WHERE 2 OR 3 ARE GATHERED [4-6-25]

BEYOND WINTER: The Forgotten Memories of An Old Man—WHERE 2 OR 3 ARE GATHERED [4-6-25]

 

It was Sunday morning, 7:00 o’clock. The phone rang. My first thought was that someone was calling about one of my parents. They were old. There was always something about to go wrong with one or the other. [They were several years younger then than I am now.]

No, it was Paul Sellers, my District Superintendent. It’s always a bit of an adrenaline rush when the DS calls at this time of year, when the Cabinet [Bishop and DSs together] is fixing pastoral appointments for the coming year. It took me a couple of moments to remember that a DS would not be calling on a Sunday morning to tell me I would be appointed to the Raccoon Circuit. I had retired the year before.

The call was indeed about a problem with an old person’s health, but it was not about my parents. It was Paul’s mother-in-law. He and Diana had to leave immediately to go to her. That meant I had an hour to get presentable and eat breakfast and get on the road to Beecher City and Shumway, where Paul was scheduled to preach.

Paul seemed to think that I owed him, since he had not thrown me out of the ministry when he wanted to. I hadn’t actually done anything to get tossed during his years as DS, at least nothing he knew about, but my District Superintendents were always sure that I was just about to do something that would cause them trouble. As I closed in on retirement, Paul and I were chatting after a district meeting, and he mused, “If we can just get through one more month without you doing something…”

Also, Paul had sold me his father-in-law’s car when he could no longer drive, and he seemed to think that meant I should drive it to where he needed it to go. It’s a good thing we had that car, because that morning Helen was joining the church in the town we had moved to in retirement. [1] She would have to take our other car and sit in church by herself. She was used to that, but she had thought that it would be different in retirement.

 

I didn’t know where Beecher City and Shumway were, but I had a map. Remember those? They had never seen me before, but the folks at those churches took my presence in stride. Whatev. As long as somebody is here to preach…

At least, I assume they took me in stride, for I can remember nothing at all about the Beecher City and Shumway churches. I can’t even remember being there. But I know I was, for just now I came across some notes from a day-long retreat I led for the clergy of The Okaw River District shortly after. I told them this story.

If I can’t remember the churches of Beecher City and Shumway, I’m sure no one there can remember me, either. But we worshipped together that morning, and we helped one another get our spirits ready for another week.

I have worshipped with others approximately five thousand times in my lifetime. I preached at about three thousand of them. I can remember only a few moments from those occasions with my fellow-seekers. But each time, one way or another, we got renewed to face the world for another week, because Christ was there. [Mt 18:20]

That’s why we worship together, to be reminded of Christ, to be reminded that Christ is love, to get ready for what comes next.

John Robert McFarland

1] Methodist clergy do not belong to the local church where they live, or the one in which they are appointed to preach. We belong to the Conference, the amalgam of everything Methodist in a geographical area. My membership is in The Illinois Great Rivers Conference.

 

POTHOLES ON THE ROAD TO WISDOM [F, 4-4-25]

BEYOND WINTER: The Irrelevant Musings of An Old Man—POTHOLES ON THE ROAD TO WISDOM [F, 4-4-25]

 

St. Augustine said that “the so-called innocence of children is more a matter of weakness of limb than purity of heart.”

Anyone who is a parent, school teacher, or church nursery worker will verify that observation.

I think that the so-called wisdom of old people is more a matter of slowness of mind than increase of understanding.

When I look thoughtful, preparing to dispense some sagacious perception, I’m really trying to remember what the conversation is about, or trying to recall the name of the person I intend to quote… “Was it Dudley Moore, or Paul Baker, or Kowalski, on The Penguins of Madagascar, who created The Serenity Prayer?”

By the time I figure out that it was Reinhold Niebuhr, the conversation has gone onto something about Paris, but I’m not sure if it’s Hilton, France, or Illinois, so I just keep looking thoughtful.

In former days, when I decided to do something stupid, I went from thought to action in a nanosecond. Now when I decide to commit some egregious sin, by the time I’m able to get off the sofa, I can’t remember which sin I had in mind. I can’t even remember what “egregious” means.

I read The Road to Wisdom by Francis Collins, MD, PhD. It’s a good book. I recommend it. But it’s primarily useful because his personal story is interesting. There’s no special road to wisdom, just as Euclid said to the king that “there is no royal road to geometry.” You get wise by paying attention as you grow older. If you don’t pay attention, you just keep being stupid.

Will Rogers said “A man’s just about as happy as he makes up his mind to be.” That’s true. It’s also true that a person’s just about as wise as they make up their mind to be. If you want to be stupid, it don’t make no difference which road you take; they all lead to stupid.

We are not wiser just because we are older. Sometimes aging just means we have made the same mistakes so long that we’ve become used to them and think they are normal.

But maybe wisdom isn’t really necessary. Maybe all we need to know has been with us all along. Paul Tournier, the Swiss physician, said: “You’re never too young or too old to commit your life to Christ, and after that, what more is there to do?”

I spent my life trying to explain to other people what it means to commit one’s life to Christ. I have never attained enough wisdom to explain it to myself. The great thing about old age is that you don’t need wisdom, even if you look old enough that you ought to have some. You can be wise or stupid. Either way, what you really need is God. “The fear of the Lord is the beginning of wisdom.” [Proverbs 9:10 and Psalm 111:10.]

Getting in touch with God is real easy, since God is already there… wherever “there” is.

John Robert McFarland

 

 

INSPIRATION VS EXPIRATION [W, 4-2-25]

BEYOND WINTER: The Irrelevant Observations of An Old Man—INSPIRATION VS EXPIRATION [W, 4-2-25]

 

I’ve told you this story before, but since the new baseball season is here…

It was in the days when the Athletics had moved from Philadelphia to Kansas City on their way to Oakland to Sacramento to Las Vegas. They had not yet built a major league level ball park in Kansas City, so they played in a more “porous” minor league park, the kind where a dog might just wander in.

That’s what happened one day. It ran out to home plate. The fans began to yell at it. “Go for first.” “Take a walk.” “Bite the umpire.” It ran to first. “Go for second,” they shouted. It ran to second base. “Run to third.” It ran to third base.

There it stopped. People continued to clamor. “Go for home.” “Get a run.” “It’s the only run they’ll get.” Louder and louder. But the dog just sat on third base, until the grounds keepers came and carried it away.

