Biblians & Christians [T, 11-28-23]

CHRIST IN WINTER: Reflections on Faith & Life for the Years of Winter—Biblians & Christians [T, 11-28-23]

 

I heard an Assemblies of God pastor from Louisville interviewed on TV. The occasion was an upcoming Sunday at his church called, if I remember correctly, “Open Carry Sunday,” for which people were invited to bring their loaded guns [yes, loaded was specified] to church. The invitation poster shown on TV had several phrases like “They won’t take our guns away.”

The interviewer asked if this were not contrary to Christian theology. The pastor replied in a rational-sounding way along these lines:

“Pacifism is not the only Christian tradition. For instance, “turn the other cheek” might be more a matter of dealing with dishonor than with personal protection. We believe in the whole Bible, the Old Testament as well as the New. We believe that God covenanted in this way.”

Then he said specifically, “We do not live by the red words alone.”

The red words, of course, are the words of Jesus in the red-letter editions of the New Testament.

For quite a while there has been a growing chasm between Christians called “conservative” and those called “liberal” or “progressive.” We notice the end result of that chasm first—a 90-to-180-degree difference--on social concerns such as abortion, homosexuality, guns, taxes-economy, poverty, AIDS, war, torture. It is reasonable to ask: How can people who read the same Bible and claim the same Christ come to such different conclusions?

The answer is that we do not claim the same Christ. Conservative Christians [and I use that term only descriptively, not pejoratively] are really not Christians; they are Biblians. I am trying to use that as a descriptive rather than pejorative term, too. Christ-ians believe in Christ as the full revelation of God. Biblians believe in the Bible as the full revelation of God.

Biblians believe that the “black” words of the Bible have equal revelatory quality with the “red” words. 

This is not new, of course. Many churches have advertised themselves for a long time as “Full Bible” churches, meaning the black words have equal weight with the red words, although they have rarely said it that way.

There is a great deal of difference in claiming that Christ is the Word of God or that the Bible is the Word of God.

The problem is what Bible scholar Hans Frei referred to as “the eclipse of Biblical narrative.”

Biblians are basically anti-narrative. There is no movement in the Bible. Every word of the Bible has equal weight with every other, no matter where it comes in the story. There is no progress from Moses to Jesus. The Ten Commandments are equal to—and often held higher—than John 3:16.

I am tempted to say that Bible believers should call themselves Biblians instead of Christians, but that would be both arrogant and useless. I do think these are two different faiths, however.

I am sure, however, that Biblians will never call themselves that, and will continue to call themselves Christians, but I would like to be able to distinguish myself from that sort of Christianity.

Yes, I “believe” in the Bible. I study it. I learn from it. But Jesus is not just one of several “Christian traditions,” as the Louisville pastor put it. Jesus is the Christ. The Bible is not the Christ. The red words always supersede the black words. The black words are equal to the red words only if you are a Biblian, not if you are a Christ-ian.

John Robert McFarland

 

I have written about this before, but it’s like going to church: we don’t hear anything we don’t already know, but it’s good to be reminded.

 

 

 

LIFE IS PERSONAL [Sat, 11-25-23]

CHRIST IN WINTER: Reflections On Faith & Life for The Years Of Winter—LIFE IS PERSONAL [Sat, 11-25-23]

 

When I was the ten-year-old new kid on the school bus, one of my fellow riders, about my age, said, “My father says that the worst white man is still better than the best black man.”

He said it like he wanted to believe his father, but as though it didn’t sound quite right. I didn’t say anything, even though I knew it wasn’t right, because I was afraid to talk in those days. I knew it was wrong, though, because I lived in the real world, the world of facts and knowledge and logic and common sense. I knew what was going on.

That surprised my teachers during my first four school years in Indianapolis. In their report card comments, they noted that I could not spell and I could not write and I could not read and I could not talk, including the obligatory reading aloud.

They also all commented, however, on how well-informed I was in social studies and current events. How could a kid who couldn’t read or write or spell or talk know that much?

I think that was because those were WWII years, and my beloved uncles, the younger brothers of my parents, were in the army and air force and navy and marines. The whole family listened each night to H.V. Kaltenborn on the radio, to the news of all the theaters of the war.

That led me to seek out news of the world in other places. I listened, and I learned. So I was not taken in by that “any white man is better” stuff. I knew about George Washington Carver and Booker T. Washington. And I knew how to think.

