CHRIST IN WINTER: Reflections on Faith from a place of winter For the Years of Winter…
Helen and I took off our long underwear yesterday. Actually we did it last April 2. It just seems like yesterday. Now it’s time to put it on again.
Perhaps I shouldn’t say “we took it off” then. Better would be: We “stopped wearing” long underwear April 2. Saying we took it off then indicates that we had not taken it off at all since we put it on last Dec. Helen would be mortified to have people think we did not change underwear all winter, because she did.
Long underwear is supposed to be donned on Dec. 1 and doffed on April 1. We did not change on April 1 because we had a big snowfall that day. We put it on last Dec. 2 because we did not have a big snowfall Dec. 1.
Helen’s father, Tank Karr, always said that spring starts March 1. In the UP there is no such thing as spring; we simply think in terms of short underwear season.
Sometimes the weather fools the underwear. We had to put our long underwear back on last April. In addition to our big April Fool’s snow, we had another 7 inches April 9 and another two on April 11. UP here, April can be not only the cruelest month but the snowiest.
We learned about long underwear season from Arch Davidson of the Stanwood, IA Presbyterian Church, which I pastored while a doctoral student at U of IA. It was the first Sunday in December, which meant communion. It also, that year, meant a record high temperature of around eighty degrees. Arch was dressed in his gray three-piece church suit. As we sang the final hymn, he wavered and began to pass out. He was too hot. Under his church suit was his union suit. Arch was a man of conviction and predestination. It was Dec. 1, and by hokies, that meant long underwear.
Cold is a particular concern of old people. As a pastor, I have visited in the homes of many old people in the winter. I did not wear long underwear then, but I had winter-weight stuff on. I often had to cut the visit short and get out because the thermostat was cranked up to eighty degrees. I never felt the need to go to Florida in the winter; I could just go to Maple Adams’ house.
Many old people go in the wintertime to where the air is hot. I think long underwear is a better solution, for when you are old, you have less tolerance for hot air as well as less tolerance for cold air.
The cold does not seem to affect young people as much. I cannot remember being young myself, but I observe young people. Our granddaughter, Brigid, goes around in short sleeves and bare feet during long underwear season.
There is also an emotional coldness that comes with age. Neither cranking up the thermostat or fleeing to Florida helps that much. I recall talking with a man whose wife had died suddenly. “I just feel cold,” he said. His emotional long underwear had been removed.
That happens each time someone we love is taken from us. That person who kept us warm with love and laughter, who held us close when we shivered at the ways of the world, is gone. We are without the long underwear on which we counted.
I am told that the last test for soldiers in training for arctic duty is to be dropped alone into the arctic wilderness, in regular fatigues, clutching their arctic pack. They will not survive unless they strip completely naked, in brutal temperatures, and don the survival pack.
We do not survive in this cold world without the right long underwear. I am tempted from time to time to try to get along without it. Then some layer of my long underwear is taken away, and I realize how cold I am without it. I give thanks for Filson and L.L. Bean. I save my greatest thanks, however, for those who wrap me in the warmth of love, even though now that warmth comes, from many of them, not in presence, but in memory and in hope.
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!
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
Tuesday, December 6, 2011
Friday, December 2, 2011
Occupy the World
CHRIST IN WINTER: Reflections on Faith For the Years of Winter…
Folk-singer Jim Manley and I go back a long way together, but I’m sort of sorry that I brought him six thousand miles to sing "Raggedy Band" at IL State U 45 years ago. Now he seems to think we’re kindred spirits, so he sent me his new environment-hugging CD, "Pilgrim on a Brave New Planet: Just and faithful living in a tough and changing world."
Apparently he is such a pilgrim. It’s also obvious he wants me to be such a pilgrim. But I’m too old to be a pilgrim. The problem with blaming old age is that Jim’s older than I am. Who does he think he is, Abraham? [1] Some Old Testament prophet claiming that “old men shall dream dreams?” [2]
The first track is Jim’s famous "Take Off Your Shoes." Great song. I hum it all the time. He wrote some new, very specific lines about taking care of God’s holy ground, but I didn’t pay much attention, because I knew the original lyrics. The second track is "Come, Old Pilgrim." That appealed to me. I figured it would be a nice ditty about old folks gathering around the fire to keep warm as we tell stories of our past victories over the forces of darkness. Wrong! What does he mean, “We’ve pleasured in green pastures as we’ve lived beyond our means?” Now he’s quit preachin’ and gone to meddlin’. [3]
On through the tracks he keeps meddlin, in very specific ways:
When “Drill, baby, drill,” turns to “Spill, baby, spill,” God’s counting on me, God’s counting on you.
