BEYOND WINTER: The
Irrelevant Memories of An Old Preacher—FORGET FIRST; IT’S BETTER THAN FORGIVING [SUN, 7-27-25]
[This column is just a
personal reminiscence, and a confession of sin, and twice my usual 500-word
length, so read only if you have extra time on your hands.]
I wrote last time about my
best friend from my time at Garrett Theological Seminary, at Northwestern
University. I remember Walt Wagener so well. But when I saw the death listing
for Gene Fields [not his real name] in the Garrett alum magazine, I didn’t
remember him at all. The name seemed vaguely familiar, but I couldn’t remember…
then I read his obit. Oh, yes, Gene was my main adversary/competitor in
seminary… and I had totally forgotten about him.
I was so proud. That’s
progress, to forget someone you didn’t get along with. I had done the ultimate
in forgiving, not just forgiven but forgotten. So I began to review all the
reasons we had been competitors… That’s the wrong thing to do.
When I was at the height
of my career years, a young woman preacher called and asked to see me. She
said, “They say if you want to talk theology, you’re the one to go to.” I was
pleased; apparently, I had a rep as a theologian.
We didn’t get to theology
right away, though. A little small talk, and then she began to cry. “Why is it
that you men preachers are so competitive?”
That’s when we got to
theology: original sin. That competitive nature that wants the best for one’s
own regardless of what happens to others. Even among preachers. And seminary
students.
At Garrett, there were
four of us in my class from the same state who were considered the ones to
watch for success. I didn’t really feel competitive with the others, but they
felt they had to compete with me. We were equal but I was more equal. I wore the
bishop’s mantle. [1] I was the one to beat if you wanted to be the best.
I wasn’t really the one to
beat, because I wasn’t better. I was just different. That, however, apparently
made me look like the one to beat. If there is competition in your
nature, you need someone to beat.
Back then, 99% of
Protestant seminary students were 22-year-old white males. [About one % of
seminary students are 22-year-old while males now.] Gene and Bill and Don were
“normal.” They had graduated from small religious colleges. They lived in
student apartments and went to school fulltime while their wives supported
them—a very common arrangement in those days for guys in any kind of graduate
professional education. They ate lunch in the cafeteria. They had church jobs,
but only on Sundays, mostly youth work.
I stood out, and everybody
knew who I was, because I was different. For a lot of reasons.
I already had a reputation
as a civil right advocate. I had started at Perkins School of Theology, at SMU,
and Helen and I had been thrown out of town [not the seminary] because we
integrated the community center we directed.
I was the first transfer
student at Garrett to receive a scholarship. They did not give scholarships to
transfers to avoid being accused of stealing students from other seminaries.
They made an exception for me because of why I had lost my job and thus could
not continue at Perkins.
I pastored a full-time,
two-point charge [two churches] while having two children and commuting 65
miles each way every day. No other student had a load like that.
I had graduated from the
major state university, “the Godless state university,” in our conference,
rather than from a small denominational college.
I commuted and took a sack
lunch rather than eat in the cafeteria. That was purely for financial reasons,
but the lunches Helen packed for me were far better than eating in the
cafeteria. [2] And I got to eat with the elite.
The other brown bag guys
were PhD students. There were just five of us, and I was the only one on his
first degree. Tom Tredway became president of Augustana College. Ron Goetz
became a religion professor at Elmhurst. Bill White became chaplain and religion
professor at Ill Wesleyan. James Cone became the famous professor of black
power at Union Seminary in New York City. And me. I was considered to be one of
that elite group just because I ate with them.
I was a firebrand who took
on the establishment. Sometimes the church establishment over pensions or
organization. Often the cultural establishment over racism.
I was accused of being the
favorite of our bishop because he protected me when I caused problems. But he
protected me only because most of the problems I caused were of the “good
trouble” variety that John Lewis espoused.
Even though I was young
and supposed to keep my mouth shut and let the older and wiser voices prevail,
I was a major voice in our conference for racial justice. I got into trouble
with lay folks and preachers and even District Superintendents. Some were just gentle
racists, advocating always for “more time,” hoping that the problem would solve
itself. Others were downright real racists, claiming that black folk “should
know their place and stay in it.” [3] They didn’t want to put up with some
wiseacre young guy who was too loud and too sure of himself.
Bishop Richard Raines
would call me in, tell me to be careful, and then protect me even when I was
not careful. That gave me a special status. I wasn’t really Raines’ favorite. Anyone
could get the bishop’s favor; you just had to get into “good trouble.” I looked
like the favorite, though, because I was the one who wasn’t careful.
There were others, of
course, who shared my concern for racial justice. In retrospect, I’m sure that
Gene and Bill and Don were among them. But others were more careful about
expressing it. Because I was loud, and too sure of myself, I was noticeable,
and thus the object of competition.
Gene never gave up
competing. Not with me. I hope he forgot about me, as I did him. But it was
obvious that he had written his own obit. It was full of accolades and awards
that no one else would even know about or care about. Even in death, he wanted
everyone to know that he was the best, that he had won the competition. It’s
too bad. He really did have a good and useful career. I don’t think he was ever
satisfied with it, though.
The problem for me is now
that I have been reminded of Gene, I’m going back to competing with him,
rehearsing all the ways that he and the others tried to show they were better
than I, and all the defenses I used to try to show that they were not. Including
all the stuff I have written above.
Sometimes, forgetting is
even better than forgiving.
John Robert McFarland
1] The Bishop’s Mantle
is by Agnes Sleigh Turnbull.
2] I would not say that
the cafeteria food was bad, but one day during lunch someone yelled at Mrs.
Rice, the cafeteria director, “Hey, Mrs. Rice, the garbage man is here.”
“Good,” returned a female voice, “tell him to leave three bags.”
3] I had a famous
confrontation with the local high school principal where I pastored because he
would not let the lone black boy in our church go to school there, but insisted
he would have to go the city, 20 miles away, to a black high school, even though
there was no transportation available.