THE WORD FROM OLD PULPITS [Su, 10-30-22]

 

It is acceptable
allowable
even agreeable
for old preachers
on Sunday mornings
to stand again
in long abandoned pulpits
looking out at faces
yearning for good words
There are few
perhaps only one
the old preachers say
You must decide
if that one word
is enough
or will simply
have to do

John Robert McFarland

THE GIFT & PLEASURE OF NOT FITTING IN [R, 10-28-22]

I’ve written before about how Dick Street gave me a whole new outlook on ministry, and on life.

It was a couple of months after I had been appointed to the UMC in Orion, IL. Dick and I were having coffee. Dick was a tall, rugged man, a contractor. You didn’t look at him and say, “There’s a thoughtful man.” But you did think, “There’s a guy who won’t blab about his conversations.”

So, I said, “Dick, I just don’t seem to fit in here.”

“That’s why you’re going to do us so much good,” Dick said. “The other preachers we’ve had here fit in too well.”

For the next 45 years of full-time and interim ministry, I worked with the assumption that NOT fitting in was one of my gifts to the congregation. I was a good preacher, a good pastor… and I was good at not fitting in.

Not fitting is a complaint I hear often from old people. In fact, I hear it from myself. “I don’t fit in this present world.” Yes, true. But that doesn’t mean I’m irrelevant, or have nothing to offer. Being a square peg on a board of round holes might make a more interesting picture.

Old folks need to be careful not to assume that we are better because we don’t fit it, that we’re different, because we’re older, because we’ve seen things younger people can only guess at. At the same time, we need to understand that NOT fitting into this present age may be a gift that we can bring to it.

John Robert McFarland

ONE MORE FALL IN INDIANA

 

ONE MORE FALL IN INDIANA 

That has been my yearning

ever since the cancer came

and tried to take me in the spring

so long ago

This autumn now

may be the one

for which I yearned

The leaves of red and gold

So spectacular in nonchalance

Every voice here says the same

   This is the best one ever!

Who needs another now?

John Robert McFarland

NO PIC; JUST AN ENTRY FROM MY JOURNAL

 

THE FINISH LINE

They think they are so fast

The toddler on his trike

The mother pushing the stroller

The old woman on the walker

Just because they pass

me with such ease

But I have a secret

 I am the finish line

JRMcF

THE IMPORTANCE OF NOT KNOWING WHO YOU ARE [T, 10-25-22]

 

On a “Finding Your Roots” TV show recently, a woman said about her 7^th or 8^th great-grandfather, who had died very young, “It’s sad, because he never got the chance to find out who he really was.”

Really? That’s the point of your sadness? “Finding out who you really are” strikes me as very much a first world, 21^st century problem. Most of the people of the past, and most of the people of the present, don’t have the luxury of worrying about who they really are.

Who am I? I’m the person who is trying to get by and survive. Beyond that, it’s all irrelevant.

Still, “being fully known” seems to be a big deal these days. Comedian Stephen Colbert parodies this by giving guests on “The Late Show” the Colbert Questionnaire, in which he asks questions like “What is the best sandwich?” and “Apples or oranges?” and proclaims at the end, “Now you are fully known!”

In every TV or movie drama there seems to be somebody who shouts, “You can't talk to me. You don’t know me!”

So, nobody ever gets to talk to anybody?

What arrogance. You think we’ve got the time to worry about getting to know you? You think getting to know you should be some sort of goal for others? Get a life.

Besides, isn’t being unknown the point? If people know who I really am, they’re going to run fast in the other direction. Most of us spend a lot of time and energy to keep people from fully knowing us.

If you do find out who you really are, for heaven’s sake, don’t tell the rest of us. It’s sort of like when Karen Armstrong was a nun. She told the mother superior, “You know, most of what we believe is nonsense.” The mother superior replied, “I know, but don’t tell the others.”

Even if you try to know someone, does it work? I’ve been married to the same woman for 63 years. Almost every day she says something that makes me think, “Who is this woman? Have I met her before?” And, no, it’s not just old age forgetfulness. This has been going on the full 63 years.

[I say “Married to the same woman for 63 years” rather than just “Married for 63 years” because there is a difference. At a class reunion, everyone was saying things like “This is my husband, we’ve been married 20 years.” “This is my wife, we’ve been married 19 years.” Kenny said, “I’ve been married 15 years, but none of them are here.”’

Does it make any difference to anyone, even to you, if you know who you are?