This is how the world attacks, with car exhaust and chimney stacks.
Feel the temperature arising, no more time for compromising, endless data analyzing, what more do we need?
“Too big to fail” demands revising/New needs prove that “less is more.”
He even got Bob Dylan to let him use "The Times They Are A-Changin’" and add a couple of Jim’s own verses. So gather round people, rise up and stand, Unite with each other on earth’s shifting sand…
I thought old people got to rest a little bit. Shouldn’t young people be responsible for the stewardship of God’s earth now? Everybody? Sheesh!
For earth’s sake, don’t buy this CD or its accompanying songbook at http://manleymusic.com/index.htm, or you’ll be rolling your walker out to the barricades. On the other hand, if each of us bought a copy and sent it to our Senator or Representative…
Please excuse me. I have to stop occupying the sofa and go Occupy the World.
JRMcF
I have told the story of how Jim and I have interacted through the years in “Spirit of Gentleness,” the title of Jim’s most-sung song, in Christ in Winter for Dec. 13, 2010.
1] Abraham was 75 when God told him to leave his native land and strike out for “The Promised Land.” Genesis 12:4.
2] Joel 2:28. “Then afterward I will pour out my Spirit on all flesh; your sons and your daughters shall prophesy. Your old men shall dream dreams, and your young men shall see visions.” NRSV
3] Old preacher joke about the evangelist who condemned booze and the old farmer yelled Amen. He condemned gambling and the farmer yelled Amen. He condemned chewing tobacco and the old farmer yelled, “Now he’s quit preachin’ and gone to meddlin’.”
{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.)
Folk-singer Jim Manley and I go back a long way together, but I’m sort of sorry that I brought him six thousand miles to sing "Raggedy Band" at IL State U 45 years ago. Now he seems to think we’re kindred spirits, so he sent me his new environment-hugging CD, "Pilgrim on a Brave New Planet: Just and faithful living in a tough and changing world."
Apparently he is such a pilgrim. It’s also obvious he wants me to be such a pilgrim. But I’m too old to be a pilgrim. The problem with blaming old age is that Jim’s older than I am. Who does he think he is, Abraham? [1] Some Old Testament prophet claiming that “old men shall dream dreams?” [2]
The first track is Jim’s famous "Take Off Your Shoes." Great song. I hum it all the time. He wrote some new, very specific lines about taking care of God’s holy ground, but I didn’t pay much attention, because I knew the original lyrics. The second track is "Come, Old Pilgrim." That appealed to me. I figured it would be a nice ditty about old folks gathering around the fire to keep warm as we tell stories of our past victories over the forces of darkness. Wrong! What does he mean, “We’ve pleasured in green pastures as we’ve lived beyond our means?” Now he’s quit preachin’ and gone to meddlin’. [3]
On through the tracks he keeps meddlin, in very specific ways:
When “Drill, baby, drill,” turns to “Spill, baby, spill,” God’s counting on me, God’s counting on you.
This is how the world attacks, with car exhaust and chimney stacks.
Feel the temperature arising, no more time for compromising, endless data analyzing, what more do we need?
“Too big to fail” demands revising/New needs prove that “less is more.”
He even got Bob Dylan to let him use "The Times They Are A-Changin’" and add a couple of Jim’s own verses. So gather round people, rise up and stand, Unite with each other on earth’s shifting sand…
I thought old people got to rest a little bit. Shouldn’t young people be responsible for the stewardship of God’s earth now? Everybody? Sheesh!
For earth’s sake, don’t buy this CD or its accompanying songbook at http://manleymusic.com/index.htm, or you’ll be rolling your walker out to the barricades. On the other hand, if each of us bought a copy and sent it to our Senator or Representative…
Please excuse me. I have to stop occupying the sofa and go Occupy the World.
JRMcF
I have told the story of how Jim and I have interacted through the years in “Spirit of Gentleness,” the title of Jim’s most-sung song, in Christ in Winter for Dec. 13, 2010.
1] Abraham was 75 when God told him to leave his native land and strike out for “The Promised Land.” Genesis 12:4.
2] Joel 2:28. “Then afterward I will pour out my Spirit on all flesh; your sons and your daughters shall prophesy. Your old men shall dream dreams, and your young men shall see visions.” NRSV
3] Old preacher joke about the evangelist who condemned booze and the old farmer yelled Amen. He condemned gambling and the farmer yelled Amen. He condemned chewing tobacco and the old farmer yelled, “Now he’s quit preachin’ and gone to meddlin’.”
