SINCE WE KNOW NOT… [Sun, 11-2-25]

CHRIST IN WINTER: Reflections on Faith and Life for the Years of Winter—SINCE WE KNOW NOT… [Sun, 11-2-25]

 

I wrote about my brother, Jim, in this column for Aug. 24, since his birthday was coming up, on August 28. I wrote about how much I like having a brother, even though he was nine years younger, and so we didn’t get to do a lot of the brother stuff.

I have a brother now only in memory and hope. When I wrote about him back in August, he and his wife, Millie, were making plans to go someplace warm for the winter. We had no idea that he would die on Nov. 1, yesterday.

About a month ago he began to have significant pains in his back. They went to the ER. He was diagnosed with an “angry” [inflamed] pancreas. That was not really surprising; he’s been diabetic for a long time. Because of the location of the pancreas, its pain shows up in the back. They sent him home with pain medicine and instructions for a clear liquid diet.

That lasted only a couple of days. The pain became too much. This time they were sent to the cancer hospital, an hour’s drive away. At first, he was diagnosed with stage 2 pancreatic cancer. As they did more tests, the stage went up to 3 and then to 4, plus spreading to his stomach.

They got the pain under control, mostly, and sent him home to decide if he wanted to do chemo. Of course, we all know that chemo against a diagnosis like that is like spitting into the wind.  

Throughout, we spent a lot of time with Millie on the phone. It was the only way we could be supportive, since they live in New Mexico, and we can’t even drive to the airport, let alone get on a plane.  

Jim and Millie have no children or grandchildren, and none of their siblings are able to travel. It’s hard to have no family around when you are in trouble, and it’s hard on the family members who want to be helpful but cannot.

Early yesterday afternoon, Millie told us of all the appointments they had this week, to put in place the services Jim would need. We were glad they were getting his severe pain under control, because it looked like he would live for several weeks. Millie was looking around for a warmer place where they could go for the winter. We started plans to have a “memorial” service for Jim while he was still alive to enjoy it. We planned to do it via Zoom so that far-flung family members and friends could participate.

When she called back a few hours later, she said Jim had been napping on the living room sofa when she went to the kitchen to get something to eat. When she returned, she realized that she had to call 911.

Thank you for listening, as I try to process my brother’s life and death. As it says in the funeral ritual that I read so many times in the course of my years as a preacher, “Since we know not what a day may bring forth, but only that the hour for serving Thee is always present…”

John Robert McFarland

Following is a screed about the reason for our family’s battles with cancer. I put it down here where you can ignore it if you wish, because it doesn’t seem really appropriate, as I mourn my brother’s passing, and as I hold out hope for his different life now, but it is a part of what I feel…

Jim was nine years younger than I. Our sister, Margaret Ann, was 8 years younger. She died from cancer when she was only 60. Jim had it first in his 30s, but made it to 79.

When we moved to the farm, Margey had just turned two, and Jimmy was still a babe in arms. Our older sister, Mary Virginia, was already a teen, and I was ten.

I think there is a good reason that Mary V is 93 and still in great health, without ever having cancer, and I had cancer 35 years ago but am still alive, while the youngsters, Jim and Margey, are the ones who died first.

They lived on the farm much longer than Mary V and I did, through the heyday of the pesticide, DDT. Their exposure for so long, starting when they were so young, made them more vulnerable. The manufacturer assured everyone that DDT wasn’t dangerous. Pour it on; it’s as harmless as chocolate. Just because it kills bugs doesn’t mean it’s deadly...

DDT was banned in 1972, 25 years after we moved to the farm, way too late to help my little sister and brother. But that’s okay; Montrose Chemical Corporation had already made lots of money from it, and isn’t making money the American way, regardless of the consequences?

Montrose paid millions to lawyers, for years, fighting attempts to hold them accountable for the damage done by DDT. They never did pay anything to people who were DDT victims, but finally agreed to escape accountability by paying a sum for general environmental cleanup.

 

 

FALL BACK [F, 10-31-25]

CHRIST IN WINTER: Reflections on Faith & Life for the Years of Winter—FALL BACK [F, 10-31-25]

 

Yes, an extra hour of sleep is fine, but, more importantly, come Sunday at 2:00 a.m., the rest of the world will once again be in sync with my wrist watch.

Old people love change. We like to be in the forefront of new achievements and ideas and technology and systems. Such as wearing wrist watches. And since the world in general has been threatening for some time to eschew DST [Daylight Savings Time], and stay on GST [God’s Standard Time] all year, for the last few years, I have kept my wrist watch on GST, so that I would be on the cutting edge, pushing the envelope, and all that stuff, the very first to be on GST year-round

All I have to do, six months each year, is mentally adjust the time one hour from what my watch shows.

Well, plus minus four minutes. The watch gains time, about a minute per year. When I started, I had to adjust the time by two minutes. Then three. Now four. I like it. It’s progress.

Yes, it is true that I couldn’t change the hour and minutes even if I wanted to, because I don’t know how to change either the hour of the minutes of my water-proof Casio. Charlie Matson can’t figure out how to do it anymore, either, and he’s an engineer!

