LEARNING WHO WE ARE WITHOUT SPORTS [R, 5-7-20]

Christ In Winter: Reflections on Faith & Life for the Times of Winter

LEARNING WHO WE ARE WITHOUT SPORTS   [R, 5-7-20]

One thing I am learning during this corona virus thing is that there are a whole lot of sports teams about which I care nothing at all. With no live games available, all the sports channels have “classic” games, but they do not involve the Reds or IU, so who cares? Oh, yes, Cubs fans, and others of the great unwashed, but, I repeat, who cares?

I had not realized that I am not a sports fan. I thought I was, because I watched games every night, and every afternoon on the weekends. And I read all the sports pages. And I knew about teams like the Cubs, because they play the Reds, and I knew about teams like Michigan, because they play IU, but I don’t even care if they exist the rest of the time.

And I thought I was a sports fan because I keep old bats and balls and gloves in the garage, artifacts I did use at one time. And because I wear caps and uniform shirts and sox and t-shirts and hoodies and pajamas that extol the virtues of IU and the Reds.

And I thought I was a sports fan because I get really cold, even in the summer, when I see green and gold stuff, but that was just because I lived 100 miles north of Green Bay, and civilization--if you can call Green Bay civilized—well, they do have an iHop—for a long time, far too long, and you can never quite shake from your bones the chill of Lambeau Cathedral.

And I thought I was a sports fan because I have baseballs, and photographs, signed by Joe Morgan and Edd Roush, displayed on my book shelves, and a bobblehead of Ken Griffey, Jr. [I also have a bobblehead of John Wesley, who would have been a Reds fan, if he’d had the chance, but I don’t think he counts in this context.] And trophies for running long distances without being chased by a bear.

I find that in all the “classic” games, the ones I really enjoy are like a rugby match between Australia and New Zealand in 1997, and a curling match between Norway and Saskatchewan in 1988. I’d so much rather watch those than football between Miami and Nebraska, or baseball between Oakland and Atlanta. I don’t know why they even bother to have teams in those places.

Alright, I admit I have a particular gripe. I ordered Fox Sports OH on my TV and paid a lot of money for it, even though I cringe at anything called “Fox,” so that I could see every Reds game this year, and right after they took my money, they called off the baseball season! Refund? Are you kidding? I’m lucky they don’t charge me extra because I don’t get to see any games.

Okay. I’m over that now. I can go back to writing letters to idiots in politics, and sending money to places that feed the hungry, and praying for Covid19 patients and those who care for them, and going back to inserting Oxford commas. Those are the important things. But after this damnable thing is over, sports fandom will never be the same again.

A time like this reveals the real person beneath the paraphernalia. This durn virus has turned me into some sort of regular person instead of a sports fan. It has revealed that I was never a sports fan; I just like the color red.

Poor Helen; it took her 61 years, all this time thinking she was married to a sports fan, and making allowances because everyone knows sports fans are… well, they’re like that, and there’s nothing you can do about it, and then just when she thought she had it figured out…

John Robert McFarland

I’m sorry. You probably came to this site thinking there might be something uplifting, or at least slightly humorous, and all you got was an old man ranting like an old man. But tomorrow there is a nice “daily” devotional based on a Lin Yutang novel, so that’s something we can both look forward to.

LOOKIN’ GOOD [W, 5-6-20]

“DAILY” DEVOTIONAL: Listening for the Spirit

LOOKIN’ GOOD                    [W, 5-6-20]

I don’t know if long distance runners still try to encourage one another in this way, but when I was doing distance races, if we saw someone struggling, we’d yell, “Lookin’ good.” Because he or she was not lookin’ good. In fact, they were lookin’ bad.

Especially in races on out-and-back courses, we who were slower would still be going out as the leaders were coming back. They were on the other side of the trail—usually a blacktop road—but we could see them well. They’d be sweaty and panting. Their clothes would be in disarray. Their teeth would be bared and clinched.  Their faces twisted in the agony of pain and effort. And we’d yell, “Lookin’ good.” They looked terrible, but they were giving it everything they had. That was a good look.

