CHRIST IN WINTER: Reflections on Faith from a place of winter For the Years of Winter…
FLOWERS OF WINTER
Spring and summer are times of planting and of growth. Autumn is a time of harvest. Winter is the fulfillment of all the seasons past, a time to pull all the scattered pieces of seasons past into a final wholeness. In winter we still plant and cultivate and harvest, but in new ways.
When you live in a place of winter, where you dare not plant anything outside until after Memorial Day, or your new plants will be only memorials themselves after the freeze that haunts spring like a zombie craving the brains of vegetarians, you push the season forward any way you can, so a place of winter is in spring and early summer a place of hanging baskets, that can be brought inside when a night is too cold.
The freezes are not the only pillagers of springtime. There are four-legged predators, too, that want to eat the fruits of your work. Rabbits and deer will munch anything you plant, no matter how much you paid for it or how hard you worked on it. So a place of winter in summer is a place of flower boxes, high on railings on porches and decks, too high for rabbits, and where deer will not venture.
Gardeners in their winter years complain about the work but cannot give it up. They get down onto their knees and cannot get back up. That’s okay. If you have to stay on your knees, you can feel a lot of humility and do a lot of praying. But baskets and boxes give you room to plant and dig even if your knees won’t bend.
There is a growing season, even in winter, but it is for flower boxes and hanging baskets. There are predators in winter, freezes and deer and rabbits, that will devour your blooms if you put them out too far. Winter is a time to keep your flowers close at hand, even though they be few, the better to touch and sniff and look .
JRMcF
The “place of winter” mentioned in the title line is Iron Mountain, in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula, where life is defined by winter even in the summer!
Dave Nash says that the links to my blogs and my email, which I post below, do not work. I apologize for any inconvenience. I have redone them, and so now I hope they work. If they don’t, you can type them in yourself as they are, because they are accurate, even if not workable.
You are always welcome to Forward or Repost or Reprint. It’s okay to acknowledge the source, unless it embarrasses you too much. It is okay to refer the link to older folks you know or to print it in a church newsletter or bulletin.
{I also write the fictional “Periwinkle Chronicles” blog. One needs a rather strange sense of humor to enjoy it, but occasionally it is slightly funny. It is at http://periwinklechronicles.blogspot.com/}
(If you would prefer to receive either “Christ In Winter” or “Periwinkle Chronicles” via email, just let me know at jmcfarland1721@charter.net, and I’ll put you on the email list.)
Iron Mountain ski jump
Monday, June 20, 2011
Tuesday, June 14, 2011
Deciding to Stay
CHRIST IN WINTER: Reflections on Faith from a place of winter For the Years of Winter…
DECIDING TO STAY
Roma Peterson died May 25 at the age of 95, 75 years after she first wanted to do it.
Helen and I have been blessed through the years with older, often retired, pastoral couples who have mentored us as much with their friendship as with their advice. Their very presence was witness that we, too, could survive the church if we were just patiently faithful.
Don and Dee Lemkau, Max and Ruth White, Harvey and Hazel Gaither—all gone to their reward.
Harvey and Hazel were part of an especially rich mentoring fellowship in the Quad Cities, when I was appointed to Orion, IL, several miles south of Moline. They were retired, but their son, the second Harvey, who went by Keith, was a close friend of mine, and Helen and I cavorted socially with Keith and Joyce. Their son, the third Harvey, is a UMC pastor in IL, as were his father and grandfather. That’s a rich heritage.
In that Quad Cities fellowship were Harold and Roma Peterson. Harold retired in 1973, the year before I was appointed to Orion, his last pastorate at Rock Island First. He died in 1993.
Harold was warm and pleasant. Roma was warm and elegant. My late and late-life friend, theologian Mary McDermott Shideler [1], said that elegance is “beauty plus organization.” Our late pastor’s-wife friend, Dianne Bass, fit that description. So did Roma Peterson.
One night in our parsonage in Orion, Roma told us this story. She and Harold had been married only a little while. He was a pastor in the Norwegian Methodist Conference in northern IL, the first pastor of his congregation to speak both Norwegian and English. She suddenly became deathly ill and was rushed to the hospital. [I can’t remember the reason or the illness.] The doctors told Harold there was no hope for her.
This was in the early 1920s. Most people didn’t have telephones or cars. That included Harold’s parents. His father was also a Norwegian Methodist pastor, perhaps a District Superintendent. It was late afternoon, and he was going home. He got to his front porch and was met there by his wife, Harold’s mother, who said that as he stepped onto the porch, he got a strange look on his face. “Harold and Roma need me,” he said. He set his briefcase down on the porch, turned around and walked to the train station, where he caught the train for Harold and Roma’s town.