But that has nothing to do with my decision to live dangerously close to being an hour early wherever I go, for 6 months of the year, since I might forget to make the mental adjustment. That’s another thing old people like, living dangerously. [We usually show up an hour early, anyway.]

It’s also true that I don’t need a water-proof watch since I don’t go near the water. These matters are insignificant, though, compared to the thrill of being out in front of a major societal change, such as doing away with DST. It’s important for old people such as I to show that it can be done; we can live successfully on GST alone.

I’m sort of looking forward to my watch being right on its own, though…

John Robert McFarland

SIMPLE SONGS FOR SIMPLE PEOPLE [T, 10-28-25]

BEYOND WINTER: The Irrelevant Lyrics of An Old Song Writer—SIMPLE SONGS FOR SIMPLE PEOPLE [T, 10-28-25]

 

What is art? There are a thousand definitions. Anything artistic is notoriously difficult to define.

Justice Potter Stewart said, “I can’t define it, but I know it when I see it.”

I can’t define folk music, but I know it when I hear it.

Folk music is both immediate and simple. Immediate and simple are not necessarily better than distant and complicated, especially in music. But I’m simple, so I’m a folkie.

Young people like to think of themselves as complicated. I certainly did. I thought I was complicated when I was really just confused. The older I get, the more I realize how simple I am. I’m a simple guy, so folk is my music.

Folk has no intermediaries, no handlers who present an image different from the musician him or herself. The same is true with the songs.

In a former life, I was a bassoonist. Bassoon isn’t a folk instrument. It really needs other instruments, preferably an orchestra, at least an ensemble. It’s hard to sit around the camp fire and sing to a bassoon, especially if you are the bassoonist, and also trying to eat s’mores.

I like simplicity. The older I get, the more I like it.

I am partial to running/walking as a sport because it is so simple and immediate. You just put on your shoes and go out the door. Other than the shoes--and not even those for folks like Zola Budd-- you need no clubs or rackets or skis, no special court or floor or field, no machines or pool. Unlike other sports, you can use running/walking actually to go some place useful, like the donut shop, to recoup the calories you lost along the way.

Because I like simplicity, I am a folk music singer-songwriter. I’m known for writing songs like “I’m In the Poor House Now,” and for my renditions of the songs of others, like the Snake Oil Willie Band’s I Don’t Look Good Naked Anymore or If My Nose Was Running Money, I’d Blow It All On You. [1]

Our granddaughter is coming to visit us, and she is bringing with her Pansy. Well, not the whole band named Pansy, just the lead singer/songwriter, Vivian, who needs a place to get away to write some more songs. I assume they are coming to visit us because they know I can be helpful with the writing. Electric punk isn’t all that different from acoustic folk, is it?

John Robert McFarland

 

1] The internet is confused about who wrote If My Nose Was Running Money… It was either Mike Snider or Aaron Wilburn.

 

 

 

 

 

I DON’T KNOW, AND I DON’T CARE [Sat, 10-25-25]

BEYOND WINTER: The Irrelevant Musings of An Old Man—I DON’T KNOW, AND I DON’T CARE [Sat, 10-25-25]

 

The responsive reading to start tomorrow’s worship service:

Leader: I don’t know and I don’t care

People: I don’t know and I don’t care

Leader: If the devil wears fireproof underwear

People: If the devil wears fireproof underwear

Leader: Amen!

People: Amen!

Leader: Hallelujah!

People: Hallelujah!

All: Matthew, Mark, Luke, John… Matthew Mark,  Luke! John!

Wouldn’t that be a great responsive reading to start a worship service?

It’s October. Yes, it means colored leaves and such to me, as it does to everybody else, but to me it also means marching in ROTC. That was one of the cadence counts in ROTC marching when I was in college. I have changed the words a little from the original, which was…

Leader: I don’t know and I don’t care

People: I don’t know and I don’t care

Leader: If the general wears dirty underwear

People: If the general wears dirty underwear

Leader: Sound off!

People: Sound off

Leader: Cadence count

People: Cadence count

All: One, two, three, four… one, two,   Three! Four! [1]

One of the great things about being old is that you no longer have to know anything. Or care about it. You can say, “I don’t know, and I don’t care.” It’s very relieving, to have that responsibility off your shoulders, that responsibility for knowing things, and for caring about what other people know or don’t know, caring about who’s right.

Even if old people do know things, young people don’t want to hear about it.

Uncle Johnny Pond was in his early 20s when he started building Francisco Hardware and Lumber, right beside his oldest brother’s general store. Ted Ellis was 20 years older than John Hubert. He knew a lot about stores and shared his knowledge freely. But, Uncle Johnny told me, “I want to make my own mistakes.”

I have talked before about Harry, the older man in one of my churches, who was so disappointed that “the younger men in the church don’t ask for my advice.”

You’ll be disappointed almost all the time if you wait for that.

Please don’t misunderstand me. I’m well aware that “those who do not study history are doomed to repeat it.” And who better than old people to provide history? After all, we’ve lived it.

