THE JOY OF VOTING [11-2-26]

CHRIST IN WINTER: The Irrelevant Reminiscences of An Old Man—THE JOY OF VOTING [11-2-26]

 

When I learned that the Potter & Brumfield electrical relays factory in the county seat was hiring, I went immediately to apply. I really needed a job. There were only two requirements: you had to be 18, and you had to pass the entrance exam.

I was still in high school, but they didn’t care about that; I had just turned 18. I aced the exam. I was hired on the spot.

The quality engineer who gave the exams was impressed by my score. That pleased me, but surprised me, because the exam seemed quite easy. No dates to remember, no equations to prove, no theorems to explain, no predicate nominatives to place or match case.

Mr. Pohl explained that the exam wasn’t about such things. “It’s not an intelligence test. We are trying to see if you can think,” he said. “More than half of those who take the exam fail it. They can’t think.”

In civics class, our teachers extolled the high voter turnout we had in our county. But as I heard Mr. Pohl, I realized that more than half of those voters couldn’t think well enough to do a job on a factory line. But there is no test for voting. Those folks who failed the P&B test back then have been voting for 70 years. All without being able to think.

As I chatted with our one-time pastor, Paul Mallory, about why people make such bad decisions politically, decisions not only bad for society as a whole but even against their own best interests, he said, “Remember. Half the voters are below average.”

When Ben Franklin was asked what kind of government the Constitutional Convention had come up with, he said, “A republic. If you can keep it.”

It makes me think of a family I knew that was famous for worrying. One night, a woman called up her cousin and said, “Start worrying. I’ll give you the details later,” and hung up the phone.

When it comes to democracy, it’s never too early to start worrying and working, even if you don’t know the details. Any form of democracy takes work. It is not automatic. You can’t start it running and then forget about it. At the very least, each of us needs to vote.

There was a TV commercial a few years ago featuring the founding fathers working on the Constitution, replete with powdered wigs and knee stockings. I can’t remember what product they were touting, but I do remember that as Jefferson argued for the right of all citizens to vote, one of the others incredulously said, “You mean even the stupid ones?”

Well, yes. But if you are not stupid, be sure to vote, for the founding fathers had you in mind…way back then.

John Robert McFarland

On Aug. 26, I encountered Donna while walking. We chatted a bit. We have done that for ten years without knowing last names. Ten years ago I measured my walk by miles. Now I stagger along with the aid of my cane, measuring my walk by blocks. Donna has seen my decline, so she asked me if Helen and I could still drive to the polls, for she wanted to take us if we could not get there on our own, since President Trump was trying to eliminate voting by mail. Donna is a good citizen. She wanted to be sure that we have a vote, even if not a voice.

  

THE BISHOP OF CANCER [Sat, 10-31-16]

CHRIST IN WINTER: The Irrelevant Reminiscences of An Old Man—THE BISHOP OF CANCER [Sat, 10-31-16]

 

This column starts with an entry in my journal, 1-23-12…

It occurred to me today, for the first time, that cancer was my bishop experience. It was for a short time, but had I been a bishop, that would probably have been for a short time, too.

Being a bishop had never been a grand design or a desperate goal, just a sort of generalized background assumption. Richard Raines was my bishop all through my early years in ministry, and he was my hero. I thought he was the perfect model for any preacher. I’m sure Helen was right when, as I retired, and was a bit surprised that I had not become a bishop, she said: “You never really wanted to be a bishop; you wanted to be Richard Raines.”

Throughout my years in ministry, though, I assumed that being Richard Raines meant being a bishop.

I did not want to be a bishop for the power, or the accolades, or the fame. Well, yes, probably all those things, but I really wanted to be a good preacher. The ultimate assurance of that, to me, perhaps to any Methodist preacher, was being elected as a bishop.

Also, I saw a bishop’s role as being a visionary and innovator and morale builder, creating a church that people want to join, and that people want to lead, both laity and clergy. That’s what Richard Raines did. So I thought of the bishop as the chief evangelist, helping folks into the pews, and into the ranks of the ministry.

As time went on, I came to understand that bishops had little time for those roles. Instead, they went to committee meetings and dealt with disgruntled congregations and preachers. I would have been miserable.

In 1986, my conference, Central Illinois, put Frank Nestler into candidacy for election as a bishop. Our bishop, Leroy Hodapp, told me later that when Frank was elected, he was going to appoint me to replace Frank as Superintendent [asst. bishop] for the Decatur District.

That might have later led to me being nominated for a bishop position at some later time.

Frank, though, was not elected. I felt sorry for him. I felt sorry for the church. He would have been a good bishop. For me, though, it was one of the great blessings of my career. I would have been even more miserable as a District Supt than I would have been as a bishop—just as many committee meetings and disgruntled congregations and preachers, but less authority. Little time to do morale and community building, continuing education, visioning…

At the time I was appointed to Arcola, having been overlooked until all the other appointments had been made, I realized I wasn’t going to be a bishop. The powers had forgotten about me. My career was over. My working days weren’t over, but my career was over.

Then, I got cancer. And I became a bishop. I wasn’t elected, but I became the bishop of cancer.

Remember that I saw a bishop’s role, the role I wanted, as being a visionary and innovator and morale builder. I got to do that as a fellow cancer survivor.

Because I was used to standing up in front of people and talking, and because my cancer story really was interesting, and because I was willing to talk openly about even the most difficult and intimate aspects of cancer, and especially because I wrote a book about it, [1]I was in demand as a speaker at cancer conferences and support groups all over the country, and as a one-on-one counselor and friend for other cancer survivors.

It was one of the most satisfying times of my life. For about twelve years, probably about the same number of years I would have been a church bishop, I got to be a cancer bishop.

And not a single committee meeting! [2]

John Robert McFarland

1] Now That I Have Cancer I Am Whole, published by AndrewsMcMeel and HarperAudio. Translated into Czech and Japanese editions.

2] That’s a bit disingenuous to say. When I retired, I vowed that I would never go to another committee meeting. Almost the next day, I received a request from the local hospital that I chair the committee to plan their first-ever National Cancer Survivors Day celebration. How could I say no to that?

           

 

 

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]