He arrived at Roma’s hospital room just as she had decided to die. “It just felt so comfortable,” she said. “I knew I was safe and that I could go on to a better place. But I looked up and saw Harold staring down at me. I didn’t recognize him, but I thought, that young man looks so lost. He looks like he needs me. I’d better stay.”
JRMcF
1] Mary and I became correspondence friends when she sent me a gracious and positive note in response to an article I wrote for The Christian Century, “Prayer as an Occasional Thing.” She lived in Boulder, CO. When I was speaking at the 20th anniversary celebration of CANSURMOUNT in Denver, we stayed with Lynn Ringer, co-founder of that organization and ovarian cancer survivor. When Lynn learned that we wanted to visit Mary, and where Mary lived—way, way up the mountain—she insisted on driving us up there herself, which was a very good idea, both because we would never have made it in our rented Hyundai, and because Lynn enjoyed meeting Mary in person as much as we did. I think it was meeting Lynn that caused Mary to tell us her definition of elegance.
The “place of winter” mentioned in the title line is Iron Mountain, in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula, where life is defined by winter even in the summer!
Dave Nash says that the links to my blogs and my email, which I post below, do not work. I apologize for any inconvenience. I have redone them, and so now I hope they work. If they don’t, you can type them in yourself as they are, because they are accurate, even if not workable.
You are always welcome to Forward or Repost or Reprint. It’s okay to acknowledge the source, unless it embarrasses you too much. It is okay to refer the link to older folks you know or to print it in a church newsletter or bulletin.
{I also write the fictional “Periwinkle Chronicles” blog. One needs a rather strange sense of humor to enjoy it, but occasionally it is slightly funny. It is at http://periwinklechronicles.blogspot.com/}
(If you would prefer to receive either “Christ In Winter” or “Periwinkle Chronicles” via email, just let me know at jmcfarland1721@charter.net, and I’ll put you on the email list.)
DECIDING TO STAY
Roma Peterson died May 25 at the age of 95, 75 years after she first wanted to do it.
Helen and I have been blessed through the years with older, often retired, pastoral couples who have mentored us as much with their friendship as with their advice. Their very presence was witness that we, too, could survive the church if we were just patiently faithful.
Don and Dee Lemkau, Max and Ruth White, Harvey and Hazel Gaither—all gone to their reward.
Harvey and Hazel were part of an especially rich mentoring fellowship in the Quad Cities, when I was appointed to Orion, IL, several miles south of Moline. They were retired, but their son, the second Harvey, who went by Keith, was a close friend of mine, and Helen and I cavorted socially with Keith and Joyce. Their son, the third Harvey, is a UMC pastor in IL, as were his father and grandfather. That’s a rich heritage.
In that Quad Cities fellowship were Harold and Roma Peterson. Harold retired in 1973, the year before I was appointed to Orion, his last pastorate at Rock Island First. He died in 1993.
Harold was warm and pleasant. Roma was warm and elegant. My late and late-life friend, theologian Mary McDermott Shideler [1], said that elegance is “beauty plus organization.” Our late pastor’s-wife friend, Dianne Bass, fit that description. So did Roma Peterson.
One night in our parsonage in Orion, Roma told us this story. She and Harold had been married only a little while. He was a pastor in the Norwegian Methodist Conference in northern IL, the first pastor of his congregation to speak both Norwegian and English. She suddenly became deathly ill and was rushed to the hospital. [I can’t remember the reason or the illness.] The doctors told Harold there was no hope for her.
This was in the early 1920s. Most people didn’t have telephones or cars. That included Harold’s parents. His father was also a Norwegian Methodist pastor, perhaps a District Superintendent. It was late afternoon, and he was going home. He got to his front porch and was met there by his wife, Harold’s mother, who said that as he stepped onto the porch, he got a strange look on his face. “Harold and Roma need me,” he said. He set his briefcase down on the porch, turned around and walked to the train station, where he caught the train for Harold and Roma’s town.
He arrived at Roma’s hospital room just as she had decided to die. “It just felt so comfortable,” she said. “I knew I was safe and that I could go on to a better place. But I looked up and saw Harold staring down at me. I didn’t recognize him, but I thought, that young man looks so lost. He looks like he needs me. I’d better stay.”