That school bus experience was 20 years before the Civil Rights movement. I learned that a lot of people believed the same way as my school bus friend’s father, as non-sensical as it was. They wanted to believe it because it meant that they always had someone they could look down on, regardless of how miserable and unsuccessful their own lives were.

That’s why Donald Trump is so appealing to many people, despite the common sense that he is a charlatan and scammer. Trump claims he is successful and wealthy when he isn’t. We identify with that. We want to think we are successful and wealthy even though we aren’t. Trump claims that he gets cheated out of what is rightfully his. We identify with that. We feel like we get cheated out of ours, too. Trump claims that he is better and more deserving that others just because of who he is, not because of merit. We identify with that. We want to believe that about ourselves, too.

It is easier for us to relate to a person than to a theory or to reason. Christians should understand that. After all, we have Jesus. He’s easier to related to than some distant God. The more out of control your life is, the more you need to simplify. The easiest simplification is through relating to a person. “Save me, Jesus! Come, Lord Jesus. He lives!”

That’s why so many people claim that Hitler or Elvis or whoever their savior is still lives. We want, need, some PERSON, who can go with us through the valley of the shadow of death…without any of those black people or gay people or educated people who think they’re better than we are.

I suppose my grade school teachers would be surprised that I lived my life as a talker, and as a writer. I hope they would not be surprised that most of that talking and writing was to say that we do have a Person to whom we can hitch our wagons, and that the best white man and the best black man should walk together to help everyone be better.

John Robert McFarland

 

 

ON THE ROAD AGAIN [W, 11-22-23]

CHRIST IN WINTER: Reflections on Faith & Life for the Years of Winter—ON THE ROAD AGAIN [W, 11-22-23]

 

It’s time for holiday travel. I always dreaded it. I’m the only person in our family who actually knows how to get out of the house. Nobody in my family can just get into a vehicle and go.

My parents spent several weeks living with us while my father had colon cancer surgery. We took Mother back to their house, 125 miles away, before we were able to take Daddy [all four of us kids called him that forever], since he had to have a second surgery for reattachment, and she wanted to be at home. When we were able to take Daddy home, too, we found Mother lying on the floor, where she had been for several hours because she had fallen and could not get up. She rebuffed our attempts to call an ambulance. We did anyway. She told the EMTs she would not go. They said she would. So she said, “Well, let’s stop at Hilltop Restaurant on the way. I’ll pay.” Anything to delay actually going.

When all the good-byes have been said, and the coats and boots are on, that’s the time to bring out the odd piece of furniture to add to the already strained trunk, or go pick a peck of tomatoes to take along, or argue about who should take how much of some left-over food in the refrigerator, or discuss at whose house the gathering for the next holiday will be, and who will bring what. All while standing at the door in a parka.

And it’s not just getting on the way that is the problem. It’s staying on the way. We used to do trips with two daughters, from when they were babies through teen years, with my parents, who were always old. It wasn’t a car full of people; it was a car full of bladders. And every one of them was on a different schedule for rest stops.

When it is time to go to bed, I think a person should get into bed, but I’m wrong. That’s when one is supposed to pull the sheets tighter and beat the hell out of the pillows, which is called fluffing the pillows.

I personally have always been eager to get on the road, to make good time [we’re totally lost but we’re making good time], to see what comes next, which is one reason I’ve never feared death.

Yet when Charon, the ferryman on the river Styx, comes to collect me, I suspect I’ll say, “Why don’t we stop at Hilltop first? I’ll pay.”

 

John Robert McFarland

NOVEMBER MISCELANY: Humility, Memory, Sanctuary, A Different Way [Sun, 11-19-23]

CHRIST IN WINTER: Reflections on Faith & Life for the Years of Winter—NOVEMBER MISCELANY: Humility, Memory, Sanctuary, A Different Way [Sun, 11-19-23]

 

HUMILITY

Early in his ministry, Dr. John Wilkey included a Greek word in his sermon, sure that his country congregation would know nothing of it and he would thus look quite smart. After the service, Miss Ruth Tapper, known to Dr. Wilkey only as a retired teacher, corrected his pronunciation of the word. Turned out Miss Tapper was Dr. Tapper, with a doctorate in ancient Greek lit!

That was an early lesson in humility for Dr. Wilkey. Similar to that of legendary sports writer Bob Hammel. He was writing for his hometown newspaper when he was so young that his mother had to drive him to events. Once he was not sure of the first name of the game’s high scorer, but he was in a hurry. So he did not look it up. He guessed at Jack. It was actually Tom. He ran into Tom years later. He opened up his billfold and pulled out the newspaper clipping with his wrong name. That was 68 years ago. They became good friends, but whenever Tom writes to Bob, he always signs as Jack. Bob says, “Fortunately, I learned very early that a good reporter never guesses.”