A sports writer, reporting on the dog’s adventure, said, “It never got to home, because in all that shouting, it couldn’t recognize the voice of a master.”

From as long as I can remember, I went to church to be inspired, to hear the voice of the master, one that would lead me home. That’s what I wanted, needed, expected--preachers who inspired me to be an authentic person, a follower of Jesus, a respecter of others, one open to the leading of the Spirit. They told stories of others who lived authentically. They made me laugh. They made me feel lighter. They made me feel that I could do it, that I could conquer the demons and dilemmas of life.

I was inspired not only by preachers in church. I was inspired to be a good person by seeing goodness in action, in the lives of relatives and neighbors and friends and teachers.

Church, though, seemed to be a special place for inspiration, a place, a community, where that was the main task, to be inspired, to have fun, to spread joy, to sing and pray together.

So when I became a preacher that’s what I tried to do—inspire, in my preaching, in the rest of the worship service, in the rest of the church life.

There is more to life than inspiration, of course, and more to church. Preachers need to provide opportunities for education and fellowship and service. “Faith without works is dead.” [James 2:14-26]

Some would say that inspiration is encouragement toward anything, including lives of hate. There are orators who speak with mighty tongues encouraging people to hate. But that is not inspiration. That is expiration. Inspiration is for life. Expiration encourages death.

There is no joy in expiration. If humor is attempted, it is laughter at, not laughter with. It is bullying, hating, disrespecting. It is not making fun, but making fun of.

Many preachers, many churches, now preach not an inspiring gospel of good news but an expiring gospel of bad news, a gospel that extols greed and hate. It is sad.

So many churches, so many people, shout and run, but they never get to home, because in all the chaos and clamor, they never hear the voice of the master.

John Robert McFarland

ANSWERING THE CALL WHEN THERE IS NO CALL [M, 3-31-25]

BEYOND WINTER: The Irrelevant Musings of An Old Man—ANSWERING THE CALL WHEN THERE IS NO CALL [M, 3-31-25]

 

Our pastor is preaching his last Lent. Well, at St. Mark’s. He’s retiring at the end of June. He’s a good preacher, though. It’s unlikely that the bishop will let him get by without some part-time work. [1]

He’s earned his retirement. He has the looks and energy of a well-preserved fifty-year-old, but he’s seventy.

I was once chatting with a middle-aged, second-career Episcopal priest. He told me that when he was being ordained, he said to his bishop that his only regret was that he spent so many years as a business man before going to seminary and becoming a priest. “How many years will you be a priest before retirement?” the bishop asked him. “Only twenty.” “My God, man, that’s enough!”

Our pastor has put in 44 years all together, so that’s twice enough.

Social research has concluded that the Episcopal bishop was right. Twenty years is plenty for any job. Actually, these days, if you can get twenty in before technology or culture eliminates your job, you are doing pretty well.

Rapid cultural change causes many problems, because the basic needs of humans remain the same, even though the means of fulfilling them change. One of those basic needs is satisfying work, work that at least comes close to being a vocation, a calling.

When I felt the call to preach, the ministry was referred to as “the high calling.” I think the title was called high so that we wouldn’t notice that the pay was low.

Calling, though--the feeling that you are doing what you are supposed to do--does not necessarily go with job title. The job might be called high, but if you don’t fit in it, your life is low. I have known homemakers and teachers and farmers and bus drivers and cooks and gardeners and carpenters and so many others who experienced their lives as a calling, even if they didn’t use that language. They fit their job.

Even then, though, you probably need some sort of renewal. And these days, that twenty-year rule seems to apply. I knew a plumber who said, “The first seventeen years, I thought I had the best job in the world. I didn’t mind the yucky parts of plumbing because I enjoyed so much diagnosing problems and fixing them. But then there were no new problems, only old ones, ones I’d seen before. It wasn’t satisfying anymore.”

Well, you’re right. What can someone my age know about this? I haven’t worked in a long time. Even more, since this column is for old people, why bother? We don’t have jobs to get tired of.

But we do have lives to get tired of. That’s the point—satisfaction with job means satisfaction with life. After twenty years of not having a job, we can get dissatisfied with retirement. When you get dissatisfied with retirement, it’s a short time before we are dissatisfied with life itself. As Charles Albert Tinley put it in his great hymn, “Stand By Me,” when my life becomes a burden… stand by me.

We have a calling only if there is a call. A call from God is a call to trust. Trust depends on neither work nor age.

John Robert McFarland

1] After I wrote this, I learned that he is already slated to be the interim pastor in a nearby congregation.

 

 

 

THE REPAIR OF THE EARTH [Sat, 8-29-25]

BEYOND WINTER: The Irrelevant Musings of An Old Man—THE REPAIR OF THE EARTH [Sat, 8-29-25]

 

For as long as I can remember, I felt that I was responsible for the life of anyone I met, making sure they were safe and happy and… well, alive.

Strangely, even after I had acquired a lot of experience and a lot of knowledge about such things, I was remarkably unaware of that motivation, probably because of my profession. I mean, preachers are supposed to take care of everyone, aren’t they, all the way into eternity?

If I thought about it consciously, I charged my obsession with creating a life for everyone to my call from God and to my ordination vows.

No, I think my feeling of responsibility for others, my charge, if you will, preceded my call to preach. So where did that obligation to create life for everyone I met, where did it come from?

One of the frustrating things about old age is that every time you gain a significant insight about yourself, the origin is shrouded in mystery, almost always before your conscious awareness. But I think there is an answer in the Kabbalah.

Kabbalah is the mystical expression of Judaism, mystical meaning direct contact with the holy. In the Kabbalah, this feeling of obligation to others is referred to as Tikun Olam, the repair of the world.

It’s not surprising to me that my original and continuing impulse is Tikun Olam, which in the Kabbalah is the restoration of life to wholeness, the re-creation of life as it is meant to be, in Love. I have always been aware of the presence of God, not in a touchy-feely way, not in a surrounded by light way, not in a hearing voices way, but simply as awareness, like someone beside me, and just a little behind, just out of my peripheral vision, is looking with me through the window at the world. [Yes, I talked about this in the column for 2-24-25]

I think we are all born with Tikkun Olam, just as we are all born with its opposite, Original Sin. John Wesley called it Prevenient [preventing] Grace. Popularly, we refer to it simply as “conscience.”