People don’t need our advice all that much. They need our support, a prop up on their leaning side, a push back onto the path.

“I don’t care” doesn’t mean I don’t care about people. It means that I don’t care whether I understand, understand the politics or the religion or the falderal of what’s going on. So many of use our lack of understanding as an excuse for not acting. We don’t have to care to care.

As Kris Kristofferson wrote, “I don’t care who’s right or wrong. I don’t try to understand. Let the devil take tomorrow, Lord, tonight I need a friend. Yesterday is dead and gone, and tomorrow’s out of sight. And it’s sad to be alone, help me make it through the night.”

That’s why I’ll be joining folks from all over the Midwest at the Miami

Correctional Facility [ten miles north of Kokomo, IN] at 2:00 pm, EDT, Monday, Oct. 27, to pray together for the migrant detainees, and their families, being held there. This is neither a protest nor a demonstration. It is a witness, to say to those who are held there, and to those who put them there, “We see you. We are with you.” I can’t be there in person, of course, but I shall be praying along with those who are, and I invite you to do so, too.

If someone says to me, “Did I get it right?” I say…

I don’t know,

and I don’t care.

I’ll still be with you,

in hope and prayer.

John Robert McFarland

1] I suppose in the ROTC cadence count above, I should have put “Sgt.” where I have “Leader,” and “Marchers” or “Soldiers” where I have “People,” but I have been writing litanies for churches for so long that I automatically used “Leader” and “People.”

 

ADDICTIONS IN OLD AGE [R, 10-23-25]

BEYOND WINTER: The Irrelevant Psychology of An Old Man—ADDICTIONS IN OLD AGE [R, 10-23-25]

 

As a pastor, I had church members who were addicted. Many were secret, but I knew about some of them. Those were the ones who came to me for help. One man—I’ll call him Jake—came not to get help with dealing with his addiction, but to get help with negotiating his sobriety.

He said, “I’ve been sober long enough now that I’ve learned why I started drinking in the first place. The drinking covered up the other problems. Now I have to deal with those problems, and I don’t know how to do it without the booze.”

He had dropped friends he’d had before his drinking. Now his only friends were drunks, and he couldn’t be around them. He felt very much alone. In addition to AA, he looked to the church for help.

That worked for a little while. He liked me. He liked our worship. But our church was too open. He felt exposed in all that open spiritual space, where everyone mingled around with everyone else. He decided to go to a more conservative church, one with narrow and strict expectations about what to believe and how to think and with whom to associate. He needed a more rigid structure.

It worked. For a while. The only thing that really works with an addiction, though, is to stop doing it.

Addiction changes your brain. Not just physical addictions, like dope and booze, but activity addictions, like gambling. Often for old people, it’s thinking addictions. If you rehearse negative thoughts and memories over and over, your brain gets literally grooved in such a way that you can’t think positive thoughts. That’s where angry old men and crabby old ladies come from.

Most physical addictions develop early and simply become more pronounced in old age. That is true with thinking addictions, too. Defensiveness, blaming, criticism, negative thinking—all develop early. Many old people think about all that is negative and hateful and excluding, and have been doing so for so long that their brains are grooved. They can’t think good things.

Psychologists tell us that almost all addictions are the result of unresolved grief over loss, not just the loss of people, but anything else that is important to us. That’s an intriguing insight.

As I dealt with addicts, though, I found that it was never very effective to try to figure out what their unresolved grief was so that they could go back and resolve it. For one thing, it took too long. They needed help right now with dealing with the addiction.

Stop doing it is the first command for addicts. It’s only then that you can see what your real problems are. For negative thinking addiction, the apostle Paul outlined the antidote long ago, in his letter to the Philippians [4:8] Whatever is true, whatever is noble, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is admirable, think on these things. Think about things that are excellent and worthy of praise.

So, I think about puppy dogs and laughing babies. Works great.

John Robert McFarland

 

 

 

 

 

GOOSEBERRY GOSPEL [T, 10-21-25]

CHRIST IN WINTER: The Memories of a Sojourner in the Years of Winter—GOOSEBERRY GOSPEL [T, 10-21-25]

 

When John hanged himself, in the county jail, he was 20 years old. His mother’s response was to bake me a gooseberry pie.

I had spent a lot of time with John, as he wrestled with his demons. They started bedeviling him when he was a young teen and never let up much.

I also spent a lot of time with his parents, as they tried to understand their son. That was when I told Eunice about gooseberry pie.

When we moved to our little hardscrabble farm, when I was ten years old, we had a gooseberry bush. It was very protective of its berries. Sharp thorns on the bush made picking the berries a painful experience. But it was quite productive. It was also our only source of fruit, which meant it was our only source of pie.

So I would pick the berries, and Mother would bake a pie. It wasn’t a very good pie. Gooseberries are really sour. They have tough coats, and once you get by them, they’re sort of slimy. You have to use tons of sugar to make them edible.

We didn’t have much sugar, though, because we had no money to buy it. Mother would sweeten the gooseberries as much as she dared, needing to save sugar for other uses, but eating it was still a sour experience.