JRMcF
1] Mary and I became correspondence friends when she sent me a gracious and positive note in response to an article I wrote for The Christian Century, “Prayer as an Occasional Thing.” She lived in Boulder, CO. When I was speaking at the 20th anniversary celebration of CANSURMOUNT in Denver, we stayed with Lynn Ringer, co-founder of that organization and ovarian cancer survivor. When Lynn learned that we wanted to visit Mary, and where Mary lived—way, way up the mountain—she insisted on driving us up there herself, which was a very good idea, both because we would never have made it in our rented Hyundai, and because Lynn enjoyed meeting Mary in person as much as we did. I think it was meeting Lynn that caused Mary to tell us her definition of elegance.
The “place of winter” mentioned in the title line is Iron Mountain, in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula, where life is defined by winter even in the summer!
Dave Nash says that the links to my blogs and my email, which I post below, do not work. I apologize for any inconvenience. I have redone them, and so now I hope they work. If they don’t, you can type them in yourself as they are, because they are accurate, even if not workable.
You are always welcome to Forward or Repost or Reprint. It’s okay to acknowledge the source, unless it embarrasses you too much. It is okay to refer the link to older folks you know or to print it in a church newsletter or bulletin.
{I also write the fictional “Periwinkle Chronicles” blog. One needs a rather strange sense of humor to enjoy it, but occasionally it is slightly funny. It is at http://periwinklechronicles.blogspot.com/}
(If you would prefer to receive either “Christ In Winter” or “Periwinkle Chronicles” via email, just let me know at jmcfarland1721@charter.net, and I’ll put you on the email list.)
Thursday, June 2, 2011
Preparing for the Right Question
CHRIST IN WINTER: Reflections on Faith from a place of winter For the Years of Winter…
Methodist ministers are appointed to a charge, which is one congregation or a circuit of several congregations, by a bishop, for one year at a time. We do not have membership in any one local church or congregation. We belong to a conference, a collection of churches in a geographical area, usually a state, presided over by a bishop. The ministers and laity from each church get together once a year, usually in -June, the annual conference, for inspiration, to transact business, and to receive officially an appointment for the coming church year, which starts July 1.
That means we are a connectional church. I was doing graduate work in Boston one year during the New England Annual Conference. The reporter who covered the conference misunderstood and wrote that Methodism is “a correctional church.” Or maybe it was not a misunderstanding.
The annual conference of the Illinois Great Rivers Conference [1] is meeting this week. Geographically it is 500 miles away from where I now live. Emotionally, it’s right here.
Most clergy feel the connection to others of our ilk very strongly, but unless we live in geographical proximity, we get to see one another only once a year, at Annual Conference. Our far-flung colleagues loved coming to annual conference for the fellowship, but they dreaded seeing me, for I always had a new question each year, especially for my younger friends, something like “What is the most important thing you learned in the past year?” or “What is the most important book you read this year?” They tried to avoid me, but I was like a sore tooth you can’t stop pestering with your tongue. Sooner or later they would sidle up to be interrogated. One year I asked my question of Rod VanScoy, who said, “Darn. I prepared for the wrong question.”
We won’t be able to get away with that when we attend that Great Annual Conference in the Sky [2]. We all know which question to prepare for. Since love is the only thing death does not conquer, the only question there will be, “Did you love?”
JRMcF
1] The lower two-thirds of IL.
2] No, I’ve never heard it called that before, either, but it would make a fun Gospel song.]
The “place of winter” mentioned in the title line is Iron Mountain, in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula, where life is defined by winter even in the summer!
Dave Nash says that the links to my blogs and my email, which I post below, do not work. I apologize for any inconvenience. I have redone them, and so now I hope they work. If they don’t, you can type them in yourself as they are, because they are accurate, even if not workable.
You are always welcome to Forward or Repost or Reprint. It’s okay to acknowledge the source, unless it embarrasses you too much. It is okay to refer the link to older folks you know or to print it in a church newsletter or bulletin.
{I also write the fictional “Periwinkle Chronicles” blog. One needs a rather strange sense of humor to enjoy it, but occasionally it is slightly funny. It is at http://periwinklechronicles.blogspot.com/}
(If you would prefer to receive either “Christ In Winter” or “Periwinkle Chronicles” via email, just let me know at jmcfarland1721@charter.net, and I’ll put you on the email list.)
Methodist ministers are appointed to a charge, which is one congregation or a circuit of several congregations, by a bishop, for one year at a time. We do not have membership in any one local church or congregation. We belong to a conference, a collection of churches in a geographical area, usually a state, presided over by a bishop. The ministers and laity from each church get together once a year, usually in -June, the annual conference, for inspiration, to transact business, and to receive officially an appointment for the coming church year, which starts July 1.
