CONFERENCE MEANS TOGETHER [Sun, 6-30-24]

BEYOND WINTER: Irrelevant Musings of an Old Man—CONFERENCE MEANS TOGETHER [Sun, 6-30-24]

 

There wasn’t much question about who our pastors will be next year, at St. Mark’s Above the Smiling Teeth. [1] Our bishop reappointed Jimmy and Mary Beth for another year. No surprise. The Methodist method of appointing pastors these days works on the principle of, “If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.”

Of course, some breaks occur, and the bishop has to make an appointment to fix them. Pastoral vacancies occur because preachers retire or take sabbatical or medical leave or take a different job. Sometimes a preacher and a congregation need a change because they just don’t work well together any more.

It used to be that the bishop moved every pastor every two or three years. Keep preachers and congregations on their toes. Also, if a congregation got a preacher who didn’t fit, they knew they could relax. That one would be traded in for a newer model next Annual Conference.

Not any more. No moving to a new place every June. Not enough preachers for that. For several years, conferences have been retiring 8 preachers for every new one ordained. If the church is satisfied, let sleeping congregations… well, sleep.

The annual conferences of the United Methodist Conferences recently concluded. Even in my early days of “conferencing,” the highlight of the week was the very last thing, when the bishop read out the appointments for the next year. It was the highlight because you didn’t know until you heard your name where you would be preaching in the next conference year. Now the reading of the appointments is pro forma. Everybody knows who is going where.

The double use of “conference” is a bit confusing. An Annual Conference is a get-together, for a few days--for worship, and business, of all the congregations and church institutions within a particular geographical area, and appointing the pastors for the next conference year.

The word “Conference” by itself means all the stuff the church is and does within a particular geographical area. For instance, I am a clergy member of The Illinois Great Rivers Conference, which is the whole state south of I-80. Above I-80, it’s the North Illinois Conference.

The annual conferences were far more congenial than in recent years because most of the folks opposed to including gays have “disaffiliated” and were not there. Exclusion/inclusion is almost always the hottest topic for any church group, be it people or doctrines or methods.

From the time of John Wesley on [1700s], there have been annual conferences, getting together to worship and encourage one another. Until 1939, they were called “the annual conference of preachers.” Lay “delegates” or “members” became part of the annual meetings in 1939, when The Methodist Protestant [1], Methodist Episcopal [ME], and ME South denominations merged into The Methodist Church. [TMC]

The ministry has always been a strangely lonely profession, especially in the early days in America when circuit riders were out on their own, far distant from any of their “brethren of the cloth.” When Methodism was just a movement of preachers and congregations, the preachers needed to get together on their own, to worship together and to encourage one another. Thus, the annual conferencing.

But by 1939, the denominations had started orphans’ homes [because of the great flu epidemic of 1918], hospitals, colleges, seminaries, publishing houses, campgrounds. The denominations needed to do business as well as fellowshipping at those annual meetings. Those institutions were too important to be left to preachers alone. So, the advent of Lay Members.

In these days when it is popular to say, “I am spiritual without being religious,” it is important to remember that spirituality on your own, without others, is narcissistic, not spiritual. The church is where the spirits—lay and clergy--gather to be spiritual. Conferencing.

John Robert McFarland

1] St. Mark’s UMC in Bloomington, IN is located on the hill above Buccetto Pasta & Pizza. “Buccetto” means “smiling teeth.”

2] The MP Church did already have lay delegates at annual conferences.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

POWERLESS [R, 6-27-24]

BEYOND WINTER: The Irrelevant Musings of An Old Man—POWERLESS [R, 6-27-24]

 

From age 10, I grew up on a farm on the dead end of a narrow gravel road. Along that road was one little wire, supported by an occasional wooden post, that ran from the main gravel road to the Heathman’s house, and then down the long hill to our house. I am pretty sure that in the fifteen years my family lived there at the end of the road, nothing ever happened to that single little wire. We never lost power.

Not so with the modern city of Bloomington, Indiana. We lose power here every time there is a breeze. Well, sometimes it’s more than a breeze.

I have not been able to post anything since 4:00 p.m. Tuesday, June 25, because that is when the power went out. Not on its own; it had some help. A pop-up storm. “Pop-up” usually means a gentle little sprinkle that doesn’t reach very far. Not this time. It didn’t reach far, basically only Bloomington, but it was anything but gentle. “Violent” would not be too strong a word. Horizontal rain at high speed. Lightning and thunder enough for a rock concert. And wind! Not tornado winds, nor derecho winds, but strong enough to take down many huge trees.

Amazingly, I don’t think there was any injury to people or houses. But there were so many big trees uprooted, so many long limbs blasted off of other trees. As befits our name, Bloomington has LOTS of trees. Still does, but the body of treedom has suffered a lot of nasty cuts and bruises.

Noticeable to we people, though, has been the absence of electric power.

No TV, radio, refrigerator, freezer, air conditioning, fans, cassette players, microwaves, ovens, clocks, garbage disposals, garage doors… on and on. And, of course, no VOIP phones, no internet, no email. Every time we thought of something to do, no chance!

When I lived on the farm, it would not have mattered much if we lost power. We had a refrigerator, a radio, a small table fan, and a floor lamp. Those were our only electrical appliances. We heated and cooked with wood. We had kerosene lamps. We pumped water. We could keep on living pretty well without “power.” Sometimes “progress” isn’t all that helpful.

