MEASURING LIFE-a poem {Sun, 1-7-18}

Life is measured out

in coffee spoons

as J. Alfred Prufrock said

in his love song

quoting T.S. Eliot

I’m sure

and it is true

As soon as the morning cup

is empty, or “all”

as they used to say

at The Dutch Kitchen

which is now itself “all”

I begin to plan for mid-morning

a caffeinated Phoenix

“rising with healing in his wings”

as Brother Charles might sing

But isn’t a coffee spoon

a better measuring device

than anything else

save hugs?

JRMcF

johnrobertmcfarland@gmail.com

PROBLEM FRIENDS-Remembering Mike Dickey [SA 1-6-18]

Yesterday was Mike Dickey’s birthday. He was a month older than I. We met when we were ten years old, in fifth grade, when my family moved from the working class near east side of Indianapolis to the hardscrabble countryside near Oakland City. I preached at his funeral 68 years later.

Mike was a problematic friend. He thought I was better than I was, and so he expected me to be better than I was. Especially when it came to things pastoral and personal, he assumed that I could do anything. “Let’s go see Don. He’s dying of cancer. You’ll make him feel better.”

I did not come close to the level of appreciation for my presence that Mike had. [And instead of telling me that was an awkward sentence, he would say something like, “You’re so smart I can’t even understand you.”]

Strangely, he wanted me to notice his own good works. I think that was because he did not tell anyone else about them. He assumed I was the arbiter of good deeds. He would tell me of something he had done, something far beyond what I might have thought to do for that person myself, and then cock his head like a puppy, waiting for me to tell him that yes, that was a good thing to do.

Through the years, on those rare occasions when I have told the truth about our experiences as kids and teens, such as how terrible I was as a bassoon player, he would always protest. “No, you were an excellent musician.”

“You were a great ballplayer.” “You were the smartest guy in the class.” “You were a smooth dancer.” “You were such a good writer.” “All the girls thought you were wonderful.” I loved him in the early years for his naiveté. I loved him in the later years for his poor memory.

It’s a lot of pressure, having a friend like that, who makes you better than you are just because he assumes you are better than you are. I miss him. A whole lot.

JRMcF

johnrobertmcfarland@gmail.com

I tweet occasionally as yooper1721.

AND THE WINNER IS… THE BEST STORY-TELLER [F, 1-5-18]

CHRIST IN WINTER: Reflections on Faith and Life from a Place of Winter for the Years of Winter…

We are watching the weather very carefully today, because our college granddaughter is flying to a conference in New York, what she called Yew Nork 20 years ago, in the frigid wake of winter storm Grayson. [A stupid name for a storm. If you must have a “G” name for a storm, it should be Grendel.] We are switching between The Weather Channel and Weather Nation on TV according to which one is telling the story of NY weather best at the moment.

For a number of years, I was on the “Parish Pastor of the Year” selection committee, for The Academy of Parish Clergy. There are a lot of good pastors out there, and it was difficult to select for honor only one. I began to realize, though, that we weren’t really selecting the best pastor out of the nominations sent us; we were selecting the best nomination writer.

The same is true with obituaries. Some people, according to the facts, lived fairly humdrum lives, but the obit writer makes them sound like fascinating celebrities. The fact lineup of others is astounding, but the obit writer makes their lives sound mundane and ordinary. I mean, how can you write about a career as a deep-sea diver repairing nuclear submarines sound boring? {True story of the shy little old man who stood in the corner during coffee time at church.}

It has been said that the world will be won by whoever has the best story. Not quite. The world will be won by whoever tells their story best, most convincingly. That’s why Donald Trump is president. His story, both personally and professionally, is sordid and pathetic. But how can you argue with “Make America Great Again?”

His message was really, “I am the anti-story, so if you feel left out of the American story, come be part of my story, and you’ll feel important.” Every citizen who felt left out-for whatever reason, and there are lots of different reasons for feeling left out-voted for him.

