STANDING BY THE VICTIM [T, 11-10-26]

CHRIST IN WINTER: The Irrelevant Reminiscences of An Old Preacher—STANDING BY THE VICTIM [T, 11-10-26]

 

The Cornell University rape case and has reminded us that sexual violence is always with us. The violence is not always physical.

Early in my ministry, when I was still in college, a high school girl in my church got pregnant. I’ll call her Jill. I was only twenty, but Jill came to me, because she had no place else to go. She was afraid to tell her parents or teachers or friends.

Her boyfriend was a high school student in a different town, and as soon as she told him she was pregnant, he abandoned her, wouldn’t even talk to her. These days it’s called “ghosting.” She was forsaken, but also heart-broken. It wasn’t just that she was having a baby but that she was losing the guy she loved. She wanted to marry him, not just because she was pregnant, but because she loved him, and he had told her that he loved her. When two people loved each other, they got married, didn’t they?

I should have been reading for a history test, but I was the preacher. I was supposed to solve problems.

The boy was part of a family that was prominent in a church in the town where they lived. It was only a few miles away, so I went to see them. It wasn’t unusual in those days for a preacher to show up at your door unannounced. Only the mother was home. I explained who I was. I told her why Jill wanted to get married to her son.

She was indignant and hostile. Her son had already told her about how the hussy had lured him into sin against his will.

“It’s all her fault. She’s getting what she deserves. It’s up to the girl to draw the lines. My son is a good boy. He has a great future. I don’t intend to let his life be ruined by some whore.” I think it was the first time, but certainly not the last, that I heard someone use the phrase, “She got herself pregnant.”

I was flabbergasted. I had kind of assumed I would talk to the boy, remind him of his Christian responsibility, probably convince him to marry Jill. After all, I was flying blind. I didn’t know anything about human nature. I was just a problem pushover; if someone, anyone, came to me with a problem, I assumed it was up to me to fix it. It never occurred to me that there is always someone who doesn’t want the problem fixed, at least not if they have to be part of the solution.

I was young and naive. I learned more that day, though, about original sin, than I did in any class in seminary.

Even though I was quite sure that Jill had not gotten herself pregnant, I felt sorry for that boy. I was on his side, too. It wasn’t just that he was in a pickle. He was being enabled in his irresponsibility, by a woman! He was learning all the wrong life lessons.

I felt sorry for that mother, too. I wasn’t a parent yet, but I had at least a general understanding of how parents needed always to be on the side of their children. So, I was on her side, too.

That’s always been my dilemma as a preacher—I was on everybody’s side. And in a situation like Jill’s, a whole lot of folks are not going to get things to come out the way they want.

There is an old preacher story about a London court scene. A Salvation Army lassie was standing in the dock, by herself. No barrister. Accused of disturbing the peace. As the judge started the trial, the most famous lawyer in the city—Edwin Chadwick—got up and went to stand in the dock beside her.

I learned from Jill’s situation that I could be sympathetic to everyone, but I still always had to stand with the victim.

John Robert McFarland

 

PEOPLE WANT A PERSON [Sun, 11-8-26]

CHRIST IN WINTER: Reflections On Faith & Life For The Years Of Winter—PEOPLE WANT A PERSON [Sun, 11-8-26]

 

When I was the ten-year-old new kid on the school bus, one of my fellow riders, about my age, said, “My father says that the worst white man is still better than the best black man.”

He said it like he wanted to believe his father, but as though it didn’t sound quite right. I didn’t say anything, even though I knew it wasn’t right, because I was afraid to talk in those days. I knew it was wrong, though, because I lived in the real world, the world of facts and knowledge and logic and common sense. I knew what was going on.

That surprised my teachers during my first 4 school years in Indianapolis, because in their report card comments, they noted that I could not spell and I could not write and I could not read and I could not talk, including the obligatory reading aloud.

They also all commented, however, on how well-informed I was in social studies and current events. How could a kid who couldn’t read or write or spell or talk know that much?

I think that was because those were WWII years, and my beloved uncles, the younger brothers of my parents, were in the army and air force and navy and marines. The whole family listened each night to H.V. Kaltenborn on the radio, to the news of all the theaters of the war.

That led me to seek out news of the world in other places. I listened, and I learned. So I was not taken in by that “any white man is better” stuff. I knew about George Washington Carver and Booker T. Washington. And I knew how to think.

That school bus experience was 20 years before the Civil Rights movement. I learned that a lot of people believed the same way as my school bus friend’s father, as non-sensical as it was. They wanted to believe it because it meant that they always had someone they could look down on, regardless of how miserable and unsuccessful their own lives were.

That’s why Trump is so appealing to many people, despite the common awareness that he is a charlatan and scammer. Trump claims he is smart and successful when he isn’t. We identify with that. We want to think we are successful and wealthy even though we aren’t. Trump claims that he gets cheated out of what is rightfully his. We identify with that. We feel like we get cheated out of ours, too. Trump claims that he is better and more deserving that others just because of who he is, not because of merit. We identify with that. We want to believe that about ourselves, too.

Remember last column, when Cheryl took the job as chair of the Council on Ministries because she wanted to get to know me, her spiritual leader? She was a Christian; she knew faith. She was a church member; she knew community. But she wanted to get to know the person who represented faith and community.

It is easier for us to relate to a person than to a theory or to reason. Christians should understand that. After all, we have Jesus. He’s easier to related to than some distant God. The more out of control your life is, the more you need to simplify. The easiest simplification is through relating to a person. “Save me, Jesus! Come, Lord Jesus. He lives!”

That’s why so many people claim that Hitler or Elvis or whoever their savior is still lives. We want, need, some PERSON, who can go with us through the valley of the shadow of death…without any of those black people or gay people or educated people who think they’re better than we are.

I suppose my grade school teachers would be surprised that I lived my life as a talker, and as a writer. I hope they would not be surprised that most of that talking and writing was to say that we do have a Person to whom we can hitch our wagons, and that the best white man and the best black man should walk together to help everyone be better.

John Robert McFarland

 

 

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…