I’m glad we lost power, though, because we had to go to St. Mark’s UMC to re-charge our phones and get onto the internet. Pastor Mary Beth set us up in a room to ourselves and stayed to trade stories. Tech guy Gerry hooked us up to the internet. Patrick got us hooked up to chargers. Stephanie made sure we had water. Pastor Jimmy stopped by to say “Hello.” We had so much fun that they said we should come and do this every Wednesday.

Here is a poem I wrote that afternoon:

POWERLESS

Hi, God, it’s me again, Johney

Or John Robert, if you prefer

Or just John

That’s what most folks seemed to feel comfortable calling me

John

Although Bob and Mike sometimes called me Johney when we were old

I liked that

As you probably know, the power is out

Gone from my brain as well as the electric lines

I sit here with nothing to do

And no interest in doing it

Hour after hour, just thinking about life, remembering friends

Recalling all the cuteness, Margey and Jimmy

Boppy and Kappy

Bibby and Doh

Still joined in the fellowship of the saints of this morning

Ready to preach, pray, or die, as Father John required

Not really eager to do any of them

Just content to be

Sitting here in the early gathering darkness

Powerless

 

John Robert McFarland

 

 

COUPON REDEMPTION [M, 6-25-24]

BEYOND WINTER: The Irrelevant Musings of an Old Man--COUPON REDEMPTION [M, 6-25-24]

 

Our family zoomed together on Father’s Day. It’s about the only way we can all get together anymore, with grandkids all grown up. I really love those zoom times together, in part because we tell a lot of stories. Some we’ve heard before. Some are new.

Like the one his mother told, about when grandson Joe was in the local hospital being treated for liver cancer. He was diagnosed at 15 months. He was on the edge for a year, with so many surgeries and chemo treatments and terrifying days and nights. He and his mother were usually at the big university hospital for kids, 175 miles away, but in between treatments there, when he was home, if he spiked a fever, he had to go to the local hospital.

So we got to know the local pediatric doctors and nurses as well as those at the big hospital. I think pediatric nurses, as a group, impress me more than any other profession.

They have to do such awful things to little children who do not understand that those exams and treatments are for their own good. So they have to be psychologists as well as nurses.

One day a nurse in the local hospital snipped off a piece of used, flat plastic from one of those machines and gave it to Joe and said, “This is a coupon for Birdsall’s Ice Cream. It can be redeemed only by a grandpa.” Joe was not at all surprised that the coupon turned out to be doubly valid.

In a “Call the Midwife,” episode, Sister Mary Cynthia is talking to someone who is having a hard time, and she says, “There is a lot of healing in the world…” I was struck by that, because we usually think, and say, “There’s a lot of misery in the world,” implying that you almost have to go outside the world for healing.

Not so. There are a lot of coupons in the world. You just have to recognize them and know who needs one… and who is responsible for redeeming it.

John Robert McFarland

You’d think I would have remembered that story, but neither Joe nor his sister ever had to present a coupon, not even a request, so…

SUNDAY MORNING MEMORIES poem {Sun, 6-23-24}

BEYOND WINTER: The Irrelevant Musings of an Old Man—SUNDAY MORNING MEMORIES poem {Sun, 6-23-24}

SUNDAY MORNING MEMORIES

Sunday morning memories

are a random jumble

 

Joys of hearts melded into one

Regrets of chances lost

Hymns and prayers and verses

Speaking of the words

Processions and stumbles

Upturned faces

 

Each memory eager

for its chance

to take the spotlight

before they all

are lost in the final darkness

of the closing of the sabbath

 

John Robert McFarland

The photo is of Forsythe Methodist, my home church, outside of Oakland City, Indiana. The gravestone of my parents is in the foreground. I got the photo off the web; I do not know who took the photo.

BE TRUE TO YOUR SCHOOL [1] 6-22-24]

BEYOND WINTER: The Irrelevant Musings of An Old Man—BE TRUE TO YOUR SCHOOL [1] 6-22-24]

 

Jim Shaw called yesterday. He does so every couple of months. Never talks long—about five minutes. Just checking up on me, the way he does with all our classmates, doing his self-assigned duty as the linchpin for the Oakland City High School Class of 1955.

Helen loves our class. She has been to all our reunions, and the occasional meet-ups with classmates here and there. She knows them well, and they love and accept her as one of us. She has often said that if anyone asked her where she went to school, she would say, “Oakland City, Class of 1955.” [2]

More than anyone else in the class, though, she loves James Oliver Shaw. She recently wrote a letter to him, thanking him for her life, because without Jim, she and I would never have met. [3]

I had dropped out of high school and was working in a factory, because my family really needed money. I was not thinking much about the future, but if you asked me, I’d probably say that maybe I’d go to Oakland City College part-time while I toiled on the line at Potter & Brumfield, the way a lot of Oakland City kids did, maybe work my way up to the P&B office.

I was working nights so I didn’t see many of my friends. Sometimes I’d go into town to see if I could find somebody to hang around with, but they were already in some sort of schooling [nursing, business school, lab tech school, etc] or working days. One day, though, I ran into Jim Shaw on Main Street.