That means we are a connectional church. I was doing graduate work in Boston one year during the New England Annual Conference. The reporter who covered the conference misunderstood and wrote that Methodism is “a correctional church.” Or maybe it was not a misunderstanding.
The annual conference of the Illinois Great Rivers Conference [1] is meeting this week. Geographically it is 500 miles away from where I now live. Emotionally, it’s right here.
Most clergy feel the connection to others of our ilk very strongly, but unless we live in geographical proximity, we get to see one another only once a year, at Annual Conference. Our far-flung colleagues loved coming to annual conference for the fellowship, but they dreaded seeing me, for I always had a new question each year, especially for my younger friends, something like “What is the most important thing you learned in the past year?” or “What is the most important book you read this year?” They tried to avoid me, but I was like a sore tooth you can’t stop pestering with your tongue. Sooner or later they would sidle up to be interrogated. One year I asked my question of Rod VanScoy, who said, “Darn. I prepared for the wrong question.”
We won’t be able to get away with that when we attend that Great Annual Conference in the Sky [2]. We all know which question to prepare for. Since love is the only thing death does not conquer, the only question there will be, “Did you love?”
JRMcF
1] The lower two-thirds of IL.
2] No, I’ve never heard it called that before, either, but it would make a fun Gospel song.]
The “place of winter” mentioned in the title line is Iron Mountain, in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula, where life is defined by winter even in the summer!
Dave Nash says that the links to my blogs and my email, which I post below, do not work. I apologize for any inconvenience. I have redone them, and so now I hope they work. If they don’t, you can type them in yourself as they are, because they are accurate, even if not workable.
You are always welcome to Forward or Repost or Reprint. It’s okay to acknowledge the source, unless it embarrasses you too much. It is okay to refer the link to older folks you know or to print it in a church newsletter or bulletin.
{I also write the fictional “Periwinkle Chronicles” blog. One needs a rather strange sense of humor to enjoy it, but occasionally it is slightly funny. It is at http://periwinklechronicles.blogspot.com/}
(If you would prefer to receive either “Christ In Winter” or “Periwinkle Chronicles” via email, just let me know at jmcfarland1721@charter.net, and I’ll put you on the email list.)
Monday, May 9, 2011
Day-Time Demons
CHRIST IN WINTER: Reflections on Faith from a place of winter For the Years of Winter…
THE DAY-TIME DEMONS
Somewhere C.S. Lewis said that the demons of the day time strike at dawn. In his honor, and because I am on a first-name basis with these demons, I wrote this poem:
The demons of the day time strike at dawning
In the dark and inky yielding of the night
When the muscles of the soul are slack and yawning
When the strength of some good memory’s lost to sight
2
When the moon’s faint light has all but lost its glimmer
When the walls around the soul are weak and bare
They come when faith is slim and hopes are slimmer
When the guards are playing whist or solitaire
3
They come gunning for you even out of season
Doubts and fears and angst their stock in trade
They ask you if your life has any reason
Why despite your work you never made the grade
4
They say when you are hungry grab for bread
Seize the power to rule the world, except yourself
Top the temple with a crown upon your head
Put the shrunken heads of others on your shelf
5
They rally at the first faint glimmer of the dawn
Riding on the last weak gleams of murky moon
You must meet them at the door, drive them o’er the lawn
Else they will vex you ‘til their shift is done at noon
6
Then arrives the sneering demon of the noon time
Full of lunch and primed for slow lugubrious fray
It prepares to rub your soul in dull acedia grime
But that verse I’ll write later in the day
JRMcF
The “place of winter” mentioned in the title line is Iron Mountain, in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula, where life is defined by winter even in the summer!
Dave Nash says that the links to my blogs and my email, which I post below, do not work. I apologize for any inconvenience. I have redone them, and so now I hope they work. If they don’t, you can type them in yourself as they are, because they are accurate, even if not workable.
You are always welcome to Forward or Repost or Reprint. It’s okay to acknowledge the source, unless it embarrasses you too much. It is okay to refer the link to older folks you know or to print it in a church newsletter or bulletin.
{I also write the fictional “Periwinkle Chronicles” blog. One needs a rather strange sense of humor to enjoy it, but occasionally it is slightly funny. It is at http://periwinklechronicles.blogspot.com/}
(If you would prefer to receive either “Christ In Winter” or “Periwinkle Chronicles” via email, just let me know at jmcfarland1721@charter.net, and I’ll put you on the email list.)
