CHASING AROUND WITH YOUR FRIENDS [R, 10-29-26]

CHRIST IN WINTER: Reflections on Faith & Life for the Years of Winter—CHASING AROUND WITH YOUR FRIENDS [R, 10-29-26]

 

Ida Belle Paterson died recently. I like to think that she and George are now reunited, holding hands, as they once did in a ditch beside the highway.

They’d had a one car accident while on a trip a long way from home. They’d climbed out of their wrecked car but neither one could stand up. This was before cell phones. They could not call for help. They just laid in the ditch and held hands. A couple came alone, saw them, stopped, took them to the hospital, got a room in a hotel for several days, interrupting their own trip so that they could take care of George and Ida Belle, get their car repaired, make sure they were okay before going on their own way.

When asked why they had gone so far out of their way to help total strangers, they said, “We had to. They were holding hands while lying in a ditch.”

In retirement years, we used to meet George and Ida Belle at the Ambassador Inn in Wisconsin Dells. It was a convenient meeting spot, half-way between Iowa City, IA, where they lived, and Iron Mountain, MI, where we lived.

The Dells is a tourist spot—water parks and duck boats and all that. We didn’t “do” anything there, though. We just talked and looked at photos, get caught up on families and insights.

As we get deeper into the winter of our years, the friends of spring and summer become all the more important. They share our memories. They are chapters in our biographies.

There is a poignant episode of M*A*S*H where Col. Potter tells a reporter that he loves and respects the bright young surgeons and nurses with whom he works, but he is lonely. He is the only one of his generation. No one else in his unit shares his memories.

George and Ida Belle share our memories.

George spent most of his career in Iowa City, first as the Director of The Wesley Foundation campus ministry at the Univ. of Iowa, then as Chaplain of University Hospital, as a Supervisor of Clinical Pastoral Education, and as a professor in the School of Religion. Ida Belle raised their four children and worked in a doctor’s office. We had daughters of the same age, and they befriended us when we lived in Iowa City while I did PhD work at the university. George was one of my professors, and flunked me on a major test. On pastoral counseling, yet!

 “We know you know this material,” he said, “but your brain is so nimble you write stories about everything instead of answering the questions.” That’s sort of a compliment, isn’t it? George must have thought so, for later he asked me to write the lyrics for music he composed. [1]

After we moved back to Illinois, we didn’t see each other for around 20 years. But when we followed the grandchildren to Mason City, IA, we took up our friendship again. We had just gotten started when grandson Joe was diagnosed with liver cancer, at 15 months of age. He and Katie spent most of the next year at Children’s Hospital, part of University Hospital in Iowa City, while Patrick worked in Mason City to keep health insurance in force, and Helen and I took care of four-year-old Brigid.

Without hesitation, George and Ida Belle became surrogate parents to Katie and Patrick and surrogate grandparents for Joe. They often kept me in their home when I was at the hospital, too. They helped us all through some very difficult times with the grace of hospitality and presence.

This column is about friendship, and I turn to two of my best friends, my grandchildren, for insight:

Little Joey knew immediately that the Patersons were his friends. One day early in his hospital year, when they came to support Patrick and Katie through the difficult days of diagnoses and treatment plans, Joe became quite agitated. He could barely talk, but he finally communicated to his mother that he wanted his pants. He was just in a diaper. His friends had come to visit. He knew he should wear pants for such an occasion.

One morning when we lived in Mason City, I took Brigid to kindergarten. It was extremely cold. That didn’t matter to the school officials. They did not let children into the building unless the temperature was twenty below. Otherwise they were to stand in line outside at the appropriate door. “In line” meant their placed their backpacks in a line to hold their place while they ran around on the playground. I told Brigid I would keep the heater running in the car and when we saw the other children starting into the building, then she could go join them.

“Oh, no, Grandpa. I need to be with my friends.”

“But it’s cold out there. What will you do?”

“We’ll chase each other.”

I guess at any age, no matter how cold it is, it’s important to wear pants while you chase around with your friends.

John Robert McFarland

1] George was a jazz trombonist and wrote Gospel jazz blues. Not too hard to write those lyrics. Mostly woke up this morning… went down to the river… walked a ways with Jesus… ain’t gonna sin no more… Then he threw me by composing a classical mass…

 

 

 

 

PAUL BAKER [T, 10-27-26]

CHRIST IN WINTER: The Hopeful Reminiscences of An Old Friend—PAUL BAKER [T, 10-27-26]

 

Paul Baker has died. At least, that is what I hear from folks in his

town. They are not sure when he died, though, or if there will be a funeral service for him, because there has been no obituary, nothing official, no plans. His wife is in a nursing home, unable to do an obit or plan a memorial service, but surely there are others…

It is a bit strange, that news of Paul’s death is so private, for his life was so public.