I fear that thoughtful Christians have been content to say, “Well, we have the best story, because our story is about love and inclusion, so we’ll win the day.” Not so, if we don’t tell it better than the hate and exclusion stories. Those stories have some very good tellers.

JRMcF

johnrobertmcfarland@gmail.com

I tweet occasionally as yooper1721.

Speaking of obit writing: I was once doing a week’s worth of preaching for a special occasion at a church. The pastor took me to lunch with the funeral director. He told us about an older woman from his town who came to him to make funeral arrangements for her husband. [Yes, he was already dead.] She brought her middle-aged daughter from another town with her. As they listed the newspapers in which they wanted obits, he said, “Oh, let’s not send one to that newspaper. Whoever writes those obits is terrible.” The middle-aged woman said, “I’m the one who writes the obits for that paper.”

JRMcF

johnrobertmcfarland@gmail.com

I tweet occasionally as yooper1721.

With the cold bearing down, I worry about the homeless. That includes far too many military veterans. The royalties from my novel, VETS, about four homeless and handicapped Iraqistan veterans, go to helping homeless veterans. It is available from Amazon, Barnes & Noble, BOKO, Powell’s, etc. It’s published by Black Opal Books.

THE FROZEN CHOSEN-Deciding the Ending [R, 1-4-18]

CHRIST IN WINTER: Reflections on Faith and Life from a Place of Winter for the Years of Winter…

 It was a day like today in Evanston, IL, fifty years ago. Two degrees below zero, facing into a stiff breeze off Lake Michigan as I walked from the El, on Dempster St., to Garrett Theological Seminary, at Northwestern University. My forehead was so cold my brain was going numb. I wasn’t quite sure who I was or where I was. I wasn’t at all sure I could make it all the way to the seminary. I have been cold at other times, especially the 8 years we lived in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula, but never that cold. It was John F. Kennedy’s fault.

During my three years at Garrett-now half of the united Garrett-Evangelical Theological Seminary, but in the same location-I was appointed as pastor at the Cedar Lake and Creston Methodist Churches, about 20 miles south of Gary, IN. I commuted daily, a total of about sixty miles each way.

The first year I drove each day to Hammond, IN [also where our daughters were born, in St. Margaret’s Hospital], caught the South Shore train to the Loop in Chicago, and rode the El from there to Evanston, then walked the rest of the way. It was several blocks of walking. That day it seemed like several miles, in part because I was not wearing a hat.

I was not wearing a hat because John F. Kennedy did not wear a hat. He got into considerable trouble with the hat manufacturers for going bareheaded, for they were losing business fast, since young guys such as I figured we didn’t need hats, either. President is a very powerful position. If the president doesn’t wear hats, we figure it’s okay to walk bareheaded. If the president doesn’t tell the truth, we figure it’s okay to lie barefaced.

Just as Kennedy got into trouble with people who preferred hats, Trump is in trouble with people who believe in telling the truth, as “the Bible says,” as in the Ten Commandments, not to mention the teachings of Jesus and a whole lot of other places in “The Holy Book.”

Of course he is not in trouble with people who claim they believe in telling the truth and the Ten Commandments but are lying about that. They actually believe in power, not in the truth or in The Ten. If it takes lying, even about the Bible, to get power, they’re willing and eager to lie.

Most folks lie because they get something by doing so-power, sex, money, prestige, freedom from jail. After a while they lie just because it’s part of who they are. I once knew a man about whom it was said, “He lied even when it was to his advantage to tell the truth.”

If someone in a car had driven by me that day in Evanston and asked me if I needed a ride, I would have said “No.” Was it a lie? Sort of, because it was not true. I did need a ride. But I was not gaining anything by refusing the ride. I just didn’t want anyone to think I couldn’t make it on my own. I can’t blame JFK for that.

I am now old and bald. I have a collection of some two dozen caps, all the way from white sun hats to a real Russian Cossack fur hat. I never go outside without a hat. That’s the truth.