{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, November 28, 2011
The Missing Piece--An After-Thanksgiving Poem
CHRIST IN WINTER: Reflections on Faith from a place of winter For the Years of Winter…
THE MISSING PIECE—An after-Thanksgiving poem
It is two days after Thanksgiving
And I am still thankful
For turkey and dressing and cranberry salad
And pie
Especially pie
But not potatoes
They were not on the menu this year
And for the jigsaw puzzle
We worked together
[An old-fashioned winter scene]
One piece at a time
Until it was complete
Except one piece was missing
My wife said it might be someone at the factory
Playing a cruel joke
[I suspect the cat]
My wife said it would not be so bad
If it were just a plain piece
Just blue sky
With one innie and two outies
Or just white snow
With innies and outies alternating
As they sometimes do
But the hole
Was right in the middle of the puzzle
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!
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.)
THE MISSING PIECE—An after-Thanksgiving poem
It is two days after Thanksgiving
And I am still thankful
For turkey and dressing and cranberry salad
And pie
Especially pie
But not potatoes
They were not on the menu this year
And for the jigsaw puzzle
We worked together
[An old-fashioned winter scene]
One piece at a time
Until it was complete
Except one piece was missing
My wife said it might be someone at the factory
Playing a cruel joke
[I suspect the cat]
My wife said it would not be so bad
If it were just a plain piece
Just blue sky
With one innie and two outies
Or just white snow
With innies and outies alternating
As they sometimes do
But the hole
Was right in the middle of the puzzle
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!
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.)
Friday, November 18, 2011
The Sound of Memory
CHRIST IN WINTER: Reflections on Faith from a place of winter for the Years of Winter…
THE SOUND OF MEMORY
We picked up Grandson Joe home from school yesterday. He was grinning as he got into our "Inferno Red" PT Cruiser. He is in 6th grade and has just become a member of the band. He got his new clarinet yesterday. He already plays mandolin and ukulele, but those are not band instruments, even though he thinks they should be. He says he chose the clarinet for band just because he likes the sound, which is a very sound reason for choosing an instrument.
When we got to his house, I helped him assemble the clarinet. I knew how to do it, for I, too, was a 6th grade clarinetist. We heard the first sound he made on it. We liked the sound.
I’m not sure I even knew what a clarinet sounded like when I was in 6th grade. I just knew I wanted to be in the band; I wanted to belong. Also, there was something in me that wanted to be a part of making music with others.
I could sing, and did, especially with my older sister, Mary Virginia, as we washed the dishes together. "Down In the Valley" was a favorite. But I wanted to be in the band, too.
We lived on a farm and did not have a car. Starting in 7th grade, I walked and hitch-hiked back and forth to town, but in 6th grade I couldn’t do anything that required staying after school. Transportation was school bus in and school bus out. But band had its own period in the school day. I could be in the band and still ride the bus home and do evening chores. I could be a part of something, like the other kids. I could make music.
But my parents said "no band." They were reluctant to say it, but they had no choice. We didn’t have money for an instrument. I can remember standing out in our back yard, trying to hold back tears. I knew that we lived in poverty, but that was the first time I really understood that my life would be limited by it.
Mary V. came out to talk with me, as she always did when I was unhappy, from the time I was five and she was nine and she talked me out of running away from home. “Let’s see what we can figure out,” she said.
I had a war bond, a gift from Grandma Mac, I suspect, that I could cash in for $20, and a nickel and a dime at a time, we came up with another $5. I became a clarinetist not by choice but simply because one of our teachers, Mr. Grubb, had a used one for sale for $25. It was metal.
It was the only silver-colored clarinet in the band. All the others were black, wood or ebonite. My metal clarinet stuck out, not only for its looks but for its sound.
Thousands of metal clarinets were produced in the first third of the 20th century. They had two good qualities: 1] They were not damaged by weather and so could be used outdoors in marching bands. 2] They could be easily and cheaply mass produced.
The second quality was their downfall. Professional quality metal clarinets had as good a sound as wooden instruments, but the market was flooded with cheap clarinets designed primarily for students. Those did not produce a very good sound, so metal clarinets in general developed a bad reputation. As soon as World War II was over, metal clarinets were over, too. Except for mine.
Together we produced some very strange sounds, that metal clarinet and I. After a year or so, the band director said the clarinet needed a makeover, new pads and such, or it could not remain in the band. It just didn’t sound right. The makeover would cost more than we had paid for it.
But, he said, we need a second bassoonist.
Bassoons and tubas were so expensive that no one could buy one personally. [1] The school furnished them. I could play bassoon and the only cost would be the double reeds, available at Troutman’s Drug Store. I became a bassoonist. Because I was the poorest kid in the band, I played the most expensive instrument.