MEMORY

An older woman out in public ran into an old friend she hadn’t seen for a long time. They started chatting, decided to have coffee, etc. She kept trying to think of the other woman’s name and just couldn’t. Finally she said, “I’m sorry, but I just can’t remember your name. Will you tell me, please, what your name is?” The other woman thought and then asked, “How soon do you need to know?”

The older we get, the more relevant that joke is. We just don’t remember very well. If we remember at all, it’s a lot slower than it used to be.

SANCTUARY

Coaches, preachers, teachers, executives… these often share a common approach. They think, and often like to repeat, “it’s my way, or the highway.”

I intuitively knew better when I started preaching. Or perhaps it was just because I was young, nineteen, and knew I was ignorant. For whatever reason, for my whole career, when I became the “new” preacher, I did not try to change what I inherited. Until there was some good reason to do so.

A good reason always came, because nothing remains static. Situations change, and churches have to change in order to meet them. So do governments and schools and businesses and…

When I became the preacher at the Tampico, IL UMC, I inherited a little chorus that they always sang to start the service. I had heard it before, but never used it regularly. But I enjoyed singing with those folks… Lord, prepare me, to be a sanctuary, pure and holy, tried and true. With thanksgiving, I’ll be a living, sanctuary, for you. Tampico was the last of my every-Sunday, year-long appointments, although I did a couple of shorter interim pastorates after that. I’ve not heard a congregation sing it in my 20 years since Tampico. But I sing it every day myself, to start my day, and, with the marvel of memory, each time I sing it with those good folks of the Tampico church.

A DIFFERENT WAY

At some point, old age is not just more of the same; it is a different way.

A different way of thinking, of remembering, of hoping, of faithing. I can’t explain that in words, but if you are old enough, you understand. If not, just enjoy your bliss.

John Robert McFarland

 

 

LIVING IN A FLYING COFFIN [R, 11-16-23]

CHRIST IN WINTER: Reflections on Faith & Life for the Years of Winter--LIVING IN A FLYING COFFIN [R, 11-16-23]

 

The father of our Iron Mountain friend, Lola, was killed in WWII. Her mother had three children and no place to live, so moved in with her husband’s bachelor brother. Even though there was no “relationship,” people talked, and the brother felt that to preserve his reputation [That was a real thing back in the 1940s.] his new family should move out. So, they did, except the only place they could find to live was in a glider left over from the factory there that made them.

There was a lot of ready timber in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan, so for the first half of the 20^th century, it was the place where unique creations were made from wood.

First came Henry Ford’s Model T cars. Henry wanted to have a factory in the UP where everything was in one place. He had a foundry that used the iron ore mined right there to make the steel for his cars. He had a saw mill that made the wood parts for the cars, like floorboards. He had an assembly plant that put them all together. It would create three thousand jobs. He thought that Iron Mountain should provide all the infrastructure for his factory, like roads and water supplies, without cost to him. The IM city fathers balked. Henry was not one to dither with negotiations [which helps explain his support for Hitler] so he just had his cousin’s husband, a man named Kingsford, create a sister city to Iron Mountain, by the name of Kingsford, a city that would do as Ford insisted.  Interestingly, the Kingsfords never moved, always lived in Iron Mountain. We went by their house every time we walked grand-dog Ernie.

The “woody” Ford station wagons were made at that Kingsford factory, which was always referred to as being in Iron Mountain, even though it wasn’t. When you process a lot of wood, you end up with charcoal, and thus the Kingsford brand used by every backyard BarBQ expert. Like everything else, though, that starts out in a small Midwest town, that charcoal is now made in California.

After the Model T came WW II, and the need for wooden gliders, stealth airplanes, known as “flying coffins,” since they had no motors, and pilots had minimal control. They were made in the Kingsford Ford factory.

The war ended before all the gliders were finished, so, shamed by the town for living with her brother-in-law, Lola’s mother just moved her children into an abandoned, not-quite-finished glider behind the factory.

It turned out that living in a glider was even more scandalous than living with your brother-in-law. It made people face their own narrow-mindedness and lack of neighborliness. They didn’t like what they saw, and as we usually do, they blamed it on the victims.

