LUTHER’S REVENGE [F, 5-8-26]

CHRIST IN WINTER: The Ramblings of a Finally Humble Old Man—LUTHER’S REVENGE [F, 5-8-26]

 

Whenever I trudge my daily mile, I always think of Luther White, the father of my great, late friend, Bill.

Bill and I were campus ministry colleagues. We often met to drink coffee and talk about our work. And our families. I never met Luther, but Bill used to brag about his father, specifically how he still walked a mile each day, even though he was 90. I would nod my head in affirmation, but secretly, I was thinking, “A mile? That’s nothing. Anyone should be able to walk a mile, at any age.” That was 60 years ago.

I wasn’t quite as ignorant as that sounds, nor as arrogant. But I had been a walker all my life, especially when we lived on the farm and had no car. I walked many miles, all the time, in all kinds of weather. Walking a mile just didn’t sound to me like an unusual achievement.

Now, in my 90^th year, one of my major ambitions is to walk a mile on my next birthday, and then look up at the sky [Yes, that’s where heaven is; didn’t you go to Sunday school?] and say to Luther White, “Okay. Now I understand.”

I call it Luther’s Revenge, this new humility that old age has brought upon me. [It would be a good book title, too, except that most folks would think it refers to the 16^th century church reformer instead of the 20^th century high school music teacher.]

Most of us assume that we won’t get any more decrepit than we are right now. Yes, we know we’ll grow older. Yes, we even know that our bodies are going to keep sliding down the slippery slope [sometimes literally!] In our brains we know better, but we assume that we’ll forever be able to do whatever we are doing today. More slowly, yes, but surely the day won’t come when we can’t even get up off the toilet by ourselves. And, yet, we all know someone for whom that day did come. So, why do we think we shall be spared?

When my father was close to the end of his life, at age 96, Helen and I took him to his favorite restaurant, for his favorite steak and gravy. He ate less than half of it. As we helped him out the restaurant door after we had finished, he could not get his legs to work to make the one small step down from the door to the sidewalk. One of us on each side, we had to lift him down. He sighed and said, “I didn’t know you could get this bad off and still be alive.”

As Luther White walked one morning, he was hit by a passing car and killed. Some folks would say that God directed that car, to save Luther the indignity of getting too old. I’m not one of those people.

But if you are driving in the Sherwood Green neighborhood someday, and you see a nattily dressed old man trudging along in shorts--even though it’s 20 degrees, but the belt was already in his shorts, and he didn’t want to go to the trouble of changing it to his flannel-lined cargo pants--it’s okay to offer him a ride. He’s now humble enough to accept it.

John Robert McFarland

No, that's not a photo of me. I use a black, wooden cane that once was Uncle Ted's.

GROWING UP IS A DISEASE [W, 5-6-26]

BEYOND WINTER: The Irrelevant Musings of A Failed Grown-Up—GROWING UP IS A DISEASE [W, 5-6-26]

 

My highly competent and distinguished colleague, Rev. Randy Robinson, told me, as he was getting to retire, that when he was a young pastor, he looked up to me as one of “the fathers of the church.” Oh, if he had only known.

Makes me think of a continuing ed conference I attended. The main speaker was a newly elected bishop. The president of the near-by seminary had gone to the airport to pick him up. They had been students together earlier at a different seminary. “Hello, Bishop,” said the president. “Hello, President,” said the bishop.

The seminary president said, “Then we laughed like hyenas and finally said, ‘Where are the grown-ups when you really need them!’”

When you get to my age, you know that there are only two kinds of people: Those who think they are grown up but aren’t. And those who know they are not but are still trying to become grownups…

…or maybe a third type: Those who have given up on ever growing up.

As the saying goes, “Growing old is mandatory. Growing up is not.”

When I was a nineteen-year-old, preaching at three different churches every Sunday, I thought I was quite grown up. After all, I had the backing of the church. Why would the District Superintendent subject those poor people to my pulpit ponderings if I were not grown up?

Growing up is a disease, and I had an early-onset version of it. I had to grow up young. I became a major financial support of my family in my teens. I dropped out of high school to work in a factory to get my family off of welfare. Older people in those days respected that sort of thing. They praised me, and talked to me like I was one of them, like a grown-up . I had no way of knowing then that most of them were not grown up, even though they looked and talked like they were.

There were hints. Old men who whistled at young girls. Old church ladies who laughed at fart jokes. Old preachers who told those jokes.

But I assumed those were anomalies. When I got old, I was sure that I would not do things like tell waitresses and store clerks that I qualified for the good-looks discount, because I did not do that sort of thing when I was young.

I was a grown-up for a long time.