I like the notes that come from Joe’s new black clarinet, but to this day, when I hear a band or orchestra, I listen for the bassoons. I like that sound.
JRMcF
1] Wikipedia says current prices are $8,000 to $25,000.
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!
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 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.)
THE SOUND OF MEMORY
We picked up Grandson Joe home from school yesterday. He was grinning as he got into our "Inferno Red" PT Cruiser. He is in 6th grade and has just become a member of the band. He got his new clarinet yesterday. He already plays mandolin and ukulele, but those are not band instruments, even though he thinks they should be. He says he chose the clarinet for band just because he likes the sound, which is a very sound reason for choosing an instrument.
When we got to his house, I helped him assemble the clarinet. I knew how to do it, for I, too, was a 6th grade clarinetist. We heard the first sound he made on it. We liked the sound.
I’m not sure I even knew what a clarinet sounded like when I was in 6th grade. I just knew I wanted to be in the band; I wanted to belong. Also, there was something in me that wanted to be a part of making music with others.
I could sing, and did, especially with my older sister, Mary Virginia, as we washed the dishes together. "Down In the Valley" was a favorite. But I wanted to be in the band, too.
We lived on a farm and did not have a car. Starting in 7th grade, I walked and hitch-hiked back and forth to town, but in 6th grade I couldn’t do anything that required staying after school. Transportation was school bus in and school bus out. But band had its own period in the school day. I could be in the band and still ride the bus home and do evening chores. I could be a part of something, like the other kids. I could make music.
But my parents said "no band." They were reluctant to say it, but they had no choice. We didn’t have money for an instrument. I can remember standing out in our back yard, trying to hold back tears. I knew that we lived in poverty, but that was the first time I really understood that my life would be limited by it.
Mary V. came out to talk with me, as she always did when I was unhappy, from the time I was five and she was nine and she talked me out of running away from home. “Let’s see what we can figure out,” she said.
I had a war bond, a gift from Grandma Mac, I suspect, that I could cash in for $20, and a nickel and a dime at a time, we came up with another $5. I became a clarinetist not by choice but simply because one of our teachers, Mr. Grubb, had a used one for sale for $25. It was metal.
It was the only silver-colored clarinet in the band. All the others were black, wood or ebonite. My metal clarinet stuck out, not only for its looks but for its sound.
Thousands of metal clarinets were produced in the first third of the 20th century. They had two good qualities: 1] They were not damaged by weather and so could be used outdoors in marching bands. 2] They could be easily and cheaply mass produced.
The second quality was their downfall. Professional quality metal clarinets had as good a sound as wooden instruments, but the market was flooded with cheap clarinets designed primarily for students. Those did not produce a very good sound, so metal clarinets in general developed a bad reputation. As soon as World War II was over, metal clarinets were over, too. Except for mine.
Together we produced some very strange sounds, that metal clarinet and I. After a year or so, the band director said the clarinet needed a makeover, new pads and such, or it could not remain in the band. It just didn’t sound right. The makeover would cost more than we had paid for it.
But, he said, we need a second bassoonist.
Bassoons and tubas were so expensive that no one could buy one personally. [1] The school furnished them. I could play bassoon and the only cost would be the double reeds, available at Troutman’s Drug Store. I became a bassoonist. Because I was the poorest kid in the band, I played the most expensive instrument.
I like the notes that come from Joe’s new black clarinet, but to this day, when I hear a band or orchestra, I listen for the bassoons. I like that sound.
JRMcF
1] Wikipedia says current prices are $8,000 to $25,000.
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!
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 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.)
Tuesday, November 1, 2011
Sugar Deficit of the Soul
CHRIST IN WINTER: Reflections on Faith from a place of winter For the Years of Winter…
I have never been trick-or-treating. I did not realize that until Helen asked me about it on our way home last night.
We had gone to the grandchild house to do our usual duty, handing out candy to princesses and monsters and even a deep-sea diver, while Katie and Patrick walked a discreet distance behind Brigid and Joe as they rang doorbells at other houses to collect enough candy to last at least until Christmas candy canes and chocolate oranges replaced it.
This year, though, was different. Joe, dressed as an evil chef, and his friend, Zach, a gorilla, went out on their own, with no need or desire for trailing parents, and Brigid, a sophisticated high schooler now, did candy handouts along with her parents. Nothing for Helen and me to do except sit on the sofa and admonish the dog for barking whenever the door bell rang.
I have been trick-or-treating with our children, of course, doing the trailing-parent thing, standing out in the street chatting with other young fathers while Cinderella and Daniel Boone and Spiderman went from door to door. But I have never myself rung a doorbell and threatened mayhem if I were not bought off with a Milky Way or a Jesus tract.