Paul and I came to Illinois State University at the same time, he with a new PhD from Duke University, a new sociology professor, I as the new Methodist campus minister.

I was trying to start a series of gatherings where students could meet profs to talk about religion in an informal way. I asked our student officers if they knew any profs who would be good at that. “Oh, yes,” said Bonnie Whiteside. “This new sociology prof, Paul Baker. He is so enthusiastic, and willing to talk about anything.” She was right. One of my favorite memory images is Paul in our living room, talking with a bunch of students, his head thrown back in the throes of his infectious laugh.

Through our years at Illinois State, Helen and I became close friends with Paul and Sharon. There were other young couples in Normal, Illinois in those days who shared our interests and values. Five of those couples shared child care and meals so often that we gave ourselves a name, the BUMBS, for Baker, Unger [Paul & Judith], McFarland, Bass [Gary & Dianne], and Story [GL and Bettie].

Because three of those men were Methodist ministers, we became scattered geographically. Only the Bakers and Storys continued to live in Bloomington-Normal. But despite those distances, we met together for meals for fifty years, through eight different towns for Helen and me, sharing all the ups and downs of our lives, honing our personal and academic and spiritual theories and practices on one another, Not many people get to share in a friendship group like that for so long.

Then Dianne died. Followed by Bettie. GL. Gary. And now Paul.

The last ten years, with only three BUMBS couples left, we began to lose touch with one another, the way old people do, as travel becomes more difficult. So we didn’t hear right away that Paul had died… and folks still aren’t quite sure…

I’m a bit frustrated by this uncertainty about what comes next. Paul deserves a grand sendoff. Or maybe it is those of who are left who need that sendoff. To remind us of what a giant Paul was even though he was just a BUMB.

Paul ended his career as the Dean of The College of Education at ILSU. He attained the rank of Distinguished Professor. He was known throughout the academic world for his research and writing on the sociology of education, especially for teaching school superintendents how to lead their districts with savvy and commitment and hope.

More than anything, though, Paul was a family man. He and Sharon had four children—a doctor, an actor, a social worker, and a teacher. They produced thirteen grandchildren, a “baker’s dozen.” 

Sharon was a wonderful organist, so was always in demand as a church organist. The Bakers were Methodists, but when Sharon played first at a Presbyterian church and then for the Baptists, Paul went along, and always taught an adult Sunday School class. He was the long-time president of the board of Home Sweet Home mission, helping the homeless and helpless. He was a committed Christian and church member, both in his personal relationships and as a social citizen,

Well, we would not be able to travel to a memorial service for Paul anyway, so this is my way of saying goodbye to yet another friend, one who was always a beacon of insight. So many times, as I have tried to figure out some conundrum, I have asked, “What would Paul Baker say about this?” He always had something to say. It was always helpful. It was always encouraging.

John Robert McFarland

 

 

 

BEING CHRISTIAN IN SPITE OF YOUR THEOLOGY [Sun, 10-25-26]

CHRIST IN WINTER: Reflections on Faith & Life for the Years of Winter—BEING CHRISTIAN IN SPITE OF YOUR THEOLOGY [Sun, 10-25-26]

 

I know a man…I’ll call him Bud. We’ve been friends for 80 years. He still lives in the Indiana Delta. Indiana doesn’t have a delta, of course, but I call it that because its culture is much the same as the Mississippi Delta.

His adult granddaughter lives with him. Along with her partner, who is black. That would be bad enough, of course, but to make matters even worse in a small town in the Indiana delta, they are a lesbian couple. For several reasons, they have no place else to live.

There were tears in Bud’s eyes and words as he said to me, “I know what they do is against the Bible. I know they are wrong. But I can’t send them away because I love my granddaughter so much…”

I said, “Bud, you’re a Christian in spite of your theology.”

Our theology, our beliefs about God, should enable our experience of God, not get in the way of relating to God. Our theology should make the way plain [Mark 1], not be a stumbling block on the way to God [I Corinthians 8]

As persons with physical bodies, naturally the primary way we relate to God is physically. I don’t know why that’s so hard to understand.

