THE WAY HOME

CHRIST IN WINTER: Reflections on Faith from a Place of Winter for the Years of Winter… ©

I am listening to Five Hundred Miles Away From Home, written by Hedy West. It may have been passed down to her in oral tradition from her grandmother. It is a perfect combination of words and music, like Mary Did You Know, Mark Lowry’s words and Buddy Greene’s melody.

Folk music spoke to me from the time I was a little boy, because it told a story. Other musical forms tell stories, too, like opera, but Folk not only told them in a way I could understand, but they told the stories of me and my people, poor people, hard scrabble farmers, coal miners. I heard it in my heart, not just my ears.

Folk and Country music are cousins. They have a lot in common. Folk and Country are both Prodigal Son music. You’re a long way off, and you yearn for home.

Folk music, though, has hope, restrained, but still hope. Hard times, come again no more. This land is your land, this land is my land. There is a chance Charley will actually get off the MTA.

Country is more about boozy romance and self-inflicted loss. As someone has said, “You never hear a country song about how my wife loves me, my pickup runs, I’m sober, and my dog didn’t die.” The Prodigal Son has friends in low places, but he’s sort of stuck there.

Folk is, I think, not just about longing for home, but longing for the wholeness that home represents. That is why folk is my genre and Five Hundred Miles is my anthem

I am 500 miles from home here in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula, quite literally, 500 miles from my spiritual home, the Indiana University campus, where my ashes will eventually reside. It is where Helen and I met and married. It is where my life began and where it will end.

So we are moving home. Even then, though, I will still be 500 miles from home. It is why I look forward to death at the same time that I am willing to put if off as long as possible. Death is the way home. Home is where my spirit belongs, where I will be whole.

Life is 500 ills and thus 500 deaths. Death is the final cure for all ills, because it means, as the great old folk singer, The Rev. Gary Davis put it, “I don’t have to die no more.”

In the meantime, I shall make it easier on both Death and myself by moving to Bloomington, so that it’s just a couple of miles we have to travel together instead of 500. I am sort of hoping that by treating Death kindly and considerately in this way, Death will return the favor.

John Robert McFarland

johnrobertmcfarland@gmail.com

Okay, so it’s actually 625 miles from Iron Mountain to Bloomington, but Hedy West didn’t write a song about 625 miles.

The “place of winter” mentioned in the title line is Iron Mountain, in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula [The UP], where life is defined by winter even in the summer! [This phrase is explained in the post for March 20, 2014.]

I tweet as yooper1721.

GOD'S FACTS

CHRIST IN WINTER: Reflections on Faith from a Place of Winter for the Years of Winter… ©

It has been warm enough the past few days that I have been able to walk to City Park. I do the same route each day. It takes 48 minutes. Except this year it takes 52. I am walking at exactly the same pace as I have the last 7 years, at least it feels to me like I am, but my chronograph says differently. Well aware that it could not be that I am getting slower because of getting older, I tried a different chronograph. The results were the same, 52 minutes for a 48 minute walk.

The facts tell a different story from what my feelings tell. Facts are facts. Except in the world of emotions. And politics.

When I was a campus minister at Illinois State University, we had a very successful Sunday evening supper and program series. The students cooked, and a professor or some other luminary did a presentation. But the program began to decline. Not as many students came. The presentations were not as stimulating. I decided it was time to end that program. We needed a different time, a different format, to get the students to come back.

Then I checked the facts, which I myself kept each week, a careful count of attendance. The Sunday evening program was not declining at all. Indeed, it was better than ever. The average attendance was the highest it had been in its six years of existence. Why did I misread the facts so badly? Because I felt at odds with the facts. As I thought about it, I realized that I was tired of having all my Sunday nights used up, tired of missing out on Sunday night suppers and TV and popcorn with my children. It was I, not the facts, who saw a decline when there was not one.

That’s why we use statistics, because it is very easy for us to misread the facts in order to make them fit what we want. I once had an argument with a District Superintendent about our denomination’s focus on measuring success by numbers. “Numbers don’t matter,” I insisted. “They do when they get to zero,” he insisted right back. He also thought we should pay attention to numbers before they got to zero. He was right about that, too. Facts are facts.