Halloween was not a big thing from 1941-1947, the years when I was a kid in Indianapolis. Those were war years, and no material was available for costumes, no sugar for candy. All celebrations were muted, at best. When I was ten we moved to the country and didn’t have a car, so trick-or-treating wasn’t even a possibility.
Now I wonder if the absence of trick-or-treating as a child might be the source of all my problems—the inability to beg or threaten or disguise myself or walk at night without stumbling, a sugar deficit of the soul. It explains a lot about my inadequacies.
On the other hand, it might explain why I am not afraid of ghosts or goblins, of zombies or vampires, of skeletons or monsters. Or death.
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!
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.)
I have never been trick-or-treating. I did not realize that until Helen asked me about it on our way home last night.
We had gone to the grandchild house to do our usual duty, handing out candy to princesses and monsters and even a deep-sea diver, while Katie and Patrick walked a discreet distance behind Brigid and Joe as they rang doorbells at other houses to collect enough candy to last at least until Christmas candy canes and chocolate oranges replaced it.
This year, though, was different. Joe, dressed as an evil chef, and his friend, Zach, a gorilla, went out on their own, with no need or desire for trailing parents, and Brigid, a sophisticated high schooler now, did candy handouts along with her parents. Nothing for Helen and me to do except sit on the sofa and admonish the dog for barking whenever the door bell rang.
I have been trick-or-treating with our children, of course, doing the trailing-parent thing, standing out in the street chatting with other young fathers while Cinderella and Daniel Boone and Spiderman went from door to door. But I have never myself rung a doorbell and threatened mayhem if I were not bought off with a Milky Way or a Jesus tract.
Halloween was not a big thing from 1941-1947, the years when I was a kid in Indianapolis. Those were war years, and no material was available for costumes, no sugar for candy. All celebrations were muted, at best. When I was ten we moved to the country and didn’t have a car, so trick-or-treating wasn’t even a possibility.
Now I wonder if the absence of trick-or-treating as a child might be the source of all my problems—the inability to beg or threaten or disguise myself or walk at night without stumbling, a sugar deficit of the soul. It explains a lot about my inadequacies.
On the other hand, it might explain why I am not afraid of ghosts or goblins, of zombies or vampires, of skeletons or monsters. Or death.
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!
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, October 26, 2011
CAMO GOD
CHRIST IN WINTER: Reflections on Faith from a place of winter For the Years of Winter…
Dave and Maggie Lamb came UP from IL to see us a month or so ago. I officiated at their wedding fifty years ago, and they apparently wanted me to know that I had done a good job.
Dave and I were high school friends. He was the Art Editor of “Oak Barks,” the mimeographed [1] newspaper of Oakland City, IN, High School, when I was the Editor. We were part of a group, along with Bob Robling and Donald Gene Taylor, that occasionally filled in on Sundays for absent preachers. We sang as a quartet, and I preached. I was very proud when Dave and Maggie asked me, while still in seminary, to officiate at their wedding.
I went to IN U to become a newspaper reporter. He went to U of IL to become a graphic artist. I ended up as a preacher, and he ended up as the premier “mad man” of the last third of the 20th century.
It was Dave who gave the name of “The Me Generation” to the 1970s. He didn’t cause it, but he recognized it, and so he named it, starting the decade with his “Me and My RC” ad campaign. He created the “Bring out your best” ads for Bud Light, plus their Olympic ads, that won awards at the Cannes film festival, plus many of the other iconic ads of the latter part of the 20th century.
When I have talked about him in the past, I always started with those ads. When they were UP to visit, though, Maggie told us about how he once explained to Frank Sinatra, calling on those old quartet days, how to sing. He was directing an ad for Michelob that featured Sinatra, and explained to Old Blueyes, who was acting more like Old Jerkface, “Then you walk over here, singing as you go, Just the way you look tonight…” Dave himself singing it, to be sure that Frank, as Dave calls him, got it. [I was going to say that he had to take Frank by the arm and lead him to his spot, since Frank may have been using the sponsor’s product already, while explaining how to sing, but Dave doesn’t want anyone to think he was pushing Frank around, as The Chairman of the Board still has friends in low places.]
Now I start my stories of Dave with “I have a friend who taught Sinatra how to sing.” [2]
Dave recently mused about the name of this blog. He said…
In the fall season about two years ago we took our grand kids in Arizona to a Pro Bass store. You know, the frozen zoo, with a hundred stuffed animals and fish in giant glass tanks being leered at by would be anglers. Close to the front door to the right was a book section. (Not very complicated types of reading material...mostly pictures.) But as I examined it closer something attracted, or un-attracted my attention. It was a camouflaged book almost causing it’s 9x12 x 2 and1/2 dimensions to disappear in the overall Pro Bass ambiance.
