage drove them to The New World.

I’m surprised by Phil’s willingness to let his grandson see into the world of old people. Phil’s actually a rather Christian gentleman, mostly, even though he rides a motorcycle [Sturgis, anyone? I’m told it’s lovely in the Dakotas during a pandemic.], so I don’t think he’s doing it to be cruel.

Perhaps he is practicing what they call “tough love,” letting this boy see early on what he will be up against. The world of old people is not a very inspirational place these days. It’s probably wise for this Zach to learn now not only what a mess we have made of the world, but that we have no idea how to clean it up. “Too bad, boy; it’s up to you.”

But Phil is saying something else to his grandson, I think. He’s saying, “I trust you. I have confidence in you. When it comes your time to be part of the solution, you’ll know what the problems are… because you’ve read Christ In Winter.” That, on the goodness scale, is at least a 7.

So I’ll continue to do my part, which mostly is providing helpful images to contemplate, like this Irish O’Possum.

John Robert McFarland

 

 

 

 

FIRST, DON’T TRUST ANYBODY [R, 8-6-20]

CHRIST IN WINTER: Reflections on Faith & Life for the Years of Winter

FIRST, DON’T TRUST ANYBODY  [R, 8-6-20]

 

Some time back, a guy called Helen and told her he was from Microsoft and they had discovered that her computer was infected and that she needed to pay him some money and give him control of her computer so he could scan the whole thing to get rid of all the viruses. She is a trusting person. She did it. I mean, if you can’t trust Microsoft, who can you trust? Well, people who claim to be Microsoft but aren’t.

 

Then you know what happened. She learned the truth and told them so. They offered to refund her money. All she had to do was give them control…

 

Now, every once in a while, they call to say they have withdrawn $499 from our account, for continuing coverage, but if she’s not willing to pay that, all she has to do is click on… She checks with our bank. No, they’re lying again. You just can’t trust those guys.

 

You know, you ought to be able to trust people. In the olden days, before computers and credit cards and passwords and pins, trust was normal. Mistrust was not as necessary. If someone gave you $5 in change when you were supposed to get $10, you could see that.

 

It used to be that we trusted people until they gave us a reason not to. Now we have to mistrust them until they give us a reason to trust.

 

Some time ago, without realizing it, we reached Malcolm Gladwell’s “tipping point,” but it was in the opposite direction.

 

Why do people do these untrustworthy things? Sometimes it’s just to see what we can get away with. And, of course, to get money from trusting souls.

 

After Christmas break of my first year in college, I told my roommate that I had gotten married secretly during Christmas break. Just to see how he would react. Not in a scientific experiment way, but in an “I’m preparing to be a sophomore” way. And to get back at him for always being weirder than I.

 

I had known Tom only 3 months. If I had known him better, I would have realized that his reaction would be to go around the dorm to collect money to support me and my new bride. We were all poor in our dorm, even by working-class standards, so he didn’t get a lot.

 

I don’t know what we did with the money. I don’t think we gave it to church. [I wasn’t a preacher yet, obviously.] Tom had no idea who had given what, and he didn’t want to go back around trying to return the filthy lucre. I suppose I should have sent it to Joyce. Poor girl. She had no idea we were married. Or maybe it was Phyllis…

 

It turned out okay. All the dorm guys were so embarrassed, that they had given so little to support me and my bride, that they never mentioned it, never asked about her health, so we didn’t have to tell them the story Tom had created, that when she realized what her husband was like, she had gone to a convent. He liked it so much that he told it, anyway.

 

Now I would not do that sort of thing. By having been untrustworthy, I am now worthy of trust. I can show you how to avoid scams. All you have to do is give me control…

 

John Robert McFarland

 

So, the baby had nothing to do with this column, but if nothing else goes right today, at least you got to see a laughing baby.

WEIRD LOVE [T, 8-4-20]

CHRIST IN WINTER: Reflections on Faith & Life for the Years of Winter

WEIRD LOVE             [T, 8-4-20]

 

I had a colleague who was weird. He had good values, was on the right side of every issue, was willing to act his faith as well as preach it. But he was weird. His mind worked differently. He would speak, and we understood the words, but we didn’t know what they meant. You didn’t know if you were supposed to laugh or cry. And, speaking of laughing, he always did it as the wrong time. His body language never matched his word language. He was the sort of person you liked, but hoped wouldn’t come to the meetings. If he did, they were sure to run long.

 

I liked him. Almost everyone liked him. Even his wife, most of the time.

But he was weird enough that she enrolled them in a marital therapy group. One session, after they’d been meeting for a while, they were deciding what made marriages work. Someone questioned what made the marriage of Alvin and Alice [not their real names] work. The therapist shook his head, and said, “All I can figure is, she must love the sonuvabitch.”

 

Alvin told this story himself, in a clergy meeting, because… he was weird. He thought it was a compliment.

 

Well, it was. There’s nothing quite as nice as being loved even though you’re weird, even though no one else would, even though you’re not worth loving, even though everyone else thinks you’re a sonuvabitch.

 

I’m not sure if that’s mercy or grace, but it’s definitely love.

 

And if you think you’re not weird, well, Alvin is not your real name, either. We all need weird love.

 

John Robert McFarland

 

CHRIST IN WINTER: Reflections on Faith & Life for the Days of Winter

JUST AS I AM             [Su, 8-2-20]

 

Take, O Lord, my anger

Take my doubt and confusion

My ignorance and despair

Welcome them as my prayers

 

Receive the raging heat

That controls my brain and tongue

Accept it as an offering

On the altar of sacrifice

 

Take my frantic flailings

As the water rises o’er me

Receive my fear as homage

My gasping adulation

 

Take the messy garbage

Muck that is my heart

And accept it as a feast

From out my soul

 

I ask not that you change

The anger and the fear

That you take away

The doubt or desperation

 

For then you would be

But a magician with a wand

An alchemist, the chief

Fooler of the fools

 

No, let me be me

I pray

Let God be God

 

John Robert McFarland

 

“After all, a prayer is just a way of saying to the universe, ‘I care.’” Now That I Have Cancer I Am Whole, p. 37 [2^nd edition]