We relate to other physical people—and other parts of the physical creation--through our physical bodies, including our physical brains. In other words, we are in the world, even though we are not of it. [John 17]

We are not of the world because we have a soul. Well, that’s not quite accurate. We don’t have souls; we are souls. Indeed, as CS Lewis reminds us, we are souls that have bodies, not bodies that have souls.

Our theology about God is not the same thing as our relationship to God.

I’ve written before about a young man I’ll call Owen. He belonged to a conservative congregation in the town where I pastored, but he wanted to date my teen daughter. He thought that before he could do that--so that he didn’t get involved with infidels--he had to get me straight on theology.

“You can’t be saved unless you believe in the substitutionary atonement,” he said.

“How’s about Kathy Silver?” I asked. “She loves coming to church. She loves all the people. she sings the hymns, even though she uses different words. She prays The Lord’s Prayer along with everyone else, even though she’s always a phrase or two behind. She can’t even say substitutionary atonement. Will she go to hell?”

At that time, Kathy was in her late twenties, but with the mental level of a four-year-old, the same mental level she would always have.

To his credit, Owen was reluctant to assign Kathy to hell, but he finally admitted that, yes, she would go to hell, because she did not, could not, believe in the substitutionary atonement.

I love theology. I have a doctorate in theology. But, as I have often said, God gave us theology for fun. When we take it seriously, it creates all sorts of problems. Thoughts about God and God are not the same thing.

Our other daughter--not the one Owen wanted to date; at least he was smart enough not to try that--was once asked by a group of conservative friends if she were saved. They were surprised when she said yes, because she did not use that kind of language when they talked about spiritual things. “When were you saved?” they asked, assuming she would name some moment in time, like an event at a revival meeting.

“I was saved on Good Friday,” she said.

John Robert McFarland

 

I used to refer to my home part of Indiana, the pocket, as The Mississippi of the North. But in reality, the whole state of Indiana is The Mississippi of the North. So, I now refer to the pocket as the delta.

 

TOO SOON OLD AND TOO LATE SMART [F, 10-23-26]

 CHRIST IN WINTER: Reflections on Faith & Life for the Years of Winter— TOO SOON OLD AND TOO LATE SMART [F, 10-23-26]

 

Early in his ministry, while still a teen-age college student preacher, John Wilkey included a Greek word in his sermon, sure that his country congregation would know nothing of it and he would thus look quite smart. After the service, Miss Ruth Tapper corrected his pronunciation of the word. Turned out Miss Tapper was Dr. Tapper, with a doctorate in ancient Greek lit!

That was an early lesson in humility for the boy who became The Rev. Dr. John Conrad Wilkey.

Similar to that of legendary sports writer Bob Hammel. He was writing for his hometown newspaper when he was so young that his mother had to drive him to events. Once he was not sure of the first name of the game’s high scorer, but he was in a hurry. So he did not look it up. He guessed. It was a wrong guess. He ran into that “boy” many years later. He opened up his billfold and pulled out the newspaper clipping with his wrong name.

An older woman out in public ran into an old friend she hadn’t seen for a long time. They started chatting, decided to have coffee, etc. She kept trying to think of the other woman’s name and just couldn’t. Finally she said, “I’m sorry, but I just can’t remember your name. Will you tell me, please, what your name is?” The other woman thought and then asked, “How soon do you need to know?”

The older we get, the more relevant that joke is. We just don’t remember very well. If we remember at all, it’s a lot slower than it used to be. It humbles us. Or should.

Coaches, preachers, teachers, executives…old people... these often share a common approach. They think, and often like to repeat, “it’s my way, or the highway.”

I intuitively knew better when I started preaching. Or perhaps it was just because I was young, nineteen, and knew I was ignorant. For whatever reason, for my whole career, whenever I became the “new” preacher, I did not try to change what I inherited. Until there was some good reason to do so.

A good reason always came, because nothing remains static. Situations change, and churches have to change in order to meet them. So do governments and schools and businesses and…

At some point, old age is not just more of the same; it is a different way.

A different way of thinking, of remembering, of hoping, of faithing.

My way is never the only way, and often not the best way. But…what do I know? I’m just an old guy whose only way is to tell a story or three and let you figure stuff out for yourself.