It drew me closer. What great hunter’s secrets were worth this effort?
What price would be put on something of such intellectual importance,
that obviously was meant to not gather dust but become at peace with it?
Drawing closer there was the glint of a small sophisticated font embossed in gold. The title said “HOLY BIBLE”.
Christ not in just Winter, but camouflaged! Along with Job, Moses and Mary! My first thought was of the “boys” out there in the blind reading it between beers waiting for their appointed task of obliterating mother nature. Such comfort.
I refuse to go to Pro Bass now. It has made me feel so undeserving of my Lord’s grace. I am also afraid to go to church . One never knows what might really be in there.
Dave Lamb
***
True to his persuasive abilities, Dave has made me afraid to go to church, too. I’m too old to encounter grace face to face, and our pastor seems determined to take the camo off the Gospel.
JRMcF
1] Recently Helen and I were eating with a couple of nineteen-year-olds at a family gathering. Have you ever tried to explain a mimeograph machine to someone who’s never heard of them?
2] OK, so I didn’t start with that this time, but I will from now on.
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!
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.)
Dave and Maggie Lamb came UP from IL to see us a month or so ago. I officiated at their wedding fifty years ago, and they apparently wanted me to know that I had done a good job.
Dave and I were high school friends. He was the Art Editor of “Oak Barks,” the mimeographed [1] newspaper of Oakland City, IN, High School, when I was the Editor. We were part of a group, along with Bob Robling and Donald Gene Taylor, that occasionally filled in on Sundays for absent preachers. We sang as a quartet, and I preached. I was very proud when Dave and Maggie asked me, while still in seminary, to officiate at their wedding.
I went to IN U to become a newspaper reporter. He went to U of IL to become a graphic artist. I ended up as a preacher, and he ended up as the premier “mad man” of the last third of the 20th century.
It was Dave who gave the name of “The Me Generation” to the 1970s. He didn’t cause it, but he recognized it, and so he named it, starting the decade with his “Me and My RC” ad campaign. He created the “Bring out your best” ads for Bud Light, plus their Olympic ads, that won awards at the Cannes film festival, plus many of the other iconic ads of the latter part of the 20th century.
When I have talked about him in the past, I always started with those ads. When they were UP to visit, though, Maggie told us about how he once explained to Frank Sinatra, calling on those old quartet days, how to sing. He was directing an ad for Michelob that featured Sinatra, and explained to Old Blueyes, who was acting more like Old Jerkface, “Then you walk over here, singing as you go, Just the way you look tonight…” Dave himself singing it, to be sure that Frank, as Dave calls him, got it. [I was going to say that he had to take Frank by the arm and lead him to his spot, since Frank may have been using the sponsor’s product already, while explaining how to sing, but Dave doesn’t want anyone to think he was pushing Frank around, as The Chairman of the Board still has friends in low places.]
Now I start my stories of Dave with “I have a friend who taught Sinatra how to sing.” [2]
Dave recently mused about the name of this blog. He said…
In the fall season about two years ago we took our grand kids in Arizona to a Pro Bass store. You know, the frozen zoo, with a hundred stuffed animals and fish in giant glass tanks being leered at by would be anglers. Close to the front door to the right was a book section. (Not very complicated types of reading material...mostly pictures.) But as I examined it closer something attracted, or un-attracted my attention. It was a camouflaged book almost causing it’s 9x12 x 2 and1/2 dimensions to disappear in the overall Pro Bass ambiance.
It drew me closer. What great hunter’s secrets were worth this effort?
What price would be put on something of such intellectual importance,
that obviously was meant to not gather dust but become at peace with it?
Drawing closer there was the glint of a small sophisticated font embossed in gold. The title said “HOLY BIBLE”.
Christ not in just Winter, but camouflaged! Along with Job, Moses and Mary! My first thought was of the “boys” out there in the blind reading it between beers waiting for their appointed task of obliterating mother nature. Such comfort.
I refuse to go to Pro Bass now. It has made me feel so undeserving of my Lord’s grace. I am also afraid to go to church . One never knows what might really be in there.
Dave Lamb
***
True to his persuasive abilities, Dave has made me afraid to go to church, too. I’m too old to encounter grace face to face, and our pastor seems determined to take the camo off the Gospel.
JRMcF
1] Recently Helen and I were eating with a couple of nineteen-year-olds at a family gathering. Have you ever tried to explain a mimeograph machine to someone who’s never heard of them?
2] OK, so I didn’t start with that this time, but I will from now on.
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!