There is another way to see this, though. In the words of Charles Albert Tinley’s great hymn, Stand By Me: “In the midst of faults and failures, stand by me. In the midst of faults and failures, stand by me. When I’ve done the best I can, and my friends misunderstand, Thou who knowest all about me, stand by me.”

It really doesn’t matter if I know who I am, or if you know who I am, because God knows all about me… and accepts me, anyway.

John Robert McFarland

THOUGHTS ON GETTING BY WHILE GETTING OLD [Sa 10-22-22]

 

Some By Me and Some by Others

Election day is coming up. I have received emails from several different organizations urging me to vote. One such organization claims its purpose is “…to get young people to vote, because we can make a difference.” Well, a bit late in my case, but I appreciate the reminder.

“Comfort is the enemy of progress.” So… progress is overrated.

I see the world with the same clear vision with which I have always viewed it, but the world looks back at me with the misty, wrinkled eyes of irrelevance.

“Life is like a helicopter. I don’t know how to operate a helicopter, either.”

“Time may be a great healer, but it’s a lousy beautician.” Dorothy Parker

I thought getting old would take longer

“The older we get, the fewer things seem worth standing in line for.” Will Rogers

I am often nostalgic for times that never were.

“Jesus was not a theologian. He was God who told stories.” Madeline L’Engle, quoting an anonymous friend. P. 54, Walking on Water

“…you had but one job…” as the joke goes. At my age, I have but one job, to get ready to die, by discarding all the unnecessary stuff--from my spirit, from my body, from my relationships, from my possessions.

            Actually, that’s the one job at any age. I sort of wish I had understood that better, earlier.

“Wisdom doesn’t necessarily come with age. Sometimes age just shows up all by itself.”

“Unexplained pain may sometimes direct our attention to something unacknowledged, something we are afraid to know or feel.” Rachel Remen

The surest way to be irrelevant tomorrow is to be too relevant today.

“Evangelism is one beggar telling another beggar where to find food.” D.T. Niles

“When old men become irrelevant, young men become irresponsible.”

The Wesley Foundation building in Terre Haute, IN is now the United Campus Ministries building, Wesley Foundation being only one of the cooperating denominational ministries. It was built during the time I was campus minister there. It was recently placed on the National Register of Historic Places. Really? I do have a sweat shirt that says I am on the Register of Historic Persons, but that’s just because my daughters thought it would be a funny birthday gift. Am I really old enough that a building built when I was already out of seminary is now “historic?”

At least it’s still standing. Not so with the hospital where I was born, my grade school and high school, every commercial building in my home town, my university dorm, our first parsonage, and seven of the church buildings where I preached.

“Don’t count the days; make the days count.”

“To grow old is to pass from passion to compassion.” Albert Camus

John Robert McFarland

 

WHERE THE BUFFALO ROAM [W, 10-19022]

Have I told you about the buffalo and the bread truck?

I’m thinking about that because my friend, Phil, can’t drive for a while, so I’m taking him to Needmore Coffee this morning. Needmore Coffee is a great name for a coffee shop. I mean, who doesn’t need more coffee?

That’s not the reason for the name, though. The owner lives in the nearby hamlet of Needmore. The shop isn’t in Needmore, though. It’s here in Bloomington.

It’s my favorite coffee shop, because of my time in Nicaragua. The owner goes to Central America herself and buys her coffee beans directly from the farmers, so that they get all the profit. That’s real “Fair Trade.”

 

So, back to the buffalo and the bread truck, because that encounter took place in Needmore.

Several years ago I heard a folk singer, whom I’ll call Archie, tell the story of when he was living in a hippie compound in Needmore in the 1980s. He was in charge of the little general store and had to open earlier than most of the other hippies got up. The bread guy was there making a delivery. He and Archie were chatting in the store when they saw a big male buffalo coming down the road, stopping along the way from time to time to munch the roadside weeds.

The hippies had decided they should raise buffalo, even though it did make roller skating harder. [1] They were not very good at fence-building, though, and so everyone in Needmore was living “where the buffalo roam.”

Archie called the hippie who was in charge of the buffalo. After a while, he came ambling down the road, barefoot, shirtless, in overalls. The buffalo was farther along the road, closer to the grocery.

Archie and the bread guy watched. Too late, the bread guy realized the buffalo had accepted the challenge of the bread truck.

The bread guy had left the truck motor running. Why so many delivery people do that, I don’t know. Surely not every delivery truck has a bad battery or starter.