Jim and I were not close friends in school. We were friendly, but he lived in town and hung with the popular kids. I rode a school bus from the country and spent almost all my time on the school newspaper or band. Jim was in neither of those. We just didn’t have occasion to spend time together.

But that hot July day, on Main Street, we were glad to see each other. And he said those fateful words, “Why don’t we drive up to IU and see if they’ll let us in?” It sounded like something to do.

It was mid-July. Classes to start in only two months. But it was a different world then. They let us in.

That changed my world. I already knew that “the Lord has laid his hand on me,” but now I had a Bible in one hand and a text book in the other. I learned how to love God with my mind as well as heart and soul and strength.

But even beyond that, if Jim had not talked me into taking that ninety-mile trip up to Bloomington, I would never have met Helen.

Jim and I don’t talk about politics, but I imagine we are on different sides of the great divide in American society today. That doesn’t matter. We are eternal classmates. He keeps up with all the others who are still alive, too, and tells me of how Bob and Bob and Kenny and Marietta and Sharon and Jack are doing.

That’s how our class is. Grace Robb, one of our class sponsors, said that in all her years of teaching, she never saw a class as devoted to one another as our class. That’s why, whenever I see Jeanette, Jim’s wife, I thank her for marrying him. “If you didn’t take care of him,” I tell her, “We’d have to.”

John Robert McFarland

1] “Be True to Your School” is a 1963 song by The Beach Boys, with the refrain: Be true to your school now, Let your colors fly, Be true to your school…

2] It was actually Tolleston HS in Gary, IN, Class of 1956, where she was valedictorian.]

3] You have to write real letters to Jim. He won’t do email, because he worked for the post office, and he is faithful to those who are faithful to him.

SUMMER SOLSTICE, A poem [F, 6-21-24]

BEYOND WINTER: The Irrelevant Musings of an Old Man—SUMMER SOLSTICE, A poem [F, 6-21-24]

 

SUMMER SOLSTICE

 

Already, days are shorter

at each end, less light

June lingers, looking back

over her shoulder

a wary eye

for something lost

or just misplaced

a stray daffodil

an awkward fawn

Or is okay just to go on?

 

John Robert McFarland

 Okay, I’m a day late for summer solstice, but it’s not my fault. This was the earliest summer solstice for almost 200 years.

HE MECHANICSVILLE MALADY [R, 6-29-24]

BEYOND WINTER: Irrelevant Musings of an Old Man—THE MECHANICSVILLE MALADY [R, 6-29-24]

 

In the 1970s, I was the teaching/administration assistant for James Spalding, the Director of The Iowa School of Religion, while I was doing doctoral work at The University of Iowa. He was also the Presbyterian bishop for east Iowa.

Presbyterians don’t have bishops, of course, but there were a lot of small Presby churches in eastern Iowa, and they depended on Jim to help them find a preacher. He was their de facto bishop. In that role, he explained to me “The Mechanicsville Malady.” [MM[

Mechanicsville is a small town about midway between Iowa City and Cedar Rapids. “It’s full of vice-presidents,” he said. “They have moved there from Cedar Rapids and Iowa City, and even Dubuque. They have aged out of presidential hopes. They know they aren’t ever going to be president. They’re stuck at vice-president. They’re desperate to run something, so they move to Mechanicsville, to be a big fish in a little puddle. But they run into all the other big fish have moved there to be in that puddle. And they’re all Presbyterians, and they all want to run the Mechanicsville Presbyterian church, so the longtime members are always calling me out there to straighten things out…”

I was working on an academic doctorate with Jim, not a professional degree, but he taught me one of the most important lessons for my subsequent pastorates: Beware of the vice-presidents…and their equivalencies. In the MM, people want to run the organization, but they don’t want to do its work.

Now, my friend and colleague, Roger Rominger, probably had a good answer for this. “Put all the malcontents on the same committee,” he said, “and let them drive one another out of the church.”

Most MM malcontents assume they are supposed to be in charge, just by virtue of heritage or money or desire or “manifest destiny.” They can’t understand why everyone else can‘t think so.

The VP looks like a perfect step to the top, but it is often where dreams of power go to die. It’s beyond doing meaningful work, but not up to real authority.

Alben Barkley famously said that the vice-presidency of the USA “…isn’t worth a bucket of spit,” or something close to that. He was the 35^th VP of the US when he said it.

So, be sympathetic to VPs. But put them on the same committee…

John Robert McFarland

 

 

 

SUMMARY DATES [6-19-24]

BEYOND WINTER: The Irrelevant Musings of an Old Man—SUMMARY DATES [6-19-24]

 

No, not summery dates. I had a few of those, back in the day, and they were quite nice. Summary dates are hooks on which you can hang history. They have names like council [Chalcedon, 451] or declaration [Independence, 1776] or treaty [Versailles, 1919] or controversy [Filioque, 1054]. They summarize the period since the last council or declaration or treaty or controversy. If you know their dates, and what they summarize, you can see the sweep and progress of history.

At least that is what I told our grandson, who is studying to be a history teacher. I told him that is what I did as an undergrad history major, and as a seminary church history student.

Thinking back, though, I don’t think it was a plan. It just happened. Those were the big dates, and so they stuck. It’s a good plan, though, and I do use it now whenever somebody at the coffee shop wants to argue Docetism vs Donatism.

