REBRANDING [W, 4-22-26]

CHRIST IN WINTER: The Irrelevant Musings of A Street Corner Philosopher—REBRANDING [W, 4-22-26]

 

We get a good bit of identity from our group loyalties. Reds or Cubs? Coke or Pepsi? Hoosiers or Boilermakers? Bud or Busch? Ford or Chevy? John Deere or International Harvester? You can’t get by generically, saying that you like baseball, or cola, or beer, or cars… You’ve got to choose a brand.

Yes, even tractors. One of my preacher friends tells of going to a county fair where the chair of his church trustees was in charge of the tractor pull. He was a loyal John Deere man, but the guy who was driving the John Deere that day wasn’t as good as the International Harvester driver, so John Deere lost. The church trustee disgustedly said, “Get that piece of green excrement out of here!” [Not the exact words.] My friend said it was the only time he ever heard the usually kind and gentle man use a bad word. His identity was threatened, because his brand lost.

The 20^th century was a time of brand loyalty. Business folks realized they could sell more stuff if they could get people to choose a brand and stick with it. That’s what advertising is all about, and 20^th century advertisers—newspaper, radio, TV, billboards—were masters at it.

Brand loyalty is profit for the business but also peace of mind for the consumer. If Hellmann’s mayonnaise has done your sandwich right, you don’t have to hesitate at the grocery store, wondering if you should consider Miracle Whip. Or, if your Mother always insisted on Hellmann’s, you might use Miracle Whip for other reasons. [I’m not saying how I know this.]

Twentieth century churches were also very much into brand loyalty. You knew what you were getting with the brand…Catholic, Baptist, Lutheran, Methodist, Pentecostal, Presbyterian, Unitarian…

Theology was fading in importance. No one much cared anymore whether they were Arminian or Calvinist or Trinitarian, but the denominational brand was still important for identity, especially if you belonged to an ethnic congregation. Catholics all heard the mass in Latin, but Italian parishes and German parishes were a long way from being the same brand.

Interestingly, the main denominational brand loyalty these days is non-denominational.

I was recently talking to a group of young people. They go to different churches, all with names containing words like Cornerstone and Harvest and Start. Those congregations have no connection with one another, but all of those young people said, proudly, “We go to churches that are non-denominational” as though non-denominational is a denomination. It’s a new brand. And they’re loyal to it.

Branding now is much more local. Non-denominational churches are preferred by many because the name brand of the denomination is no longer meaningful. In fact, to call yourself Methodist or Presbyterian is to identify yourself as “out of it.”

Brand loyalty is still important, but current branding is different. The brands are different and the type of loyalty is different. Churches need to understand that and deal with it

The congregation I belong to is spending a lot of money to “rebrand,” which means creating a web site that will “compel them to come in.” [Luke 14:23] Frankly, I think it’s irrelevant. Yes, you should have a good website, one that communicates clearly, but that goes only so far.

What I do think can go far these days is using social media, like Facebook and Instagram and Tic Toc, to spread the Word and make your brand appealing. Today’s highways and byways are on Facebook and Instagram.

I think I’ll just rebrand myself: I’m NDC—Non-Denominational Curmudgeon. We’re actually a pretty good-sized bunch.

John Robert McFarland

 

 

 

 

 

IS THE POPE CATHOLIC? [M, 4-20-26

CHRIST IN WINTER: The Mutterings of An Old Man—IS THE POPE CATHOLIC? [M, 4-20-26]

 

It’s an old joke, to identify a “duh” moment: “Is the pope Catholic?” Well, maybe not.

Not long ago, when Helen and I were still able to attend church in person, we unknowingly went to a church the morning they had a traveling Gospel singer. He wasn’t bad, and it was a pretty good service, but as he was introducing his music, he talked about different ways of understanding the Gospel. He used a political analogy. As he pointed, he said, “It’s like if this side of the sanctuary is for Democrats and this other side for Republicans.”

A middle-aged woman a couple of rows ahead of us immediately got up and literally moved to the other side. She muttered, rather loudly, “I just can’t stand the thought of being on that side.”

It was only an example, about something else. The Gospel music was going to sound the same on either side of the sanctuary. But the political identity was so important to her emotionally that she had to get up and move to her side.

Many people in the last few days have said, “Trump has finally gone too far. He’s taken on the Pope. Catholics won’t stand for that.”

