THE DEMISE OF THE 1950 CHURCH [7-19-26]

CHRIST IN WINTER: Irrelevant Musings of an Old Man—THE DEMISE OF THE 1950 CHURCH [7-19-26]

 

When I was in seminary, our homiletics professor, Merrill Abbey, had us listen to a sermon by J. Wallace Hamilton, the preacher at Pasadena Community Methodist Church [PCMC] in St. Petersburg, FL. The sermon was on a long-play vinyl record, the best available technology at that time. I was so impressed that I bought a copy of that record for myself. I wanted to be a good preacher, and I wondered, “How did he get to be such a good preacher?”

Prof. Abbey said that Hamilton’s church was a new, struggling start in 1929, only four years old, when Hamilton was appointed there. He had just been ordained as a probationer. He wasn’t fully ordained until two years later.

Some of the lay people recognized that he had a special gift for preaching. “We have a chance to grow here. You concentrate on preaching. We’ll do the rest of the work the preacher usually does so that you’ll have time for it. You preach, and we’ll bring the people in to hear you.”

By the time I was in seminary in the 1960s, PCMC had become one of the first megachurches, over seven thousand people on some Sundays, even though the sanctuary, built during Hamilton’s tenure, seated “only” two thousand. Others listened to speakers in their cars in the parking lot, drive-in movie style.

 

PCMC had three different pastors in its first four years. That was fairly standard for Methodist churches in those days. Many appointments were for only one year, especially for a small church like PCMC. Preachers were eager to “move up the ladder” to bigger churches with bigger salaries. What was definitely not standard was for a Methodist preacher to stay in his first appointment for his entire lifetime, for 39 years, from the time when he wasn’t even fully ordained yet, until his death. J. Wallace Hamilton did that. [1]

 

He was a preacher in The 1950 Church.

That’s what sociologists call it, The 1950 Church, because it hit its zenith in the 1950s. It continued, though, while declining almost imperceptibly, for most of the 20^th century. It was pulpit centered and denominationally identified and growth oriented. It was perfect for J. Wallace Hamilton.

It was perfect for me, too, starting in 1956, since I thought the main job of a minister was preaching. But The 1950 Church was already starting its decline in the 1950s. That’s how we name things, according to my sociology professor friend, Paul J. Baker. “If you cut down all the shady oaks in building a sub-division, you name it Shady Oaks.” It’s called The 1950 Church because that’s when it began to decline.

That decline wasn’t statistical. Church membership and attendance kept going up until 1964. In some ways, 1950 is an arbitrary date. But the culture had started to change in subtle ways then, especially the advent of television, that was going to have effects we could hardly imagine.

So, don’t be too sorry for The 1950 Church. It had a good 70 years after it started to die. That’s better than most of us.

John Robert McFarland

1] Another who did it was Ralph Washington Sockman, generally considered to be the best Protestant preacher in the country from about 1940 to 1960, when he was the regular preacher on The Protestant Hour radio show as well as the pastor at Christ Church Methodist in NYC. His first appointment was to Madison Ave. Methodist Episcopal Church, which became Christ Church Methodist, which was second in Protestant fame only to Harry Emerson Fosdick’s Riverside Church. [Interdenominational]. One of his colleagues said, “Poor Ralph. The only preacher in Methodism who never got a promotion.”

 

 

PUBERTY FUN [F, 7-17-26]

CHRIST IN WINTER: The Irrelevant Reminiscences of An Old Man—PUBERTY FUN [F, 7-17-26]

 

This may sound strange, but I really enjoyed puberty. 75 years ago, puberty didn’t mean you were starting a life of lust and angst. It meant you were grown up and could stay out until the root beer stand closed, at ten o’clock.

75 years ago, puberty didn’t mean that you were starting a dangerous life of sex, drugs, and rock and roll, and 15 years of living in your parents’ basement because your degree in AI was just obviated by the new AJ system. No, it meant that you were grown up. You could learn to type, and that was all you needed to get a good job.