Wednesday, May 4, 2011
The Stuff of Life
CHRIST IN WINTER: Reflections on Faith from a place of winter For the Years of Winter…
As Mother’s Day approaches, I’m glad I don’t have to come up with a gift for my mother. I did not notice my mother’s aversion to gifts until her latter years. When I was young, we had no money for gifts, so there were no gifts to react to. Later, when I had some money and she had needs, because she was cold and couldn’t open a can or get out of her chair, we gave her useful gifts, like cozy shawls and electric can openers and catapulting chairs. She always rejected those gifts. “Get those away from me,” she would gasp. “I’ll never use those.”
So we tried non-useful gifts, like pretty blouses and pretty slippers. “Get those away from me,” she would gasp. “I’ll never use those.” And she didn’t. Later we would find gifts we had insisted she keep. They were in the back of a closet, still in their original gift boxes.
When she saw us coming with gifts, she tried to head us off and send us back to the car before we could even present them. Helen is a creative and persistent gift-giver, though, so one Christmas she was slipping gifts into Mother and Dad’s house in the disguise of grocery sacks.
“What do you have in those bags?” Mother demanded to know.
“Just stuff,” Helen replied.
My father said to Mother, “Don’t you recognize stuff when you see it?”
He was always a wit, which my mother enjoyed saying was half-true, but I think that was one of his best lines ever.
I understand better now why my mother did not want stuff, though. Stuff doesn’t just come in the front door. It crawls in the windows and up from the basement and down from the attic until it just overwhelms you. And it’s not just your stuff. There’s stuff that belongs to your children, stuff that is theirs from years gone by and that they should have taken to their own houses by now.
I need to go through my stuff, just to see what stuff I actually have, and probably to get rid of most of it. Stuff is no good unless you know you have it, and I have lots of mystery stuff. It’s no good if you don’t need it, either, and one gift you can give to those who will have to go through your stuff when you kick the bucket—that reminds me, I think I have a bucket somewhere in my stuff, too—a gift only you can gift, is to go through your stuff.
But I’d rather sit on my sofa and write about how I need to go through my stuff than actually go through it. When you’re old and retired and have no schedule, there is always time tomorrow for stuff.
Since this column is supposed to be faith reflections for old people, I suppose I should tie this idea in somehow with going through the stuff of your memories, and the stuff of your soul, to get ready for what comes next, but there’s plenty of time. I’ll do that tomorrow.
Stuff. Who needs it?
JRMcF
The “place of winter” mentioned in the title line is Iron Mountain, in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula, where life is defined by winter even in the summer!
Dave Nash says that the links to my blogs and my email, which I post below, do not work. I apologize for any inconvenience. I have redone them, and so now I hope they work. If they don’t, you can type them in yourself as they are, because they are accurate, even if not workable.
You are always welcome to Forward or Repost or Reprint. It’s okay to acknowledge the source, unless it embarrasses you too much.
{I also write the fictional “Periwinkle Chronicles” blog. One needs a rather strange sense of humor to enjoy it, but occasionally it is slightly funny. It is at http://periwinklechronicles.blogspot.com/}
(If you would prefer to receive either “Christ In Winter” or “Periwinkle Chronicles” via email, just let me know at jmcfarland1721@charter.net, and I’ll put you on the email list.)
As Mother’s Day approaches, I’m glad I don’t have to come up with a gift for my mother. I did not notice my mother’s aversion to gifts until her latter years. When I was young, we had no money for gifts, so there were no gifts to react to. Later, when I had some money and she had needs, because she was cold and couldn’t open a can or get out of her chair, we gave her useful gifts, like cozy shawls and electric can openers and catapulting chairs. She always rejected those gifts. “Get those away from me,” she would gasp. “I’ll never use those.”
So we tried non-useful gifts, like pretty blouses and pretty slippers. “Get those away from me,” she would gasp. “I’ll never use those.” And she didn’t. Later we would find gifts we had insisted she keep. They were in the back of a closet, still in their original gift boxes.
When she saw us coming with gifts, she tried to head us off and send us back to the car before we could even present them. Helen is a creative and persistent gift-giver, though, so one Christmas she was slipping gifts into Mother and Dad’s house in the disguise of grocery sacks.
“What do you have in those bags?” Mother demanded to know.
“Just stuff,” Helen replied.
My father said to Mother, “Don’t you recognize stuff when you see it?”
He was always a wit, which my mother enjoyed saying was half-true, but I think that was one of his best lines ever.
I understand better now why my mother did not want stuff, though. Stuff doesn’t just come in the front door. It crawls in the windows and up from the basement and down from the attic until it just overwhelms you. And it’s not just your stuff. There’s stuff that belongs to your children, stuff that is theirs from years gone by and that they should have taken to their own houses by now.