I finally got over being grown-up. I think it was my cancer surgery and year of chemotherapy that did it. My first oncologist predicted that I would live no more than “a year or two.” That sort of sobers you up. I realized how much of my life I had wasted, being a grown up.

So, I’ve given up on growing up. It’s too much trouble, and not much fun. As Jesus said, “I’m here. Let’s party.” [John 10:10.]

John Robert McFarland

“Let us read and dance—two amusements that will never do any harm to the world.” Voltaire

SECRET DOWNSIZING [M, 5-4-26]

 CHRIST IN WINTER: The Irrelevant Musings of An Old Man—SECRET DOWNSIZING [M, 5-4-26]

 

It’s spring-cleaning time, which includes getting rid of stuff we don’t need.

A daughter told us of some people who wanted to downsize. They hit upon a novel approach. Whenever they went to someone’s house, for a meal or party, they would take along something they wanted to get rid of and leave it secretly with their host. It was a slow process. They could take only small items, like silverware. While innocently in the kitchen, ostensibly just to get a drink of water, they would slip a table knife into their host’s silverware drawer. If they went to the bathroom, they’d leave an extra tooth brush in the medicine cabinet. While browsing the book shelves, they’d slip in a copy of The Declaration Decoded, by Katie Kennedy. [No, it’s an excellent book, but small format—easily smuggled.]

I’m a bit reluctant to tell about this. Most of you live far enough away that we need not fear extra spatulas or cans of tuna or copies of Winning Bigly appearing in our house. Some of you, however, actually do come to our house from time to time. Yes, we appreciate the muffins, and the Billy Collins books, but don’t think you can get away with leaving one of those little jars of cumquat jam, or the autobiography of Kristi Noem!

When you’re in the process of downsizing, it can be difficult to remember what you’ve gotten rid of and what you still have.

From time to time we go looking for something that we gave away. Recently Helen was befuddled by the absence of a spring decoration that she wanted to put out on the mantle, something she puts up every year. No where could it be found. She complained to friend Kathy. “I know where it is,” said Kathy. “It’s on my mantle…”

Helen had given it to Kathy, along with some other stuff she wanted to get rid of, to put into her church’s fall rummage sale. Kathy, though, liked it so much that she kept it. It has now passed back through our house and on to daughter Mary Beth’s mantle. At least, I think that’s where it is now.

Downsizing is a major concern of old people. [Unless you are a hoarder, but that’s a different sort of problem.] We spend so many years acquiring, building up our resources—furniture, books, kitchenware, clothes, suitcases, tools, office supplies... Then, suddenly [it seems like], we have little need of most of that stuff. We try to give it away, but nobody wants good china or silverware, button-front shirts, hard-sided suitcases, pencils, typewriters, lined 3-hole paper…

There’s lots of stuff that even rummage stores like Good Will won’t take, because customers don’t want it.

I guess the only alternative is to take those things to other people’s houses and slip them in unnoticed, like the way those people from the first paragraph did.

If you were going to do this, slip things unnoticed into the homes of other people, what would the items be, and at whose house?

We don’t go anyplace, so we can’t get rid of stuff that way, so I’m trying to figure out what I can sneak into the pockets of people who come to our house. That dining room table is going to be a problem…

John Robert McFarland

 

WHAT WAS YOUR GRANDFATHER LIKE? [Sa, 5-2-26]

CHRIST IN WINTER: The Personal Identity of An Elderly Grandson—WHAT WAS YOUR GRANDFATHER LIKE? [Sa, 5-2-26]

 

Michelle Obama said I was doing it wrong.

Starting in high school, I was pleased with, yes, even proud of, my ability to remember names. This hit its zenith in my campus ministry years.

College kids went to church in those days. Every September, I’d have a thousand new names to learn. I just happened into the plan I used to remember them. I asked their name, asked their major, and asked their home town. And at each answer, I pointed out something we had in common: “Oh, my grandmother’s name is Margaret, too… Jim Kiefer is a special ed major, too. You’d probably like to meet him…” [If the student were a guy, it would be “Ann Wierman is a special ed major…”] You’re from Illiopolis… so Gary Ford is your pastor?” By that time, I was associating their name not just with their face but a standard background important to understanding a student—a major and a hometown.

There is a difference, of course, between just trying to remember a person’s name and trying to get to know them, to know their story. Yes, their name is a short form of their story, and remembering it is a good place to start, but knowing a name and knowing a story are not the same thing.

Michelle Obama, in the film about the tour for her book, Becoming, talking to a group of students, said, “The way you get to know someone is not the surface things, like where they’re from. Ask what their grandfather was like…”

I’m inclined to say, “Well, I’d eventually get around to their grandfather, later, after I got through trying to remember 999 other students…” The truth, though, is that I don’t think I ever asked anyone what their grandfather was like.