A sour experience. A real pie experience. A satisfying experience.

It was satisfying because we had done the best we could with what we had, to create a pie experience, especially for my little sister and brother, barely toddlers back then, almost 80 years ago.

That’s why, when her son committed suicide, Eunice baked me a gooseberry pie.

As I write this, my little brother is in a cancer hospital, readying for surgery. My little sister is dead. So is Eunice. And, as I pray, gooseberry pie is sweet in my memory and in my hopes, a symbol of the Gospel.

John Robert McFarland

 

 

 

JESUS AND THE SECOND GRIZZLY [10-20-25]

BEYOND WINTER: The Grizzly Reflections of An Old Story-Teller—JESUS AND THE SECOND GRIZZLY [10-20-25]

 

A story-teller of the Old West used to say, “If you’re tellin’ a story ‘bout fightin’ a grizzly bear, and it looks like folks ain’t believin’ ya, or they ain’t payin’ attention, throw in a second grizzly.”

He got that idea from Jesus.

I really don’t think Jesus meant literally that we should forgive “seventy times seven;” it would just be too much trouble to keep track of the number without a cell phone. He was trying to get our attention for the main point—forgive! Seventy times seven was a second grizzly.

Theologians have traditionally noted the difference between the theology of Jesus and the theology about Jesus. It is sometimes referred to as the difference between the pre-Easter Jesus and the post-Easter Jesus.

The divisions we have in the church are almost always because we favor one Jesus over the other. Some follow the moral/ethical, life-now Jesus [pre-Easter]. Others follow the risen/salvation, eternal-life Jesus [post-Easter].

The theology of Jesus has to do with turning the other cheek, going the extra mile, feeding the hungry, forgiving sins… All of the second grizzlies of Jesus.

I try to follow the whole Jesus, but it is hard for me to get excited about the post-Easter Jesus. He’s far away. What’s the point of “salvation” if you mistreat your brother or sister? I keep hearing that phrase from the book of James [1:22], “Be doers of the word and not hearers only.”

The earthly Jesus is here and now, telling me not to lust, to forgive, to give all I have to the poor and come to follow, that in so far as I have done it unto the least of these, I have done it unto him…

Being in the heavenly Jesus camp these days seems too much like trying to avoid the demands of the earthly Jesus. That’s because so many heavenly Jesus followers ignore the clear requirements of Jesus—they work for vengeance and refuse to forgive, they ignore the poor, they store up treasures where moth and rust corrupt--and yet they claim they are the true Christians…not because they do the commands of Jesus, but because they believe the doctrines about Jesus.

Jesus throws in the second grizzly to get my attention, because he knows how hard it is for me to forgive even once. So, he says I should do it 490 [I hope that is 70x7]. He knows how hard it is for me to part with my hard-earned pension money, so he tells me to give away everything, my Social Security check, too. He knows how hard it is for me to walk one mile with someone who chatters incessantly, so he tells me to walk two…

Jesus doesn’t really want me to be a super-human person. He knows that is not possible, because I am just a regular person. But he does want me to be a forgiving person, to be a giving person, to be a kind person… so he uses that second grizzly to get my attention.

John Robert McFarland

“Don’t let the perfect be the enemy of the good.”

 

 

 

IQ, PI, and NPD [Sat, 10-18-24]

BEYOND WINTER: The Irrelevant Insights of An Old Man—IQ, PI, and NPD [Sat, 10-18-24]

 

Narcissists live in a world of one. I’ve dealt with quite a few narcissists professionally. They are very simple to read, but difficult to know. We once had a narcissist in the family, though. Since our relationship was familial instead of professional, I got to know him very well, “up close and personal.”

When he wanted to defend his self-indulgence, he would point out that he had a degree from an Ivy League university, and that he could recite a lot of facts about many things. He was intelligent, far more than other people, according to him, and so, automatically, he had to be right. The fact that all he did was to his advantage, regardless of who was disadvantaged, was simply the result of superior intelligence.

He was right about being intelligent. He had a high IQ. Being a narcissist, though, he had no PI, no personal intelligence, no psychological intelligence.

To a narcissist, lying isn’t lying. Hypocrisy isn’t hypocrisy. Logic does not exist. Facts do not exist. Truth is only what he wants it to be. Other people exist only to get him what he wants. There is only one thing in his world, and that is himself. Everyone else and everything else exists only for his use. A narcissist can be quite “intelligent,” but that does not mean he is smart.

Anyone who knows even a little psychology understands that Donald Trump has NPD, Narcissistic Personality Disorder. So I really don’t blame Mr. Trump for the wildly inaccurate and immoral things he says and does. Narcissists don’t have a moral compass. Their brains are simply deficient. To blame a narcissist for having a bad brain is like blaming someone born deaf for not hearing.

How do you deal with a narcissist? The usual methods of persuasion—truth, facts, logic—mean nothing to him. You can’t reason with him. He has no shame or embarrassment about lying or hypocrisy or abusive behavior.

The only thing you can do is make him uncomfortable. And show him a way to get comfortable.