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, October 17, 2011
Sweet Sixteen & a Profile in Courage
CHRIST IN WINTER: Reflections on Faith from a place of winter For the Years of Winter…
The Martin Luther King, Jr Memorial was dedicated this week. Granddaughter Brigid turns sixteen this week. Two important events that for me go together.
Last year, as a high school freshman, Brigid wrote an essay for a Profiles in Courage assignment. It’s excellent, which isn’t surprising, since her mother is the best writer I know. [1]
I had told Brigid at some time in the past, the way grandparents do, about the "open housing" controversy in Normal, IL shortly after we had moved there in 1966. So when the assignment came up, she chose as her profile in courage, Bill Hammit, Sr.
We moved to Normal in 1966. Civil rights for Negroes, the polite and accepted term at the time, was not yet the law of the land. Many people were committed to keeping civil rights away from Negroes forever. It wasn’t just in the South. That included the otherwise civilized town of Normal, the home of IL State U [2], the chief educating institution for teachers in IL since before the Civil War.
There are some folks who thrive on controversy, but most people don’t like it. There was a lot of resistance to civil rights just because the issue created discomfort. Of course, it had been mighty uncomfortable for black folks for a long time, but when white people had to be discomfited, they just wanted the issue to go away. Another Methodist minister who lived in Normal remonstrated with me that “The country and this town aren’t ready for this yet. You just have to give people time.” I pointed out that it had been over 100 years since the Civil War; that seemed like plenty of time. He was not persuaded. [3]
Open housing became an issue because Charles Morris was hired as a math professor at ISU. Apparently the presence of someone with a PhD from the U of Illinois would drive property rates down, as well as creating other disasters. I agreed publicly, noting if we admitted U of I PhDs, we’d have to admit Purdue people, too, and we all knew what they were like. [4] It turned out, though, that the provenance of his doctorate was not the issue; it was the color of his skin.
There were Normal people who wanted the Morris family to be able to buy a home, but Negroes were legally barred from living in Normal. An open housing ordinance was presented to the seven-man town council. A support movement started. Students led marches. Women, including Helen, hosted coffees for neighbors. Three members of the town council indicated they would vote for the ordinance, but three were against. That left Bill Hammitt, Sr., a Methodist minister, Director of The Baby Fold, a Methodist child care agency [5], as the deciding vote.
Bill asked Gordon White and Clarence Young, the ministers at First Methodist Church, and me, the Methodist campus minister, to meet with him. “You’re my pastors,” he said. “Tell me how I should vote.” Without hesitation, with one voice, we said, “You’ve got to vote for open housing.” “But people will say, ‘Your pastors live in parsonages, houses the churches own. They don’t stand to lose property value.’” Indeed, parsonage life was the rule then, and still is, but none of us lived in a parsonage. All three of us were buying our own homes. “That settles it,” said Bill.
Bill was the deciding vote, and open housing became the Normal law. Over a 30 year career, Charles Morris became a highly valued member of the community and vice-president of the university.
When you are old, it’s nice to remember people of courage, people who stood against those powerful forces that try to deny rights to others, like MLK and Bill Hammit, Sr. Bill doesn’t have a statue, but his profile is up there on that MLK memorial, along with a million other folks who had the courage to say “We shall overcome.” The opportunity to present a profile in courage is always with us, even if the profile is bald and has a double chin.
Even better is to stand with those who are presenting profiles in courage right now, occupying the high ground against injustice, even if the profile is just sixteen.
JRMcF
1] When I was the graduate assistant to James Spalding, the Director of The School of Religion at the U of Iowa, I graded the papers for the class he taught. Brigid’s mother, Katie, was then in 5th grade at Longfellow School, and I also read the papers she wrote. I thought, “Good grief, this fifth grader writes better than these college students!” Later, when she was at Indiana U, Robert Ferrell, the distinguished history professor, asked her, “Where did you learn to write?” “From my father,” she said. “Where did he learn to write?” he asked. “From you,” she said. Needless to say, she was forever after his favorite student.
2] Originally Illinois State Normal College, “normal” meaning a teacher training institution. The college came first, on land a few miles north of Bloomington, so the town that grew up around it became Normal.
3] When I interrupted an Official Board meeting at First Methodist in Normal to tell them that Martin Luther King, Jr. had been assassinated, several people broke out in applause.
4] Needless to say, Purdue is the chief rival of Indiana U, my alma mater.
5] The Baby Fold was originally a retirement home for deaconesses and gradually became an orphanage and then expanded to encompass adoption and care for children with all kinds of needs, especially severe mental and emotional problems. The name is from the image of Jesus as the good shepherd. A fold is a shelter for sheep. Of course, there are still many jokes about how to fold a baby.