“They live like that because they want to.” “Nah, nah, nah na na, you live in a glider.” “They’re not willing to work.” You know, stuff like that, even though the victims were finding a workable, albeit unusual, solution. But only certain solutions are acceptable in a self-righteous society.

I think my first reaction, when I heard Lola telling this story in a presentation at our Bay De Noc Community College-West LIFE group was, “Why hasn’t anyone made this into a children’s book?” Wouldn’t that be great? [LIFE = Learning Is For Ever]

Apparently, though, I got to thinking about that so much that I cannot remember how the story came out. Except I knew the little glider girl when she had become one of the smartest and most knowledgeable and articulate persons in Iron Mountain.

You can always turn the tables on small-minded detractors by taking the object of their derision and turning it into a really good story. I mean, who wouldn’t want to be able, when you are “mature,” to say that you grew up in a flying coffin? That’s what Lola did.

John Robert McFarland

The photo above is of the Kingsford Ford factory producing the gliders.

 

 

 

 

A TIME BEFORE THE SNAKE [M, 11-13-23]

CHRIST IN WINTER: Reflections on Faith & Life for the Years of Winter—A TIME BEFORE THE SNAKE [M, 11-13-23]

 

There was a time

before the snake…

 

            And do not discount the snake

                        It is not innocent

                                    claiming to be only an image in a story

                                    saying, “I gotta be me.”

                                    No one ever says “I gotta be me”

                                    to explain good behavior

            No, it had its choices

            and it chose evil

            not just for itself

                        that would be bad enough

            but for everyone

            all the innocent little

boys and girls

who would wake up, grown up

and find themselves

            east of Eden

and in finding themselves there

would know in the finding

            their lostness

 

Anyway, as I said

            there was a time

            before the snake…

 

John Robert McFarland

YES, SOME WHO WANDER ARE LOST [F, 11-10-23]

CHRIST IN WINTER: Reflections on Faith & Life for the Years of Winter—YES, SOME WHO WANDER ARE LOST [F, 11-10-23]

 

As a biblical scholar, I am aware that the Hebrew children wandered in the desert for 40 years because Moses was a real man. He refused to ask directions.

It’s kind of like I wandered in the hills of Bloomington last week.

My doctor is too observant for my own good. I was in a couple of weeks ago for a regular checkup. I’ve been going to her for 8 years. She said, “Your posture has changed. Your head isn’t on right. I think you have osteopenia. You need to go to a hidden place on South Sare Road to get a dexascan.” A DEXA Scan figures out if you have weak bones.

Well, I know I don’t have weak bones. For one thing, everybody says that the best thing for making strong bones is walking, and I’ve been doing that every day for years. However, I have noticed that I can’t tip my head back far enough anymore to get the last of the root beer our of the can, so I made an appointment.

To get to South Sare Road from our house, it is necessary to go through the round-about from hell. A dozen lanes, maybe more, all marked with incomprehensible hieroglyphs, all of them full of cars and those infernal university-town pay scooters at all times of day. Normally, if I have to go east from our house to some place in town, like Target, I take I-69 to Indianapolis, around Indy on I-465, and back down through Columbus on I-65, coming into Bloomington east of the roundabout. It’s 100 miles, but much easier than going through that Sare Road roundabout.

I didn’t have time for that, though.

Helen has been to the dexa scan place before, and acknowledged that it is hard to find, so she offered to take me. I said, “Any high school graduate, with average intelligence, can find a dexa scan joint.” Apparently I am too educated and too smart.

I turned where she told me. At least, I think it was where she told me. They weren’t there. Maybe they moved.

Their address is Creeks Edge Road. No medical facility should have an address like that.

That area of town is quite elegant, and so the road signs are, too, meaning that they have white letters on a gray background in an incomprehensible but elegant font. I had to stop at each sign and get out my binocs to read it. None of them said anything about a creek, let alone an edge.

Undeterred, I kept driving, up and down hill and dale. I drove so far I had to stop twice for gas. I tried, but I could not find the place. Yes, I did all the stuff you’re thinking I should have done…

My friend, Bob Hammel, legendary sports writer, recently broke a leg. His wife no longer drives, so I told him that while I am not physically able to do be much help these days, I could take him to doctor appointments and the like, because I’m still a reliable driver. Helen said, “Bob’s articles and books are famous for truth and accuracy. Do you really want to tell him that?”

John Robert McFarland

Don’t worry. I’m okay. Turns out my bones are dense enough. I just need to get my head on straight.