By that, I mean personal comfort. The world exists for him. If what he is doing is not getting him what he wants, he will change, not because he thinks his former behavior is wrong, but because it isn’t getting him what he wants.

Just make him uncomfortable when he does wrong and make him comfortable when he does right. Simple, isn’t it? No, because someone with NPD rarely does right, especially if he has enablers who will tell him that wrong is right.

I think that the only way to deal with NPD folks is to say “No” to them. Keep them at a distance from the levers of family and society, so that they can’t pull those levers, since they can’t reach them.

Too late for dealing with Donald Trump, but, at least, he is a cautionary tale for the future…if there is one.

John Robert McFarland

“People who believe in absurdities will eventually commit atrocities.” Voltaire 

 

 

FLOWERS FOR PIE [W, 10-15-25]

CHRIST IN WINTER: Irrelevant Reflections of An Old Man—FLOWERS FOR PIE [W, 10-15-25]

 

Some might say it is because we’ve been married 66 years. Maybe…

After Crumble Bums—a coffee-drinking consortium of retired quasi-intellectuals--I went to the post office to mail some art to our granddaughter. She is turning her apartment into an art gallery for her birthday, inviting all her friends and family to provide art as well as to attend the gallery opening. We live about two thousand miles too far away to grace the opening with our presence, but since the post office is still doing what Benjamin Franklin intended—making it possible for all citizens to be in community with one another, rather than the current idea that every government service should be “privatized” so a few can make money off the many while excluding from community those who have no money—I was able to send art pieces.

I am not an artist, of course, except for a severely limited ability to do a line drawing of a cat sitting, facing away, on a one-rail fence. The ears are no problem, but I can never decide whether the cat’s tail should curl to the left or to the right.

So, for my art, I claim community-building. Thus, I sent Brigid the letter from my high school class sweater, since it was in the Oakland City High School Class of 1955 that I began my community-building efforts, and I think of her as the heir of my particular artistic ability.

 

At the post office, there were three young women standing in line in front of me. I was prepared for this; I had brought my cane. I can walk just fine, but if I have to stand straight for a while, like in a wait line, it’s hard on my back and hip. Leaning on the cane helps.

Naturally, I said, “Oh, I’m in the wrong line. Clearly this is the line where the good-looking people are supposed to stand.”

Now, there are people, mostly in my family, who say, not exactly because of intellectual curiosity, “Why do you always say weird things to strangers?” Well, because it builds community. All three of those women turned and smiled and assured me that it was okay for me to be in line with them.

So, I was feeling good as I drove home. Along about where Staples used to be [This is how you prove you belong; you use places that no longer exist as landmarks for directions.], I realized that with just a little bit of dangerous maneuvering through a parking lot, where no one knows, or cares, who has the right-of-way, I would be passing directly by Fresh Thyme, where they have a varied selection of pies. When you’ve been busy building community, a pie is a nice reward.

 

In the store, I had to pass the flower department to get to the pies. But a pleasant man, who looked homeless except for his name tag, asked me if he could help. “Yes,” I said, “if you know what my wife would like.”

I meant which flavor of pie, but the woman at the flower cart heard me and stuck out a rather glorious handful of multi-colored cut flowers and said, “She would like these.”

So, I bought flowers instead of a pie. As I checked out, I assured the cashier that I had done nothing wrong, that these were not apology flowers. Yes, remember, community building.

When I got home with the flowers, I discovered that while I was out building community, Helen had baked a pie.

 

John Robert McFarland

 

 

 

A ROOM OF MY OWN [Sun, 10-12-25]

 BEYOND WINTER: The Irrelevant Musings of An Old Man—A ROOM OF MY OWN [Sun, 10-12-25]

I did not have a room of my own until I was a senior in college. I had always wanted a room of my own, but it seemed strange when I actually got one. I was not used to living by myself.

Of course, dormitory living is never an isolated experience. There were guys up and down the hall in other rooms. I had known most of them for three years. The walls in our old BOQ building were so thin you could hear guys in the next room dealing cards. But, still, living in that single room was a bit strange 

When I was small, my parents and older sister and I shared a room in Cedar Crest, the big old farmhouse on the outskirts of Oxford, OH. My grandparents’ house had a lot of rooms, and during The Great Depression, there were plenty of people to fill them. I thought having lots of people in the house was not only normal but a good thing—always someone to pay attention to me, to play with me.

When we moved to Indianapolis, when I was four, I shared a room, first with my parents and then with my sister. When we moved to the farm near Oakland City, when I was ten, the house had only two bedrooms. My fourteen-year-old sister and my two-year-old sister shared one of them, and my parents were in the other. My one-year-old brother was in a crib with my parents, and I slept on a pullout sofa in the living room. As soon as Jimmy was out of his crib, he started sharing the sofa bed with me.

We did not have a car, so I walked many miles on dirt and gravel roads to go to church or to 4H or to a friend’s house, or even to town. I liked those walks. They were the only times I was by myself.