Especially in church history, a council usually issues a summary statement or creed, like Nicaea in 325. Many churches still recite the Nicene Creed as part of their liturgy. It tells you which theological points the church was arguing about, like the Meletian schism. Meletius of Antioch supported the Homoean Formula which said that “…the son is like the Father without reference to substance or essence.” That’s why the Nicene Creed declares “…begotten, not made.” Explain that one at VBS.

I’ve always been sympathetic to the heretics, who got rejected at the big councils. That must have stung. After all, they didn’t lead the church any further astray than the guys whose ideas got codified in the councils and creeds. They were all equally guilty, for arguing about such things. The only creedal statement that counts is John Wesley’s death-bed exclamation, “The best thing is, God is with us.” Do we really need a council to tell us that?

I claim to be the world’s leading expert on patripassionism. There is not a lot of competition for that role, but I thought it would be neat to be called as an expert witness in a heresy trial. Of course, that’s not going to happen, for patripassionism is now the most-believed of all theological maxims.

It was considered a heresy to say that God suffered, which is what patripassionism means. In the Trinitarian division of labor, only the Son suffers, not the Father or the Spirit. Now, preachers assure us, and we assure one another, that God suffers along with us in all life’s trials.

Alas, I’ll never get to be an expert witness, not only because folks believe that God suffers with us, but because there are no heresies anymore. As that great theologian, Cole Porter, proclaimed, “Now everyone knows, anything goes.”

John Robert McFarland

 

LIBRARY WINDOWS, a poem [6-18-24]

 BEYOND WINTER: The Irrelevant Musings of an Old Man—LIBRARY WINDOWS, a poem [6-18-24]

 

LIBRARY WINDOWS

I stand amazed

before the shelves

So many books

So many pages

So many authors

So many ideas

Around us

the dust motes dance

in slanted light

from unwashed windows

No need of washing here

In the library

the windows

are inside

the books

 

John Robert McFarland

 

HAPPILY EVER AFTER [M, 6-17-24]

BEYOND WINTER: The Irrelevant Musings of an Old Man--HAPPILY EVER AFTER [M, 6-17-24]

 

Daughter Katie Kennedy was here last weekend. She brought us a copy of her latest book, Hearts on Thin Ice. She dedicated it to her parents, as those who taught her “about happily ever after.” That warms my heart. I can’t think of a better legacy.

She also reminded us of the story of Wes Greenan’s father.

Wes was the retired police chief in Mason City, Iowa, and Katie’s next-door neighbor. Mason City wasn’t just the home of Meredith Willson and the setting for The Music Man, but was also where Wes’ grandparents settled when they immigrated to the U.S., way back in the 1800s. But not his father.

He didn’t go to Iowa because he got lost at Ellis Island. He was six years old. In the hustle and bustle of the crowds of immigrants, he got separated from his family.

His family looked for him, of course. I mean, they really looked. For two months. But they had a future waiting for them in Iowa, and finally had to conclude that if they had not been able to find him in two months, that their son was lost forever. They went on to Iowa without him.

Some years later, the priest of their church was in New York. He was walking by a school yard when he heard a boy yell, “Hey, Greenan, throw me the ball.” He kept walking. But then it registered on him. That’s the name of a family in my parish. They had a lost son. Could it be… somehow…

He went back. He talked to the school principal. It was true! It was the lost boy.

Scarred and ruined forever by being separated from his family and having to fend for himself on the mean streets of New York… well, no! The exact opposite.

He was the prince of the neighborhood. No one knew how he got there, but he appeared. It was a poor area. No one could take him in, so everyone did. It was a child’s dream. No one to order him around, but everyone to take care of him. Whenever he wanted a meal, he’d just show up at a house. When bed time came, he’d go to any house he wanted; he knew they would give him a place to sleep that night. It was quite literally the reality of, “It takes a village…”

He had a good life in Iowa. He was glad to be with his family again. I knew his son, who was a good man, so I knew he had a “happily ever after.”

I wondered, though… How do you deal with it when you have been the prince of a whole neighborhood and have to give it up when you’re only nine years old?

John Robert McFarland

The photo above is Ellis Island immigrants waiting for processing.

 

 

ORDINARY DAYS [Sun, 6-16-24]

BEYOND WINTER: The Irrelevant Musings of an Old Man—ORDINARY DAYS [Sun, 6-16-24]

 

Some folks say you should live each day as though it is the last day of your life. Others say that you should live each day as though it is the first day [of the rest] of your life. I find that confusing, so I try to live each day not as last or first, but as just ordinary.

On an ordinary day, I treat others as I would like to be treated.

On an ordinary day, I forgive others as I am forgiven.

On an ordinary day, I take food to the hungry and water to the thirsty.

On an ordinary day, I visit the sick and imprisoned.

On an ordinary day, I go the extra mile.

On an ordinary day, I think on these things: whatever is true, honorable, right, pure, lovely, admirable, excellent, praiseworthy.

I’m so old and decrepit now that “I’m declining faster than I can lower my standards,” so I can’t do many of these things in person. But paying and praying and thanking, to support others in these works, can be part of an ordinary day, too.

On an ordinary day, faith, hope, and love abide, these three, but the greatest of these is love.