ADJUSTING DIAGONALLY [T, 11-7-23]

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

 

As Jessica got me situated on the table for my dexa scan, we started talking about walking and running. Even though she looks to be about 25, she has 15-year-old boy-girl twins. The boy is a cross-country runner. Jessica herself is a walker.

She said, “When I go for a long walk, my right shoulder beings to hurt. That seems strange.”

“Next time that happens,” I said, “pay close attention to your left hip and knee. It’s possible that you are using your left leg or foot or hip just enough differently from the right that a torque force is developing there. That gets transferred in your body diagonally…”

I learned that from my deep muscle therapist, Bjorg Holte, when she was working on me because I had almost debilitating pain on the outside of my right elbow. It was bad enough that Dr. Mack Hollowell had actually made an appointment for me with a surgeon, to have the ulnar nerve moved.

This was in my distance running days. I had pain on the outside of my left knee, too, but runners have foot and leg pains all the time. We pay no attention to those. But being right-handed, that elbow pain was a real problem.

I was telling church member-friend, Sharon Butts, about it. Sharon and I saw each other frequently because vocationally she was a marriage counselor. I sent a lot of business her way. She said, “You should go see Bjorg first.” So I did.

Bjorg came to the US from Norway when she was 20, so that she could study sculpture at the U of IL. Her work became quite renowned, at least regionally.

“I realized, though,” she said, “that I had no contact with people. I was in my studio all day by myself. That was not healthy. I knew about the body from my sculpting, so I figured I could use that knowledge in sculpting real people.”

So she went through training in the Pfrimmer Method and became a deep muscle therapist. Of course, she kept her studio and continued sculpting, too.

I told her about my elbow and she gave me one of the best pieces of knowledge I’ve ever received: “The body tends to adjust diagonally.”

After my session with Bjorg, I went for a run. It was winter, but distance runners sneer at bad weather. I decided to get out of the wind a bit, though, by running on the track around the football field at the university stadium. My left knee--the anterior cruciate ligament, I assumed, because runners love to use terms like that--began to hurt. The snow began to accumulate on the track. I was the only one there, so as I came around for another lap, I could see my own footprints. My left foot was toeing in just slightly more than my right.

So… the outside of the left knee is the diagonal opposite of the outside of the right elbow. I began to toe my left foot out to match the right. I could tell I was doing it correctly because I could see before and after prints in the snow. The pain in my left knee disappeared. So did the pain in my right elbow left. I canceled the surgery.

Even now, 40 years later, when I feel a twinge in my left knee or right elbow, I know I can make it disappear by adjusting that left footfall.

I know I’ve written about this before, but since Jessica brought the issue to mind again… I began to wonder if, when the soul gets out of adjustment, it can be corrected by adjusting its diagonal? Discuss among yourselves…

John Robert McFarland 

ED TUCKER [Sat, 11-4-23]

CHRIST IN WINTER: Reflections on Faith & Life for the Years of Winter—ED TUCKER [Sat, 11-4-23]

 

Going through old files… discarding most… keeping some… enjoying the memories… which is why I kept all this stuff…

In the booklet Garrett Theological Seminary put together for the 40^th anniversary of my class, they asked each of us what we remembered most or liked best from our student days there. Ed Tucker said, “The daily commuting rides with John McFarland, when he drove in from Cedar Lake, Indiana and picked me up on the south side of Chicago.”

Because we spent so much time together, Ed is one of my best memories, too, not just for seminary days, but when we were together for class reunions and occasional continuing ed events. Even when we were retired, when he lived in Chicago’s western burbs and I in Sterling, IL, to be with the grandkids, we would meet halfway, in Dekalb, at a Borders store, and drink coffee and buy books and reminisce.

Ed originally thought of himself as a Lutheran, because one Sunday afternoon, at Christmas time, when he was in 8^th grade, his father took him to a Lutheran church in their neighborhood, and dropped him off for the Christmas party for kids.

He said, “I have no idea why. We never went to church, anywhere. My father was a huge racist and was mad at church people who were in favor of integration. But it was great. They gave me a book as a gift. No one had ever given me a book before. And they had food! I was in 8^th grade and weighed 200 lbs. I loved to eat. I kept going back.”

The guidance counselors saw Ed as a big dumb fat kid and so sent him to Lane Technical High School to learn to be a draftsman. He said, “That’s all they taught us in the drafting program. We didn’t learn English or history or that stuff. But being big and dumb, I got to be the catcher on the baseball team. After sitting at a drafting table all day for four years, I knew I didn’t want to do that the rest of my life. I applied to Chicago Teacher’s College. They’d take anybody. Except me. But the baseball coach convinced the admissions people to let me in, because he needed a catcher.”