I liked my first roommate at IU, Tom Cone, and I liked Jim Barrett when Tom got a single after our sophomore year. Having a roommate in college was normal. So when I went to a single as a senior, even though I had yearned for years for my own space, it was a strange feeling, to live alone.

At the end of that senior year, Helen and I married, so I’ve had a roommate for 66 years. We had an extra room in our house in Dallas, where we directed a community center when I was a student in the Perkins School of Theology at Southern Methodist University. I thought I would use that as a study, my room, but IU friend Bob Parsons, also at Perkins, had no place to live, so we put him into that room.

Then little daughters came alone and always took up the extra rooms. When they finally we went off to college, I got a room of my own again. But it was too late…

…because I no longer need a room. All I need now is my laptop computer

I have a beautiful room of my own now. It has a desk and lamp and swivel chair and book shelves and metal filing cabinets. The shelves are crammed with wonderful unused books that have been superseded by Google. On the desk are a stapler and scotch tape dispenser and rolodex and paper clips and… well, all kinds of neat stuff I used to need but never use anymore.

I have a room of my own, and I don’t need it.

John Robert McFarland

Jesus said, “In my father’s house are many rooms.” [John 14:2] I hope mine is not a single.

 I have no idea why blogspot decided to underline some words above.

FROM MY POETRY JOURNAL [R, 10-9-25]

BEYOND WINTER: The Irrelevant Poems of an Old Man—FROM MY POETRY JOURNAL [R, 10-9-25]

Remember, it’s a journal. I don’t write it for others, so read at your own peril…

 

THE GIRLS OF SUMMER

The girls of summer

push balky walkers

along mean corridors

at Shady Pines

and wonder

where they left

their summer hats

 

VALLEY OF LOST POEMS

I have never been there

although it is where

many of my verses have gone

a sort of nursing home for poems

 Shady Phrases, or EYS

  Extra Years of Schmaltz

They need not cook for themselves

look in the thesaurus for better

words. There is a white-clad chef

for that, one with a pin

to roll out creases

in long vowel phrases

And a nurse to wipe their bottoms

where the ellipses collide…

with semicolons;

All in all, a rather wordly place

I receive, from time to time,

an invitation, to visit

I politely decline

 

YEARNING

Now it is only yearning

that remains

in the dust of hopes

and dreams and days of work

Perhaps the only meaning

was always in the yearning

 

THE MUSEUM OF UNDONE THINGS

I have much now that I must do

It is not frantic doing, though

If it is not done when I die

it shall take up its place

in the museum of undone things

where others can contemplate

the message of its completeness

 

YOU’RE AN OLD MAN NOW

[Sung to the tune of “He’s In the Jailhouse Now”]

You’re an old man now

Yes, you’re an old man now

God’s told me once or twice

You’re irrelevant so just be nice

You’re an old man now

 

THE NIGHT I HAD A NAME

Lying there in pain

hunger, uncertainty

I heard the nurses at their station

their nightly party commencing

as we in their care gave up for the day

The crackling of popcorn

The aroma of brownies baking

So nostalgic and yet so desperate

for one denied all food

for one marooned on a deserted island

They chatted about the patients

identifying them by room and malady

  The leg in 219

  The kidney in 246

how they were settling us

so that our call buttons would not interfere

as they shared their snacks and laughter

Then I heard them say that I was ready, too,

I did not feel ready, for the night

or for life

but instead of room number or disease

they called me by my name

And I began to heal

John Robert McFarland

“I arise in the morning torn between a desire to improve the world and a desire to enjoy the world. This makes it hard to plan the day.” E.B. White 

IT’S A STORY, FOLKS [10-6-25]

BEYOND WINTER: The Irrelevant Musings of A Narrative Theologian—IT’S A STORY, FOLKS [10-6-25]

 

The Bible is not God’s World Book of Facts, or God’s Book of Science History, or God’s Book of Helpful Hints for Easy Living. Definitely not God’s Book of Theological Propositions. It is God’s story book. Not God’s Book of Stories, but God’s Story Book. One story.

The Bible creates all sorts of problems and divisions when we don’t understand that. Well, no. It’s not the Bible that creates those problems. It’s the way we misunderstand God’s purpose for the Bible that is the problem.

I did a lot of counseling throughout my ministry, not because I was good at it, but because people need counselors, and I had credentials, and I was cheap.

Especially in my campus ministry days, the counseling was non-stop. Young people like to talk about their problems.

One girl came to see me because she could not decide between Roy and Stan. I used my best counseling technique, helping her compare and contrast the two. Roy had every attribute a girl could possibly want. Stan was a total loser. She said, “Well, the decision is clear, isn’t it? I felt quite smug; good counseling had brought her there. “Yes, it’s Stan,” she said, with a satisfied sigh.

What? No! It’s not Stan! Weren’t you even here?

I didn’t say any of that, of course. I just watched as she made her dreamy exit out my door to go devote herself to the biggest loser I’d ever heard of.

I don’t think I put it into those words right then, but I began to understand: it’s the story that matters. She was telling herself a story, a story of romance that needed no facts. I was dealing with a list of categories.