Those people don’t understand the current world. Yes, American Catholics respect and honor the Pope. After all, he’s an American, too. but Leo is only the religion pope. Donald Trump is their real pope, the pope who matters. Leo may be American and Catholic, but to American Catholics, Trump is the real Pope.

The word pope is derived from the Greek pappas, meaning father. It started as a designation for any priest, then became a word to describe bishops, and finally only the Bishop of Rome, The Father. Literally, standing in, on earth, for God, the Father, infallible, as God is infallible.

Donald Trump is the Big Daddy for America.

There have been several articles recently about how young men are becoming more religious, meaning attending church more often, which is the most obvious way to measure religiousness. This is especially true of the Roman Catholic church. Young men are attracted to the Catholic Church, we’re told.

I’m not totally convinced. Usually, a “trend” among young people is when the child of a prominent TV personality begins to do something. They assume if their kid is doing it, it must be the current thing.

Even with that caveat, though, I assume that there is some truth to it, and I’m not surprised.

Young men in America are taught that everything is a competition. “Winning isn’t the most important thing; it’s the only thing.” As the coach of my own revered IU football team, Curt Cignetti, says, “You can’t just beat your opponent. You have to break your opponent. Break his will. Make him know he has no chance of winning.”

Young men want to be on the winning side, and right now, the American pope, not the Roman pope, is the winner, the one who is intent not on just beating his opposition but breaking it.

Everything in America is identified by which side you’re on politically. And you’re not allowed to be in the middle. There are now only two people in the US who identify as independent, and since one lives in New Hampshire and the other one in Iowa, those are the bell weather states for seeing how any election will go. 

I think I’ll go listen to some Gospel music. It really does sound the same, regardless of which side you’re on. “Precious Lord, take my hand…”

John Robert McFarland

 

 

 

 

CAUGHT BETWEEN [Sat, 4-18-26]

CHRIST IN WINTER: Personal Reminiscences of An Old Man—CAUGHT BETWEEN [Sat, 4-18-26]

 

I have always felt caught between childhood and adulthood. I did not get to fill out my childhood years, so I’ve always been both child and grown up.

Moving to the farm at Oakland City was the best thing that happened to me. There I learned that I was competent. Not at farm work. Oh, I could do all that was required, even gathering eggs from underneath the hens. I didn’t like farm work, though, especially the egg gathering, because the hens, understandably, did not take kindly to having their eggs stolen and so pecked my hands and arms. We couldn’t afford gloves, so…

No, my competency came in friendship. I learned that I was good at relationships.

But the farm was also one of the worst things that happened to me, because I wasn’t ready to give up childhood and be a man. Even at ten, though, on a hard-scrabble farm, where there is no plumbing, so all water must be pumped and carried in and later carried out, and where the heating requires chopping kindling and carrying coal and ashes in and out, and there are little brothers and sisters to help care for, and weeds to be hoed, and pigs and chickens to be fed, and eggs to be gathered, and berries to be picked…oh, on a 19^th century farm, even though you are half-way through the 20^th century, even at ten, you have to be a man.

I enjoyed it in some ways. I felt useful. But I still wanted to be a kid. And I think I needed to be. I was only ten. I usually say that I was just a kid. But “kid” is an omnibus word. It covers a wide age range, like “college kids.” The truth is that I was just a child.

Suddenly, at ten, I was a farm child. Almost like a hired hand—chores all the time. Had I been a farm child from the beginning, it might have been okay. But I was a city kid. I could walk to school and movies and church. There were no eggs to gather or pigs to feed or gardens to weed or wells to pump water.

Farm life as a hired hand child was lonely. When you live five miles out of town, with no car, you’re isolated. Even in your family, where everyone is working hard just to get the daily work done. “Sometimes I feel like a motherless child…”

I would look at the toys in the Sears catalog and feel so conflicted. I pined for a particular toy gas station shown there. It had doors that rolled up, and a lift for toy cars. I’d never had anything like that. It looked like so much fun.

But while I was yearning for that little gas station, I felt embarrassed and ashamed. The farm, and my parents, required that I be a man at all times. Be a worker. No time for toys or child things

I think that is why I liked sports so much, starting at ten. It was a fun thing, but it wasn’t a child thing. Especially when my bachelor uncle, Johnny Pond, would drive over from Francisco, five miles away, after closing his hardware store for the day, and hit flies to me in the south field, or shoot baskets at the hoop on the side of the barn.