So what’s the point of this reflection? Durned if I know. I started out to talk about how cold I got once, because it’s very cold where I am right now, and it seemed like I should reflect on the cold. Then I got to thinking about people who don’t tell the truth, and religious hypocrites, and people who are examples, for good or for ill. That slid off into self-reliance.

Recently an entity called iAuthor on Twitter said to all of us who follow, “Pick up the book closest to you. The first full sentence on page 27 will tell you what your life will be like in 2018.” My old friend, Dr. John Wilkey, sent me a book of his writings for Christmas. It was closest. The first full sentence on p. 27 says, “You and I must decide the ending ourselves.”

JRMcF

johnrobertmcfarland@gmail.com

I tweet occasionally as yooper1721.

We no longer live in the land of winter, the UP--the “place of winter” mentioned in the title line, Iron Mountain, in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula [The UP], where life is defined by winter even in the summer! [This phrase is explained in the post for March 20, 2014.]--but it feels like the land of winter right here in Bloomington, IN, where we met and married while at IU.

DONNA’S SIMPLE LIFE [W, 1-3-18]

CHRIST IN WINTER: Reflections on Faith and Life for the Years of Winter…

It is customary, and useful, at the start of a new year, to look back at the year just past. That brings me to Donna.

Donna pulled out in front of a pick-up truck. The truck driver was not hurt, but Donna was unconscious in the hospital for a week before she died. Her neighbors said she had been a little off lately, probably didn’t even see the truck.

Oliver Wendell Holmes said, “I would give anything for simplicity on the far side of complexity, but nothing for simplicity on the near side of complexity.”

Donna was a simple woman. On the far side of complexity. She made a good life out of nothing. That is a totally complex life. That is a totally simple life.

The far side of complexity for Donna meant her first husband divorcing her, her 2^nd husband committing suicide, the deaths of both her sons in their 20s, one by cancer and one by motorcycle accident, and the suicide of her only grandchild, Jada, at age 19, in Donna’s house.

Donna, though, was committed, to family and friends and God. She was committed to life.

Sometimes her simplicity and commitments made her gullible. She could believe in some rather strange things. Occasionally she would repeat some outlandish conspiracy theory or rumor and all I could do was shake my head. Then I realized she didn’t actually believe it; she just wanted to be part of it, part of what was happening.

I’ve often said that Donna created a life out of nothing. That isn’t quite true. Her own life was often bare. So often it was between hard and non-existent. So she lived in the stories of others. Not live through them, vicariously, but IN them. She didn’t borrow; she participated.

That could make for awkward moments. It also made for wonderful and victorious moments. That was true especially with her classmates.

Jim Shaw and I were talking about what would happen if Donna got well enough to come home. “She doesn’t have anyone to take care of her,” I said. “Well, she knows everybody in Gibson County,” he replied.

That was so true. We took her to lunch one day when we were in town for a class reunion, at that little café down where Moe’s used to be. [1] She introduced us to EVERYONE in the place, employees and customers alike, including some from Lynnville and Stendal, and to all who were anyplace close enough in age, she would say, “I’m sure you remember John McFarland.” There aren’t over a dozen people in the county who remember me, and they are mostly classmates who are still in the home town, but it seemed to Donna that if she knew everyone, surely all the other folks did, too.

Grace Robb, our Latin teacher and one of our class sponsors, along with basketball coach Alva Cato, told Bob Robling at one of our class reunions that she had never seen a class that was as emotionally involved with one another as the class of 55. I like to think that part of that was due to my three years as class president, when I tried hard to make sure nobody in our class was left out of anything. Donna was not much a part of that. She was the Homecoming Queen who lived only in her own story. But as the years went by, she became the center point of our class story, even though we were scattered throughout the world, because she lived in all our stories. She went from simplicity on the near side of complexity through the complex hard times to a level of simple trust in life that few achieve.