Original Sin is the concern for self, over all others, the desire to satisfy our own needs and wants without regard to others. It has many sub-categories: greed, lust, rapacity, gluttony, etc. Preventing Grace and conscience are good words to express the force within that opposes Original Sin, but I like Tikkun Olam because it is translated as “the repair of the earth.”

Tikkun Olam isn’t just doing good, like prevenient grace and conscience urge us to do. It is the repair of what is already broken.

Repair is such a visual, hands-on word. It’s what a carpenter does…oh, wasn’t Jesus a carpenter…

John Robert McFarland

Just a reminder that I now call this column Beyond Winter because I’m so old, I’m not even in the winter years anymore.

BETWEEN THE LINES [R, 3-27-25]

BEYOND WINTER: The Irrelevant Confessions of An Old Man—BETWEEN THE LINES [R, 3-27-25]

 

I am excited, far more than I should be. But it’s Opening Day! The very first professional baseball team, my team, the Cincinnati Reds team, is starting the season! They’re still in first place! “In the spring, a young man’s fancy turns to… baseball!”

I am embarrassed by the amount of time I spend on sports. Well, no, I’m not really embarrassed, but I should be, because it borders on obsession. In fact, my Rubicon is far back in the rear-view mirror. [1]

When we lived in Iron Mountain, MI, I had a dentist who is a MI State U fan. Chris Selden is as sports-obsessed as I. We talked about it. We concluded that there is something wrong with us. His hygienist, Kyra Scott, agreed. When I apologized one day for refusing to let her start scraping on my teeth because Chris and I were talking sports, she sighed and said, “It’s okay. I schedule extra time when I know you are coming in.”

I once cancelled a TV service because it did not have the Big Ten Network. When I was nominated as a “distinguished alum” at Garrett Theological Seminary, my love of baseball was mentioned before my love of theology. I have an honorary contract with The Cincinnati Reds; I didn’t ask for it, owner Marge Schott just sent it.

When daughter Katie and her husband taught history at Auburn U, and granddaughter Brigid was born there, Perry & Sue Biddle were gracious enough to let us spend the night with them in Nashville on our way from IL to AL. They usually had a party for us, inviting old friends we had met in Scotland, Amos & Etta Wilson, with other folks they thought we might enjoy. One man, as he left one night, said, either with admiration or bewilderment, “I’ve never before met a minister who knew so much about sports.”

I don’t know why I have this obsession. I don’t come from an athletic family. I hardly knew sports existed until we moved to Oakland City, IN, when I was 10.

Maybe it was the isolation of the farm. We didn’t have a car. From the last day of school in May until the first day in September, I didn’t have any playmates, unless my Uncle Johnny [John H. Pond, my mother’s youngest brother, 15 years older than I] drove over from Francisco, five miles away, after he had closed his hardware store, and hit flies to me. He was single and lived with his mother in a town of 600. There wasn’t much for him to do in the evenings. I so looked forward to those moments with him. He was the best friend of my childhood and the best man at our wedding. To this day, when I am at loose ends, in my mind I go to that field and chase those fly balls.

I was able to justify my obsession, at least in my own mind, by participating in sports. It’s good exercise. It keeps one healthy. But my sports activity came to a screeching halt, unless you count walking as a sport, when I was 70 and we moved to Iron Mt and there was no softball league for old people, and where the only sport is strapping a couple of sticks to your feet and sliding down a long slope and then hanging in the air, buffeted by blizzard winds, until crashing into the tops of red pines several miles away.

Now, though, I just watch. It’s hard to justify sitting in front of the TV several hours a day, watching field hockey and water polo if there is no football or basketball or baseball, relieved only by Big Bang Theory re-runs, and claim that’s good for one’s health.

There is more than one answer to this sports obsession, and I’ll look at some of the others later this week, but right now, in this time of political turmoil, I’m aware that sports provide an oasis. It’s called “between the lines.”

When you are “between the lines” on a baseball field, you have to concentrate so hard on the game that you can’t think about anything else. In the chaos of family life as a child and puberty as an adolescent and stupidity [mine as well as that of others] as an adult, sports has allowed me to drop all concern except the next pitch, the next snap, the next shot.

Everybody needs a spot “between the lines,” be it knitting or carving or… You name it. You’re never too old to find a spot between the lines.

John Robert McFarland

1] I don’t want to insult anyone by suggesting you don’t already know this, but the Rubicon was the border [river] that Caesar crossed and was thus irrevocably committed to civil war. When you’ve “crossed the Rubicon,” there’s no turning back.

RIP, GEORGE FOREMAN [T, 3-25-25]

BEYOND WINTER: The Irrelevant Memories of An Old Man—RIP, GEORGE FOREMAN [T, 3-25-25]

 

I have been trying to stick to the Lenten theme for these 40 days before Easter, but I can’t ignore the death of George Foreman. The children in the pediatric cancer unit of MD Anderson in Houston have lost a true friend.

He’s better known, of course, as a heavyweight boxing champ, and for naming all 12 of his children George, regardless of gender. When asked why, he would reply, “Who would you expect me to name them after, Muhamad Ali?”

Helen and I met George once, sort of. I was invited to speak at a cancer conference at MD Anderson, along with Steve Allen, Jr and Scott Burton and, of course, George. It was a two-day conference [three?], and all of the speakers were there for the whole conference, doing break-out sessions and book signings and such as well as speaking. Except for George, who appeared only for his one speaking occasion.

Helen and I were invited to the conference by Judy Gerner, who had heard me speak at a previous conference in Denver. Judy was the director of MD Anderson’s patient services.

In telling us about the other speakers, Judy said that it was fairly well known that George visited the children in the hospital’s cancer ward, but no one know how much. Many days he would show up completely unannounced, just going from room to room, with that big smile that always made everyone smile back and feel better.

Now, the purpose of this column is to give credit and appreciation to George for his active commitment to cancer kids, but I must repeat a story about that conference that is more about Helen…

We were in a huge room, seated around tables, about 500 people. When it came time for George, Judy led him through a door at the back of the room. As they threaded their way amongst the tables to get up to the stage, people jumped up from their tables and crowded around and began to take pictures of George. So did Helen.