For me, it meant I was suddenly a foot taller than everybody else—except for Don Falls. When I hit puberty, it seemed that I was just the right height—tall enough to see the parade, but not so tall that I was the first target for pooping birds. Most doors, I could get through without ducking. [1]

Oh, sure, there was worry, wondering if Jeanette would think I was a nerd, or afraid I would turn red if Carolyn’s arm brushed against mine when we passed in the hall, but all the other guys were just as yearnful as I. Puberty was a whole new life, and exciting. And I had the blood on my face to prove it, because…

…shaving was the most noticable rite of passage for puberty. The double-bladed Gilettes of the day were designed to test both dexterity and courage. There was certainly no choice about using razors; no one was allowed a beard! Or hairy legs, if you were required to wear a skirt!

Of course, it would be considered gauche [had we known that word] to tell people you had started shaving, so you counted on the gashes on your face to let that news be known. If a guy wasn’t sure he was getting the information across, he would come to school with little pieces of bloody toilet paper stuck to his face. Also, if a girl had little pieces of toilet paper stuck to her legs…well, you knew she was grown up, too.

I feel sorry for kids these days. Puberty is all about the worries without any of the fun. Yes, fun. In our era, the awful days of puberty were fun, because the great restrictions we lived with gave us a chance to enjoy puberty, not just agonize our way through it and spend the rest of our life in therapy.

I’m not being judgy. Kids today haven’t chosen this onerous form of puberty. It’s been thrust upon them by a society that is intent on treating things as people and people as things, where being grown up only means meaningless sex and credit card debt.

Kids, if you get disgusted with how the oppressive money economy wants to use you today, come around and I’ll tell you how exciting it was to sit at the sofa fountain and dream of getting to hold hands.

 

And don’t bother to tell me that I’m only remembering the good stuff. I know.

John Robert McFarland

1] When I started preaching, I learned that recent [1950] research showed that I was exactly the right dimensions for a preacher. Congregations, we learned, wanted a preacher who was tall enough to command attention, but not so tall as to be intimidating. Deep voiced enough to be masculine, but not enough to star in a horror film. And goodlooking enough to avoid scaring little children, but not so handsome that men had to worry about their wives. No wonder God called me to be a preacher.

 

 

 

LIVING IN YOUR OWN STORY [W, 7-15-26]

CHRIST IN WINTER: The Irrelevant Musings of An Old Story Guy—LIVING IN YOUR OWN STORY [W, 7-15-26]

 

There is a street sign I pass regularly that proclaims “Arden.” Makes me think of Eve Arden. Makes me think of “Anatomy of a Murder,” in which Eve was defense attorney Jimmy Stewart’s secretary. Makes me think that I am there in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula, where Jimmy defended Lee Remick’s boyfriend, contemporaries with Jimmy and Eve. Except they were 51 then, and I was 51 almost 40 years ago.

When you’re my age, there aren’t many stories where you can imagine being part of the adventures and banter. I mean, the folks in Friends and The Big Bang Theory don’t want to hang around with someone like me, and the lesser TV shows that pollute the airways now, I don’t want to hang around with them.

When I was young, I often imagined myself as a character in a story. Usually as observer but sometimes as a participant.

It was because of radio, specifically The Lone Ranger. Listening to a radio drama, you have to supply the pictures from your own brain. As the masked hero and his faithful friend rode out of the radio speaker in our living room, it was not a long reach to start riding along with them.

As a kid, you also make up your own hero stories. You are the one who makes the winning shot in the NCAA playoffs in your own driveway. Or you stand in the back of the auditorium and see yourself singing on stage.

As a teen, my participation in the fictional stories of others became greater. I was the reporter who got “The Big Story.” I was one of the college students who joined in singing about “The Halls of Ivy.”

With Bible stories, I was just a listener, instead of an imaginary participant, until I made a deal with God to be a preacher. As I read the Gospels, I wondered what it was like to follow Jesus around. That, of course, was encouraged by songs like “Were You There?”

I really got into the Jonah story when I was trying to escape that deal with God. I was Jonah, trying to escape God’s call to preach in Ninevah, and ending up in the belly of a big old whale.

 I especially like the worm that God appointed. I was Jonah, sitting under a nice big leafy vine, mad at God, because when Jonah got out of the whale, and did what God said, and told the people to repent, they did so, and it made Jonah look rather foolish, since he had promised God’s wrath rather than God’s mercy.