John Robert McFarland

WHAT’S IN A NICKNAME? [Sat, 6-15-24]

BEYOND WINTER: The Irrelevant Musings of an Old Man—WHAT’S IN A NICKNAME? [Sat, 6-15-24]

 

I was told that Mildred McFarland got the nickname of “Big Weed” when she wrestled professionally, but I cannot find corroboration of that. I can’t find any mention at all of WHY she was called “Big Weed,” even though every mention of her, including her obit, calls her that: Mildred “Big Weed” McFarland. Her obit says that she was the linchpin of her family’s Tennessee business, “Bar-B-Cutie,” so if she wrestled, it was probably before Bar-B-Cutie.

Now, this is interesting to me because my mother’s name was Mildred McFarland, although in grade school I spelled it as Mildread, which I’m sure now was a Freudian slip. I am pretty sure my mother was neither a wrestler nor a Bar-B-Cutie, although she did disappear into her room for a day or two every once in a while, claiming she had a headache. It was only 35 miles to Kentucky from our house, and the city of Henderson was known to cater to all the vices Indiana eschewed--including pro wrestling, which was allowed only in “Da [Calumet] Region,” on the Indiana side of Chicago--and Mother was known to hitch-hike, so…

Mother would probably not have chosen “Big Weed” as her wrestling moniker, for she was allergic to weeds. The headache that sent her off by herself was usually due to ragweed. No, she would have wrestled as “The Bloody Clothes Stick.”

On wash day, I had to dip a bucket on a rope down into the cistern, that drained the roof, and then carry it into the house and put it into a big copper boiler on the stove to heat it to clothes washing temperature. It took several buckets full to fill the washing machine.

Then I had to bring in enough more water to fill two round rinse tubs, that sat on old wooden barrels that we’d gotten somewhere. When it was hot, I then transferred it to the washing machine and the rinse tubs. When the washing was completed, I had to drain the machine and the tubs and carry the used water out and throw it in the field beyond the garden. Sometimes I had to do this twice, if a special extra wash was deemed necessary, as the time when Mother wanted to dye some long-forgotten object red.

Because the water was hot, she could not put her hands into it to transfer clothes from washer to a rinse tub, or from the first rinse to the second, so she used a “clothes stick.” It was two, maybe two and one-half feet long. Round and smooth and slightly porous from all that hot water. Only big enough around to get a good grip on it, to lift wet clothes from one spot to another.

Wash day was understandably stressful for Mother. When we first moved to the farm, she had two babies in diapers, and clothes got dirty easily doing farm work and walking dirt and gravel roads. Mother’s wash day emotional survival technique was to whack me with the clothes stick whenever I got close enough. She would have whacked anyone else, too, I’m sure, but my father was always working outside, and my older sister was keeping the little ones out of the way. I was her only available stress relief.

When Mother used the clothes stick in the red dye project, naturally it turned red on the end that was used in the water to move the garment from washer to first rinse to second rinse.

So I showed it to anyone who came to our house and told them that it was my blood from all the wash day whacking.

I still have the bloody clothes stick, one of the few mementoes of my mother.

I’m only sorry that she didn’t get to use it on Gorgeous George or Don Eagle when she wrestled professionally. Yes, in our family we always go for the best story…

John Robert McFarland

 

 

THE IRRELEVANCE OF THE EXISTENCE OF GOD [F, 6-14-24]

BEYOND WINTER: Irrelevant Musings of an Old Man—THE IRRELEVANCE OF THE EXISTENCE OF GOD [F, 6-14-24]

 

The existence of God is irrelevant, and so thus are arguments about that existence. What matters is the presence of God. Kind of like pecan pie; its existence is irrelevant to me if it is not present to me.

I was never much impressed by the arguments about God’s existence, either from the theological angle, such as the quinque viae [five arguments] of Aquinas, or from the “logic” of “scientists” who define “facts” in such a way as automatically to exclude anything they don’t want to deal with, kind of like the way physicists ignore the gravity field when looking for a unified field theory, because it doesn’t fit any taxonomy they can come up with.

Maybe I was never interested in the existence of God because I wasn’t pushed far enough, but I think it was because I always knew the presence of God. I never cared whether God existed, because I was always aware of God’s presence.

“Know” is the proper word there, for me. I have never “felt” the presence of God, never heard a voice. I gladly sing “I know the Lord has laid his hand on me,” and know it is true, but I have never “felt” the touch of that hand, even though I often recite “The Touch of the Master’s Hand,” by Myra Brooks Welch.

I am not decrying such experiences. Some people experience God’s presence as a bodily warmth, or a special light. These experiences establish the presence of God, not the existence of God.

Bill Pruett was one of my clergy friends. We were an unlikely pair. He was an orthodox conversative, and I was a hillbilly liberal. Because, however, we were both honest about and secure in our theological understandings, and our faith in the presence of God, we had good times together. Bill loved to introduce me as “my liberal friend,” apparently to prove that he had one.

He used to get disgusted with a good many of our conservative friends. “They trust in their feelings, and then when things go bad, and they don’t feel all happy about God anymore, they go off the tracks. Feelings are part of faith, but sometimes you just have to use your mind.”

I never worried about feeling God. Emotions come and go. I was always aware of the presence of God, though. I think that is what Bill and I shared. That is why we could be honest with each other.