If you didn’t understand the running culture of the time, you’d think we were the worst sorts of friends and race-mates, insulting our fellows at the very moment they most needed comfort and support. Indeed, in this 9^th decade of my living, when I look like an old man who’s been “rode hard and put away wet,” it’s perfectly okay for you not to say, to me, “Lookin’ good.”  But we runners understood. That was the best possible accolade. I longed to have someone yell at me back then, “Lookin’ good.” Because it meant that I was giving my all.

When we see Jesus on the cross, body broken and spirit in despair, feeling that his life was in vain, that the world did not respond or understand, even though he tried so hard, the proper response is, “Lookin’ good.”

JRMcF

THE ONLY WAY OUT [T, 5-5-20]

CHRIST IN WINTER: Reflections on Faith & Life for the Times of Winter

THE ONLY WAY OUT            [T, 5-5-20]

Old clergy friend, John Shaffer, long-time Alaska missionary, has been stirring up a lot of memories for me, because we have been exchanging end-of-life lists—best lists and worst lists of funerals, weddings, meals, professors, books, etc. Sometimes something on one of John’s lists reminds me of a long-forgotten incident from my own past. So it was with Richard Bednarsky.

Richard was the only black person in Cedar Lake, IN when I pastored there, while commuting daily to Garrett Theological Seminary, at Northwestern U, in Evanston, IL. Well, he was only half-black, but that was enough. His mother was white. He got Bednarsky from his step-father.

Richard was smart and handsome and fun. He was liked by his classmates, including several MYF kids. So he came to church, by himself, to be with them, the only black person in the church. In those days, I gave an “altar call” at the end of the service, which was just, “If you would like to join the church, come forward during the singing of the last hymn.” The day Richard accepted the call, and came forward up the aisle, all by himself, at the age of 14, one couple stormed noisily out and never returned.

Richard was a good swimmer and worked on the life boat on the lake, saving drunken white people out of the water. He was allowed to be on the boat, and in the water to save people, but not on the beach, or in the water to swim with his friends. So when there was a picnic at the lake-front home of our MYF sponsors, he had to stay in the house, while the other kids went swimming and frolicked on the beach.

Then came the time to start high school. The Cedar Lake kids went to high school in Crown Point, the county seat of Lake County, “da region.”  Except for Richard. He was met at the door by the principal and turned away. So, I went to see the principal.

I was polite, but I was clear. Richard was a graduate of the school in Cedar Lake and had a right to come to high school with his classmates. He was smart and nice. He would be an asset to the school. Etc.

The principal didn’t argue with me much, except for the usual “people aren’t ready for it yet,” and “it’s still too soon,” and “it will cause trouble,” and “you need to be patient and stop being pushy.” The bottom line: it wasn’t going to happen. There were black schools in Gary. He could go there. It was an hour away, and there was no public transportation between Cedar Lake and Gary, but that didn’t bother the principal.

Now the truth was that a black kid in a white Lake County high school at that time was not a novelty. The white schools in Gary, also in Lake County, were already accepting black students. Helen went to Tolleston, basically an all-white suburb of Gary, several years before, and she had black classmates, who were so committed to their school that when their class had a 50 year reunion, some came from as far away as California to see their old classmates, especially their lauded valedictorian, who refuses to let me use her name, since she thinks it would be unseemly. Froebel and the other white schools in her school days were also admitting black students, especially if they played football.

As I continued, politely but firmly, to argue Richard’s case, the principal sat down at his desk and began to shuffle papers and act like he was working. He didn’t say anything, didn’t say our conversation was over. He didn’t tell me to leave. He just acted like I wasn’t there. That didn’t deter me. I could tell he was hearing me, because his face was getting red, but he refused to acknowledge my presence. Finally, I just left.

As I thought about it, I wondered if perhaps Richard might be better off in a different school. Any child would be better off in a different school. That principal’s approach was to ignore anything that you can’t deal with. Not good modeling from the head educator. Not a very good approach to life.

Contrast that with Ron Wetzell. He was a sophomore at ILSU when I went there to be the Methodist campus minister. We’ve been friends for lo, these 54 years now. After college, Ron’s career was in child protection. Indeed, he was the head of child protection services for Hennepin County [Minneapolis] for several years before his retirement. He had one motto for himself and for his staff: The only way out is through. It’s not original with Ron. It’s usually attributed to Robert Frost. Wherever it came from, Ron made it into his own.