John Robert McFarland

 

 

UNIQUE, LIKE EVERYONE ELSE [W, 10-21-26]

CHRIST IN WINTER: Reflections On Faith & Life for the Years of Winter—UNIQUE, LIKE EVERYONE ELSE [W, 10-21-26]

 

It wasn’t that I had anything against Jerry Orbach.

In the 1990s, most of us knew him as Detective Lennie Briscoe on TV’s “Law & Order.” He had made his rep, though, as a song and dance man on Broadway, originating the role of El Gallo in “The Fantasticks.” I enjoyed seeing him in his various roles. Still, I didn’t think he was right for the gig.

The gig was reading the audio version of my cancer book. [1] I thought I was the one to read that, because I had lived it. I knew exactly every nuance of every word. Jerry was an excellent actor, but he had not lived the cancer journey, especially my cancer journey.

I asked my print editor at AndrewsMcMeel to talk to the audio editor at HarperAudio. “I don’t know,” she said. “We just sell the rights. Then it’s up to them. Orbach’s name will help them sell more.” But she agreed to try, and the folks at HarperAudio agreed to let me “audition.”

This was the 1990s, still “primitive” recording and communicating. I had to send them a tape of me reading the book. They were satisfied enough that they flew Helen and me to New York and put us up in a hotel so that I could do the reading.

During the taping, one of the audio engineers told Helen, who was hanging out with them in the sound room: “He’s got nice pipes. Jerry does, too, but he’s usually been playing poker all night when he comes in to read, so we have to do a lot of repeats.” They were pleased that I did not play poker.

I thought of this as I listened to Bob Dylan sing the original recording of “Don’t Think Twice,” just after I had listened to Hoagy Carmichael play “Stardust.” They were terrible! PP&M did “Don’t Think Twice” so much better than its composer. Willie Nelson, Harry Connick, Jr, Nat King Cole—just about anybody did “Stardust” better than its composer.

So I decided that it was a principle that people who were trained singers or actors or musicians did better than composers and song writers. Then I remembered that I had done better at reading my book than a trained actor, so I decided it was a principle that…

We like principles, don’t we? They give us organization. We can look at a situation and make sense of it quickly because it fits a category. Malcolm Gladwell—in all his books, but especially in Blink and Talking to Strangers—points out that this serves us well, saves us time… until it leads us astray. 

You are not a principle. Your thoughts and actions cannot be categorized. You don’t react the same way every time, even if the conditions and people and situation are the same. Don’t put yourself into a box. Live within your limits, but don’t be limited by them. You are unique, just like everyone else.

John Robert McFarland

1] NOW THAT I HAVE CANCER I AM WHOLE: Reflections on Life and Healing for Cancer Patients and Those Who Love Them [AndrewsMcMeel & HarperAudio]

FRAGILE IN THE TRANSITIONS [M, 10-19-26]

CHRIST IN WINTER: Reflections on Faith & Life for the Years of Winter—FRAGILE IN THE TRANSITIONS [M, 10-19-26]

 

I’m beginning to have more sympathy with the man who moved because he heard that most accidents happen at home. “Not taking any chances,” he said.

Well, Helen and I aren’t taking chances, either. We’ve signed up for Shady Pines. Except here it is called Bell Trace. They call it “senior living.” It’s popularly called “assisted living.” Helen calls it “No more cooking.” I call it, “No more…just about anything…”

Well, actually my life won’t change much. I can recline on the sofa and drink coffee and read just about any place. Helen has famously stated that “men enter assisted living the day they get married.”

Even though my life won’t change much, I still have to be careful in the transition, because, as Helen’s yoga teacher used to say, “We are fragile in the transitions.”

She was talking about going from downward dog to--I can’t say to what, because downward dog is the only yoga name I know—but I think her wisdom works in all the rest of life. We are fragile in the transitions, be they physical or spiritual.

It is well known that old people fall more often in unfamiliar surroundings, or if they move too fast in trying to get from one position or to another, like starting to walk too quickly after standing up. So, while we are looking forward to someone else doing the cooking and picking up the mail, we are also reminding ourselves that we’ll have to be careful.

We have some time to get used to the idea of moving. We’re only on the wait list. It may be several months before an apartment becomes available. But we’re already beginning to feel the fragility, the vulnerability of being in a state of flux, even if only in our anticipations.

We should have made this decision six months ago, but life is rarely lived that way. In reality, we don’t know what we need until it’s already too late.

As we age, we are not as agile. So often, a fall happens when we’ve tried to make a fast turn. When we are less agile, we are more fragile.

