WALK THE WALK [R, 2-7-19]

In his journal, when he was 84, John Wesley noted that he walked six miles to go some place to preach. People remonstrated with him. At his age, he should not walk that far.

It embarrassed him that people would think that way. Why would six miles be too far for any Methodist preacher to walk to get a chance to preach?

I’m younger than Father John was then by two years. This morning I walked three miles, in the mall, because it is raining. I did not preach. Now I am home, reclining on the sofa, drinking coffee. Later I’ll take a nap. I should turn in my ordination certificate.

John Robert McFarland

KNOWING THE WAY, a poem [W, 2-6-19]

Perhaps it will be only God

and I, who know how far

I have come, and how difficult

was the way

perhaps only God and I who know,

at the end, how treacherous

the roads, how deep the holes

along the way

but it is enough for me

to say that God knows, not

to give some reward for walking

in the way

only that I have not been alone

in my loneliness, but walked

in glory in the darkness

of the way

John Robert McFarland

NO SERVICE, AT HER REQUEST [Sat, 2-2-19]

I receive the obits, by email, from several newspapers. This morning there was the obit of a woman whose picture makes her look like a very normal and likeable person. But, “There will be no services, at her request.”

I understand why they put in “at her request.” Her family wants to make sure other people don’t think they are weird, or don’t like her.

I’m always puzzled by people who “request no services,” and not just because I’ll miss out on the ten dollar honorarium for doing the service.

Scenario 1 Trying to do a good thing: Maybe this woman thought there would be a big fight among her survivors if they all came together in one place, and she wanted to spare them that. I’ve been in the middle of some of those fights, one very close to literally so. Thus I applaud her if that is her motivation.

Scenario 2 Trying to do a bad thing: But maybe she just wants to be mean to her survivors by not allowing them closure. One of my friends, a coffee shop operator, left the ministry when a woman came to see him for counseling. She said, “We were at my mother-in-law’s for Thanksgiving, and she prepared a wonderful meal. We were all sitting at the table when she brought the turkey in, set it down on the table, sat down at the end, took a pistol out of her apron pocket, and shot herself in the head.” Talk about being hostile to your family! [And wondering what they said at her service.] My friend said, “I figured if I had to deal with that sort of stuff as a minister, I’d better go to roasting coffee.” I understand. I’ve dealt with too many of those.  

And there are other considerations:

Services are for the survivors. Shouldn’t they have the right to a service if they want one? Why should the deceased get to keep making the decisions even after she’s no longer here?

But shouldn’t we honor the wishes of the deceased? Isn’t that the loving thing to do?

I don’t know. It shouldn’t be a problem for my family. It’s okay with me for them to have a service, as long as they don’t play “Bad, Bad Leroy Brown” on the church sound system as they take off after to go to Red Lobster.

John Robert McFarland

No, the above isn’t writing; it’s just the fevered musing of a confused mind.

THE PLACE OF NON-BELONGING-Poem [F, 2-1-19]

It seems now that I never belonged

in high-top lace-up shoes on dirt

roads beside dusty sumac leaves

and tall, bristling blackberry canes

even as I walk those same roads

in the sepia images of memory

I have walked so many streets of style

and poise, in garments flowing with the honors

of the tall and sun-lit towers

pennants flying with the colors

of the wars of minds and bowels

walked with steady gaze and steady gait

Why now these same dirt roads of youth

that took me toward the small town lights

and small town smells and small town hopes

the dusty panes and lusty pangs of small town truth?

Is this where I belonged all along

this place of non-belonging?

John Robert McFarland

DEPRESSED? A poem-sort of [T, 1-29-19]

The pretty young woman

at the doctor’s office

gave me a form

to fill out.

It asked this question:

Are you ever depressed?

I am old.

I am circling the drain.

The world is going to hell

in a handbasket.

Why would I be

depressed?

John Robert McFarland

THE FIRST SHALL BE LAST-Poem [Sun, 1-27-19]

If you start with the power

Of God, you get omniscience

Which ends in predestination

If you start with the creation

Of God, you get naturalism

Which ends in pantheism

If you start with the humanity

Of god, you get humanism

Which ends in anthropomorphism

But if you start with the loneliness

of God, you get no isms,

just an old man on a park

bench, a housewife with her head

in the oven, a teen crying at the end

of a row of lockers, and an old woman

with rolled hose, feeding pigeons

Which ends in Adam and Eve

John Robert McFarland

WILL THIS BE ON THE TEST? [W, 1-23-19]

I had two shocks this week. The first from Dr. Jerry Muskat, my optometrist. I explained to him why I had not been taking all the diabetes medicine prescribed by Dr. Vucescu, my GP/Gerontologist, because it upsets my insides. “But don’t worry,” I told him, “I’m walking twice as far every day, so my A1C test will come out the same way.” He thought for a while and then said, “Here’s an idea; why don’t you talk to her about it?” Well, I can’t do that, because I don’t have another appointment with her for months.

Then quite by accident today, I was scrolling through some notes and found one that said I have an appointment with her in LESS than one month! Wait, what? I thought it was 6 or 7 months yet. Oh, gosh, what if I fail the test?

Every once in a while I am reminded of something I should have learned a long time ago, but have found in consciousness only recently: the purpose of healthy living—exercising, eating good stuff, not eating bad stuff, etc—is not just to pass the tests.

The problem comes from staying too long in school. I spent 22 years in school full-time, supplemented by dozens of hour-long and day-long and occasionally week-long episodes of education for one thing or another. And lots of years ministering to people in schools.

So I think that the purpose of life is passing tests. The student anthem: “Will this be on the test?”

I eat all the wrong stuff until I know it’s going to show up on my A1C blood sugar test. I walk only half as far as I should until a cholesterol test gets close. After all, that particular piece of cake, and that hour in front of the TV instead of out walking—they won’t be on the test.

We’ve done that for centuries religiously. You live right, doing the good, health-giving things of life, not in order to live well and be a part of the world’s love instead of a part of the world’s hate, but in order to pass the test St. Peter gives you at the gates of heaven.

No, the purpose of life, along the way or at the end, is not to pass the test. The purpose of life is to live. But I don’t think this particular cookie is going to show up on… Wait, what?

John Robert McFarland