I already knew that was true in preaching. I don’t know why it took me so long to understand that story is foundation and center to all the other tasks of ministry, because it is the foundation and center of life.

After campus ministry, I went to the University of Iowa to do a doctorate in theology. I wanted to be a preaching professor in a seminary, and I needed the union card, a PhD.

I quickly ran into trouble. I had already done graduate work in communication theory, and I wanted to concentrate my dissertation on the interface between communication theory and theological methodology. But my professors thought that was frivolous. Theologians had to compare and contrast the soteriology of Schleiermacher and Kierkegaard. And then the teleology of Augustine and Kant. And then the Christology of Barth and Bultmann…

But I had begun to read people like Hans Frei, The Eclipse of Biblical Narrative. And James William McClendon, Biography as Theology. They were putting into words what I already knew: God is telling a story, and the task of preachers and the church is to help people find their place in it.

Fortunately for me, the U of Iowa was in a consortium, “The Schools of Theology in Iowa,” that also included Wartburg [Lutheran], U of Dubuque [Presbyterian], and Aquinas [Roman Catholic]. I was able to find professors who let me write my own narrative theology.

I suppose that in some ways, all those years of graduate work were wasted. I taught in a lot of short education conferences for preachers, but I was never a prof in a seminary. In the process of all that schooling, though, I learned the reality that has centered all my work, and my life. It you want to know it, read the first paragraph again…

John Robert McFarland

"The future belongs not to those who have the best story, but to those who tell their story best."

CAN I MAKE IT THROUGH THE WINTER? [10-3-25]

BEYOND WINTER: The Irrelevant Musings of An Old Man—CAN I MAKE IT THROUGH THE WINTER? [10-3-25]

 

October is a dying month. Can I make it through the winter? That is what old people ask. If they do not want to try it, they die in October, before winter gets started. Ministers and funeral directors know this. 

Unfortunately, by asking if we can make it through the winter, we lose the joy of October, by dreading the advent of winter. October should be a joy in itself,

Yes, October is a joy in itself, but also a joy that winter is coming, because winter is a privilege. If you give up in October, you don’t get to have a winter, and winters can be fun. I am glad if I can make it to winter, whether I make it through winter or not.

Yes, winters can be fun. No, I don’t mean skiing and ski jumping and snow shoeing and ice fishing dancing the parka polka. What? You’ve never danced the parka polka?

Lace up your boots and zip up your coat, let’s do the parka polka. Pull on your ski mask and grab your wool scarf, let’s do the parka polka. Pull on your mittens and your flannel-lined pants, until not an inch of skin shows. The only way I know you’re female, is by the way you do the parka polka. [The tune of The Pennsylvania Polka, of course.]

Winter is fun because it is a gift. Not everyone gets to experience the winter years of life, those years when you have time to forgive trespasses and make peace with what has been. Those extra years of trying to make the world a better place. If you can no longer climb up on the barricades and march in the streets, you can try for a better world through prayer and hope and faith. The world always needs more folks who can pray and hope and keep the faith. 

I think I can make it through the winter. I’ll put on my warm winter faith. I may not be able to dance the parka polka, but I can sing We shall overcome…

Until winter comes, though, I’m going to enjoy October.

John Robert McFarland

Recently I heard this statement by Confucius: We have two lives. The second one starts when we realize that we have only one life.

 

 

 

COMMUNITY IN WINTER [T, 9-30-25]

BEYOND WINTER: The Irrelevant Communities of An Old Man—COMMUNITY IN WINTER [T, 9-30-25]

 

I went to the dentist last week. I do that whenever we have too much money in our bank account and I need to get rid of a bunch. I had a new hygienist, the delightful young Erin. I told her that Claudia Byers had been my hygienist for such a long time—in the office of Alejandra Haddad, before both Dr. Haddad and Claudia decided to retire—that it was strange seeing dark hair hovering over me, instead of white.

“Oh, Claudia,” Erin said. “She’s a legend in the dental hygiene community. I met her recently and told her, ‘I feel like I already know you, because I’ve heard so much about you.’”

 

Isn’t that interesting? It never occurred to me that there is a ‘dental hygiene community,’ but, of course, every job and activity category has an automatic community. It may be unorganized, but it exists, because people need community, and the quickest and most comfortable community is with folks who do the same things we do.

I think I felt that most keenly in my cancer support group. Automatic community. Every person there was an old-timer, from the moment they walked through the door, because it was a community of emotions as well as activities. We shared the same fears and hopes and anxieties. That’s deep community.

One of the things I like best about being a preacher, even now, when I no longer “share the practice,” [1] is simply being a part of “the goodly fellowship of the prophets.”

My home church never had an ordained, educated preacher. We just had a lay preacher who showed up on Sunday morning—sometimes Gene Matthews, a factory worker from Evansville, or Kenwood Bryant, a school teacher from Evansville, or Paul Burns, the local post master. They were good people, and I learned from them some useful lessons in what makes a sermon helpful, but I never saw anyone dealing with all the other stuff that comes up in a pastor’s week

So, throughout my career, even now, I watch other preacher/pastors carefully. I still want to learn from them. That community is still important to my identity.