This time it was clearly a mistake, for that engine was making the low rumbling sound that said to the buffalo, “I’m tougher than you.” With its near-sighted eyes, the buffalo saw the big brute of a truck hulking, waiting, rumbling, and challenging, The buffalo charged the truck. With its horns under the front bumper, it lifted the truck into the air and then let if fall with a crash. The truck gave up. Satisfied, the buffalo ambled back up the road with the barefoot hippie.

I wrote this just because I love the story, but if you want a “point…”

Not everything that rumbles is a challenge. Not every challenge needs a response.

John Robert McFarland

1] I think Roger Miller was one of the best philosophers of the 20^th century. “You can’t roller skate in a buffalo herd, but you can be happy if you’ve a mind to.”

OLD AGE MANIFESTO [Su, 10-16-22]

Faith is what gets you up in the morning.

 

Faith in life.

 

Faith is not belief. Belief is knowledge. Knowledge doesn’t get you up in the morning.

 

Modern religious faith is almost always equated with belief, what John A. T.  Robinson called “…believing 49 impossible things before breakfast.”

 

Many people who are trying to be religious think that the more impossible things they believe, the more faithful they are.

 

Faith in belief, in knowledge, developed in the Enlightenment, with the advent of modern science.

 

Now that modern science is giving up on faith in belief, conservative religionists are taking it up. “You must believe right to be saved.”

 

No, salvation comes through faith, that thing that gets you up in the morning, not through belief.

 

Faith is the most important element for brain health.

 

There are other elements of brain health. Some are surprisingly simple, like smiling or yawning. Others are common sense, like exercise and conversation. But faith is the most important. [Andrew Newman, MD, and Mark Robert Waldman, How God Changes Your Brain]

 

Not faith in a religion, but faith in life, that thing that gets you up in the morning.

 

I personally believe that faith in God is the same as faith in life.

 

I have given up on movements

 

Not bowel movements.

 

Social movements. Like race relations.

 

Original sin is just too much with us for movements to last.

 

Perhaps it is more accurate to say that I have given up on that arc of history that presumably bends toward justice. It seems that every time it bends toward justice, it bends back the other way again.

 

Or the mills of the gods. They do “grind exceeding fine,” but all they do is level everything, not just the chaff.

 

But I continue to push on the arc, and work the millstones, not because I have faith in movements, but because I have faith in life, even though my remaining years of this life are few.

 

I continue with faith in life. That it is worth getting up for and going out to joust again, even if it seems like it is only with windmills.

 

I believe in dreaming the impossible dream.

 

I have faith in life.

 

John Robert McFarland

 

WHY I DON’T TRUST THEY [W, 10-12-22]

Following up on my last column on gender pronouns… especially the use of they… [And check Nina’s comments at the end of that column.]

First, my friend, Bob, says in the comments that he is told the proper pronouns for a trans person is he/she. But I know a trans woman pretty well who uses only she, because for her that’s the point: she’s totally and only  a she, not a she/he.

With individuals, you can just find out what they prefer, like I prefer to be John now even though in the family and professionally I have always been John Robert. [Which is still okay.] But I’m old, with only a short time left, so let’s not waste time. Just call me John. Or Your Most Holy Eminence. I like that, too. Old seminary friend, Ed Tucker, calls me St. John. That's okay, too.

With groups, though, we are told different things by different people, as to what is preferable. We’re always going to be wrong with some folks.

Often it’s generational. When I was campus minister at ILSU, I hosted a late-night call-in radio show on WGLT radio. Talked about lots of values stuff. Often had a guest. One night it was the first and then only black faculty member at ILSU. At one point I referred to “blacks” and he quite sincerely explained to me that the correct term was Negro. But I hung around with students all day [more like all night], including Lonnie Pruett, the first black student body president at ILSU. I knew him pretty well, officiated at this wedding. Lonnie and the other black students thought that Negro was Uncle Tomish. They preferred black. Our new prof friend had been so busy getting a PhD he hadn’t been able to keep up.

But back to they…

 

I learned as a young preacher not to trust they.

I was a bit surprised at how often they criticized me. After all, I was a preacher, for God’s sake. I thought preachers were great. I was a Welfare kid, but the preachers called me by name and acted like I was important.

I had been in the church all my life, but I was the only person in my family who went to church, so I had never heard the preacher criticized.

I did not know that many church people had roast preacher for Sunday dinner. Until I started preaching, I thought people went home from church and tried to use what they had heard in the sermon to get closer to God and be more like Jesus. That’s what I did... If I couldn’t get into a basketball game somewhere.