In our day, the problem seems not so much to be a misreading of the facts, in our churches and in our politics, but a perverse ignoring of them, claiming that they are wrong, claiming even that they don’t exist, claiming that if, through government mandates or legislation, we ignore them, even make it illegal to talk about them, that they don’t and won’t matter.

Let me give two opposite, sort-of, examples.

Almost all scientists, including medical people, either ignore the power of prayer in healing or claim that it is useless or irrelevant. But every scientific, double-blind, experiment on prayer and healing, done in the same rigorous manner than physics or chemistry experiments are done, has had the same results: prayer works in healing. It isn’t perfect. It does not always work. But surgery doesn’t always work, either. Neither does chemotherapy. We keep using them, though, because they work sometimes. Prayer is the only healing method for which we require perfection. Facts are facts, unless we don’t want them to be, because we have something to gain by ignoring them.

Almost all evangelical, conservative, right-wing preachers and politicians claim that climate change is either a hoax or just not true or irrelevant or that human activity, such as the burning of fossil fuels, has nothing to do with it, or all of the above. Some try to ban research into climate change or even ban talk about it. The only reason to ban research or conversation about a topic is because you know that the facts will prove you wrong. Because facts are facts. Unless we don’t want them to be, because we have something to gain by ignoring them.

Jesus said, “You shall know the truth, and it is the truth that will set you free.” [John 8:32] Ignoring the facts leaves us in a prison of faithlessness and futility. It is God who is the Creator. “It is God who has made us and not we ourselves.” [Psalm 100:3] The facts belong to God. When we ignore them, be it facts about prayer or about the world, we are ignoring God.

John Robert McFarland

johnrobertmcfarland@gmail.com

The “place of winter” mentioned in the title line is Iron Mountain, in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula [The UP], where life is defined by winter even in the summer! [This phrase is explained in the post for March 20, 2014.]

I tweet as yooper1721.

THE ALLIGATOR PROBLEM

CHRIST IN WINTER: Reflections on Faith from a Place of Winter for the Years of Winter… ©

This post starts with my journal entry from F, 6-30-00, almost 15 years ago…

*******

I am sitting at a picnic table in the city park right in the middle of downtown Mason City, Iowa. It’s a block square. From where I sit I can see the round, glass-sided city bus depot, 23 oak trees, a water fountain, two flower beds, three statues, the only hotel Frank Lloyd Wright ever designed, the home-town bank that financed our house mortgage and then, without bothering to mention it to us, sold the mortgage to strangers in Memphis. I would tell you the name of the bank, but it will change, twice, from when I write this to when you read it, since the main business of banks is to acquire other banks and change their names. I suspect the selling of mortgages to folks in Memphis is why “I shot a man in Memphis” occurs so often in music and literature.

I am drinking from a china cup, even in the park. It is the best coffee in town. In fact, it is the best coffee in Seattle, according to the sign, “Seattle’s Best,” in Deja Brew, where they know me and so don’t worry when I meander out the door with one of their cups.

I like to write in downtown parks. Cars and trucks and buses and children and dogs wander by, giving motion to what would otherwise be a still life.

A man with a large belly and a small shirt ambles by. My table is a long way from where he is walking, but he calls over to inquire about my well-being. I assure him that I am fine and return the question.

“Well, I’m okay,” he says, “but have you heard about the alligators in Florida?”

I do not like to confess to ignorance, but I admit that I have not heard about the alligator in Florida.

“They’re dying,” he says, and then he walks on.

******

Fifteen years, and I am still wondering about this exchange.

We had six months of winter in Mason City. No self-respecting alligator would brave our frigid and frozen waters. It was two thousand miles from the alligators in Florida. Why did he tell me about them? Did he expect me to do something about those alligators?

Probably so. My whole life, it seems, whenever someone has mentioned a problem to me, it was with the expectation that I should do something about it. Is there something about me that causes even strangers in parks to assume that I am the problem-solving man, even though I am old and slow and the problem is two thousand miles away?

Most older folk were raised on a steady diet of responsibility, and even those of us who were not raised that way have had to shoulder plenty of it in our lives. It goes with the territory. If you’ve lived long enough, you’ve had plenty of problems to deal with.

