CHURCH UNIFORMS [T, 7-11-23]

 CHRIST IN WINTER: Reflections on Faith & Life for the Years of Winter--CHURCH UNIFORMS [T, 7-11-23]

 

Part of my late-life soul work is giving thanks for blessings.

This morning, I became aware of how much I appreciate good clothing, and what a blessing it is. I was walking in heat and humidity, but my shirt felt fine. It’s an old shirt, one I wear only for walking. No holes or stains, but not okay for polite company, at least according to my fashion guide. I don’t normally notice something as mundane as the way a shirt feels--unless it feels bad, like scratchy—but I have been trying to “stay in the moment.” That shirt was not requiring anything of me, and it was helping me by making me feel comfortable on an uncomfortable day. That’s a moment of blessing.

By “good” clothing, I mean appropriate clothing, stuff that fits and is useful. I’ve never been a “clothes horse.” Basically, I like clothing that is comfortable and doesn’t scare little children. Beyond that, who cares?

Well, some people do, especially family members, when I show up in my green and red plaid Christmas pants, but that’s only once a year.

There is one exception to my “comfortable only” mantra: uniforms. I have always liked uniforms, because I always wanted to belong, and a uniform is the ultimate symbol of belonging.

That’s how politicians make tyranny successful: just give folks a uniform and they’ll follow you anywhere. As someone has said, “The only thing necessary for war is a military band.”

I have worn a lot of uniforms through the years: band and orchestra and chorus, Army ROTC, and its Pershing Rifles drill team, sports [physical ed, basketball, track, baseball]. I liked all my uniforms, even though my ROTC uniform was left over from WW II and was hot and scratchy.

My first uniform was for church, but for baseball, not worship. Forsythe didn’t have enough kids for a team in the 12-14 age range Church League in Oakland City, so I got dispensation from the league’s commissioner, Fred Roush, the twin brother of baseball’s Hall of Fame Edd Roush, to play on the town Methodist church’s team. Our uniform was a white t-shirt with a small felt M ironed onto the chest. I loved having uniforms for all my subsequent athletic teams.

And for my church teams. Yes, softball, but also worship.

Lay people used to wear uniforms to worship, what we called “church clothes.” Nobody wears “church clothes,” anymore, though. At least not to church.

As a preacher, I had different church clothes-- shirts with clergy collars, many different crosses on chains, a black pulpit robe and a white one…my uniform.

I’m not on those teams anymore, though. It is time to give those uniforms away. My baseball uniform wasn’t too hard to get rid of. I just took my spikes and jersey and pants and stirrup socks to the Opportunity House thrift shop. Their colors are bound to be what some local skinny kid needs to be on his team.

I can wear clergy shirts, without the collars, for walking. I can give my crosses away to others. But the robes are a problem. There aren’t many six-footers who want to wear those uniforms these days. Or wear those uniforms in any size.

No robes. No “church clothes.” Without uniforms, how will we know who the Christians are? We may be reduced to “they’ll know we are Christians by our love.”

John Robert McFarland