“I kept going to church. It was the days of Civil Rights. I grew up on Chicago’s south side, in a racist home. I knew how bad black people were treated. I met some Methodist ministers who were active in civil rights. I began to think I was supposed to be a preacher. So I applied to Garrett. I had a degree from Chicago Teacher’s College, with a baseball major and a D minus GPA. Garrett turned me down flat. But those Methodist ministers intervened. They convinced Garrett to let me in on probation. The first quarter, I flunked every class. Garrett was going to throw me out, but those guys begged them to give me another chance.”

I wrote this just because I love Ed’s story. I’m so pleased that Lutheran church gave a book to a fat boy who showed up unannounced, and that they gave him food. I’m so pleased that those Methodist ministers intervened for him. And did it again.

Ed used his drafting skills to draw the “Friar Tuck” cartoons that illustrated many books about church. [See the book cover above.]  He had a solid career as a caring pastor. He is remembered fondly in all his church appointments. God wants us, wants us all, even if we just come to church for the food…

John Robert McFarland

Remember to turn your clocks back tonight!

THE QUIET PREACHER. [W, 11-1-23]

CHRIST IN WINTER: Reflections on Faith & Life for the Years of Winter--THE QUIET PREACHER. [W, 11-1-23]

 

Garrison Keiller tells of an event planned by Pastor Ingqvist of Lake Wobegon Lutheran Church for the other Lutheran pastors of his District. It was basically a fellowship event. Pastor Ingqvist persuaded one of his parishioners to take the pastors out on the lake for a barbeque on his flat boat. But the grill got tipped over and the flat boat began to catch on fire. All the pastors went to the side of the boat away from the fire, which caused the boat to sink. The lake wasn’t very deep, so no one drowned. The pastors were up to their necks in the water, and they just stood there, because, being pastors, none of them knew how to shout for help.

I’m glad I wasn’t involved. I couldn’t have helped. I was never a shouter. Well, once in a while at ball games, but even that is shouting to help others, not to help yourself, unless you are shouting at the hot dog vendor. But I didn’t do that, either. If I wanted a dog, I went to the concession window. Or went without. There are a lot of work-arounds if you don’t want to shout.

As a kid, I learned that the stupid old meme about children was half-true. You know, the one about “children should be seen and not herd.” The half-true part was not being heard. It was also best if you weren’t seen. If you were neither seen nor heard, you were less likely to get into trouble. I would have been a good stealth plane pilot; I flew under the radar, as much as I could.

When our daughters were teens we’d often overhear them telling their friends that we had “yelled” at them about one thing or another. It was very annoying. We never yelled at them. We remonstrated with them, rationally, calmly. So much so that once they said, “Couldn’t you just beat us, instead of making us sit through a lecture, a sermon, and a multi-media presentation?”

But in the parlance of their teen community, any disagreement, any mild suggestion that they not drive 100 mph while drinking beer and snorting coke, was yelling at them. I couldn’t yell at them if I had wanted to; I just didn’t know how.

Since I never developed a shouting voice, an “outdoor” voice as we say to children now, I didn’t shout as a preacher. I was loud enough to be heard, but I preached in a conversational way. I enjoyed the old joke about the preacher who wrote into the margins of his sermon manuscript, “Shout here because the point is weak.” I was sure that I had no weak points because I did not shout.

George Buttrick was probably the best-known and most-lauded preacher of the mid-20^th century, while preaching at Madison Ave. Presbyterian Church in NYC, and editing the 12 volumes of The Interpreter’s Bible.

In retirement he was one of my preaching professors at Garrett Theological Seminary, at Northwestern U. When he preached in chapel, he paid no attention to the congregation. He gazed out the window. He looked at his shoes. He peered at the ceiling. But every word that he said was overflowing with meaning, and in exactly the right place. No histrionics, but totally full of meaning. People listened to him as if transfixed. I wanted to preach like that, but with eye contact.

I was inclined, as we always are, to say that non-shouting was the best way to preach, since it was the way most natural and comfortable to me. But I saw through that. I knew preachers who shouted, not for show, but with good effect. Preaching is not a “one style fits all” activity.

All this talk about preaching is just to get around to life, which is what preaching is all about anyway. Life, also, like preaching, is not “one way fits all.” So, however you went about your life, however you go about it now, loudly or quietly, it’s probably the best way.

John Robert McFarland