That’s what you need in any leader, especially one charged with the care of children. You don’t sidestep the difficult issues. You don’t ignore them. You deal with them.

I think about the political leadership in our nation, our states, the world-- in this time of corona virus plague. Perhaps more importantly, I think about it for you and me, I think about what we are doing, how we are living. I think about Jesus on the cross. The only way out is through.

John Robert McFarland  

IN THE DEEP WATERS [M, 5-4-20]

“DAILY” DEVOTIONAL: Listening for the Spirit

IN THE DEEP WATERS      [M, 5-4-20]

I find myself attracted more and more to this kind of old preacher story in this endless day of the virus…

In olden days especially, down in southwest Indiana, where I grew up, especially down in the bottom of “the pocket,” where the Wabash meets the Ohio, it didn’t take much of a rain to create a flood. If you got a big rain, well…

Then the family ended up on the roof. As they sat there, all kinds of stuff floated down with the flood waters—cows, sheds, trees… and an old hat.

But then the old hat got to the edge of their yard, it stopped, and went back upstream, against the current. But when it got to the other edge of the yard, it stopped again, and started back downstream.

One of the boys on the roof yelled, “I remember now. Grandpa said he was going to mow the yard today, come hell or high water.”

A lot of hell has come. A lot of high water—medical high water, political high water, financial high water. We’re flooded. It’s easy to get swept away. It’s a good time to stick with what we know is true, keep doing what we know is right.

JRMcF

THE PURPOSE OF LIFE [Su, 5-3-20]

CHRIST IN WINTER: Reflections on Faith & Life for the Times of Winter

THE PURPOSE OF LIFE                  [Su, 5-3-20]

[Lectionary scripture for today is John 10:1-10.]

When daughter Katie was home after her first year at IU, I heard her one day muttering imprecations, throwing objects, breaking pencils. I went to her room to see what was wrong.

“I’m registering for my classes for next semester.”

“Oh, can’t you get all the electives you want?”

“No, I can’t get my schedule so that the classes don’t interfere with my social life.”

Now, this is not a good thing to say to a man who is paying out-of-state tuition.

I ranted. I raved. “Where in the world,” I shouted, “did you get the idea that the purpose of life is to have a good time?”

She looked up at me so sweetly, and said, “From listening to you preach.”

I was stunned. Me? The Rev. Mr. Responsibility? The Rev. Dr. Duty? My preaching?

Well, I am an American, and our purpose is “Life, liberty, and the pursuit of… money…” Well, that surely seems accurate… but no, that’s not it… The pursuit of… sex? You’d think so, but that’s not quite right, either. The pursuit of fame? Again, seems to be, but no. The pursuit of happiness, that’s what Americans are all about.

And I’m a Christian. And what is Christ all about? “I’m here, let’s party,” as he says in the lectionary scripture for today. The purpose of life is to have a good time!

I was surprised it had taken me so long to see it. I had even been preaching it all those years, and hadn’t even heard it.

Katie got her classes worked out well enough over the next years to graduate.

But I wasn’t there to see her march at commencement. I was in Nicaragua, in the midst of the Contra war, on a mission trip to take sewing machines to women whose husbands and sons had been killed in the war, so they could make a living through a sewing cooperative.

After her commencement event, I called Katie. We chatted. I asked about the ceremony. “It was great. I had lots of cords on my shoulders. Honors grad of the Honors Division. Something cum laude. Rhodes and Truman scholarship nominations. Certificate from the Slavic Institute. Phi Beta Kappa.” [Actually, she didn’t say any of that; I just put it in here to brag.]

“Well,” I said, “what I really want to know… Did you have a good time?”

There was a somewhat strained silence, all the way from Bloomington, Indiana to Managua, Nicaragua, and then she said, “Of course I had a good time. I am a Christian, you know.”

John Robert McFarland

John 10:10 is usually translated, “I am here that they might have life and have it abundantly.” That means, “I’m here, let’s party.”