I need to go through my stuff, just to see what stuff I actually have, and probably to get rid of most of it. Stuff is no good unless you know you have it, and I have lots of mystery stuff. It’s no good if you don’t need it, either, and one gift you can give to those who will have to go through your stuff when you kick the bucket—that reminds me, I think I have a bucket somewhere in my stuff, too—a gift only you can gift, is to go through your stuff.
But I’d rather sit on my sofa and write about how I need to go through my stuff than actually go through it. When you’re old and retired and have no schedule, there is always time tomorrow for stuff.
Since this column is supposed to be faith reflections for old people, I suppose I should tie this idea in somehow with going through the stuff of your memories, and the stuff of your soul, to get ready for what comes next, but there’s plenty of time. I’ll do that tomorrow.
Stuff. Who needs it?
JRMcF
The “place of winter” mentioned in the title line is Iron Mountain, in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula, where life is defined by winter even in the summer!
Dave Nash says that the links to my blogs and my email, which I post below, do not work. I apologize for any inconvenience. I have redone them, and so now I hope they work. If they don’t, you can type them in yourself as they are, because they are accurate, even if not workable.
You are always welcome to Forward or Repost or Reprint. It’s okay to acknowledge the source, unless it embarrasses you too much.
{I also write the fictional “Periwinkle Chronicles” blog. One needs a rather strange sense of humor to enjoy it, but occasionally it is slightly funny. It is at http://periwinklechronicles.blogspot.com/}
(If you would prefer to receive either “Christ In Winter” or “Periwinkle Chronicles” via email, just let me know at jmcfarland1721@charter.net, and I’ll put you on the email list.)
Wednesday, April 27, 2011
Getting a License to Go On
CHRIST IN WINTER: Reflections on Faith from a place of winter For the Years of Winter…
Getting Your License To Go On
In support of the doctrine of Original Sin, St. Augustine said that “the so-called innocence of children is more a matter of weakness of limb than purity of heart.” Anyone who has ever worked in a church nursery can attest to the accuracy of that observation.
I suspect that the so-called wisdom of old age is also more a matter of fatigue of limbs than greater intelligence of brain. It’s a lot harder to do stupid things in a recliner.
I sometimes wonder from whence comes this idea that old people should be venerated because of their wisdom. Some of the meanest, nastiest, greediest, most selfish, most self-centered people I have known were in their “golden” years.
Daughter Katie recently took a nursing license exam, on computer. When your score is high enough to pass, the computer program stops. It doesn’t care what score you might get if you go on. All it asks is, “Do you know enough to qualify for a license?” There is no competition with others to see who can score highest. The only competition is with yourself, to see if you know enough.
I wonder if maybe that’s how God has this life set up. The oldest people are actually the stupidest, the ones who haven’t answered enough questions correctly yet to qualify for a license to go on.
JRMcF
The “place of winter” mentioned in the title line is Iron Mountain, in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula, where life is defined by winter even in the summer!
Dave Nash says that the links to my blogs and my email, which I post below, do not work. I apologize for any inconvenience. I have redone them, and so now I hope they work. If they don’t, you can type them in yourself as they are, because they are accurate, even if not workable.
You are always welcome to Forward or Repost or Reprint. It’s okay to acknowledge the source, unless it embarrasses you too much.
{I also write the fictional “Periwinkle Chronicles” blog. One needs a rather strange sense of humor to enjoy it, but occasionally it is slightly funny. It is at http://periwinklechronicles.blogspot.com/}
(If you would prefer to receive either “Christ In Winter” or “Periwinkle Chronicles” via email, just let me know at jmcfarland1721@charter.net, and I’ll put you on the email list.)
Getting Your License To Go On
In support of the doctrine of Original Sin, St. Augustine said that “the so-called innocence of children is more a matter of weakness of limb than purity of heart.” Anyone who has ever worked in a church nursery can attest to the accuracy of that observation.
I suspect that the so-called wisdom of old age is also more a matter of fatigue of limbs than greater intelligence of brain. It’s a lot harder to do stupid things in a recliner.
I sometimes wonder from whence comes this idea that old people should be venerated because of their wisdom. Some of the meanest, nastiest, greediest, most selfish, most self-centered people I have known were in their “golden” years.
Daughter Katie recently took a nursing license exam, on computer. When your score is high enough to pass, the computer program stops. It doesn’t care what score you might get if you go on. All it asks is, “Do you know enough to qualify for a license?” There is no competition with others to see who can score highest. The only competition is with yourself, to see if you know enough.