Donna used to call us occasionally, over the last 30 years, more often as the years went by. She didn’t have much to talk about. She’d say, “I just want to hear your voice.” One day, though, she mentioned that if anyone came to her door at night they would think she was crazy because she talked to Jesus so loudly.

That closeness to God was what really sustained her. As she lived in the stories of her friends, she lived in God’s Christ story, and in the process, she often brought these lives of ours in which she participated more fully into the God story.

I miss her. I’d like to call her up, just to hear her voice.

JRMcF

johnrobertmcfarland@gmail.com

I tweet occasionally as yooper1721.

1] I worked at Moe’s when I was in high school. Today it would be called a convenience store. It was a gasoline station, with two pumps, and a small grocery store that sold lunch meat and white bread mostly, and a separate building with a car hoist for lubes and oil changes and such. Moe didn’t like to open up on the weekends, or work Sundays or holidays, and we were the only place open for groceries and gas on Sundays and holidays, so I had some wild and busy adventures working there by myself, running in from changing the oil in a car to slice someone a pound of bologna and such. There was no time for washing hands, but I did wipe them off with a greasy rag between jobs.

Daughter Katie Kennedy recently won a “best book of the year” award for What Goes Up, but I can’t remember how to spell the award, so maybe you should just buy a few copies of WGU to read and give as a way of greeting the new year. And also assuring that she’ll have enough money to take care of me in my old age.

A HIGHER BAR [T, 1-2-18]

Each day I get the obits from two different newspapers by email. They have ads at the top. Sometimes they are for shoes or books. Usually they are from the ‘Committee to Re-Elect President Trump.’ They say, “Do you oppose impeachment? Vote now.” And there is a vote button to click on. On some days, the question is, “Do you favor investigating Hillary?”

I have never clicked to vote. I don’t know if there is a Yes response button as well as the No button. In fact, I would have trouble figuring out whether to click on Yes or No because of the way the question is worded.

But, if you are a supporter of the president, just being against his impeachment is a really low bar.

A woman I know wanted to talk about the AL senate election, even though we do not live in AL-although our granddaughter was born there. She said she was in favor of Roy Moore being elected to the Senate. I asked her why. “I don’t believe he molested those teen girls,” she said. “You know,” I said, “just believing a candidate is not a pervert is a pretty low bar. Why else do you support him?” She gave me a condescending look, which meant she couldn’t think of anything.

One worry I have with the current the spotlight on sexual abuse by men in authority [and, yes, it’s almost always men, so let’s not quibble] is that we seem to be in danger of having only one qualification for leadership: Have you been guilty of sexual abuse?

Don’t get me wrong. That is a major issue and one that must be addressed. But we have people in political office and other authority positions who are guilty of other things, too, like manipulating the financial and tax worlds so that they and their wealthy friends can prey on the poor. It’s not sexual predation, but the resulting poverty and ill health for so many people can be as damaging as sexual abuse, both to individuals and to society.

The issue is not just sexual abuse, but using a position of authority and power to prey on those who are weaker, the ones Jesus referred to as “the widows and orphans.”

We need a high bar to get over for those who have any kind of authority. Maybe that should be our common resolution for the new year: set the bar higher.

JRMcF

johnrobertmcfarland@gmail.com

WINTER CANNOT LAST-a poem [1-1-18]

CHRIST IN WINTER: Reflections on Faith and Life from a Place of Winter for the Years of Winter…

There are memories

that make me smile

as they push up

from winter’s frozen turf

the way a dandelion shoot,

first scout for the wagon train

of spring

rides out in front,

or how a chick

pecks at the shell.

When these memories

of days and faces past

push up to say hello

my own face

loses wrinkles

except to crinkle

in a smile

that knows winter

cannot last…

JRMcF

johnrobertmcfarland@gmail.com

When I started this blog, the “place of winter” was Iron Mountain, in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula. Today it feels like the UP right here in SoInd, so THIS is the place of winter. Thus the poem above seems like a good way to start the new year.