And then, the Bible story says, God “appointed” a worm to cut down the vine over Jonah’s head, so he couldn’t hide and mope anymore. As one who was appointed every year, by a bishop who claimed to be God, I had great sympathy for that worm.

But then I got so busy living in my own story that I did not imagine being in others. But I did write short stories and novels which had at least some of my story in them

In more recent years I’ve had less story of my own and so have started being in other stories again

In particular, I sometimes sit in the corner of The Drovers Arms and observed the characters in “All Creatures Great and Small.” I have pastored the Methodist chapel in East London in “Call the Midwife,” where I have made friends with the Nonnatus House nuns. It’s not a difficult imagining, because London’s Poplar in the 1950s is very similar to Chicago’s Pilsen, where I was a social worker and preacher in 1958.

Now I’m at an age where there are no stories for me to pretend I’m in. Folks who write for TV and movies, and even books, are in their 30s and 40s. They imagine that old people are either horny or foolish, which reflects the writers more than the old people about whom they write

It is okay to be in other stories. That’s what dreams and ambitions are, kids in the driveway shooting the winning basket, or standing in the back of the music hall and imagining being on stage. But those dream stories need to be within the context of our own stories.

Now that I am old, I have to live within my own story. It’s surprisingly interesting!

John Robert McFarland

From my poetry journal of [F, 7-10-16]

HUMANS

Sometimes I am overcome

with the joy of being human

In the company

so many others, humans all

with hopes and faults

trying to get by

Such fullness

 

SPIRITUAL OR RELIGIOUS? [M, 7-13-26]

CHRIST IN WINTER: Reflections on Faith & Life for the Years of Winter—SPIRITUAL OR RELIGIOUS? [M, 7-13-26]

 

According to a Pew research study, about 10% of Americans are religious but not spiritual. They like religious stuff, but not God stuff. They like chanting liturgies and sprinkling water on babies. They like wearing yarmulkas and crosses and hijabs and turbans. They enjoy religious music. They like kneeling in the right way at the right times.

But they don’t care about prayer and heaven and hell and eternal life and that soul stuff. They don’t need a relationship with God to enjoy talk and activities about God. They are in the religion, but not of the religion. Who needs a “higher power?” [Well, alcoholics, but that’s different.]

This, of course, is the opposite of the tiresome, “I’m spiritual but not religious,” which is mostly what people use to excuse their absence from church or synagogue or temple. Until they want said venues for a wedding or funeral. Free, of course.

Despite my snarkiness, I understand why people want to be spiritual without being religious, and also why they want to be religious without being spiritual. I suspect most people live in one or the other of those categories a lot of the time, often without knowing it.

I see this especially in my retired clergy colleagues. Some drop out of the church altogether. They’ve handled holy things too long. They’ve learned that most Christians aren’t. They wonder why they ever bothered.

Others, often of the conservative or evangelical variety, become Episcopalians, or even Catholics. They’ve trusted in feelings, getting worked up, but those feelings wane with overuse. Now they’re tired. Now they feel more comfortable if they hold a prayer book that is responsible for producing the prayers and words and auras.

Psychologists tell us that as we age, we become more like ourselves. Which is why old people are often described as “set in our ways.” As I age, I find myself being the same as I have always been spiritually, but less religious. By that, I mean that I have always known the Presence of God in the same way that I do now.

I’m a bit reluctant to say “the same way that I do now,” because it reminds me of the old man giving his testimony in church and saying, “When I was just a boy, the Lord filled my cup to the brim, and He hasn’t taken a drop out or put a drop in since then.” Some kid in the pews said, “It must have wiggletails in it by now, then.” [I’m assuming you’re old enough to understand about wiggletails.]

But I have become less religious, meaning I don’t use the tokens of religion as much as I used to. I still like them—the stoles and books and candles—but I feel no loss without them. They are a help in coming into the Presence, but the Presence does not depend on them.

I suspect that the right blend for old age is both—being religious without being spiritual, and being spiritual without being religious. When I get old, I suppose I’ll find out for sure.