John Robert McFarland

POETRY IN WINTER [R, 6-13-24]

BEYOND WINTER: Irrelevant Musings of an Old Man—POETRY IN WINTER [R, 6-13-24]

 

Good poetry does not

slap you in the face

unless it is about a purple cow

or the shooting of Dan McGrew

A good poem works

around the edges

wording little windows open

so we can come inside…

 

Well, that’s as far as I got this morning, writing my daily poem for my poetry journal, remembering the poetry of Bryan Bowers. I never found any windows in Bryan's poems.

Bryan Bowers is an extraordinary musician. He makes his major instrument, the autoharp, sound like a whole orchestra. He is a warm and rustic performer, inviting you not just to listen to the music but be part of the music. He is a gruffly sparkling dinner guest and raconteur.

All this is doubly true in the twenty-below reality of Michigan’s Upper Peninsula in January, where for many years he sang at Dean and Betty Premo’s Second Sunday Folk Concert & Dance, and then stayed over for a 2^nd Monday dinner and front parlor sing-along, during which Helen and Mountain Man Mike compared bear stew recipes.

Bryan recognized me as a fellow-traveler. He said we were “hash brothers.” I was always afraid to ask what that meant. He and I became close once-a-year friends. One year it was even twice, when his tour brought him close enough to Bloomington--after Helen and I were “back home again, in Indiana”—that I was able to book him into IU’s Old Time Music schedule at The Hoagy Carmichael Room.

I had gotten the reputation, at least among The Second Sunday crowd, as the UP’s poet in residence, primarily because I had written the lyrics for a theme song for the 2^nd Sunday dance. Since the dance was held at the Fortune Lake church camp, it started out, “It was on the second Sunday, in January’s stormy cold, that I braved the snow up to the lake, to have my fortune told…”

Yes, not great poetry, but available for understanding, which, when your brain is frozen, is what you want. This was not true with the poetry of Bryan Bowers.

Since he had heard that I was a poet, after he had sung to start the 2^nd Sunday festivities at Fortune Lake, he would lead me off into a far corner to read his poems to me. Since I hadn’t seen him for a year, there were “several.” It irritated Helen no end, since this was during the dancing part of the evening and she was left without a dance partner. But Bryan was so earnest. I didn’t know how to say no to him. I also didn’t know how to comment on his poems. It's quite possible that a real poet would have found Bryan's poems to be classics. I did not, because there were no edges where I could get in.

I nodded, and said “Hmm…,” and tried to look interested, which is what I do now when someone looks like they just said something that I should have heard…

John Robert McFarland

NOT ALWAYS TO THE SWIFT [W, 6-12-24]

BEYOND WINTER: The Irrelevant Musings of an Old Man—NOT ALWAYS TO THE SWIFT [W, 6-12-24]

 

NOT ALWAYS TO THE SWIFT

I was neither fast nor elegant

I won no medals, no ribbons

no accolades, no laurel wreaths

but I gloried in the hard

pounding of feet and heart

the simple joy of enduring

When I could no longer run

there was loss, yes

regret, even grief

but relief as well

for running is

hard sweaty work

with expectations

by those who stand

along the roadside

to watch the race unfurl

and, more, much more

to reckon with

by the one who runs

I think that must be

the way of death

Loss, regret, grief

but relief as well

No more expectations

by those who watch

or by the one who runs

Just relaxing

into the everlasting arms

 

John Robert McFarland

INTELLECTUAL REVENGE [T, 6-11-24]

BEYOND WINTER: Irrelevant Personal Musings of an Old Man—INTELLECTUAL REVENGE [T, 6-11-24]

 

In 1964, I was appointed as campus minister for Indiana State U and Rose Polytechnic, in Terre Haute. Early in my time there, I was invited to a faculty symposium. It wasn’t very formal. A lounge-type setting. The series was designed for faculty to learn from one another, hear what was going on in fields other than their own.

INSU was in the process of transitioning from a Normal school [teachers college] to a university. It was hiring a lot of bright young scholars who had just finished their doctorates. I had just finished seminary, the same 3 grad years on top of a bachelor’s degree that they had put in, so they saw me as one of themselves. It was a heady time, and the symposium was a heady place.

In that first symposium session, a young English prof talked about Reynolds Price. I had never heard of him. Of course not, because he was neither theologian nor Biblical scholar. The next session, a new young biology prof talked of Rachel Carson. I had never heard of her. Of course not, because she was neither theologian nor Biblical scholar.

My reading for years was all required for classes. C.H. Dodd. The Baillie brothers, John & Donald. The Niebuhr brothers, Reinhold and Richard. Reuel Howe. C.S. Lewis. George Buttrick. Schleiermacher. Kierkegaard. Barth. Tillich… I did a LOT of reading for seminary. It was interesting and useful. But it was not the reading my new friends were doing. Even worse, I found out it was not what my students were doing. If I wanted to talk with anyone on my campus, faculty or students, I needed to catch up.

I was embarrassed, of course, to admit I was so far out of it. I read at home, not in my office, where someone might see me. Reynolds Price. Rachel Carson. JRR Tolkien. J. D. Salinger. John Updike. Loren Eisley. Harper Lee. Ray Bradbury. Maya Angelou. Saul Bellow…

I learned so much from them. They are still among my favorites. I’m grateful to my new young prof friends for the introductions, even though I’m still embarrassed by how unlettered I was when we started.

