A QUILT NAMED LOVE [M, 6-29-20]

CHRIST IN WINTER: Reflections on Faith & Life for These Pandemic Days

A QUILT NAMED LOVE       [M, 6-29-20]

Marsha came to our house last week, to help Helen with a quilt she is making. Marsha is an industrial-strength quilter.

She is the first person in our house since March 14, when she was the last person in our house. Obviously, we are careful who we let in. Better not to ask for admission, unless you’re a really good quilter.

That quilt is 40 years old and still not done. Helen figured if she is ever going to get “grandmother’s flower garden” finished, it was worth taking a chance on Marsha. Besides, Marsha is careful, too, and she’s short, so there isn’t much room for the virus to get onto her.

I was a little surprised. Not that Helen was willing to let Marsha into the house. She likes Marsha. In fact, I suspect the quilting help was just an excuse to have someone besides me to talk to, because Helen is very patient with sewing projects.

When we got engaged, she started knitting me a pair of sox, because that’s what engaged women, and wives, did back then. But she was still a college student, and that’s a fulltime occupation, so the sox were not a high priority. Thus, one of them is two years older than the other. They are great sox, though. Wool. I wear them every winter. One of them is looking sort of tired, though.

This pandemic seems to be a good opportunity for old people to complete projects that kept getting put onto the back burner. There aren’t excuses to put them off, anymore. Young people, they have plenty of excuses for putting off everything, especially if they have children at home all the time. That’s a never-ending “first things first and forget about the rest” life. But not old people. We can’t even go and take care of the kids to provide relief to parents.

But some things are never done, regardless of how much time is available now. Because love is a never-ending, never-completed task, and it’s the one that is primary for us all, old or young. The job of loving is never completed, never totally done. Unless, maybe, there is a quilt named “love.”

John Robert McFarland

HERE’S TO NOON IN SUMMER [Sa, 6-27-20]

CHRIST IN WINTER: Reflections on Faith & Life for the Days of Winter in Summer

HERE’S TO NOON IN SUMMER      [Sa, 6-27-20]

It is hard to write

a poem in the heat

of the day. The chaos,

the hurry, the worry.

Minds and pens are dry

in the madness

of the noon day sun.

For poets, noon is never

now, only in anticipation

as the sun begins

its rise. In memory

as the sun begins

its fall.

So here’s to noon

in summer, with all

its heat and drag.

Also, I hope,

with lemonade.

John Robert McFarland

CHASED BY THE DEVIL [R, 6-25-20]

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

CHASED BY THE DEVIL      [R, 6-25-20]

One of my earliest memories is of being chased by the devil—pitchfork, red tail, and all. Down the upstairs hallway of our duplex in Indianapolis. I was four years old. For some reason, I had wanted to go down the stairs at the back of the hall, perhaps just because I was alone upstairs. The devil was waiting for me in the stairwell. I turned and ran as fast as I could for the front bedroom--the location of my pink blanket, the refuge I hid under whenever necessary-- with the devil hot on my tail.

I made the mistake Satchel Paige warned us about, but I did not know then that Satch had said, “Don’t look back; they might be gaining on you.” I looked back. The devil was, indeed, gaining. So, I used the only weapons at hand, or at foot. I threw my little blue house slippers at him. It worked. He seemed surprised by the flying house slippers. He disappeared. I woke up.

I’m not sure I really understood about dreams then, but I knew that the devil who chased me wasn’t real.

Which is better than Helen did with her first remembered dream. She was quite insistent at breakfast that she wanted to ride the pink pig again, like she had been doing. Her mother was mystified, until she finally figured out that Helen had been dreaming.

Well, Helen may not have understood the nature of dreams as early as I did, but riding a pink pig is a hell of a lot better than being chased by the devil. [I use “hell” here in a theological way, of course.] And the difference in those early dreams tells you a lot about our respective approaches to life.

Despite that early experience, I never really believed in a personal devil. I knew there was evil, and I knew that it was people who did bad things, and I knew that Jesus wanted me to stand up against those people and do good things. Somehow, though, I never really thought about those people as evil. They just did bad things.

Jesus certainly believed in a personal devil. Had a lot of tussles with “old scratch,” as my Grandma Pond called the devil. And I was a follower of Jesus. So why didn’t I believe in a personal devil, especially since I had encountered that devil so early in my life?

I think it was a fashion problem. I’m not sure where my unconscious got the red tail and the pitchfork idea, but it has been around for a long time. However, it wasn’t really convincing. It didn’t take long for me to drop that image of the devil. I mean, red tail and pitchfork? Really! Who would believe in a being like that? Once out of uniform, the devil just didn’t seem real anymore.