***
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!
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 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.)
The Martin Luther King, Jr Memorial was dedicated this week. Granddaughter Brigid turns sixteen this week. Two important events that for me go together.
Last year, as a high school freshman, Brigid wrote an essay for a Profiles in Courage assignment. It’s excellent, which isn’t surprising, since her mother is the best writer I know. [1]
I had told Brigid at some time in the past, the way grandparents do, about the "open housing" controversy in Normal, IL shortly after we had moved there in 1966. So when the assignment came up, she chose as her profile in courage, Bill Hammit, Sr.
We moved to Normal in 1966. Civil rights for Negroes, the polite and accepted term at the time, was not yet the law of the land. Many people were committed to keeping civil rights away from Negroes forever. It wasn’t just in the South. That included the otherwise civilized town of Normal, the home of IL State U [2], the chief educating institution for teachers in IL since before the Civil War.
There are some folks who thrive on controversy, but most people don’t like it. There was a lot of resistance to civil rights just because the issue created discomfort. Of course, it had been mighty uncomfortable for black folks for a long time, but when white people had to be discomfited, they just wanted the issue to go away. Another Methodist minister who lived in Normal remonstrated with me that “The country and this town aren’t ready for this yet. You just have to give people time.” I pointed out that it had been over 100 years since the Civil War; that seemed like plenty of time. He was not persuaded. [3]
Open housing became an issue because Charles Morris was hired as a math professor at ISU. Apparently the presence of someone with a PhD from the U of Illinois would drive property rates down, as well as creating other disasters. I agreed publicly, noting if we admitted U of I PhDs, we’d have to admit Purdue people, too, and we all knew what they were like. [4] It turned out, though, that the provenance of his doctorate was not the issue; it was the color of his skin.
There were Normal people who wanted the Morris family to be able to buy a home, but Negroes were legally barred from living in Normal. An open housing ordinance was presented to the seven-man town council. A support movement started. Students led marches. Women, including Helen, hosted coffees for neighbors. Three members of the town council indicated they would vote for the ordinance, but three were against. That left Bill Hammitt, Sr., a Methodist minister, Director of The Baby Fold, a Methodist child care agency [5], as the deciding vote.
Bill asked Gordon White and Clarence Young, the ministers at First Methodist Church, and me, the Methodist campus minister, to meet with him. “You’re my pastors,” he said. “Tell me how I should vote.” Without hesitation, with one voice, we said, “You’ve got to vote for open housing.” “But people will say, ‘Your pastors live in parsonages, houses the churches own. They don’t stand to lose property value.’” Indeed, parsonage life was the rule then, and still is, but none of us lived in a parsonage. All three of us were buying our own homes. “That settles it,” said Bill.
Bill was the deciding vote, and open housing became the Normal law. Over a 30 year career, Charles Morris became a highly valued member of the community and vice-president of the university.
When you are old, it’s nice to remember people of courage, people who stood against those powerful forces that try to deny rights to others, like MLK and Bill Hammit, Sr. Bill doesn’t have a statue, but his profile is up there on that MLK memorial, along with a million other folks who had the courage to say “We shall overcome.” The opportunity to present a profile in courage is always with us, even if the profile is bald and has a double chin.
Even better is to stand with those who are presenting profiles in courage right now, occupying the high ground against injustice, even if the profile is just sixteen.
JRMcF
1] When I was the graduate assistant to James Spalding, the Director of The School of Religion at the U of Iowa, I graded the papers for the class he taught. Brigid’s mother, Katie, was then in 5th grade at Longfellow School, and I also read the papers she wrote. I thought, “Good grief, this fifth grader writes better than these college students!” Later, when she was at Indiana U, Robert Ferrell, the distinguished history professor, asked her, “Where did you learn to write?” “From my father,” she said. “Where did he learn to write?” he asked. “From you,” she said. Needless to say, she was forever after his favorite student.
2] Originally Illinois State Normal College, “normal” meaning a teacher training institution. The college came first, on land a few miles north of Bloomington, so the town that grew up around it became Normal.
3] When I interrupted an Official Board meeting at First Methodist in Normal to tell them that Martin Luther King, Jr. had been assassinated, several people broke out in applause.
4] Needless to say, Purdue is the chief rival of Indiana U, my alma mater.
5] The Baby Fold was originally a retirement home for deaconesses and gradually became an orphanage and then expanded to encompass adoption and care for children with all kinds of needs, especially severe mental and emotional problems. The name is from the image of Jesus as the good shepherd. A fold is a shelter for sheep. Of course, there are still many jokes about how to fold a baby.
***
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!
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 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.)
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