It is not just our bodies, though. Our spirits are less agile, and so they are fragile in the transitions, too. 

Like going from sleep to wakefulness in the morning. If I get up before I’ve waited for a moment or two to let my mind get in sync with God, the transition leads me into all sorts of bad thinking. And bad walking.

Every day, there are dozens of little transitions that can be dangerous. Addicts know this. Just going from sitting to standing, going from one room to another. Those are fragile times. You think, without doing it consciously, “Oh, this is a time I could have a drink,” or “This is a time I could place a bet,” or “This is a time I could grab a donut…”

In psychology, the phenomenon of possession is often triggered by rapid change. Possession means a feeling of losing control of one’s self, of being in the control of some other force.

In the Bible, especially in the story of Jesus, in those times, it is said that people are possessed by demons. Demons are strongest in times of transition.

I wonder about Jesus on the cross. What a major transition. Did the demons get to him? Was his faith fragile in that transition? Is that why he asked, “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” [Mt 27, Mark 15]

But the Jesus story did not end there. Despite the fragility, despite the demons, that was a transition to a better time.

Once we get to Bell Trace, I’m going to deal with the demons in the time-honored ways: prayer, friends, and just sitting in one place all day. The demons can’t get possession of you in transition if you never transition.

John Robert McFarland

 

 

 

SANCTUARY [Sat, 10-17-26]

CHRIST IN WINTER: Reflections on Faith & Life for the Years of Winter—SANCTUARY [Sat, 10-17-26]

Lord, prepare me, to be a sanctuary…

That was the first line of the chorus we sang to open Sunday morning worship at my new church. It was my first Sunday at that church, and the chorus was new to me. I wasn’t quick to pick up the words.

…pure and holy, tried and true…

No, I got those okay, but I got mixed up on the next words, because I was distracted. I was thinking about the rest of the service, how to read the congregation when it was my turn to be up front. I was retired, and the bishop had appointed me there, part time, as a transition for a congregation that was troubled and confused and needed a sanctuary in their sanctuary.

…with thanksgiving I’ll be a living…

I read the congregation pretty well that day, that year. We had a good time together. I had inherited quite a few wrinkles, but we got them ironed out.

After that first service, though, the song leader’s wife confronted me, in a rather hostile fashion. She thought I had not sung Sanctuary with enough gusto. Apparently, I thought I was better than others because I had a lot of education. And, yes, I had a lot of experience, but that did not mean that I understood the people in that congregation. The District Superintendent had told them all about how competent I was, but she wasn’t being fooled.

I was amazed that she knew me so well just by the way I sang, or did not sing, Sanctuary.

“Oh, no,” I said. “I like Sanctuary. I just hadn’t heard it before…” But she was already walking away. She never returned.

…sanctuary for you.

Was she just being protective of her husband, the song leader? Did she think I was dissing him by having to mumble some of the words?

Not likely. I wasn’t up in front, sitting in the chancel, where everyone could see me. In fact, I had my back to the congregation, sitting in the front pew, waiting while he led the opening chorus and made announcements.

Nobody in the congregation seemed to notice her absence. At least, they didn’t say anything about it. The song leader continued for a few weeks but finally told me he wasn’t coming back anymore, either. Nobody said anything about that, either.

There are a thousand reasons to dislike a pastor, and some of them make sense. Some don’t.

My predecessor in that congregation, everyone agreed, was a nice and intelligent man, but a terrible preacher. No one understood what he was talking about, and he didn’t know how to finish a sermon. He just kept on and on. Finally, a woman made three signs that she held during his sermon while sitting in the front row. The first read Ten Minutes The second read Five Minutes. The third read You’re Done. Everyone said that he seemed appreciative when she held up the last sign. He stopped immediately, even in the middle of a word.

If a church has an incompetent preacher, there are lay members who get satisfaction by filling the gaps of incompetency. They get used to it. When a new preacher comes along, and those gaps are no longer there, they are disappointed. Their importance is diminished. They are not happy about that. The church is no longer their sanctuary.

Lord, prepare me, to be a sanctuary, pure and holy, tried and true. With thanksgiving, I’ll be a living, sanctuary, for you.

That church was the last of my every-Sunday appointments, although I did a couple of short interim pastorates after that. I’ve not heard a congregation sing Sanctuary in all in my 20 years since. But I sing it every day, myself, to start my day.

John Robert McFarland