Yes, I was a nice boy and doing the will of God. I was also, however, the preacher. They called me Rev. McFarland, even though I was only nineteen. [However, this remained in place for the next 40 years.] I was fair game. I should have been pleased when they criticized me. They obviously took me seriously, despite my youth and inexperience.

I was not pleased, though. I did not like being criticized. It’s not that I thought I was perfect. I knew I said and did stupid stuff. But I was just a regular person, too. Regular people don’t know how to deal with criticism. I had not yet learned from church sociologist Ken Haugk how to distinguish critics, who really are trying to help you, from antagonists, who just want to give you a hard time.

When someone wanted to criticize me but did not want to take responsibility for it, they would blame it on they. They say that you should not tell jokes when you preach. They say you should not use so many sports illustrations. They say you should stick to the Gospel and not talk about race relations. They say you should talk about the blood of the lamb more…

That last one was particularly difficult for me. I had heard “blood of the lamb” in church, but I had no real idea what it meant. I certainly did not think that people in general wanted to hear about it more. But there was that one man who said every Sunday… oh, no, he wasn’t just one. He was they!

So, it’s not just concern for clarity of communication that causes me now to be slow about using “they” as singular, the way God intended. To me, they are those amorphous and anonymous antagonists who don’t want to take responsibility for their own criticisms.

On the other hand, I should know by now that they was always singular, always just that one.

Now I’ll probably get criticized for not knowing what I’m talking about… at least by me, who is also he/him/his…

John Robert McFarland

I don’t understand the him and his, though. Once I’ve said my pronoun is he, shouldn’t his and him follow naturally…

 

 

GROSS ILLITERACIES [Sa, 10-8-22]

We have friends whose young-adult grandson wants to be referred to as “they,” rather than “he,” because he does not feel like one specific gender. My nephew’s early-teens daughter has changed her name from Sophia to Gray, because she feels Gray suggests empathy with common people more than the sophisticated Sophia does. When did kids begin to think about these things? And are they doing them just to confuse old people?

I’ve always thought “they” should be used only for multiples of “she” and “he.” Otherwise, “they” cause problems, because of what “they” say and “they” did. The amorphous “they” can hide in anonymity and thus get away with anything.

I think we made a big mistake when we gave up ye and thee and thou and thine and went with the all-inclusive “you” and “them.” We already had a bunch of nice nuanced pronouns and gave them up for the convenience of generalities. Now we’re paying the linguistic price for such short-cut convenience.  

When I was in college [with “they’s” grandparents] if we had written in comp class a sentence like “They is going…” we would have gotten an F on that essay, because that sort of thing was considered a “Gross Illiteracy.” One GI amounted to an F. There were nine such Gross Illiteracies, I think, including splitting an infinitive. Now everybody writes “To boldly go…” We wouldn’t think of not splitting the infinitive; it doesn’t sound right.

Things have changed. I Googled “gross illiteracy” and found no mentions of such at all. I don’t know how college comp teachers deal with that stuff now, but I know I have to deal with it in an open-minded and accepting way. There is a lot of gender bending and language bending these days. People are trying to figure things out, and that requires trying things out. It’s hard for me to keep up, but that’s my problem. If you want to be a “they” all by yourself, I’ll try to remember that, and not call you a she or a he or an it.

Personally, though, I think that “they” should be reserved for “plural” and that “y’all” should be used in place of “they” for gender specifications. Y’all is perfect. It is both singular and plural and totally inclusive.

If y’all sounds too regional for you, then “youuns” would be a good substitute.

When you use these, just say a silent word of thanks to me for working this out so that everyone is now on the same page.

John Robert McFarland

 

 

 

 

COURTROOM SWEAT [T, 10-4-22]

 

My college roommate, C. Thomas Cone, was for over 50 years Indiana’s foremost criminal attorney. I’ve been rereading some letters he sent me over the years. In one he says that in the court room, everyone pledges to tell the truth, but everyone lies. He lived to catch a witness or another attorney in a lie. “I love to see them sweat,” he said.

I have been in several court rooms over the years, never as a plaintiff or a defendant, but as a spectator or a witness. Almost always because of my profession, but in retirement, because I was a CASA volunteer, Court Appointed Special Advocate for children in the judicial system. Most often, it’s a child custody case, but sometimes the child itself is caught in the legal machinery. A CASA’s sole role is to think about a child’s best interests, not the parents’ or society’s, and to advise the court accordingly. It’s not an easy task. I was always sweating in the court room as a CASA for fear I’d get it wrong.