I wonder if maybe that’s how God has this life set up. The oldest people are actually the stupidest, the ones who haven’t answered enough questions correctly yet to qualify for a license to go on.
JRMcF
The “place of winter” mentioned in the title line is Iron Mountain, in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula, where life is defined by winter even in the summer!
Dave Nash says that the links to my blogs and my email, which I post below, do not work. I apologize for any inconvenience. I have redone them, and so now I hope they work. If they don’t, you can type them in yourself as they are, because they are accurate, even if not workable.
You are always welcome to Forward or Repost or Reprint. It’s okay to acknowledge the source, unless it embarrasses you too much.
{I also write the fictional “Periwinkle Chronicles” blog. One needs a rather strange sense of humor to enjoy it, but occasionally it is slightly funny. It is at http://periwinklechronicles.blogspot.com/}
(If you would prefer to receive either “Christ In Winter” or “Periwinkle Chronicles” via email, just let me know at jmcfarland1721@charter.net, and I’ll put you on the email list.)
Wednesday, April 20, 2011
A Song for Good Friday
CHRIST IN WINTER: Reflections on Faith from a place of winter For the Years of Winter…
Jack Newsome and I were sitting around one night with Will Campbell and Doug Marlette. There were about 30 of us, in an easy-chair sort of room. Will picked up his guitar and began to sing…
"I guess you know Jethro went crazy, we’ve all been crazy sometimes
They fixed up his lungs and his fever, but they could not fix up his mind
He married a beautiful woman, of women they say she’s a pearl
She gave her heart to Jethro, and her body to the whole damn world."
Jack and I were at a conference at Lake Junaluska, NC. Doug was a Pulitzer Prize editorial cartoonist. Will never won any prizes for his career as a totally committed grace-full civil rights activist, but he should have. Doug was also a novelist and drew the comic strip Kudzu, which featured a preacher, Will B. Dunn, who looked and dressed just like Will D. Campbell, who went on strumming and singing…
"Well Jethro had someone to talk to, they were monsters and little green men
He never talked to his woman, naw, he spent all his time with his friends
In the evenings she’d drive off and leave him, she’d toss back her long pretty curls,
She gave her heart to Jethro, and her body to the whole damn world."
Doug stepped up to a big pad of paper on an easel and began to sketch out pictures of Jethro and his wife as Will continued to sing…
"Some friends came and begged her to leave him, said “Jethro belongs in a home.”
She said, “My heart is Jethro’s, but my God-given body is my own.”
Now some of her lovers were strangers, she gave everybody a whirl.
She gave her heart to Jethro, and her body to the whole damn world."
Will went to Southern Baptist Seminary in Louisville, which also produced Wally Amos Criswell, the long-time pastor of First Baptist in Dallas, who was as opposed to rights for black folks in the 1950s and 60s as Will was committed to them. But Will wasn’t just committed to black folks. He was committed to grace for EVERYBODY, and took a lot of criticism for becoming pastor to the KKK at the same time he was working for an end to racial segregation for the National Council of Churches. “Mr. Jesus died for the bigots, too,” he said. [2] He used to sit around with the KKK and strum his guitar and sing, the way he was doing for us…
"I know some will condemn me for writing this song of a man and his wife
A man’s not writing if he can’t relate all the things he sees in his life [3]
I know some will condemn me for cursin, but much can be said for this girl
Who gave her heart to ol’ Jethro, and her body to the whole damn world."
You see, Jethro’s wife was the night nurse in the ER. Jethro couldn’t understand that love was not a possession, but a gift to be given to the whole world, which is indeed damned until the gift is given.
I love "Were You There," but I think this is the best of all Good Friday songs. Maybe I’ll call Jack this Friday, and we’ll sing about ol’ Jethro…
JRMcF
The song is by Tom T. Hall
1] Doug was a southern boy, like Will, and along with the Red Clay Ramblers turned Kudzu into a musical. He died in a car accident in Mississippi when he was only 58. Helen and I saw the Red Clay Ramblers, as part of "Fool Moon," the Broadway production featuring Bill Irwin and David Shiner, the amazing and wonderful "new circus" performers. We were in NYC to record the audio version of my NOW THAT I HAVE CANCER I AM WHOLE…
2] Will is the author of 18 books.
3] This line goes out especially to all my writing friends.
***
The “place of winter” mentioned in the title line is Iron Mountain, in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula, where life is defined by winter even in the summer!
Dave Nash says that the links to my blogs and my email, which I post below, do not work. I apologize for any inconvenience. I have redone them, and so now I hope they work. If they don’t, you can type them in yourself as they are, because they are accurate, even if not workable.