I was amazed. Helen is not a big sports fan. As a teen, she and her mother would go to pro wrestling matches in Gary, Indiana, to see Don Eagle and Gorgeous George. Helen even got their autographs and to this day mourns the theft of her autograph book. But that wasn’t really a sport. That was just what you did in Gary because “the mob” didn’t allow anything else.

Nonetheless, there she was, elbowing her way through the throng to get several pictures of George.

When she got back to our table, I said, “I didn’t think you even knew who George Foreman is. Why were you so eager to take his picture?”

“Oh, you mean that nice bald man with Judy? I wasn’t taking his picture. I want my hairdresser to fix my hair like Judy’s when we get home, and I needed a picture of it. But if I just took a photo of Judy’s hair, that would be weird. I figured if I got the pic while everyone else was taking photos of that big man…”

John Robert McFarland

 

 

THE BURNISHED OBIT [Sun, 3-23-25]

BEYOND WINTER: The Irrelevant Memories of An Old Man--THE BURNISHED OBIT [Sun, 3-23-25]

 

Our pastor, Jimmy Moore, told this story in a sermon. Guiseppi Verdi [1813-1901], the great composer, hated the organ grinders who, along with their monkeys, cluttered the streets of Milan with their raucous sounds and coarse ways. They were dirty and rude, and their monkeys were even worse. It is said that when he died, they found 300 street organs in his basement, units he had bought just to get them off the streets.

One day he was passing a particularly dirty pair--grinder and monkey--and the grinder was especially languorous. Verdi couldn’t stand it. “Tempo, man, tempo,” he cried as he passed.

The next day he saw that pair again. They were bathed, and the grinder was wearing a tuxedo. Beside his donation box was a sign that read, “Master Musician. Studied Under Verdi.”

I once pointed out to our grandchildren that we lie for two reasons. Half our lies are to keep out of trouble. Half are to make us look better than we are. As we “mature,” there are other reasons, like trying to take advantage of others for our own ends, but for a discussion with kids, that was good enough. Certainly, we continue to lie for those two reasons throughout our lives. Sometimes right up to the end…

We saw the obit for a long-time friend. It was clear she had written it herself, for we recognized her style, and it included minutiae that not many others would know. Minutiae that made her look as good as possible. Irrelevant minutiae, burnished to a false shine. It was sad.

She was a highly intelligent and accomplished woman. If she had just stuck to the facts, instead of burnishing them on every side, it would have been so much better. She wanted so much to be remembered as better than she was. She wanted to justify her faults and minimize her failures. To those who knew her best, the ones who really cared about her, all she did was call attention to them, reminding us of her faults and failures. If she had let us remember without the burnishing, we would have remembered her virtues and successes. She would have looked so much better.

If I look better in my obit than you remember me being, rest assured I did not write it. The one I’m writing starts, “After a lot of kicks and misses, he finally connected with the bucket…”

John Robert McFarland

 

 

SPIRITUAL WITHOUT EMOTION [F, 3-21-25]

BEYOND WINTER: The Irrelevant Musings of An Old Man—SPIRITUAL WITHOUT EMOTION [F, 3-21-25]

 

One hope of Lent is that by practicing “holy disciplines”—giving up meat or something else important to us, daily worship, etc—we shall grow spiritually, grow in relationship to God. I admire folks for whom that works, but discipline has never made me more spiritual. It has made me more disciplined.

The same is true with emotion, which is important to the spirituality of many people. Emotion has never made me more spiritual.

One of my life projects has been, and still is, being spiritual without being emotional. To many people, and in the culture in general, they are the same.

I, however, cannot be both spiritual and emotional, for I do not trust emotions, for the simple reason that they are not lasting. Emotions are ephemeral, fleeing. Spirit endures.

As a young person in a revivalistic church culture, I saw many people “get saved.” It was usually a highly emotional experience—crying, shouting, hugging. But the newly saved individual rarely changed their ways. Indeed, they were often back at the altar rail at the next revival, confessing the same old sins.

It seemed to me that if you became more spiritual, closer to God, “led by the Spirit,” you should become a better person.

Of course, my distrust of emotion started personally, not theologically. The basic emotions of my parents were sorrow and anger. Sorrow was a downer, and made me feel incompetent, because I could do nothing to lessen their sorrow. Anger was frightful. I could do nothing about their anger, either, except try to avoid it.

Fear, anger, sorrow… the great emotions were all states to be avoided. I did not become a stoic, though. I was able to empathize. I cried at movies, especially about the plight of dogs. I laughed at shows, especially at the antics of dogs. But emotions that overwhelmed, those I distrusted.

I’ll tell once again about Sandra. She grew up in a tiny town. There was one small, fundamentalist church in town. Her parents were mainstays there, so Sandra grew up in that church. It was all she knew.  A few miles outside of her town was a small a city that had a small state university, so even to go to college, Sandra didn’t leave home, or her church.

Then, though, she went to a neighboring state for grad school. Her first Sunday, she went off to the church she that had heard was just like her church at home. But she made a wrong turn. She ended up at the big university Methodist Church. She didn’t know it, though, because churches are rarely adequately signed.

She went in. It was huge. And high. A modern Gothic building. Many rows of pews. Some people were standing around inside the door, talking to one another, but not to her. One of them pushed a piece of paper at her. She wandered in, took a seat, looked at the paper. Good grief; they had decided ahead of time what they were going to do.

She said, “I didn’t know any of the hymns. The choir wore robes and they sang different words at different times. The preacher didn’t shout at us or tell us about our sins but just stood there and talked. They passed a plate for money but it was all in little envelopes. Nobody said anything to me. It was over. I went outside and looked up at that high cross spire on top and I said, ‘Thank God. I’m home!’”

For someone like me, and Sandra, that sort of church is home. That’s where we can grow spiritually, because emotion doesn’t get in the way. Please don’t misunderstand; I’m not opposed to emotion in church, or generally. I’m just saying we can’t rely on it. The dailyness of just being there, for one another, that is a way to grow toward God.

John Robert McFarland

THE PURPOSE OF LIFE [W, 3-19-25]

BEYOND WINTER: The Irrelevant Musings of An Old Man—THE PURPOSE OF LIFE [W, 3-19-25]

 

You’d hope that in 60 years of preaching, there would be more than two people who said they listened to a sermon. But I can think of only two.

There was a preface, however, to their listening. “I hear a lot of sermons, and they’re all the same, so I don’t bother to listen, but today…” One was a funeral director. One was a trumpet player.

