SAYING YES [R, 9-17-26]

CHRIST IN WINTER: Reminiscences of An Old Preacher—SAYING YES [R, 9-17-26]

 

[This is the third part of a single story. I’m trying to understand my career in the ministry, which started 70 years ago this month. It’s probably best to read the parts in order, but they are about twice as long as usual, so if you have anything better to do…]

Why did I say yes when the District Superintendent [DS] said, “You can start preaching next Sunday?” I had not gone to him to start a ministry career. I was just trying to figure out the difference between a deal with God and a call by God.

I said yes because I always said yes. In improv theater, you never say no to your improv partners. You always say yes. My life was an improvisation. Still is.

I always said yes because I was afraid of being left out. I said yes to anything that would get me a place inside the circle, inside the circle of fellowship, of community. I wanted to belong. I wanted a seat at the table.

 As time went by, I came to understand that I had always belonged, within the everlasting arms, within the circle of God, at the communion table.

It is the Presence of God that makes life real. We don’t need to “feel” the Presence, or even be aware of it. The Presence is just there.

I’ve been a Christian for almost 90 years. By Christian theology, I became a Christian when I was baptized right at 90 years ago. I have a cradle roll certificate to prove it. And I have been thinking about God for almost all those 90 years. I have a doctorate in the theology of Christian belief. And I’m confused about Christian faith most of the time.

I mean, Jesus died for my sins. Or was that Christ? Anyway, if I’m saved from my sins, how come I keep sinning? Why do I pray every week for forgiveness? How does the death of one peasant two thousand years ago make things different for me now? And resurrection? Heaven hereafter? Hell? And where does the Holy Spirit come in? And if the Bible is the Word of God, how comes it says so many contradictory things? There is no end to the doubts about faith.

When I get overwhelmed by too much theology, I just turn it over to God. I remember that phrase from Deuteronomy: Underneath are the everlasting arms. I stop trying to understand, and I relax into those everlasting arms of God.

Here’s the bottom line: the one necessary thing for life is God’s presence. Crucifixion, resurrection, salvation, eternal life… those are all fine. But without the everlasting arms, without the Presence of God as the foundation, they are nothing.

In these 70 years since I started preaching, four of my members were murdered. Over a dozen committed suicide. Two dozen died in tragic accidents. Many died much too young, some still children.

In all these events, many people, including me, prayed for God to intervene, for God to act. In the process of pleading with God to act, I learned that God’s action was not nearly as important as God’s presence.

Also, though, in those 70 years, 23 young people from my churches went into the ministry. I like to think it is because they learned from me that the best thing you can do for anyone, in the midst of tragedy or joy, is to remind them that they are in the Presence, that God loves them.

About forty years after that dreadful night when I “comforted” the family of sixteen-year-old Billy Quick, by telling them that God wanted the best roses for “His” own garden, for the first and only time ever, I was back in Chrisney. I looked up Bob and Catherine Adams. I wanted to tell them about all my degrees and awards, to show that I had really been called to be a preacher. After all, it’s hard to justify a 70-year career in the ministry if you really just did it for the money.

I wanted to show them I had a call, despite that humiliating night at Billy’s house, but they seemed to take it for granted. They also took it for granted that I had married well. “You don’t need to show us her picture,” Catherine said. “We know she’s pretty.”

Finally, I said, “Do you remember when Billy Quick was killed?” Suddenly, they brightened. “Oh, yes, his father was a good friend of ours. Up to the day he died, he always talked about how you came to their house to comfort them... about how you knew just the right thing to say… something about a rose…”

John Robert McFarland