If someone wanted to know me, grandmothers would be a better place to start, but asking about my grandfathers would be intriguing, in part because my mother’s father, Elmer Arthur Pond, was dead when I was born, killed in a coal mine cave-in a decade before. I wish I knew more about what he was like.

The strange thing is, he’s been a major part of my life, because I have spent so much time wondering about him, what he was like…and because of three things I do know…

First, my father said that Grandpa Pond was always interested in what other people thought. He would listen carefully as you talked.

Second, my mother was the outlier among his eight children, the “sensitive” one, the one who needed extra attention. He gave her the extra attention she needed.

Third, he was killed because he knew the mine was unsafe, but the owner insisted the miners go in anyway. Grandpa told the other miners to stand back, that he would go in first.

So, yes, you might learn about me by asking me about the grandfather I never knew, because I wanted to be like him.

John Robert McFarland

The photo is generic; not of my grandfather.

 

 

SECRETARIES [R, 4-30-26]

CHRIST IN WINTER: Personal Reminiscences of An Old Boss—SECRETARIES [R, 4-30-26]

 

Susan looked up as I came into the office. She was smiling, as much as she ever did. “Okay,” she said. “You can fire me now.”

“Good,” I said, “You’re fired.” She picked up her coat off the filing cabinet, where she had thrown it, haphazardly, the way she did everything, and walked out. I never saw her again.

I had tried to fire her about six weeks earlier. She was just atrociously poor as a secretary. I should never have hired her, but when the former secretary quit without notice, I needed someone in a hurry, and there were only two applicants. One was a fantastic young woman. She would have been a perfect church secretary. But she told me upfront that she could be in the job for only six months. She was getting married in six months and would be moving to the city of her husband’s new job.

So, I took Susan. I didn’t want to go through the hiring process again in six months. I mean, how bad could Susan be? Well, the worst! To make it worse than worst, she thought she was the best! She often told me, “I’m nineteen years old. I don’t need you telling me how to spell stuff.” It was true; “stuff” was the one word she could spell. Then she would misspell every other word.

Why did I put up with her? Well, I just wasn’t very good at dealing with “employees.” I didn’t want to hurt anyone’s feelings. And I didn’t want people to be mad at me. It was just easier to work around the mistakes of a secretary or the negligence of a janitor…

…until the congregation begins to complain that the board minutes are incomprehensible again, or that there is no toilet paper in the women’s rest room.

Everybody who ever came to the office complained about Susan. That’s why I tried to fire her the first time. Bit she said, “No, that’s not convenient for me right now. I’ll let you know when it’s okay to fire me.”

Now, any other boss, any other minister, even, would not have put up with that. But I figured it was easier to go along.

I’ve had 14 different secretaries over the years. Most were adequately competent. Two were atrociously bad. Five were great. To my credit, the five great ones were all my hires. I’m not sure, though, that Anne and Jeanne and Mary and Rose and Frances, all together, can compensate for hiring Susan.

And even one of those good ones was on the job because I was a namby-pamby boss.

After the Susan fiasco, I thought I would go back to my Hoopeston, IL plan. There, I hired two women to share one job. Rose took mornings and Frances took afternoons. Each did whatever came up. They filled in for each other. They barely knew each other when I hired them, but they became best friends with each other, and with Helen and our daughters, too.

So I decided I would do the morning-afternoon split when I started the post-Susan hiring process. If one of them turned out to be a Susan, at least I would have a Rose or Frances the rest of the day.

There were quite a few applicants this time. Jeanne was inexperienced but was clearly a quick learner, and she had the right personality for a church office. I told her that she could have either morning or afternoon. “That won’t work for me,” she said. “I need to work fulltime. I’ll just take both morning and afternoon.”

Having learned nothing from the Susan fiasco, I shrugged my shoulders and said, “Okay.”

After me, Jeanne stayed on the job through six more preachers. They all thanked me for hiring her. “It’s one of my better skills,” I said.

If you need to hire a secretary, I’m available as a consultant.

John Robert McFarland

I meant to post this column on April 22, National Secretary Day, but now it’s called National Professional Administrators’ Day, so I missed it. I apologize to all the Professional Administrators, except Susan.

 

 

 

THE PROXY IN THE STORY [T, 4-28-26]

CHRIST IN WINTER: The Irrelevant Theology of An Old Reader—THE PROXY IN THE STORY [T, 4-28-26]

 

In every story, there is a character who is the proxy for the reader. The reader may not know it. Even the author may not know who it is. It may not be some character with whom the reader identifies. Indeed, the reader may not even like that character. But the proxy character brings the reader into the story and walks through it with them, often more in spirit than in action.