John Robert McFarland

 

AVOIDING SELF-HARM [Sat, 7-11-26]

CHRIST IN WINTER: Reflections on Faith & Life for the Years of Winter—AVOIDING SELF-HARM [Sat, 7-11-26]

 

Our bodies are designed to help us avoid hurting ourselves.

Dr. Kalanithi [1] had a patient who went into a coma upon hearing a bad diagnosis. This is not uncommon. I have often seen lesser forms of it, where people go “blank” for a while. I’ve done it at least once myself. The news is incomprehensible, so you stop trying to understand it. That’s one way our bodies protect us, letting us just hang around for a while until we’re more able to deal with bad news.

But Dr K knew he couldn’t let his patient take too long to “come back.” He had to help him snap out of it. So he took the patient’s limp arm, held it up over his face, and let it go. The man stopped his arm from coming down and hitting himself in the face. Even in a semi-comatose state, our bodies protect us from harming ourselves.

My friend, Paul, when we were both about 15 years into our pastoral careers, told me of a man in his church whom he was counseling. I’ll call him Ed. Ed had a nice wife, and good children, and a successful career. He also had a mistress, twenty years younger. Ed knew he needed help.

Paul walked Ed through his life. He especially asked him two questions: What do you want your life to be a year from now? What do you want your life to be twenty years from now? Ed talked it through with Paul. He realized that the answer to both those questions was clear: he wanted to have a happy home with his wife.

I had a number of marriage counseling situations at the time and I was fascinated with Paul’s approach. “Man, that’s brilliant,” I said.

All you had to do was help the counselee see into their future, see what they really wanted. I started asking those questions of all my counselees.

The next time I saw Paul, I asked him about Ed.

“He left my office after he’d answered those questions, went straight to his mistress. Now he’s divorced and the mistress has left him, too. I’m not so brilliant after all.”

I so much wish I had known about Dr. Kalanithi’s method, instead of Paul’s method, during my pastoral career. Instead of asking a counselee what they wanted their life to be in 20 years, I would have taken their hand and held it up over their face and dropped it, to show them they did not have to hurt themselves. That’s immediate. I’d say, “See, you don’t have to make that stupid mistake. You can stop it right now.”

Try it. Next time you’re about to do something stupid, hold your hand up over your face and let it drop.

I tried it myself. I ate the cookie anyway.

Wm. James famously said that “When the will and the imagination are in conflict, the imagination always wins.” Or, in biblical terms, “The spirit is willing, but the cookie is chocolate chip.”

John Robert McFarland

1] Paul Kalinathi, When Breath Becomes Air

WALKNG ON WATER [R, 7-9-26]

CHRIST IN WINTER: The Irrelevant Musings of An Old Man—WALKNG ON WATER [R, 7-9-26]

 

This story comes from the Baptist preacher at Cedar Lake, Indiana, back in 1962. Baptist preachers have usually kept their distance from me—except for Fred Skaggs and Kim Egolf-Fox and Bill Tuck and Gary Reif, colleagues in The Academy of Parish Clergy—but there were only two preachers in Cedar Lake back then, and the poor Baptist guy had to hang around with somebody. Besides, he seemed to like challenges. He went from Cedar Lake to be the Baptist pastor in Salt Lake City, Utah.

Baptists have a baptistry in their church, a dunk tank for submerging people, even big people, during baptism, which symbolizes the dying and rising again in Christ. It’s hard to persuade people to get baptized and join the church in winter, because in winter time, that water can get quite cold.

So, Baptists must have a way to heat their water. The Cedar Lake Baptist building was new and small, and they couldn’t afford a regular water heating system, so they had an electric rod they stuck down into the water. Worked well, except it electrified the water, so someone had to be sure the rod was pulled out before the preacher got in to receive those presenting themselves for baptism.

Well, of course, one winter Sunday night, the rod-puller forgot, and my friend started down the steps into the baptistry. “It was,” he said, “only the second time in recorded history that someone walked on the water. I just skimmed that water all across that baptistry from one side to the other.”

A bit of hyperbole perhaps, as much as the last time I told this story, but a point well taken: unless you are Jesus, you don’t walk on water unless you have to.

Helen pointed that out yesterday at our coffee time. When our fifteen-month-old grandson was diagnosed with liver cancer, his parents and grandparents went into water-walking mode for him and for his three-year-old sister. We didn’t touch down for two years.