I don’t think I’ve ever resolved that conflict, being caught between childhood and manhood. My transition was too abrupt. I needed more than a day to go from being a city kid to an [unpaid] hired hand.

Maybe that’s why I like children so much. There’s a bit part of me that still wants to be a child, to play with toys, to just have fun and let the grownups worry about getting the work done.

Yes, I know. There are plenty of folks who had shorter and harder childhoods than I did. But I can’t live their lives for them. I could still play with that gas station, though.

John Robert McFarland

THE SPIRITUAL GIFTS OF AGING [R, 4-16-26]

CHRIST IN WINTER: The Irrelevant Musings of An Old Preacher—THE SPIRITUAL GIFTS OF AGING [R, 4-16-26]

 

Danny called the other day. I’ve known him since he came to IL State U as a freshman, when I was the campus minister there. That was 60 years ago. You know you’re old when all your former students are retired.

Danny and I have been through a lot together over these 60 years, a special bond in many ways, even though we also have some significant differences. Those differences are important, but not enough to keep us from loving and affirming each other…and enjoying conversations about our past times together.

Also, conversations about our current dilemma as old retired preachers. How do you continue to answer “the call” when your eyes and ears and voice and feet all want to do something else?

Danny says that he is learning to use the spiritual gift of loitering. He just hangs around in spots where it looks like someone might need a hand. It’s the old person’s form of “going to the highways and the byways and compelling them to come in.”

I think he can do that because he’s still a junior in the aging process.

His wife says that the aging process is like being in school…you’re a sophomore and then a junior and finally a senior…until you graduate. Sociologists usually use different designations, like new old and middle old and old old. I think Carol’s classification is better, though. We can all understand it. We’ve all been to school.

In this school of life, when you commence, you don’t get a mortar board and gown. You get shoes and a robe to do some walking. “I got shoes, you got shoes…”

I think I’ll add the freshman year to that taxonomy. Aging usually starts with a somewhat confusing transition. Most of us have an adjustment process when we’re not sure yet if we’re ageing, or how to do it.

In fact, some of us are never sure that we’re aging. All these retired “children,” now in their frosh-senior years of ageing instead of those same years in college, remind me that I still have the same needs and desires I’ve always had—love, friendship, baseball, pie…

Like almost every other old person, I don’t feel like I’m old. Yes, in my body, but not in my spirit. However, seeing all these young people act like they are old, it makes me know that I am old, regardless of how I feel.

I’m not sure that loitering is one of my spiritual gifts as I begin my senior year of aging. It’s a little too active for me. If I stand too long, or start walking too quickly, I’m inclined to fall over. Hmm… maybe that’s my new spiritual gift, falling over. Then folks have the satisfaction of helping me up.

It’s always a spiritual gift to help someone up when they’ve fallen. Also, to let someone help you up when you have fallen.

John Robert McFarland

CONSEQUENCES [T, 4-14-26]

CHRIST IN WINTER: The Irrelevant Reminiscences of An Old Trouble Maker—CONSEQUENCES [T, 4-14-26]

 

It was a District clergy meeting. By chance, I was sitting beside the pastor of the biggest church [almost 7000 members] not just in the District or the Conference but in the Jurisdiction [9 states]. I introduced myself.

“Oh, I’ve heard of you. You’re the trouble maker they’re all afraid of.”

He obviously had me confused with someone else. Afraid of? Me? Who could be afraid of me? And trouble? The last thing I wanted was trouble. I liked to tell jokes and stories. I wanted everybody to like me. I wanted to be successful. You don’t get to be successful if folks are scared of you..

“Yes, scared to death of you.” He chuckled a little. “They have no idea what you’ll do next.”

I guess that made sense, since I had no idea what I’d do next.

It did not make sense, though, for anyone to be afraid of me. I was only two years out of seminary, not yet 30 years old, just a campus minister, the lowliest of the low, not even considered to be a real preacher, because I was just “a student worker.” [We hadn’t yet gotten around to saying “campus ministry” instead of “student work.”]

“But who’s scared of me?”

“The Bishop, of course. And the District Superintendents. And everyone else who profits from keeping things the way they are.”