Jesus is the proxy for the reader in the story God is writing.

We don’t see the author of a story. That worthy individual is hidden behind words and pages. Indeed, it’s usually a shock when we see the author’s photo in the back flyleaf of the book. He doesn’t look like the author of The Dainty Diaries. She doesn’t look like someone who would write The Corn Flakes Killer. [Cereal killer; get it?]

[Note to author: it’s not funny if you have to explain it.]

But you can get some hints about who the author is, and how she thinks. Maybe even where he lives, or where she shops, or what flowers he likes. That’s true of God, too. We get hints about who God is and what God wants by paying attention to how God writes the universal story.

[Reminds me of the kid who was coloring in Sunday School. “What are you doing, Billy?” the teacher asked. “Making a picture of God,” he said. “But no one knows what God looks like,” she protested. “They will now,” he said.]

We understand the story best, though--not only understand it but get into it ourselves--through the proxy character. In the Gospel story, that is Jesus. He is the go-between, between the author and the reader.

Our omnivorous reader friend, Dow Cooksey, used to say, when he gave up on a book half-way through, “There just wasn’t any character in the story that I could care about.”

The good thing about Jesus is that he is easy to care about. Even if you are a Muslim, you respect Jesus as an important prophet. Even if you are an atheist, you respect Jesus as a teacher of ethics. Even if you are a drunk, you respect Jesus for turning water into wine.

That’s why Jesus is the Christ.

Christ is not Jesus’ surname. It’s a job title. It means he’s the proxy in the Story. Not just the Christian story. Not just the Bible story. God’s story.

I heard of an African who read the New Testament for the first time. When asked what she thought, she said, “That man, Jesus? He is good medicine.”

John Robert McFarland

“The limits of my language are the limits of my mind. All I know is what I have words for.” Ludwig Wittgenstein. [Wittgenstein is one of my favorite philosophers because he helped me get an A in a graduate statistics course. I knew nothing of the math of stats, but I gave an incomprehensible oral report on Wittgenstein, so the prof and other students assumed I was smart.]

 

THE WORLD’S GREATEST COLLEGE SCHOLARSHIP [Su, 4-26-26]

CHRIST IN WINTER: The Irrelevant Reminiscences of An Old College Student—THE WORLD’S GREATEST COLLEGE SCHOLARSHIP [Su, 4-26-26]

 

Yesterday was the 75^th running of The Little 500 bicycle race at Indiana University. It is called The World’s Greatest College Weekend. It mimics the Indianapolis 500 auto race, which takes place just 50 miles up the road. Even if you live outside of Indiana, you’ve probably seen or heard about The Little 500, through Steve Tesich’s film, Breaking Away, which delightfully tells the story of the unlikely Cutters, a team of mis-fit local kids, winning the whole thing.

I heard the film actress, Tan Kheng Hua, known for her role in Crazy Rich Asians, tell of how she came to study at IU. She said, “I was a Chinese girl in Singapore who spoke no English. I wasn’t interested in going to college or going to America. The only place I wanted to go was the mall. But at the cinema at the mall, I saw a film called Breaking Away, and I wanted to go swim in a quarry with Dennis Quaid...”

That’s how far The Little 500 is known, because of that film.

 

The IU Student Foundation started the race as a way of making money for scholarships for poor kids who had to work their way through college. I can’t remember exactly how they did the metrics, but the student who had the combination of the best grades and the most hours worked got the first scholarship each year, and also got their photo in the publicity for subsequent races. 70 years ago, I was that student.

We got even more publicity than usual that year, because of the runner-up. At the awards ceremony, we sat in order of achievement. I was in the first chair, so the runner-up was seated beside me. We had a good time getting acquainted, and the press thought it was hilarious, and took lots of photos of us, for the winner was a preacher, and the runner-up was a bar tender. We both worked a lot of hours to cancel out the other’s work. Or so the idea went.

That would hardly cause a ripple these days. Folks would say, “What’s strange about that?” After all, the preacher at our church does a weekly study session called “Pub Theology” that, yes, meets at a pub, where the preacher drinks what the bar tender serves, while they talk about how to be followers of Christ. [Lest there be a misunderstanding, not our current preacher.]

But 70 years ago, if you were talking preachers and bartenders, “…never the twain shall meet.”

I never saw my runner-up friend again, since he didn’t go to my church, and I didn’t go to his bar, but I hope he got as much out of that scholarship as I did.

John Robert McFarland