Now we have two problems with responsibility: 1, we’re tired of it. 2, we feel uncomfortable without it.

We retire to get out from under that pressure of problem-solving responsibility. At least most of us do. Some know they’ll be so uncomfortable without it that they resist retirement.

As time goes by, even those of us who wanted to get away from responsibility are relieved of the responsibilities we don’t mind. Children grab our car keys and tell us if we want to go somewhere they’ll take us. The neighbors fear we’ll leave a burner on and flame the neighborhood down so they sign us up for Meals On Wheels. The librarian sees us coming and grabs an arm and leads us to the Large Print section.

Our lives, though, have been identified by our responsibilities, so we miss them, and we try to fill the gaps of their absence with…

…well, criticism. Old folk are known for being critical of younger folk, and it’s true. I mean, who else do we have to criticize? And why aren’t they doing something about those alligators?

John Robert McFarland

johnrobertmcfarland@gmail.com

The “place of winter” mentioned in the title line is Iron Mountain, in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula [The UP], where life is defined by winter even in the summer! [This phrase is explained in the post for March 20, 2014.]

I tweet as yooper1721.

JOE SOLVES THE LONG-SPOON PROBLEM

CHRIST IN WINTER: Reflections on Faith from a Place of Winter for the Years of Winter… ©

I’m not sure I have this story quite right. Daughter Katie wasn’t sure she had it right when she told grandson Joe about it, either, but we’re close enough…

People in hell are hungry all the time. They sit across from one another at long tables. Before each one is a bowl of wonderful food, but their spoons are so long that they can’t get them into their mouths. All this wonderful food, with its enticing aromas and beauty, and they can’t get it into their mouths.

It’s the same setup in heaven, but there the people understand that each one can feed the person across the table with his/her own long spoon, so by feeding others, they are always full and happy.

Katie told this story to Joe, probably in an effort to persuade him to wash the spoons or some such, and he said: “Why don’t they forget the spoons and just pick up the bowls and eat directly out of them? I mean, it’s hell. Nobody is going to worry about table manners.”

Joe has hit upon an important part of the story. There is a work-around to get what you need, even in hell, but one of the hallmarks of hell is poor thinking. We are so blinded by greed and self-centeredness and our unwillingness to give up our possessions [spoons] that we can’t even see what is to our own advantage. “The road to hell is paved with good intentions,” to be sure, but it’s also paved with self-centered decisions.

We often wonder what career path Joe will take. He has so many talents and skills and abilities it will be hard to choose. It would seem, though, that inspirational speaking and culinary arts are out.

John Robert McFarland

johnrobertmcfarland@gmail.com

The “place of winter” mentioned in the title line is Iron Mountain, in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula [The UP], where life is defined by winter even in the summer! [This phrase is explained in the post for March 20, 2014.]

I tweet as yooper1721.

RISKY LOVE

CHRIST IN WINTER: Reflections on Faith from a Place of Winter for the Years of Winter… ©

It’s important for a new pastor to get to know all our church members as soon as possible, and older folks are easier to find, so they are usually the ones we get to know first. So I called on an older lady, a bit older than I am now, when I arrived at a new church. She was a recent widow and told me of how helpful her daughter, her only child, had been to her in her newly-widowed period. “But you never know how a child will finally turn out,” she said, shaking her head a bit.

I later learned that the daughter was 53 years old and a professor. But her mother wasn’t sure how she would turn out! [I understand that better now that my children are that age.]

I suspect that God is looking at me in my dotage and saying, “I’m not sure how he will turn out.” Because God does not practice safe love.

Jesus says, “Be perfect, even as your heavenly father is perfect.” [Mt 5:48] God is not perfect as measured against some outside standard of moral or intellectual perfection. God IS the standard by which perfection is measured. Whatever God is, that is perfection. God is perfect because God is always true to the divine identity.

Perfection is a matter of being true to one’s own identity. We are human beings. We are perfect when we are totally true to that identity. When we are imperfect is when we act like animals, or parasites, or posts [“dumb as a post”], or when we act like God, trying to play God for others or the world or ourselves. As Luther said, “Let God be God.”