THE HALL OF FAME FOR THE UNKNOWN [Sa, 5-2-20]

“DAILY” DEVOTIONAL-Listening for the Spirit

THE HALL OF FAME FOR THE UNKNOWN   [Sa, 5-2-20]

We had a very slight acquaintance with Joel Mabus when we lived in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula, for he would come up from the LP [Lower Peninsula], as Trolls [They live below the bridge… the Mackinac Bridge] are wont to do, to perform at The Second Sunday Folk Dance, at Fortune Lake, which is led by Whitewater, a string band, formed by Dean and Bette Premo, who are PhD environmentalists in their day job, in their firm, which is also named Whitewater, but are professional level musicians all the rest of the time. [Oh, I forgot and put in a period. There goes my ambition to do a whole column in one sentence…]

Anyway, Joel told us one Second Sunday that he is in the Michigan Music Hall of Fame, along with folks like Aretha Franklin, but he did not know it for several years, for nobody bothered to tell him. I’m not surprised. I looked at their web site just now, and they tell everything—especially how to send them money—except who the members of their HOF are.

That got me to thinking… maybe I’m in some Hall of Fame and don’t know it. It’s quite possible. The Dad Jokes Hall of Fame, for instance. It makes sense that whoever runs that hall of fame would not tell the inductees they are in, for that would be the ultimate Dad Joke.

I’m hoping that my unknown HOF is the FTHOF, the Failed Tryers HOF. Under each picture--assuming they acknowledge their members—it would say: Tried every day to be a better person. Failed every day. Tried again the next day…

Like Joel Mabus, you are probably in some HOF and just don’t know it. Maybe you could meditate on that… which HOF should you be in…

JRMcF

Jung said he had only one patient over the age of 35 whose main problem was not religious.

KICKING THE BUCKET DOWN THE ROAD [F, 5-1-20]

Christ In Winter: Reflections on Faith & Life for the Times of Winter

KICKING THE BUCKET DOWN THE ROAD          [F, 5-1-20]

We moved to the country near Oakland City, IN, when I was ten, right after World War II. My father heard that Jess Hall had walnuts for sale, so we hitched Old Prince to the wagon and drove over to get some. We had no money, but Daddy worked out some trade deal so that we could have walnuts for making Christmas cookies.

Trade deals in the country back then included quite a few stories, and Jess told us this one…

He was a retired Baptist preacher. Twenty or thirty years before he had preached at a church that had a water bucket on a table in the front, up near the pulpit. There was no indoor plumbing then, even in homes, certainly not in churches. People drew their water from a well and carried it in. They used out houses for other needs. No one had even heard of air conditioning.

Southern Indiana summers are quite thirstifying on long hot Sunday mornings. At Jess’ church, whenever anyone got thirsty, they just walked up to the bucket and got a drink out of the communal dipper.

Some people began to object, not to the communal dipper, or to folks getting a drink during the service, or to the water bucket, but to its placement. They thought it unseemly and distracting to have people, especially children, going up to the bucket during the worship service. They wanted the bucket table moved to the back of the church building.

Others disagreed. The water bucket had always been in front. They could remember Uncle Gib and Aunt Lola up there drinking from the dipper. It wasn’t that big a nuisance. It showed the children that they belonged, since people put up with them going to the bucket. Etc.

Of course, they did the logical thing. The back-bucket people went a mile down the road and built another church. One strong country church became two little straggling struggling churches. But what is Christian witness compared to having your own way about where the water bucket is situated?

I think about that now as various people who supported Bernie Sanders are saying that they will not vote for Joe Biden. In fact, they spend more time criticizing Biden and the Democrat leadership than they do Donald Trump, even though they are as far from Donald Trump in where they want the bucket placed as it’s possible to be. And they are not stupid. They know that a vote not for Biden is a vote for Trump, and that if Trump wins, they probably won’t ever get to drink from the dipper again, regardless of where the bucket is. But they are so concerned about where that bucket is that they are losing sight of why they supported Sanders in the first place.

If you find someone bleeding beside the road, the first thing you do is stop the bleeding. After that you take them to the hospital and pay for their health care. That’s exactly how the Good Samaritan did it. [Look it up, Luke 10:25-38]. To save any semblance of democracy or morality in American politics, first we have to stop the bleeding.

In the days of summer, it’s not wise to refuse a drink of cool water because you don’t like the placement of the bucket. In the days of winter, it’s not wise to refuse to wear a coat because it’s not the color you prefer.

John Robert McFarland