Community can be an elusive thing for folks in their winter years, especially those who are so old that they are beyond winter. When we are young [under 85] and out in the world, going to a job or church or gym or book club, there are automatic communities. When we are “puny and feeble,” stuck at home most of the time, community is more elusive, so we need to work a little harder at taking care of cultivating possible communities.

Helen and I have a community of young men who come to do our quarterly pest control. We’ve seen them long enough and talked with them as they go about their duties that we know their names and know all about their children and dogs and frustrations.

And we have a community at the dentist’s office. This week my dentist had a couple of students shadowing him, so—after asking, “Why? Were all the places in Janitorial School already taken?”-- I took the opportunity to instruct them in dental practice from the patient’s point of view. Hygienists and assistants came from all the other rooms to listen.

Up front, after cooling off my credit card, I grabbed a couple of pens from the reception desk, and Emme said, “Oh, yes, take those. I know Helen loves them.” That’s good community.

As I went out the door, I could hear them talking about the community there that we help create. One said, “He’s so…” I couldn’t hear the rest of it.

John Robert McFarland

 

1] “Excellence in Ministry Through Sharing the Practice,” was the motto of The Academy of Parish Clergy, of which I was a Fellow and past-president.

THE BIG STORY [Sat, 9-27-25]

BEYOND WINTER: The Irrelevant Reminiscing of An Old Man—THE BIG STORY [Sat, 9-27-25]

 

[Another personal reminiscence story, 765 words instead of my usual 500, so do something else if you’re pressed for time.]

Helen and I have coffee and muffins and talk for an hour or two at mid-morning. Recently she asked me how I knew so early that I wanted to be a newspaper man. This is what I told her…

It was because of newspapers themselves, and WWII, and Ernie Pyle, and the radio, and my big sister, Mary V.

 

NEWSPAPERS IN THE CITY

            We moved to Indianapolis when I was four. The Times was an evening paper and delivered to our front porch by an impressive grown-up of thirteen or fourteen years of age. That was my first inkling that I wanted to be a newspaper man. I wanted to be a grown-up and deliver the paper, because…

            …I knew the newspaper was important, because as soon as it hit the front porch, everyone wanted to see it. Including me, when I learned that there were comic pages. You didn’t even have to be able to read to enjoy them.

            More importantly, it was the source of news about my beloved uncles, who were fighting the fascists and dictators around the world. Most of the time, we weren’t even sure where they were, which meant we needed news from every front in the war.

            In my quest to be a news boy, I made a deal, when I was about eight, with the news girl—a real rarity then—who delivered The Times on East Oakland Ave. In the winter, it was dark by the time she got to our street, the last one on her route. I would meet her at the New York Street end and take the requisite number of papers for my side of the street. I knew every house that got a Times. She delivered on the other side. When we got to Washington Street, if she had an extra, she would give it to me. I would go across Washington St. to where the day shift was leaving the Mallory plant and sell my paper to the Mallory’s office lady in the red coat, for a nickel. Journalism was obviously the way to get rich!

           

NEWSPAPERS IN THE COUNTRY

            When I was ten, we moved to a primitive farm three miles outside Oakland City. No newspaper delivery there. I think it was The Courier that we got, the day after publication, brought in the mail by the rural route carrier. Yes, it was a day late, sometimes two, but so what? It was news to us, and the source of baseball statistics that allowed me to argue with the Cardinals and Cubs fans on the school bus.

            More importantly, it was contact with the outside world. I desperately wanted a life that was more than hoeing weeds and gathering eggs and chopping kindling. Yes, I still wanted news of The Phantom in the comic section, but I wanted to be part of that world the newspaper told about.

 

ERNIE PYLE

            Ernie was from Indiana. We were proud of him. We were told that he wrote the truth about the real soldiers, the ones fighting every day, like my uncles. I wanted to be a war correspondent who told the truth about men like my uncles. I wanted to be Ernie Pyle.

 

THE BIG STORY

            A radio program from 1947-55, each week it dramatized how some newspaper reporter had gotten his [always “his” in those days] big story. It was so heroic and romantic. I knew I’d never get to the major leagues [too slow] or med school [too squeamish] but I could write. I wanted to be the guy who got the big story.

 

MARY V

            My sister, four and a half years older than I, was the most important person in my world. In a family that was chaotic at best, she was an oasis of calm. Anything she did, I wanted to do, and she was on the staff of the high school newspaper, Oak Barks.

Since high school in Oakland City started with 8^th grade, and since I was a mid-year kid [starting in January instead of September because of my birthday] I got to share one semester with Mary V before she graduated. When Alva Cato and Grace Robb, our class sponsors, asked if anyone wanted to be the 8^th grade reporter for Oak Barks, my hand was up first [and probably alone]. 

I think I would have been a good reporter, and I would have gotten retired, just barely, before newspapers became extinct. Yes, I got sidetracked into being a preacher, but I still got to tell The Big Story.

John Robert McFarland

“If I had to choose between newspapers and government, I’d take newspapers.” Thomas Jefferson