A funeral director not listening is understandable. I mean, they really do hear the same sermon over and over. And this particular funeral director was no fan of mine. I’ll call him Gene.* When we were together, he was pleasant enough, and collegial. But I was told by many people that he said unkind things about me when I was not present. To make it even trickier, he had an important official position in my church. [1]

So I was a bit wary when he called me aside after the funeral for Chad.* [I talked about Chad last time.]

Chad was one of those young adults who just has trouble getting their ducks in a row. The frontal lobe of the brain is the last part of the brain to develop. It is not really fully developed until about age 25. Unfortunately, that’s the part of the brain that is most important for decision making. So, a lot of teens and young adults look like adults, but their brains simply aren’t able to make adult decisions yet.

So, Chad had made some bad decisions. Consequently, he was in the county jail. It was not a capital offense. I can’t remember now for sure, but I think he had stolen something fairly minor—not a car or credit card. Enough, though, to land him in the jail, as one of a line of minor missteps. He knew he was doing wrong. He didn’t think he could stop. So he made a bad decision, “a lasting solution to a temporary problem,” as we say about suicide. He hanged himself in the county jail, at the age of 20.  

One thing I felt I had to do when preaching a funeral sermon was be honest. People can’t grieve well if we gloss over the realities of a death. I preached a lot of difficult funerals, the results of murder and suicide and war and accident. I tried to take on directly the feelings and questions that the mourners had, including the ones they dared not voice. I did that with Chuck*, his life and his death. [I talked about him in the column for 3-15-25.]

It was after that one that Gene said, “During the sermon at a funeral, I work in my office. I have the sound system on, so that I know when the preacher’s voice stops, and I need to come back in, but I just do desk work. Today, though, I sat there at my desk, and I listened.” It was as close to a compliment as he could give me.

The trumpet player was in the Barbary Coast Dixieland Jazz Band, based in St. Paul. They’ve now retired, but in their 52 years, they played for more than 2000 worship services. One of those was in the UMC in Clear Lake, Iowa, when the pastor had to be gone and asked me to fill in. I tried out for the first time my translation of John 10:10 as Jesus said, “I’m here; let’s party.” “What Jesus is saying,” I said, “Is that the purpose of life is to have a good time.” The trumpet player told me after the service, “We’ve done so many of these, and the sermon is always the same, so I never listen. But, today I did. I really like that translation!”

John Robert McFarland

Not his real name*

1] I learned years later that before I arrived, he had been told that I had made a particular demand that I had not made at all. I didn’t even know about it. But another person wanted something done and thought it would be more likely to happen if the new preacher had “requested” it. Gene, though, never knew, and I didn’t, either, so I had no chance to correct his misinformation.

 

HOW THE LIGHT GETS IN [M, 3-17-25]

BEYOND WINTER: The Irrelevant Memories of An Old Man—HOW THE LIGHT GETS IN [M, 3-17-25]

“He always wanted to do the right thing.” That’s how I started my sermon at Chad’s funeral. [Not his real name]

I didn’t actually realize until then that it was true. It often seemed that he wanted to anything except the right thing. I had known him several years, from not long after he’d been adopted. He was the reason some folks shook their heads sadly and knowingly and said, “You just don’t know what you’ll get with an adopted kid.”

I always replied, “You never know what you’ll get with any kid.”

But I knew that Chad was a different problem. He was smart enough; that wasn’t the problem. He had loving and supportive parents; that wasn’t the problem. He had the “right” color; that wasn’t the problem.

He was just uncomfortable in his own skin; that was the problem.

I spent a lot of time listening to his parents. I spent a lot of time listening to him. I also spent too much time telling his parents what to do. And too much time telling Chad what to do. No, I wasn’t “judgy,” and I did not promote simplistic slogans, like “You need to be patient,” or “Just think before you act.” But advice wasn’t really what was needed. The problem was, neither I, nor anybody else, including a succession of psychologists, knew what was wrong; that was the problem.

Finally, beyond high school, beyond community college, he just spiraled down. Arrested on theft charges, unwilling to ask his parents for bail, unwilling even to let them know he was in jail, he committed suicide.

As I thought about him, all I knew about him, all those hours of talking, I realized the problem: He always wanted to do the right thing.

Okay. That wasn’t exactly the problem. I think the gap was the problem. If he hadn’t wanted to do right, maybe the failure wouldn’t have gnawed at him so.

Always, Christian faith is about closing the gap. We call it at-one-ment.

That’s especially true in Lent, as we prepare for Easter. Our Lenten disciplines and devotions are meant not to make us satisfied, because we are true to doing spiritual duties, but to open us up so that we are true to our real selves, the ones with the gaps.

The first step is to accept the gap and admit to God that it is there. That is the start of at-one-ment, the start of closing the gap. Then let God lead you where you need to go.

As Leonard Cohen sang: “There’s a crack in everything. That’s how the light gets in.”

 

John Robert McFarland

LOVE WITH FLAWS [Sat, 3-15-25]

BEYOND WINTER: The Irrelevant Memories of An Old Man—LOVE WITH FLAWS [Sat, 3-15-25]

 [I have no idea why the first time I posted this, it was in one run-together sentence, followed by the correct post. I apologize. I am posting again, with the hope this works correctly.]

I’ll call him Chuck. We met when we were in our forties. We had a lot in common and easily became good friends.

Chuck had two problems, and they both involved his body. First, he had a weak heart. Secondly, he had a weak will.

He was really handsome. Not only handsome, but attractive in every way—kind, personal, attentive, pleasant. Women found him very appealing. Wanting always to be attentive and pleasant and kind to anyone he knew, Chuck had trouble setting appropriate boundaries with those women.

As his friend, I went through a lot of episodes with Chuck, both with his weakened heart and with his weakened will.

After a while, we were separated geographically, and I did not see him as much, but I always made an effort to visit him when he had a weakening episode.

So, I went to visit him in the hospital, before he was having major heart surgery the next day. This was back when people came to the hospital the day before surgery and spent the night. I waited until late, after visiting hours, so I could see him alone. In a hospital, no one questions the presence of a serious-looking man in a clerical collar, regardless of what time it is.

Not only was Chuck having surgery, but some of his boundary issues had surfaced, too. He knew that I was in a position to know about how far they had surfaced before he did.

