THE OLD MAN ON THE CURB [Sun, 8-30-26]

CHRIST IN WINTER: The Irrelevant Reminesences of An Accidental Preacher--THE OLD MAN ON THE CURB [Sun, 8-30-26]

[September marks the 70-year anniversary of when I started preaching. Throughout that month, these columns will reflect on those 70 years, trying to make sense of why I kept on preaching when I wasn’t sure that I was called to do so. This column starts at the end, so you won’t even have to read any of the September columns!]

 

When I was twenty, I went to my first clergy continuing education conference. It was called the School of the Prophets, for all the Methodist ministers in Indiana, at Depauw University. I had been preaching at Solsberry and Koleen and Mineral for a year already, with no education for the job except Speech 101.

This was my first opportunity for education as a minister. I was enthralled. There was a Cokesbury display, with all the books and Jesus junk any preacher could ever possibly use, or misuse. I heard sermons by Bishop Richard Raines and Ralph Sockman of Christ Church in NYC. I got enough sermon illustrations to last a month, the only reason preachers go to these things anyway.

 

Most importantly, I was in a preaching workshop led by Webb Garrison. His teaching was practical. We were to put sermon “illustrations” on 4x6 cards, because they fit into a shoe box. We were to use rubber cement to affix clippings to the cards because it did not dry out the way Scotch Tape did.

At lunch I went downtown. To buy 4x6 cards and rubber cement. I also bought a pair of shoes I could not afford, but I really wanted the box. By the time I got done, I was running late for the afternoon session. I was in a hurry. I didn’t want to miss a single minute of that conference. In the distance, from the auditorium in Old Main, I heard the after-lunch singing start. What a sound. 100 tenors. 100 baritones. 100 basses. One soprano, Clara Mae Ripple, the only woman clergy in Indiana Methodism.

As I rushed along, ahead of me I saw an old man, bald and with a white beard, standing on the curb. He was wearing a black suit, shiny at the knees and elbows, with a yellowed white shirt buttoned up at the collar, but no tie. I was dressed like the cool university student I was, Kingston Trio style vertical stripe shirt, Ivy League chinos, argyle sox, tan buck shoes. The old man looked at me, hurrying toward the sound of the prophets, my shoe box under my arm, and as I got to him he said, “Are you a preacher?”

That was the question, for sure. Was I really called to be a preacher, or was I acting like one because I didn’t know how to say “No,” when the District Superintendent said, “You can start next Sunday.” That was the question then, and it was the question for 70 years.

But it was too complicated to explain, so I just said yes.

“I used to be a preacher.” He looked toward Old Main. “Is that the preachers singing?” he asked. I assured him it was.

I thought he would come with me, to the School of the Prophets, but he didn’t. He only stood there, gazing toward Old Main, his ear cocked toward the singing. He seemed content just to be close to “the goodly fellowship of the prophets.”

Now I am the old man standing on the curb. In the distance, I hear the voices raised in song, such much richer harmony now, with all those sopranos and altos.

 

In that harmony I hear the voices of Richard Raines, F.T. Johnson, Raydean Davis, Jack Newsome, Barbara Zwetz, Dick Hamilton, Joe Emerson, Merrill McFall, Jean Cramer-Heuerman, Tony Shipley, James Cone, Marcus Borg, John Wilkey, Joan Mau, Leroy Hodapp, Walt Wagener, Gary Bass, Webb Garrison…

I hear the singing of the prophets, and I know where I belong.

John Robert McFarland