“But why would they be scared of me?”

“Because you don’t care about the consequences. There are more preachers in this conference than you know about who believe the same stuff you do, but they’re afraid to say it, because of the consequences. People will get mad at them. Preachers want everyone to like them. Maybe they won’t get a good appointment next time. Maybe they’ll even get fired from the job they have. Maybe their pension will be affected. They’re afraid of the consequences. The power people count on that. It’s how they keep people in line. They can’t keep you in line, because you don’t care about the consequences.”

Bob Thornburg wasn’t exactly right. I cared a great deal about the consequences, but not to me personally. Even though I didn’t want trouble, if it came, well, I still had to keep preaching racial equality. Civil Rights! Voting Rights! No more waiting! Right now!

Racial equality was the issue then. There have been others since. With the same problem for me. I wanted to be liked. I wanted bigger and more prestigious appointments, with bigger salaries. I wanted accolades and affirmations and awards and armadillos… sorry… I got carried away with alliteration…

Nothing really wrong with wanting those things, but they were not why God had called me to be a preacher. I had to speak the truth, even though there would be negative feedback. I had to “damn the torpedoes…” er, consequences.

There is a thin line between bravery and stupidity. Both are defined, though, by not paying attention to the consequences. “Hold my beer,” and “Hang on, Sloopy,” are pretty much the same thing, except that a beer-fueled act is stupid, and hanging on to support the disrespected is love. [1] Either way, there will be consequences. If you think too much about the consequences, you’ll just chug your beer or leave Sloopy to the whims of the overlords.

As it turned out, my lowly status as a campus minister turned out to be an advantage. The principalities and powers were able to say, “Well, he can’t do much damage. He’s just one of those young trouble-making student workers. No one pays attention to them.”

It was true. The no one--the older folks who wanted everything to stay the same, just so they could take it easy--they did not pay attention to me. For them, that was a big mistake, for their children and grandchildren were at my campus, and they came to hear me preach. They did pay attention.

One of the problems of old age is that I no longer scare anyone. Don’t feel sorry for me, though. I had my chance to create what John Lewis called “good trouble.” All you have do to be scary is just ignore the consequences.

John Robert McFarland

1] Along with “We Shall Overcome,” The McCoys’ “Hang On, Sloopy” was what the student activists in the 1960s sang as they marched for Civil Rights.

SOME POEMS [Sun, 4-12-26]

CHRIST IN WINTER: The Mundane Mutterings of An Old Man With a Muted Muse—SOME POEMS [Sun, 4-12-26]

 

I got sidetracked by Lent and started trying to write something useful for others. I forgot that I am now writing only for myself. So, it’s time to become irrelevant again…

Louis Simpson was a serious poet, because he suffered PTSD from WWII, particularly the Battle of the Bulge. He wanted to be a story teller, but he couldn’t hold an idea in his brain long enough for a story, even a short one. He could manage one page at a time, though. [1

I have never been a serious poet, because I am too wordy for one page at a time. I am a story-teller. But there are times the traditional form of story just isn’t quite right. So, I have six or seven notebooks, scattered throughout the house, and the pockets of my cargo pants, plus a folder on my computer, all full of poems that are written just for me. Some, though…well, perhaps you’ll feel something in them, too. Here are a few selections.

RYMAN ECHOES

I’ve never been

to the Ryman

but I hear

the country voices

in the darkness

of the humid Indiana air

my father’s head

bent low

to the radio

in the only

kind of prayer

he knew

 

POET’S REMORSE

Not the failed onomatopoeia

nor the forced and fractured rhyme

 

But a line so bland

it can be compared

to nothing at all

 

Not a windy road

or a whale in deep

nor a tree in spring

or a sled with rusted runners

 

Just a shopping list

from the bargain basement

of the mercantile

that sells used words

After Christmas sale!

Half off!