When I walked in, his face fell. “I love you,” he said, “but whenever you show up, it means I’m in trouble.”

There were several speakers at his funeral. They spoke of all the good things he had done. I spoke last. I said, “I must be in the wrong place. I thought this was a service for Chuck. The man I knew by that name had a lot of flaws…”

Afterward, his wife and children and sister sought me out to thank me. “The other speakers, they told the truth about him, how kind and gracious he was. But you told the whole truth. You told about his flaws, too, and that lets us grieve the real man, all that he was. You were his friend not in spite of his flaws, but with them.”

I write this on a Wednesday. In my schedule for remembering, Wednesday is Friends Day, when I make a point of reliving good times with departed friends. As I think about my friends, I realize that those who loved me best were the ones who loved me not in spite of my flaws but with my flaws. I am grateful to them.

John Robert McFarland

“Practice prepares the mind, but suffering prepares the heart.”

 

 

 

BEYOND WINTER: The Irrelevant Memories of An Old Man—LOVE WITH FLAWS [Sat, 3-15-25] I’ll call him Chuck. We met when we were in our forties. We had a lot in common and easily became good friends. Chuck had two problems, and they both involved his body. First, he had a weak heart. Secondly, he had a weak will. He was really handsome. Not only handsome, but attractive in every way—kind, personal, attentive, pleasant. Women found him very appealing. Wanting always to be attentive and pleasant and kind to anyone he knew, Chuck had trouble setting appropriate boundaries with those women. As his friend, I went through a lot of episodes with Chuck, both with his weakened heart and with his weakened will. After a while, we were separated geographically, and I did not see him as much, but I always made an effort to visit him when he had a weakening episode. So, I went to visit him in the hospital, before he was having major heart surgery the next day. This was back when people came to the hospital the day before surgery and spent the night. I waited until late, after visiting hours, so I could see him alone. In a hospital, no one questions the presence of a serious-looking man in a clerical collar, regardless of what time it is. Not only was Chuck having surgery, but some of his boundary issues had surfaced, too. He knew that I was in a position to know about how far they had surfaced before he did. When I walked in, his face fell. “I love you,” he said, “but whenever you show up, it means I’m in trouble.” There were several speakers at his funeral. They spoke of all the good things he had done. I spoke last. I said, “I must be in the wrong place. I thought this was a service for Chuck. The man I knew by that name had a lot of flaws…” Afterward, his wife and children and sister sought me out to thank me. “The other speakers, they told the truth about him, how kind and gracious he was. But you told the whole truth. You told about his flaws, too, and that lets us grieve the real man, all that he was. You were his friend not in spite of his flaws, but with them.” I write this on a Wednesday. In my schedule for remembering, Wednesday is Friends Day, when I make a point of reliving good times with departed friends. As I think about my friends, I realize that those who loved me best were the ones who loved me not in spite of my flaws but with my flaws. I am grateful to them. John Robert McFarland “Practice prepares the mind, but suffering prepares the heart.”

BEYOND WINTER: The Irrelevant Memories of An Old Man—LOVE WITH FLAWS [Sat, 3-15-25]

 

I’ll call him Chuck. We met when we were in our forties. We had a lot in common and easily became good friends.

Chuck had two problems, and they both involved his body. First, he had a weak heart. Secondly, he had a weak will.

He was really handsome. Not only handsome, but attractive in every way—kind, personal, attentive, pleasant. Women found him very appealing. Wanting always to be attentive and pleasant and kind to anyone he knew, Chuck had trouble setting appropriate boundaries with those women.

As his friend, I went through a lot of episodes with Chuck, both with his weakened heart and with his weakened will.

After a while, we were separated geographically, and I did not see him as much, but I always made an effort to visit him when he had a weakening episode.

So, I went to visit him in the hospital, before he was having major heart surgery the next day. This was back when people came to the hospital the day before surgery and spent the night. I waited until late, after visiting hours, so I could see him alone. In a hospital, no one questions the presence of a serious-looking man in a clerical collar, regardless of what time it is.

Not only was Chuck having surgery, but some of his boundary issues had surfaced, too. He knew that I was in a position to know about how far they had surfaced before he did.

When I walked in, his face fell. “I love you,” he said, “but whenever you show up, it means I’m in trouble.”

There were several speakers at his funeral. They spoke of all the good things he had done. I spoke last. I said, “I must be in the wrong place. I thought this was a service for Chuck. The man I knew by that name had a lot of flaws…”

Afterward, his wife and children and sister sought me out to thank me. “The other speakers, they told the truth about him, how kind and gracious he was. But you told the whole truth. You told about his flaws, too, and that lets us grieve the real man, all that he was. You were his friend not in spite of his flaws, but with them.”

I write this on a Wednesday. In my schedule for remembering, Wednesday is Friends Day, when I make a point of reliving good times with departed friends. As I think about my friends, I realize that those who loved me best were the ones who loved me not in spite of my flaws but with my flaws. I am grateful to them.

John Robert McFarland

“Practice prepares the mind, but suffering prepares the heart.”

 

 

HELPING IN THE WISDOM YEARS [W, 3-12-25]

BEYOND WINTER: The Irrelevant Musings of An Old Man--HELPING IN THE WISDOM YEARS [W, 3-12-25]

 

In thinking back through my years, to come to “final integrity” instead of “despair,” what Erik Erikson said is the task of old age, it has been useful to divide my life into four score [20 year periods].

The first score I call “the learning years.” That’s fairly obvious. The second score is “the adult years,” getting established in family and job. Third is “the mature years,” when we share what we have built up, and fourth is “the grand years,” which for me mainly means grandchildren, but can also be grand because we have more time for our own interests.

 Since I am into my fifth score, even beyond the “four score and seven” of Lincoln’s Gettysburg Address, Helen asked me what I am going to name these years from 80 to 100. I didn’t have any ideas, so she suggested “the wisdom years.”

I like that. I hope it is true. But I recall that Augustine said that the so-called innocence of children is more a matter of weakness of limb than purity of heart. I have always felt the parallel of that in old age is that the so-called wisdom of age is more a matter of decline of brain than clarity of vision.

We often express perceived wisdom in the form of questions. “Have you winterized your car yet? It’s almost August.” [Old people also like to leave the house early, so if you want us to arrive at 5:30, tell us that supper is at 6.]