I got my revenge, though. “The death of God” was the big thing in theology right then, so I brought Wm. Hamilton, the leading Death of God theologian--along with Thomas J.J. Altizer--to campus for a couple of days, including a session of the symposium. Those bright young profs had never read him!

John Robert McFarland

PRIDE MONTH [M, 6-10-24]

BEYOND WINTER: Irrelevant Musings of an Old Man—PRIDE MONTH [M, 6-10-24]

 

I don’t like Pride Month. People become desperate to show that they don’t hate gay folks. Someone even stole the rainbow ribbon from Helen’s name tag at church.

I don’t think we should have special months for minority groups. Good grief, we’ve got them now for women [not exactly a minority group] and people of color, and Latino heritage, and Pacific & Islands, and…

Tig Notaro, one of my favorite comedians, was recently telling Steven Colbert about driving her kids to school. She and her wife have had twin sons since infancy. [The infancy of the sons, not the mothers.] The boys are almost 8 now. Tig and her wife were in the front seat of the car, and one of them said something about Pride Month. One of the boys suddenly perked up and said, “What? You’re gay?”

He knew he had two mothers. He just hadn’t considered that they were gay.

That’s the way every month should be. We don’t even notice who’s what color or gender or heritage. I mean, straight white guys like me don’t get a special month… oh, wait. We don’t need one, do we?

As Rosanna Rosannadanna used to say, “Never mind.”

John Robert McFarland

IT’S VBS TIME! [Sun, 6-9-24]

BEYOND WINTER: Irrelevant Musings of an Old Man--IT’S VBS TIME! [Sun, 6-9-24]

 

It was Jonah and the ark

Noah and the whale

Jesus in a basket

Memory verses without fail

 

Wise men with ashes on their feet

Because they came from afar

Their origin was no mystery

It was known as Orientar

 

The waters parting for Goliath

While we ran all 'round the place

Rub a dub, dub, thanks for the grub

That’s how you say your grace

 

The Lord’s some kind of shepherd

Who keeps the sheep from strife

And surely good Miss Murphy

Will follow me all the days of my life

 

We saw them on the flannel board

And on the teacher’s worried face

Stories from the Bible’s page

And Kool-Aids last disgrace

 

It was memorize your verses

And you were sure to get a star

But nothing of the God of now

Just the One beyond afar

 

But you really must be patient

And apply the Golden Rule

To those bedraggled ladies of the church

Who teach Vacation Bible School

 

John Robert McFarland

 

STANDARD DISCLAIMER: I probably should not use the title Christ In Winter anymore, since its assumption is that the writer cares about the readers. In fact, the real title now is Beyond Winter, which means the writer is an old man and beyond caring. But I don’t know how to change the CIW title up above, and if anyone looks for this column online, they’ll probably search for CIW, so…

 

 

 

Saturday Prayers [Sat, 6-8-24]

 BEYOND WINTER: An Old Man’s Irrelevant Musings—Saturday Prayers [Sat, 6-8-24]

 

Saturday morning prayers

are hurried affairs

Tossed over the shoulder

on the run

So much Saturday fun

that must be done

That’s why Saturday night dreams

are so extreme

They are prayers, panting,

trying to catch up

 

John Robert McFarland

 

 

 

 

FOLLOW UP TO PERMISSION VS PERSUASION [F, 6-7-24]

BEYOND WINTER: Irrelevant Musings of an Old Man—FOLLOW UP TO PERMISSION VS PERSUASION [F, 6-7-24]

 

Early in my campus ministry days, a prominent, non-denominational campus ministry unit advertised for students to attend an evangelism conference that they were sponsoring. The posters said that they would show you a way to convert anyone to Christ, guaranteed, within 38 seconds.

One of our students went. He reported that the method was getting people to answer a series of questions that were slanted in a way that dictated the answers. Within 38 seconds you got that person to say “Yes” to “So you agree that Jesus is the savior?” They called that evangelism.

Evangelism is not persuasion, especially by argument. “God is never found at the end of an argument.” [2]

Both in personal witness and in preaching, I always tried to present the Christ story/option in such a way that a person could find their own way of responding. I tried to give people permission to experience God. As Jim Manley wrote in his wonderful “Palm Sunday” song, “He must be a mad man, or publicity seeker, or… what we’ve all been waiting for.” [1] In evangelism we give people a chance to see for themselves that Christ is “…what we’ve all been waiting for.”

 

As D. T. Niles put it, in perhaps the best definition of evangelism ever, “Evangelism is one beggar telling another beggar where to find food.”

John Robert McFarland

1] On the “Raggedy Band” album.

2] People called “evangelical” these days, despite that designation, are often not very evangelistic. They are more concerned with keeping people out than bringing people in.