Evil, yes. That existed. But not actually in real people, like in a real devil. A highly logical, theologically astute, thoroughly educated person like myself just doesn’t believe in such flannel graph religion. I am afraid I got educated out of the truth about evil.

Also, if I admitted that devils were real, people, I would have to confront them, personally. It was more comfortable to believe in the non-personal, evil.

I heard someone say recently that the corona virus has no legs. The only way it can go someplace is if a real person takes it there. I have readjusted my thinking about the devil in the same way. Evil has no legs. The only way it gets some place is in a real person.

Theologically, thus, I have concluded that it is important to maintain the traditional concept of a personal devil. It reminds us that evil resides in real people, including you and me. Yes, we have to confront the devil, in whatever gender or fashion he appears, personally. In doing so, I recommend wearing heavy-wright house slippers.

John Robert McFarland

SOME OF MY BEST FRIENDS ARE… [W. 6-23-20]

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

SOME OF MY BEST FRIENDS ARE…  [W. 6-23-20]

It is hard these days to escape discussions about racism. That’s a good thing. We need to get clear about racism. I did, sort of, when one of my best friends… well… I’ll start at the beginning.

Because of my mother, I grew up thinking everyone should be treated equally, on their own merits. I knew “Negroes” were not treated justly, and in my own negligent way opposed bad treatment of them, or anyone else. I didn’t tell or laugh at racist jokes, but neither did I tell my friends they shouldn’t.

I never had any real contact with black folks, though, until I went to college, and then very little. There were 3 black guys in my dorm. We were all friendly with one another, but it was a work-for-a-scholarship dorm. We had to maintain a high GPA [1] and work at least 10 hours per week at a campus job, like bussing in a dining hall, and do our own maid and janitorial work. So, all we did was work and study. We didn’t pay much attention to one another, black or white.

There were two black students, plus one black faculty member, at my theological school.

When I graduated seminary and was appointed as the campus minister in Terre Haute, serving both Indiana State U and Rose Polytechnic Institute [Rose-Hulman University, now], there was one brand new black faculty member who came to INSU at the same time, in sociology. Andre’ Hammonds was the first black person to get a PhD at the U of TN. He and Dorcas were Methodists, and lived right next door to The Wesley Foundation building, and it was natural for us to become friends.

They were wonderful people, wonderful friends. Our friendship  continued for 40 years, until Andre’s death. Actually, it continued after Andres’ death, for we continued to visit Dorcas until distance and health made that impossible.

We were just regular friends, doing friend things--going out to eat, visiting in each other’s homes, staying overnight in each other’s homes, after we moved from Terre Haute. When Andre’ and Helen would get off on some tangent they shared—they were into comparing fragrances—Dorcas and I would just hold hands and roll our eyes at each other. I think she was the only wife of a friend with whom I ever held hands, just to hold hands. In my declining years, I sometimes hold hands with Kathy or Allyson as we come and go from the car to a restaurant [Remember going to restaurants with friends?], but, even as nice as their hands are, such activity is only to keep from falling over. Besides, Helen is holding Bob’s or Glenn’s arm for the same reason, so it evens out.

But for all the real friendship, there was in me an unconscious racism with Andre’. I realized it only when he and I were reorganizing the board of the Hyte Community Center in Terre Haute.

Hyte was in the black ghetto. A scrufty little place. A nothing club house, that the old lady who ran the place usually didn’t let the kids use anyway. She would show up after school, unlock the door, throw some worn-out balls onto the dusty, grassless dirty play-yard, and sit in her chair and ignore the kids. The few old white people who served on the board were content with that.

I developed a tutoring program for INSU students, to go to Hyte to help the kids study, so many tutors we almost ran out of students. It changed the expectations people in the neighborhood began to have about Hyte. 

Andre’ and I decided to meet those expectations head-on. We got rid of the old board members and reformed the board, half black and half white this time. We were quite clear about that. We had to have half and half.

We got some really solid folks, from both the black and white communities, to agree to be on the board—professional and business leaders, the folks we would need to build the new building and have a real community center. At our first meeting, as Andre’ conducted it, I sat and silently counted black and whites to be sure we had half and half.

We didn’t! Despite our careful planning, every time I counted, we had one more white person than black. About the fourth counting, I  realized… I was counting Andre’ as white. And he wasn’t at all. In color, he was quite dark.

There was something in me that had to make Andre’ white to be acceptable. Black might be beautiful in theory, but not in my southern Indiana heart.

We were friends, anyway. That’s the main point, I think. Throughout our 40 years together, I was always aware Andre’ was black when we went places together. I was always aware that Dorcas was black when we held hands. So what? That’s part of who we are. I assume they were aware Helen and I are white. There would always be a racial difference between us. There would always be a part of our identity we could not share with the other.

