SPENDING TIME WITH THE SPIRITUAL LEADER [F, 11-6-26]

CHRIST IN WINTER: Reflections on Faith  Life for the Years of Winter--SPENDING TIME WITH THE SPIRITUAL LEADER [F, 11-6-26]

 

It’s that time of the church year when nominating committees are looking for anyone who can be duped into saying yes. But I was surprised when someone on the committee suggested Cheryl as chair of The Council on Ministries. It was the top Lay position in the church. It wasn’t that I didn’t think she could do the job. I’d been at that church long enough to know that she was quite competent. But it was a big job that took a lot of time. Cheryl didn’t have a lot of time. She was a wife and mother of three young children.

At the next meeting, though, it was reported that she had accepted the job quite readily. I was surprised again.

I liked her husband. He was too young for me to consider him a friend. My friends were middle-aged. But we were friendly, because we had a lot of interests in common. The next time he and I were chatting, I told him I was surprised Cheryl had taken the job.

“Oh, she just wants to spend time with you,” he said.

At first, I thought he was kidding. Why would a young woman want to spend time with me? Like all men, I was convinced of my male magnetism, but her desire was clearly not for clandestine romance, since it was her husband who was telling me this.

“She wants to get to know you better. You’re our spiritual leader,” he went on. “She wants our children raised as Christians.”

There were two huge problems with poor Cheryl’s thinking…

First, the last place you’re going to experience anything spiritual is in a church administrative meeting. In fact, that’s where you learn that most Christians mostly aren’t. And even though most pastors do try to add a spiritual dimension to everything in the life of the church, even committee meetings, we are remarkably unsuccessful at it. In fact, after a few years, we give up trying, and just let people fight to the death over whether to buy a service contract for the new copy machine.

Secondly, yes, I was the spiritual leader, but I wasn’t really spiritual myself. I appreciated spiritual people, but if I were to be the spiritual leader for their children, those poor kids were already in a hand basket.

One definition of being spiritual is “Seeking connection with something greater through mindfulness…”

I don’t know how to seek connection with something greater because I’ve always had that connection. I’ve just always been aware of the Presence of God. I take no spiritual pride in that, since I didn’t do anything, achieve something. In fact, as a pastor, it was a hindrance, since I did not know how to learn the ways of seeking and thus could not teach them.

Worse, I’ve never been very “mindful.” If there’s an issue, spiritual or otherwise, I want to find the solution to it and get down to business. You don’t mediate, “discern,” wait around for God, hoping some Person of the Trinity shows up. You grab whichever One is handiest and shake as hard as you can. That’s what Cheryl observed as she chaired the Council.

She was an insightful Chair. We got a lot of good work done, but she declined the next year when the Nominating Committee asked her to stay on. It apparently takes only a year to get to know me.

John Robert McFarland

 

ON BEING A HILLBILLY LIBERAL CHRISTIAN [W, 11-4-26]

CHRIST IN WINTER: Reflections on Faith & Life for the Years of Winter—ON BEING A HILLBILLY LIBERAL CHRISTIAN [W, 11-4-26]

 

Yesterday was the election, so I am thinking about being…

…an HLC [Hillbilly Liberal Christian]. Don’t be misled by the middle word. HLCs are very conservative. Personally.

I grew up on a hardscrabble, primitive five-acre Southern Indiana farm. My father had lost his sight in an industrial accident when I was five. He was the hardest working man I ever knew, but he couldn’t get a job because of his eyesight. We had to go on welfare. The day the social worker came to sign us up, he went to the barn and cried. I’m legitimately a hillbilly.

I am also legitimately a Christian. I’m not particularly good at following the ways of Christ, but doing so is my intention, my identity. I grew up in a hillbilly liberal church--very conservative personally and very liberal socially, except we just called both of them being Christian.

HLCs are personally conservative. We are against all forms of personal immorality--greed and lust and lying and smoking and cheating and booze and dope and gambling and promiscuity... Because those are sins.

A sin is something that breaks relationship—with God, with others, with the world, with your own true self. HLCs are against those things because they ruin people and they ruin families and they ruin society. Surprisingly to me, many people today who identify themselves as conservative either engage in those activities, or ignore them, or actively promote them.

But HLCs do not think that people who commit sins of personal immorality should be punished. Accountability, yes, but that is different from punishment. We know that everyone, even committed Christians, are prone to sin. “Let the one who is without sin cast the first stone.” “Forgive us our sins as we forgive the sins of others.”

We figure that sinners are to be helped and forgiven and loved back into the fold of righteousness, because we are under a mandate to “…treat others the way you want to be treated.”

Hillbilly liberal Christians are socially liberal. We believe in equal rights and opportunities for all, regardless of race or other ways we distinguish ourselves from others.

We want to keep people out of slavery of all types, including addictions that take away your humanity and your personhood and your wholeness and your soul.

We believe in personal independence and responsibility but we know you can’t be independent and responsible if you have no tools. You need others to help you get the tools—education, opportunity. So, we also believe in being good neighbors, both individually and socially, governmentally.

We believe in trusting people to make their own choices. Our tolerance isn’t letting people go to hell by their own route, but respect for them as children of God, and also humility that says we might be wrong.

That means we are evangelists, not legislators. We want people to behave because they belong, not because they believe. We don’t dream of systems so perfect that no one has to be good. Being a good neighbor means walking with your neighbor even if they go down the wrong road and got lost.

We know the difference between the kingdom of this world and the kingdom of God, between patriotism and Christian faith, between nationalism and following Jesus. Even though we are country music fans and devoutly patriotic Americans, we would have been horrified at the stage for Marty Stuart’s Easter Show—red and white bunting all over, with two huge American flags dwarfing a tiny cross.

HLCs want to go to heaven instead of hell, but we know that even if there is no afterlife, the best and most fulfilling way to live in this life is “the way.”

Hillbilly liberal Christians believe there is only one gospel. Adjective gospels, like social gospel, or personal gospel, or holiness gospel, develop when one aspect of Christianity is emphasized so much that the others get lost, and that one aspect is considered to be all there is to the faith. Personally conservative—holding self to the highest standards of morality and responsibility--and socially liberal—treating others with the highest standards of compassion and inclusion--that is one gospel of good news.

It's a bit disingenuous for me now to claim to be a hillbilly. I no longer plow behind a horse, walk dirt roads in high-top shoes, listen to The Opry on the radio. Indeed, hillbillys don’t use words like disingenuous.

But I’m pleased that I’ve never departed from the hillbilly liberal Gospel. It may not be the only personally and socially fulfilling way to live, but I’m glad it was the way those good folks at the little open-country Forsythe Methodist Church lived and taught. They took me in, and I still belong with them.

John Robert McFarland

“Being in politics is like being a football coach. You have to be smart enough to understand the game, and dumb enough to think it’s important.” Eugene McCarthy, via The Writer’s Almanack.

 

 

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.