When I was in a court room, I always thought about my roommate, Tom, and I was glad he was not the attorney grilling me. I was able to make myself sweat without his help. I was always afraid that I would make some misstep that would cause a malfeasance of justice. I was afraid I’d be caught in a lie even when I was trying to tell the truth.

We lie, mostly, either to make ourselves look better than we are, or to get out of trouble. But I’ve never been good at lying. It wasn’t that I was more moral than anyone else. I just couldn’t stand the guilt. When I explained that I had not gone down to Washington Street, my mother would just stare at me until I said, “That’s a lie.” It got to the place that I said “That’s a lie” almost before I had finished the lie.

My most sweaty time in a court room was a trial in which I was only a spectator, a trial of a man for murdering his girlfriend and their unborn child. Hard to get into sweat trouble when you’re only a spectator, right? Not with my conscience!

I had not been present for jury selection, waiting to attend until the day arguments began. To my chagrin, when the jury marched in, there was one of my church members, who was also a good friend. Helen and I had spent a lot of social time with her and her husband. That in itself would have been fine; I’m in favor of church members doing civic duties. But I was the only person in that court room who knew for sure that Charles was guilty, because he had confessed this to me in the jail. I thought, “What if Janet can see in my face what I know?” I wanted the jury to find Charles guilty, even though I was sympathetic with him, because he was guilty, but I did not think they should do it because Janet could see in my eyes what I knew. Ridiculous, of course, but a court room can do that to you. or at least, it always did to me. It makes you sweat.

I think Tom loved to see people sweat when he caught them in a lie not because he was mean-spirited, but the opposite. He loved the truth.

I like to think I always tried to be honest because I love the truth, too. But that would be one of those lies to make us look better than we are. I liked the truth because I didn’t like to sweat. At least, not in a court room. That’s not a lie.

John Robert McFarland

PRAYERS AND PRIVACY [Sat, 10-1-22]

 

I think I heard this story at a preaching conference, but I don’t remember who told it, or the name of the young man, even though I think I’ve written about this before. Talk about memory loss in old age! The thing about a good story, though, is that it is usable, even if the details are lost. This time, I’ll call the teller Fred and the young man Roger Jenkins.

Fred was a relatively famous preacher who was often invited to do a week or so of “special services” at some church somewhere. He was finishing up such a series on a Sunday morning. He was tired and wanted to get on the road to home, but some layman in the church was worried about a young man named Roger Jenkins, and he insisted that Fred and the men of the church needed to pray about Roger before Fred left. The layman led the prayers… It was one of those “just” prayers…

Oh, Lord, we just pray for Roger Jenkins. Roger Jenkins is just so confused, Lord, Oh, I’m just afraid Roger Jenkins will just up and leave his young wife and young children, Lord. Oh, Lord, we just ask you to restore Roger Jenkins to his family and home and just…

It went on and on. Finally, though, mercifully, it ended, and Fred hopped into his car and headed off. A few miles out of town there was a young man with his thumb stuck out. Fred pulled over to give him a ride. They talked. The young man told of how he was confused and he knew he shouldn’t leave but he just couldn’t stay…

Fred slammed on the brakes, made a u turn and headed back. “Hey,” the young man said, “what are you doing?”

“You’re Roger Jenkins,” Fred said, “and I’m the answer to a prayer. I’m taking you home.”

That would not happen at the church where a friend of mine goes. They have given up all prayer lists and concerns, either vocally in worship, or printed, in bulletins or newsletters, “for privacy reasons.”

When did privacy become more important in the church than prayer?

I think I understand that, sort of. Some churches overdo the sharing of prayer needs. Like the church in Cleveland where daughter Mary Beth worshipped when she lived there. It was so bad that I once heard a man whisper to his wife after a particular prayer request, “Was that the left ventricle or the right ventricle we’re supposed to pray for?”

But is the church not supposed to be a fellowship of concern? How does that work if we don’t know who has a special prayer need? Is privacy that important? After all, in that same local church where my friend goes, when a person is mentioned in print, their pronouns are printed after their name. Isn’t that the opposite of “privacy,” the desire to be totally known, right down to gender specificity?

Well, for now, Roger Jenkins, until we just get this figured out, nobody is going to be the answer to a prayer about you. That worries me… I'd better pray about it...

John Robert McFarland