But that didn’t keep us from inviting them over for supper. That’s what true friendship is all about. We just make allowance for the racism in our hearts and treat one another with respect and love, anyway. Especially if there is something big and heavy to move after supper.

John Robert McFarland

1] I think our required GPA was C+, but it might have been B. The cumulative GPA for all 60 of us was always around 3.3 on a 4.0 scale, so the minimum was basically irrelevant. 

I’M NOT OLD YET [Su, 6-21-20]

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

I’M NOT OLD YET                [Su, 6-21-20]

I’m always surprised when someone my age is referred to as “old.” I shouldn’t be, so why am I?

Apparently, I’m not old yet, despite what my birth certificate, and the cradle roll at the Oxford, OH Methodist Church, would have you believe.

It’s not because I believe that nonsense about “you’re only as old as you feel,” and “age is just a state of mind.” In the first place, of the 26 known states of mind, 22 of them are stupid, so being a state of mind is no guarantee.

But sometimes I see a story about someone my age who is wise and calm and given to inspirational sayings. Such people have everything in perspective. They no longer worry about things they can’t control, which is everything. They don’t sweat the small stuff. They know this is the first day of the rest of their lives. They go through life as a gentle presence, no anxiety or angst.

I am none of those things. In fact, I am less calm and wise than ever, and instead of inspirational bromides, I say, as my brother-in-law, John Decker, says of the sayings on church sign boards, “Who writes this shit?” I have nothing in perspective. I worry about everything. I sweat all the small stuff. This isn’t the first day of the rest of my life; this is the last day of most of my life. I go through my final days as an anxious presence, riddled with existential angst. [At least I have achieved one thing on my bucket list, from my college days, when I first heard the phrase—riddled with existential angst.]

Yes, I’ve lived through wars, too—S. Pacific, Europe, Korea, Viet Nam, Iraq, Afghanistan. I’ve lived through social upheavals—segregation and lynchings and Civil Rights and Kent State and ERA and Title IX and Black Lives Matter and homophobia and the New York Mets of 1962’s “Can’t anybody here play this game?” I’ve lived through financial depressions and incredibly stupid and greedy politicians. I’ve lived through climate change and Flint water and floods and tornadoes and Jim Jones. They haven’t made me calm. They’ve made me scared.

In those stories of meeting the wise one, the teller of the story is so pleased to have made the acquaintance of this “old” person, this person of my own age. They have themselves been calmed by the presence and sagacity of this “old” person. That’s how I know I’m not old yet.

John Robert McFarland

THE GIFT OF THE PRESENT [F, 6-19-20]

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

THE GIFT OF THE PRESENT          [F, 6-19-20]

As I walked this morning, I thought of another story I could share. I’m sure I’ve written it before in this blog, but most of the CIW readers are old enough that you’ve probably forgotten, so…

It started with seeing a dandelion and thinking of Ray Bradbury’s semi-memoir, Dandelion Wine. One of the stories concerns an old lady and her neighbor children. I can’t remember her name in the book, so I’ll call her Mrs. Smith.

On hot summer afternoons, the children would gather on her front porch, and she would give them lemonade and tell them stories of her childhood. But they did not believe her! To them, she had always been old. She protested. No, she really had been a little girl and wore pretty frilly dresses and had heavy-head dolls and people called her “Missy.” No, they objected. That could not be. She had always been old. She always wore old-lady dresses and lace-up shoes. She didn’t have a cute little nickname. She didn’t even have a first name. She was Mrs. Smith, and always had been.

Day after day this went on, until finally, one day, they said, “What is your name?” “Mrs. Smith,” she said. “Did you ever live in a different house?” “No, I have always lived here.” “Were you ever young?” “No, I have always been old.”

There are so many immediate responses that rise up to that story, but today, mine was to understand why I called her Mrs. Smith. That was my Grandma Mac’s maiden name. Henrietta Ann Smith. To her friends she was Retta. To her 22 grandchildren, and 37 great-grands, she was always and only, Grandma Mac.

On a good day, she was five feet tall. Never had an ounce of fat. Worked it all off. Lived to be 96 and was in the hospital only on the last day of her life. Had seven children, at home, and raised from age four, as though her own child, the daughter of a brother whose new wife did not want little Genevieve.

While raising those children, in a house with no electricity and no plumbing, she worked fulltime, Oakland City, Indiana, doing the farming, including plowing with a one-share plow behind a horse, while Grandpa worked as a stationary engineer in a coalmine, and she also worked as a cook in a café and for a threshing crew.