When reading about how Jesus walked on the water [Mt 14, Mark 6, John 6], it looks he did it just to get from one place to another, which is why most of us do any walking at all. It’s usually told as a story of faith. When Peter started to walk on the water, too, to go meet Jesus, he was fine until he realized what he was doing. Then he sank. When you need to walk on water, you can’t stop to think about it.

It’s a good thing to have faith, but it’s even more important to be without other options. You can walk on water if you have no choice.

John Robert McFarland

DEPARTMENTAL GIRLS [T, 7-7-26]

CHRIST IN WINTER: The Irrelevant Delusions of An Old Man—DEPARTMENTAL GIRLS [T, 7-7-26]

[Time for another reminiscence with no redeeming social value.]

 

Middle School in Oakland City was called “The Departmental,” meaning we graduated from being in one room all day, with one teacher, to going between Departments [classrooms] for English and social studies and arithmetic, etc.

We moved to OC on May 21, 1947. At least, Daddy and I did, via Uncle Johnny and his lumber business truck. Uncle Bob and Aunt Rosemary--who was probably still Fiancé Rosemary then--brought Mother and Mary V and Margey and Jimmy a couple of days later, after Daddy and I had time to put beds and stoves together, etc.

Shortly thereafter, I rode Jimmy Bigham’s totally dilapidated school bus to OC Grade School. Bus drivers owned their own buses, and apparently there were few standards. Most of the windows were stuck open or closed, in all weather. As the new kid, I had to sit over the hole in the floor. 

I was in May Mason’s 5A class, meaning we had started first grade in January. The 5B kids had started in September. As the new kid, I got to sit between Ernest Bilderback and Jim Brown. Both looked to be about 15. They were never unkind to me, and I felt sorry for them, especially since Mrs. Mason was not very nice to them. I didn’t think they had chosen to be, in the word of that time, dumb.

[I was into free will at an early age. I later expressed that by saying that I have great sympathy with people who are stupid by nature but none for those who are stupid by choice.]

In 6^th grade, we went to The Departmental. It was only 6^th and 7^th grades, since 8^th grade was in the new high school building. Mr. Ronald Nelson [Social Studies] and Mr. Claude Gladish [English] and Mr. Cecil Grubb [more English?] and Mr. Carl Fowler [Arithmetic] stayed in their own rooms, and we students did the traveling between them. It felt very grown up.

Each student in The Departmental had our own desk in the assembly room. There was a cloak room for “wraps” and galoshes. Our desks served as lockers. We kept our books and personal stuff and lunches in the desk, and we sat at them to eat our lunch.

The assembly room was quite long, with a stage at the front end. The stage had a piano and a flag and a desk, for whoever was watching us during homeroom [study hall] and lunch. Occasionally the stage would be the site for a musical program or address from the principal. Five long rows of desks. The back desks were highly prized, since they were less visible to the homeroom teacher. The desks had ink wells, from back when my father went to school there, no longer necessary in those modern days of fountain pens and the burgeoning “ball points.”

There were windows behind the stage and up and down the left side of the room, with a pencil sharpener under the windows. You could get up to go to the pencil sharpener whenever you needed to—one of the few activities available without permission.

One day, Shirley Black, about 10 desks ahead of me, got up and went over to the sharpener. She was short, with curly hair, and bounced when she walked, sort of like Tigger, except I did not know about Tigger then.

I thought, “She’s pretty.” Then I thought, “Where did that come from?” I mean, girls were yucky and had cooties. You needed to avoid them as much as possible.

Actually, I never believed the yucky and cooties stuff. I respected older girls, because my older sister demanded it. And I thought little girls were cute, because my little sister adored her big brother, since she could manipulate me into playing with her.

But I knew girls in between respect and cute were mysterious. I didn’t think I was supposed to be noticing girls as pretty. I mean, if you start thinking about girls as pretty, where will it go?

The Departmental was a long time ago, but Shirley is still pretty, I’m sure, even though I haven’t seen her for a long time. I’ve forgotten a lot, but I’m still able to remember pretty. That hasn’t gone anywhere yet.

John Robert McFarland