STANDARD DISCLAIMER: I probably should not use the title Christ In Winter anymore, since its assumption is that the writer cares about the readers. In fact, the real title now is Beyond Winter, which means the writer is an old man and beyond caring. But I don’t know how to change the CIW title up above, and if anyone looks for this column online, they’ll probably search for CIW, so…

 

 

 

 

GIVING PERMISSION TO SUPPORT DEMOCRACY [R, 6-6-24]

BEYOND WINTER: The Irrelevant Musings of an Old Man—GIVING PERMISSION TO SUPPORT DEMOCRACY [R, 6-6-24]

 

In 1967, I preached a sermon titled “Oxen, Field, And Viet Nam.” [1]

It was based on Jesus’ story of “The Great Banquet.” [2] One by one, the invited guests used an excuse for not coming. “I have a new wife.” [Family is my excuse for skipping your banquet.] “I just bought 6 yoke of oxen and have to try them out.” [Oxen were power in those days, so he was saying, Getting more power is my excuse for skipping your banquet.] The third said, “I just bought a field and have to examine it.” [Getting more stuff is my excuse for skipping your banquet.] [3]

Like almost every other American citizen in the early 1960s, I supported American intervention in Viet Nam, because of the reasons given us by our government. It was going to be a short war, they told us, because our cause was righteous, and by fighting Commies there we wouldn’t have to fight them when they invaded our own shores, and we had the most powerful military in the world. Sounded good. Sounded reasonable.

Boys who were sent to fight in Viet Nam came back and told very different stories about why we were there and what was really going on. I was in campus ministry, so I heard those different stories before most people did. I had to begin to re-examine my position, my reasons, my excuses for supporting that war without really thinking about it.

I knew that the people of First Methodist Church in Normal, Illinois were unanimous in their support of the war. I knew I would get into trouble for questioning our presence in Viet Nam. But I came to the conclusion that I had to make a witness.

I learned that some people in the congregation who heard me began to call others and say, “You need to hear this sermon.” That meant reading it. I didn’t usually use a manuscript, but I did when preaching about controversial subjects, like race and war, so that I could prove exact what I said. And more importantly, what I did not say. People asked for copies, so we mimeographed it. It began to circulate widely.

My witness did not persuade anyone, but it gave others permission. To look at things differently. Witness is always, I think, more about permission than persuasion.

We need to make a witness now. Before November. To give people who are willing to give up on democracy permission to think again. We need to give people who are persuaded by lies and fear permission to think again. We need to give people who think “it’s us against them” permission to think again. We need to give them permission to think beyond the usual excuses.

In the parable Jesus told, when those invited to the banquet made excuses not to come, the host told his servants, “Go to the streets and alleys and bring in the poor and crippled and blind and lame. Not one of those who made an excuse will get a taste of my banquet.”

John Robert McFarland

1] It was published in The Pulpit Digest.

2] Luke 14:15-24, Matthew 22:1-14.

3] It was almost like the story of the college girls dormitory, back when there was only one telephone on a dorm floor. The girls had posted a list of excuses they could use if an undesirable guy called for a date. “Have to wash my hair.” “Have to study.” “My parents are coming.” Etc. One girl got flustered as she read the list to find an excuse and said, “Oh, number 9.”

I probably should not use the title Christ In Winter anymore, since its assumption is that the writer cares about the readers. In fact, the real title now is Beyond Winter, which means the writer is an old man and beyond caring. But I don’t know how to change the CIW title up above, and if anyone looks for this column online, they’ll probably search for CIW, so…

 

 

MY LIFE IS A WRITING LIFE [W, 6-5-24]

BEYOND WINTER: The Irrelevant Musings of an Old Man—MY LIFE IS A WRITING LIFE [W, 6-5-24]

 

In yesterday’s column, I wrote of the importance of living in one’s own story. But as I applied that to myself, I made a rather significant mistake. I interpreted living in your own life to mean that you don’t share that story of your life with others. But my story, as it turns out, is sharing the story. My own life, in which I must live, is a writing life.

The difference is not in writing or not writing. It is in the audience. If I live in my own life, I write for myself. If I live in the world—the world of church and society—I need to write for others.

The difference is whether you tell the story with others in mind, or only for yourself. If others are going to hear or read, you must think about their ears and eyes, not only your own. Will this communicate? Is it worth the time of someone else? Can they get inside the story?

That puts on the teller… not a burden. Saying it’s a burden would be an insult to the reader. No, it puts on the writer a responsibility. Can the reader get any benefit from this?

When I wrote about living in one’s own story, I assumed that meant living in my own head, not living in writing. There was an obvious tell, which I totally overlooked. I was WRITING about how I should not write anymore, in order to live my own life. Clearly, to some of my readers, but not yet to me: MY own life, in which I need to live, is a WRITING life.

Okay, I have not explained this well and I’ve mixed CAPS and underlining. I am saying simply that I have to write, but that I am not going to care about whether it does anything for you. Oh, wait, I guess that is really it: I have to write, but I’m so old I don’t have to care if anybody else gets any good out of it.

I think “that idea will preach,” as preachers always say, even though they are usually wrong.

I was never a propositional preacher, anyway, but a prepositional preacher. I think only in stories. As soon as a thought arises, I begin to see it in story form. And those stories will probably get posted here. And if you get nothing from them, or if you’ve heard it all before, well, remember they are just the irrelevant musings of an old man. And you were warned.

So, okay. I’m going to do the exact opposite of not writing. I’m going to post something every day. [Unless I don’t.]

John Robert McFarland

I probably should not use the title Christ In Winter anymore, since its assumption is that the writer cares about the readers. In fact, the real title now is Beyond Winter, which means the writer is an old man and beyond caring. But I don’t know how to change the CIW title up above, and if anyone looks for this column online, they’ll probably search for CIW, so…