In her later years, we became friends with Mary McDermott Shideler, the theologian. She read an article I wrote for “The Christian Century,” and responded to it. We struck up a correspondence friendship, and later when I was speaking at a cancer conference in Denver, we got to drive up the mountain to her home near Boulder. Well, we didn’t do the driving. Cancer friend and mentor Lynn Ringer did the driving, since she lived there and knew how to drive the mountains.

The four of us had a great afternoon, playing with the Great Pyrenees dogs for which Mary was a rehab rescuer, and talking theology and mystery books, and telling stories.

One of Mary’s stories was about a little boy who was born without arms. One day when he was about two, a friend was visiting his mother. The little boy was trying so hard to put on a t-shirt. Can you imagine trying to put on a t-shirt without arms? He struggled and struggled, without success. Finally, the friend said to his mother, in exasperation, “Why don’t you help him?” With tears in her eyes, the mother replied, “I AM helping him.”

She knew that she would not always be there to help, that he had to learn to live without arms in an armed world, and that he had to do that for himself.

Old people, in our wisdom years, need to remember that often we help those who are younger not by helping but just by being there as they learn.

John Robert McFarland

 

THE BEST MAN’S DILEMMA-Purity Laws [M, 3-10-25]

BEYOND WINTER: The Irrelevant Musings of An Old Man--THE BEST MAN’S DILEMMA-Purity Laws [M, 3-10-25]

 

[I have the impression that I have posted this here before, but I can’t find it in the archives, and I just discovered this full column in a random folder, and I think it’s an important issue when we are in the midst of Lenten “disciplines,” so...]

I had a lot of good friends in high school, several of whom were really close, guys I played ball with, ran around with, shared hopes and dreams with, tried to pick up girls with. When they got married, they asked me to be the best man at their weddings. I was a best man so often, it felt like a profession. That pleased me. I loved having friends, friends who thought enough of me to have me by their side at their most important moments.

Except when one friend--I’ll call him Brad, since there was no one named Brad in those days—told me that he and his girlfriend—I’ll call her Whitney since there was no one named Whitney in those days—were going to get married and he wanted me to stand up with him, except he understood if I didn’t want to, since they “had to get married.”

I felt greatly honored, to be selected for such a significant role, and honored, also, that Brad respected my religiousness, but even though I felt honored, I felt disappointed and confused. Did people, even a close friend like Brad, see me as the kind of narrow-minded Christian who would put adherence to a purity law ahead of friendship? Put rules ahead of people? Did he really think I would refuse to be his best man because he’d had “sex outside of marriage?”

That was the only way you were supposed to have sex at all back then, inside the commitment of marriage. That was the Christian way.

It really did not have much to do with the teaching of Jesus or the Bible It was actually because of the risk of pregnancy. The sex prohibition was protection for unwed girls and bastard babies.  Our general acceptance of when sex was acceptable changed with “the pill,” when pregnancy was not a possibility every time a girl or woman had sex.

But we didn’t realize that our “sex only in marriage” rule was primarily a cultural constraint to prevent unwanted pregnancies. We were told that sex had always been wrong outside of marriage—and there are enough good reasons why sex outside of marriage is bad/wrong to make such a claim plausible.

It’s so nice to have clear definitions. If the difference is married or not-married, well, you know if you’re married. Our current approach to sex is more realistic than the “marriage only” approach, and it includes more people than the old paradigm [including people who can’t marry for one reason or another], but it’s a lot harder now to say for sure when sex is okay and joy-full, rather than merely pleasurable, and relationship-building, and when it is exploitative or abusive or just plain cheap.

Who’s a Christian? It’s nice to have clear definitions of that, too. I wanted to be a Christian, and that meant that I went to church. I did not swear or drink or smoke or tell or laugh at dirty jokes or disrespectful comments about people, either individually or as a group. I did not treat girls as lesser people or sex objects.

But did I come across as self-righteous in my attempt to be Christian? Probably so, if a close friend like Brad would think I’d put rules ahead of people.

Nonetheless, I think Brad wasn’t really doubting my friendship when he said he would understand if I didn’t want to be his best man. I think he knew I would come through. He was just being respectful when he gave me an “out.”

In giving me that out, though, he gave me a gift. He let me know that when you keep the rules, you have to let folks know that you keep the friends, too. Since then, I have always tried to “keep” the friends by keeping the rules.

When Bishop Leroy Hodapp named me to the committee of our Conference to investigate wrong doing by clergy, he said he wanted me on that committee “because every sinner needs one friend.”

I still struggle with the problem of law vs grace. I like the purity laws. They keep me out of trouble. They give me purpose and satisfaction. They make me happy. But if you keep the purity laws, do you come across as some sort of stiff-necked, self-righteous prig who doesn’t know the difference between keeping rules in order to be happy in one’s self and respectful to others, or keeping rules just to keep rules?

Brad and Whitney had a long and happy marriage together. I still feel honored that I got to stand up with them right at the beginning.

John Robert McFarland

 

 

SWEARING FOR LENT [F, 3-8-2

 

BEYOND WINTER: The Irrelevant Curses of An Old Man--SWEARING FOR LENT [F, 3-8-25]

 

 

In my constant search for Lenten disciplines that will help me grow spiritually, I came across this fascinating article in The 7, [daily email] of The Washington Post of 3-4-25.

“Experts” are suggesting that swearing might be good for you. “It can increase pain tolerance, bolster social bonds, improve memory, and alleviate the social pain of rejection. An expert suggests trying it out by cursing steadily while performing a painful task.”

It is interesting that this article followed several about the activities of Donald Trump.

It seems to me that “the social pain of rejection” might be a Catch 22, since a lot of social rejection comes because of cursing, but what do I know; I grew up in a culture where emitting a “Hell” was likely to get you sent there.

Since I have quite a bit of pain these days, though, in my right hip…and ankle…and in between, and Extra Strength Tylenol and Penetrex and Physical Therapy seem to be helping only a little, and my social bonds are frayed, because people keep dying, and my memory could use some improvement, and dentists keep rejecting me, because I’m unwilling to pay $500 for a new-patient appointment, [our former dentist retired] I think I’ll try out this cursing method...

Shucky durn! Hells bells! Pig feathers! Golly darn! Holy smoke! Thunderation! By hokies!

By gosh, it helps!