 

PLANNED PREVARICATIONS

In the early morning hours

when my brain is at its best

I plan the lies

that I must tell this day

of fear that I must bear

of hope that is elsewhere

of there that is not there

But always life jumps

from a darkened alley

of the past

with some unanticipated

truth and I must improvise

and obfuscate

with monosyllabic rationalizations

and palliations

so that truth capitulates

and I have vanquished

with thesaurus all

that terrorizes

with veracious perspicuity

 

WHY DID I EVER START THIS POETRY STUFF

three little green lights

on the coffee machine this morning

implored me to put them into a poem

almost arrogant in their pleading

like a bench player to the coach

Put Me In! Put Me In!

that started the whole thing

then the first taste of coffee

wanted a line all to itself

and the apricot jam

thought its taste deserved a whole stanza

and the song about a railroad drifter

you would have surmised

he was king of the road or some such

each one thinking it should have

the place of honor in a line

but disagreeing rather disagreeably

about whether the honor

comes first in line or at the break

I just quit

That’ll show ‘em

who’s in charge here

 

FINDING ANSWERS

Yes, it is true, the answer

is blowin’ in the wind

It is also falling in the rain

and growing in the hollyhocks

and muddling ‘round in the humidity

and floating in the clouds

The answer is not

that hard to find

 

John Robert McFarland

1] From the 3-27-26 edition of Garrison Keillor’s Writers Almanack]

 

 

NOW VS ETERNITY [F, 4-10-26]

CHRIST IN WINTER: The Irascible Mutterings of a Christmas Preacher—NOW VS ETERNITY [F, 4-10-26]

 

As the old preacher story goes, a young woman cooked one of her first meals for her fiancé. After supper, she cuddled up and said, “Just think. After we’re married, we can do this forever.” He thought, “I don’t think I can take this forever.”

Now that the Easter season is over, maybe I can say that I prefer Christmas without sounding too much like a wet blanket. But, caveat lector, this is just a personal semi-screed about Easter. If it does have any positive message, it’s about Christmas. Easter has always semi-depressed me. Christmas? Well, I like Christmas. See, this is personal, not theological.

First off, the Easter message, the resurrection message, is eternal life. Forever. Alive forever. Floating around. Playing a harp, maybe. Even if we are united with that dog we loved so much, playing fetch in heaven forever will surely get boring, for both of us.

Maybe Easter depresses me because it is negative, starting with forty days of deprivation. And self-examination--finding out that I’m still the “wretch like me” again this year. How is that supposed to be uplifting?

Maybe it is because preachers have to work so much during the Lent-Easter season. I signed on for once-a-week, not all that extra stuff: Bible studies and meditation sessions and listening to the confessions of all the self-examiners. Putting up with the criticisms of trustees who are out of sorts because they’ve given up booze for Lent and they’re taking it out on the preacher, because it’s safer than taking it out on their wife/husband.

And Holy Week! Talk about work… Special worship services. Ash Wednesday. Maundy Thursday. Good Friday. Getting all the other churches to agree to a common Good Friday service, and getting Father Bertoldo to remember to come.

Easter sunrise, yet! Of course, it’s the youth who are in charge of Sunrise, of all things, Teens? At sunrise? And they are responsible for the pancakes that follow, which means it’s a bunch of disgruntled parents who are having to ride herd on the fiasco…experience. They are all on the Pastor-Parish Relations Committee, and they’re going to be mad for a year.

Extra Easter morning services because twice-a-year Christians don’t have the sense to be ashamed of showing up when they’ve not been there since Christmas eve. And just try to remember their names as they shake hands afterward, when they’ve all changed their hair styles since Dec. 24.

And trying to convince a bunch of twice-a-year-believers to believe something that is unbelievable…

Of course, religious holidays are really an excuse to get people to buy stuff, and Easter is such a pale commercial holiday when compared to the gifts of Christmas and the candy of Halloween and the gluttony of Thanksgiving and the fireworks of Independence Day. [Yes, all those are religious holidays.]

I mean, how is a puny basket with some colored eggs, that are probably past their use-by date, going to compete with a stocking full of candy oranges and peppermint sticks?

I think, though, the bottom line, of why I like Christmas more than Easter, is this: I can understand--very easily, because I watch Call The Midwife on PBS--a baby born into the physical body and having a life in a limited physical world. It’s much harder to understand a man getting out of a physical body and having a life in an eternal non-physical world.

And when you’re old and tired, “eternal” life doesn’t sound all that great.

Don’t worry. I’m still singing He Lives with my morning songs. But I’m also already humming Away in a Manger. I trust that God loves me, regardless.

That’s the true story of why I prefer Christmas to Easter—God is already here, in this life, no need to wait for resurrection--not, as some might tell you, because December is a better time for mincemeat pie.

John Robert McFarland