You are always welcome to Forward or Repost or Reprint. It’s okay to acknowledge the source, unless it embarrasses you too much.
{I also write the fictional “Periwinkle Chronicles” blog. One needs a rather strange sense of humor to enjoy it, but occasionally it is slightly funny. It is at http://periwinklechronicles.blogspot.com/}
(If you would prefer to receive either “Christ In Winter” or “Periwinkle Chronicles” via email, just let me know at jmcfarland1721@charter.net, and I’ll put you on the email list.)
Jack Newsome and I were sitting around one night with Will Campbell and Doug Marlette. There were about 30 of us, in an easy-chair sort of room. Will picked up his guitar and began to sing…
"I guess you know Jethro went crazy, we’ve all been crazy sometimes
They fixed up his lungs and his fever, but they could not fix up his mind
He married a beautiful woman, of women they say she’s a pearl
She gave her heart to Jethro, and her body to the whole damn world."
Jack and I were at a conference at Lake Junaluska, NC. Doug was a Pulitzer Prize editorial cartoonist. Will never won any prizes for his career as a totally committed grace-full civil rights activist, but he should have. Doug was also a novelist and drew the comic strip Kudzu, which featured a preacher, Will B. Dunn, who looked and dressed just like Will D. Campbell, who went on strumming and singing…
"Well Jethro had someone to talk to, they were monsters and little green men
He never talked to his woman, naw, he spent all his time with his friends
In the evenings she’d drive off and leave him, she’d toss back her long pretty curls,
She gave her heart to Jethro, and her body to the whole damn world."
Doug stepped up to a big pad of paper on an easel and began to sketch out pictures of Jethro and his wife as Will continued to sing…
"Some friends came and begged her to leave him, said “Jethro belongs in a home.”
She said, “My heart is Jethro’s, but my God-given body is my own.”
Now some of her lovers were strangers, she gave everybody a whirl.
She gave her heart to Jethro, and her body to the whole damn world."
Will went to Southern Baptist Seminary in Louisville, which also produced Wally Amos Criswell, the long-time pastor of First Baptist in Dallas, who was as opposed to rights for black folks in the 1950s and 60s as Will was committed to them. But Will wasn’t just committed to black folks. He was committed to grace for EVERYBODY, and took a lot of criticism for becoming pastor to the KKK at the same time he was working for an end to racial segregation for the National Council of Churches. “Mr. Jesus died for the bigots, too,” he said. [2] He used to sit around with the KKK and strum his guitar and sing, the way he was doing for us…
"I know some will condemn me for writing this song of a man and his wife
A man’s not writing if he can’t relate all the things he sees in his life [3]
I know some will condemn me for cursin, but much can be said for this girl
Who gave her heart to ol’ Jethro, and her body to the whole damn world."
You see, Jethro’s wife was the night nurse in the ER. Jethro couldn’t understand that love was not a possession, but a gift to be given to the whole world, which is indeed damned until the gift is given.
I love "Were You There," but I think this is the best of all Good Friday songs. Maybe I’ll call Jack this Friday, and we’ll sing about ol’ Jethro…
JRMcF
The song is by Tom T. Hall
1] Doug was a southern boy, like Will, and along with the Red Clay Ramblers turned Kudzu into a musical. He died in a car accident in Mississippi when he was only 58. Helen and I saw the Red Clay Ramblers, as part of "Fool Moon," the Broadway production featuring Bill Irwin and David Shiner, the amazing and wonderful "new circus" performers. We were in NYC to record the audio version of my NOW THAT I HAVE CANCER I AM WHOLE…
2] Will is the author of 18 books.
3] This line goes out especially to all my writing friends.
***
The “place of winter” mentioned in the title line is Iron Mountain, in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula, where life is defined by winter even in the summer!
Dave Nash says that the links to my blogs and my email, which I post below, do not work. I apologize for any inconvenience. I have redone them, and so now I hope they work. If they don’t, you can type them in yourself as they are, because they are accurate, even if not workable.
You are always welcome to Forward or Repost or Reprint. It’s okay to acknowledge the source, unless it embarrasses you too much.
{I also write the fictional “Periwinkle Chronicles” blog. One needs a rather strange sense of humor to enjoy it, but occasionally it is slightly funny. It is at http://periwinklechronicles.blogspot.com/}
(If you would prefer to receive either “Christ In Winter” or “Periwinkle Chronicles” via email, just let me know at jmcfarland1721@charter.net, and I’ll put you on the email list.)
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