Well, maybe. I was only sitting on my sofa. I’m not sure that qualifies as “…performing a painful task,” since my sofa is already the best pain relief I know. If you have a “painful task” to perform, come over to my house, and I’ll let you sit on the other end of the sofa. [It’s pretty long.] It may do you more good than swearing.  

John Robert McFarland

THE NAMES AND FACES OF HEROES [W, 3-6-25]

BEYOND WINTER: The Irrelevant Memories of An Old Man--THE NAMES AND FACES OF HEROES [W, 3-6-25]

 

[Our church, St. Mark’s on the Bypass, has produced a book of Lenten devotional reading, written by folks in the congregation. We were asked to write on “what makes you come alive.” This is my contribution.]

Helen and I were once part of a group of young married couples. It was a friendship group that was a semi-support group. We learned from one another how to be better spouses and parents. One night our leader passed out paper and told us to write our definitions of love. When we were finished, he asked us to read them. These were university people, and there were some beautiful and deeply philosophical definitions of love. I began to feel more and more uncomfortable as they came around the circle to Helen and me.

Finally, it was my turn. My definition of love was: Grandma Mac, Uncle Johnny, Aunt Nora, Helen, Mike Dickey… Then Helen read her definition: Daddy, Mother, Judy, Lucretia… We had just done lists of names. At least we were thinking alike, but it was embarrassing.

Then, though, a strange thing happened. All the other members of the group reached out and took new sheets of paper and began to write lists of names, 

We are inspired by heroes. What makes me come alive now in my old age is the same inspiration that has always enlivened me…Uncle Johnny, Grandma Mac, Helen, Mike Dickey, Jack Newsome, Mary Louise Hopkins…

So many of those are dead now, but we know that death does not conquer love. What makes me come alive is love, and this is always the way I define love, always the way I come alive, by seeing and saying “the names and faces of heroes…”

I start with those of my childhood and youth… Darrell, Carolyn, Don, Anne, Bob, Mary Louise, Mike, Donna, Jim, Mina, Jarvis, Hovey, Wilbur … and keep going through the years. Maybe by the time Lent is over, I’ll have completed the Lenten list, become fully alive, by living in that “great cloud of witnesses.”

John Robert McFarland

The Names and Faces of Heroes is the title of a book by the great southern writer and fellow cancer traveler, Reynolds Price.

Happy Birthday to my North Star, the one whose face has always made me want to be a hero.

 

 

 

A JOMO LENT [T, 3-4-24]

BEYOND WINTER: The Irrelevant Theology of An Old Man—A JOMO LENT [T, 3-4-24]

 

Tomorrow is the first day of Lent. I think I’ll do a JOMO Lent this year.

That surprises me a little, because I’ve always been a FOMO sort of guy. FOMO is the Fear Of Missing Out.

In our time, however, FOMO actually makes us miss out by taking us into a world that does not exist.

FOMO is why people stare at their screens all day, so they don’t miss out. They walk across streets in traffic, down stairs in the dark, into walls of concrete…all because of FOMO. They put on mismatched socks and backward shirts. FOMO. They stick potato salad in their eye and carrots up their nostrils. FOMO. They give the cat a bath and put the baby outside. FOMO.

But why? What might they miss out on? Nothing real.

That kind of FOMO actually makes us miss out on what is important. It is the opposite of inclusion. It IS missing out. We have FOMO because we want to be included. We fear missing out on inclusion. But you can’t be included on a screen.

We think we can. That’s why we take so many selfies. It still doesn’t work. Our screen-obsession FOMO is actually what causes our epidemic of loneliness. We are included in a false world, and so we miss out on being part of the real world. Our FOMO of missing out on the false world is so great that that we forget about the JOMO which is part of the real world.

JOMO is the Joy Of Missing Out, missing out on the false world. When we start missing out on the false world of the wizard behind the screen, as Dorothy and her friends did in The Wizard of Oz, we begin to know the joy of the real world.

Traditionally, Christians “give up something for Lent,” as a reminder of the sacrifice of Christ. I’m going to give up FOMO. I’ll have a JOMO Lent.

John Robert McFarland

 

 

LITTLE CHRISTS [Sun, 3-2-25[

BEYOND WINTER: The Musings of An Old Man—LITTLE CHRISTS [Sun, 3-2-25[

 

My college and seminary friend, Bob Parsons, did a whole clergy career on the Texas plains. Sometimes he would need to call on a family that lived fifty or so miles away. They were folks who had been Methodists for generations, but as rural populations declined, their local church had closed, and so now they were his parishioners, even though so far away, because he pastored the closest Methodist congregation.

The directions to find those sorts of folks were always interesting, and challenging. “Go out north of town on Dry Creek Road for about five miles. You’ll see two silos at Butch Thompson’s place. Take the first gravel road to the right and go past two cattle guards. When the gravel ends, go another two miles…” Well, you get the idea. Half-way there!

I recall that in those situations, when I was trying to find a remote home that didn’t have a street address, people often gave directions that made no sense to me, because they used landmarks that no longer existed. “Go to where the Western Auto store was before it burned…

Bob said he never minded making those calls, even though the route to get there was confusing, and it was a long way, and took a lot of time, because the folks at the end of that trip were so glad to see him. I felt the same way.

Pastors and doctors and first responders have an automatic welcome. People are glad to see us. Well, not always. Not exactly. I had a friend who had heart problems and relationship problems. Once when I went to see him, he said, “I’m always glad when you come, but every time you do, it means I’m in trouble.”

You don’t need official status to make things better by your presence. My college roommate was not churchly. He respected my faith attempts, and we remained best friends throughout his life, but he was never much interested in religion. He passed that lack of interest on to his children. When he suffered a stroke, Helen and I found out about it and drove the necessary miles to the hospital. His son said later, “We were all so confused and worried, but when you walked in, suddenly it seemed like everything would be okay.”

C.S. Lewis, in his famous Mere Christianity, says that we are to be little Christs to one another, doorways to God, to the eternal.

Some of us have the “little Christ” designation just because it is part of our professional or social identity, but it is meant for each person, a real possibility and calling for each person.

One of my favorite stories is about a missionary in Africa. One morning, a student presented her with an exquisitely carved statue. She knew that people in his village excelled in such carvings, but that the village was many miles away, and he had no transportation. “You must have walked such a long way to get this for me,” she exclaimed. “Long walk is part of gift,” he said.

John Robert McFarland