Later, in Oxford, OH, she worked fulltime as a maid and salad cook at Western College for Women, now part of Miami U, while Grandpa worked as a stationary engineer in a factory. Those were depression years, and while working fulltime she ran a household that included three bachelor sons who couldn’t marry because they couldn’t get jobs, and also, on a random basis, three other children, and their children, including her first grandson, who moved in whenever they did not have jobs.

We grandchildren set up a “store” in the barn and filled it with things we took from her room and made her buy them back when she got home from work. She laughed and laughed. To her, we were wonderfully creative. Laughter was her most common response to anything.

I cannot remember her ever reminiscing about the past. She was always in the present. She played Monopoly with us kids, and beat all comers at Chinese Checkers. She rode the bus down to Cincinnati on Ladies Day to see the Reds play, and listened to them on the radio the rest of the time. She would gladly tell stories of her children when they were little, which involved naming all eight of them before she got the right one, but only if you asked.

In her 90s, she fixed her hair in a French roll and wore nice dresses, and high heels. Around the house. Not frilly dresses, or stupidly high heels, but she wanted to look nice. Not the way she used to look, but it was important to look nice right now.

Perhaps one reason she didn’t tell stories of the past was that she didn’t need to. With that many children, there was always someone else telling a story about a sibling, like how Uncle Bob didn’t like to get a bath, and so on Saturday night would run from the tub crying, “Dry me first,” or how my father chased Aunt Helen around the house with a butcher knife. [Neither one could ever remember why.]

The real reason, though, was that for Grandma Mac, all time was present. She was a Presbyterian, but no predestinarian. She believed you earned your reward right now, by working and laughing and loving. She didn’t deny the past, but she didn’t need it. She lived in “the eternal now.”

At a family reunion, when her children were in their 70s, our daughter, Mary Beth, interviewed them on camera. They had a good time, talking about their childhood, growing up on the farm and going to the one-room White Oak School near Oakland City, and later living in the big house my mother dubbed “Cedar Crest” in Oxford, never sure how many people would be there for supper or to spend the night. Uncle Mike summed it all up by saying, “You can’t understand our family until you know that we had an amazing mother.”

So, think again your reaction to that story of Mrs. Smith in Dandelion Wine. Those children were not unkind to her by refusing her stories of the past. They gave her a great gift, the gift of the present. Grandma Mac reversed the story; she gave that gift to others.

John Robert McFarland

LISTENING TO STRANGERS [M, 6-14-20]

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

LISTENING TO STRANGERS    [M, 6-14-20]

Our pastor, Jimmy Moore, preached a sermon yesterday, about attitudes about inclusion, race and such, that was as close to perfect as a sermon can get—construction, theology, delivery, usefulness. Unfortunately, he also quoted research from one of our mutual colleagues that shows sermons are irrelevant in getting people to change their opinions. So much for a useful sermon.

However, he had crowd-sourced the sermon on Facebook, asking all and sundry how they go about trying to converse with people whose viewpoints are different/opposite.

There were many quite helpful responses. The one that intrigues me most, though, was from Erin James Predmore, who said that she asks “…what would they need to see, hear, or experience to consider my viewpoint valid?”

So, I thought: if that is useful in one direction, it has to be useful in the other also.

Obviously, one cannot have a conversation at all with the irrational fringe, folks who say things like George Floyd was a menace to society and the police did us a favor by killing him, the way a young man here in Bloomington did a couple of days ago. There’s no point in trying. There is nothing I could see, hear, or experience that would cause me to consider that viewpoint valid.

But 40% or so, maybe more, according to which poll when, approves of the Donald Trump presidency. They can’t be dismissed as irrational fringe. So, I asked of myself: what would I need to see, hear, or experience to consider that Donald Trump should be reelected?

So far, it hasn’t worked. I would have to see, hear, and experience Donald Trump’s conversion from being Donald Trump. If I saw him march in a rally protesting racism, if I heard him apologize to people he has belittled, if I experienced a moment when he put on a mask and went to the hospital and prayed for people with Covid19…

I’m not sure there is any hope for reconciliation of viewpoints on such matters, for they are not differences of opinion, but differences of morality. So, despite my statement above about Jimmy’s sermon being useful—probably not.

When I told Helen about the uselessness of Jimmy’s sermon, though, despite its excellence, she demurred. She said, “Sermons are like those warning sounds cars give you when you stray from your correct lane.”

Helen has always been the best theologian in the family.

John Robert McFarland

Well, I SAID in yesterday’s column, when I vowed to write no more, forever, that if, however, a new story showed up… I just didn’t expect it to happen so soon.