Parenthood is risky. God has been raising us up for billions of years, and is not sure how we’ll turn out. God could have taken the safe route, not “wasted” those billions of years of nurturing, of bringing us along, but that’s not true to the divine identity. Risk-taking love is true to the nature of the divine identity. And even though it means God doesn’t know how we’ll turn out, God still loves us enough to give that choice to us. That is part of God’s perfection. I’m still working on my perfection, but with the faith that God will stick with me all the way as I try to be true to my real identity as God’s child. God and I are both waiting to see how I’ll finally turn out.

John Robert McFarland

johnrobertmcfarland@gmail.com

The “place of winter” mentioned in the title line is Iron Mountain, in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula [The UP], where life is defined by winter even in the summer! [This phrase is explained in the post for March 20, 2014.]

I tweet as yooper1721.

TREES IN WINTER

CHRIST IN WINTER: Reflections on Faith from a Place of Winter for the Years of Winter… ©

I think that I shall never see

           A poem lovely as a tree…

            Joyce Kilmer’s Trees was one of the first poems I ever memorized, partly because we sang it at Lucretia Mott Public School # 3 in Indianapolis, partly because it was short and simple, mostly because it rang true to me.

            I learned the incorrect version, of course, since we sang it. Kilmer closed it with: Poems are written by fools like me, but only God can make a tree. The song version says: Poems are made by fools like me…

            I knew more about poems than trees, though, living in the inner city of Indianapolis. It was only when we moved to a farm near Oakland City, Indiana, when I was ten, that I really began to understand trees, and to appreciate them.

            My father was a good shade-tree botanist. He was an outdoorsman. He knew animals and plants. He could name trees.

            On the farm, I learned to love trees and plants, except for the ones I had to hoe in the garden, but I rarely learned their names. I learned the ones everyone knew--maples, oaks, willows, apple trees at certain times of year. I never learned to tell a hickory from an ash, though. All that was really important about a tree, it seemed to me, was the shade.

            The summers in southern Indiana were long and hot and humid. Life was physical and sweaty. We carried water and fire wood in and out. We heated water on a wood stove and washed clothes in a wringer washer and hung them on a line. We hoed and canned vegetables. We had no air conditioning. We did have electricity, but only one old-fashioned slow-moving fan.

            In our front yard, we had shade trees—big maples. The front yard was open on all sides except for the house. There was almost always a breeze. When the heat became too much, I would flop down on the grass in the front yard, in the shade of those leafy maples, and feel the breeze.

            We are moving back to sit in the shade of those trees, where the leaves come early, full of promise, and linger late, resplendent in their many hues. But as the first spring buds appear on trees here in the Upper Peninsula, I realize that I shall miss the trees of winter, when long black limbs stand stark against the snow and lowering winter light.

            Trees are beautiful in spring and summer and autumn, in the fullness of their leaves, but in winter, we see the trunk and the limbs in their bare splendor. In winter we see the permanent beauty of what allows the seasonal beauty to spring forth.

John Robert McFarland

johnrobertmcfarland@gmail.com

I don't know why blogger decided to separate the two Kilmer lines at the start of this post, or use a different font for the second, but it is an interesting look...

The “place of winter” mentioned in the title line is Iron Mountain, in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula [The UP], where life is defined by winter even in the summer! [This phrase is explained in the post for March 20, 2014.]

I tweet as yooper1721.

Staring-a poem

CHRIST IN WINTER: Reflections on Faith from a Place of Winter for the Years of Winter… ©

If I stare hard and long

into days that are no more

I may see there a moment

Long-forgotten

perhaps a day in June

with sunlight

on golden hair

riding slow on air so soft

that even angels

held their breath

on that day that is

no more

If I stare hard and long

into this day of now

I may find there some moment

present of the present

a lingering bit of warmth

from the touch of my empty cup

that gives me one more breath

on this day that is

John Robert McFarland

johnrobertmcfarland@gmail.com

The “place of winter” mentioned in the title line is Iron Mountain, in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula [The UP], where life is defined by winter even in the summer! [This phrase is explained in the post for March 20, 2014.]

I tweet as yooper1721.