Tim's Tales from the Road
Tim's Tales from the Road
As Lutherans go we are a quiet people. We do not call attention to ourselves without great thought and planning. We would much rather blend than stand out. And people who blend are not an emotional people. We are the equivalent of avocado appliances in the kitchen. We stand there in our 'happiness is a clean kitchen' looking glum and putrid and everyone senses that something is amiss but no one knows quite what it is. Or, whether IF something should be done about it.
This is precisely why Lutherans, as a people, are highly offended by Harvest Gold. "Who would put that in their kitchen?" my step grandmother asks, she being the recently dethroned queen Lutheran. "Its so 'In your face...and'..." she stutters, "Bright!" Her 'dethroning' did not come about as a result of any addition of Harvest Gold Appliances to her Norwegian kitchen, but by her decision to attend a Pat Robertson Conference and the resulting speaking in tongues, dancing in the spirit, and rapid fire biblical prophesy which resulted. Although she was always 'different', the endless nonsense streaming out of her mouth quickly became known around town. Lutherans do not speak in tongues. We do not dance in the spirit and we certainly do not know enough about anything in the future to risk embarrassing ourselves over it.
The other Lutherans decided that she had to go. It was bad enough that she was filled with the Spirit. But when Grandma Edna prayed over my five year old sister for the same gifts, and one additional one— the gift of potty training — Edna was alone in her hopes that a spirit filled toddler might renounce pampers and yell, Praise the Lord! I am free from baby wipes!"
We could support the potty training request, but she went entirely too far with the other. "What's next?" we asked..."Prophetic messages through Sesame Street?"
So, Edna was dethroned quietly, my sister was sent back home sans messy pants and now people in town look at Grandma Edna and mutter amongst themselves, "You know its a free country. That lifestyle of hers…well she willingly chooses it. You don't have to be spirit filled. You could just be a plain old Lutheran. Now she wants special rights. She should really just keep it to herself. It’s a personal thing. And it's not fair that she rub this lifestyle of hers in our faces all the time. If she attempts one more faith healing on the church bus or if she has another vision about the wall paper for the nursery, then she is out of here...Its not normal! Spirit filled indeed."
Lutherans are not "sharers". If God talks to us, we keep it to ourselves. God doesn't usually talk to Lutherans, so the risk of this is always low, but, if it were to happen...say out on the farm, in the combine, during harvest...a good Lutheran would just nod silently as God talked. Nothing would be said. God would talk and we would listen.
And, when Mamma called on the cell phone to announce that supper was waiting in the pickup truck, we'd park the combine, walk over to the idling grain trucks, and as we shuffled through the stubble, listening to God, we would ask Him "Could you hold that thought?" No need to trouble the wife with the news God was calling 'cause sure enough she would be an instant basket case, totally beside herself that she hadn't made enough fixin's for the unexpected guest.
A Norwegian could get away with asking the big guy to hold His thoughts. At least until we were once again alone, riding that combine around the wheat field in circles. Until then, we'd silently eat our supper and grunt only when spoken to. Living out our 'Men are from Moorehead and Women are from the Twin Cities' roles, we'd fulfill every Midwestern rule of spousal communication. The wife need not know anything was up.
Yet, as soon as the dust from the wife's homeward headed pickup settled, then we'd say to the Main Man, "Ok, now you were saying…."
Our hearts, minds, and ears opened to receive the Word of God. We'd listen and when he was finished with the instructions for the Norwegian Heritage Center that he wanted us to build in the middle of our highest yielding cornfield, we'd tell him, "I'll get back to you on that."
Instead, we'd immediately head home, and walking in the door to our stunned wife (making Spam and cheese sandwiches for tomorrow’s lunch) announce, "Honey, we are going to retire. We are selling out! Gonna move south to where it's warm in the winter. Say farewell to Fargo! And Hello St. Cloud."
And the wife, nodding and wiping her hands on her apron, considers the idea and yet is troubled by it all at the same time. After all, Saint Cloud is rather close to Wisconsin.
Immediately after this, we call the Karstens and ask if they still wanted to buy that 100 acre field, the very same one that we now know is invisibly guarded by angels. As we dial and refuse to make eye contact with the wife, we rationalize our actions. "Let the Karstens deal with HIM," we tell ourselves. "They're Missouri Synod Lutherans anyway...darn near Baptists and they go for that kind of thing...Conversations with God...in fields...Lutheran Heritage Centers… 'If you build it they will make Lutefisk'...Ufta!"
Lutherans do not acknowledge emotion. Early in our lives we learn this. Emotion allows for weakness. Weakness allows for more emotion. Soon the swirling cesspool that results forces us to acknowledge that our only hope lies in not acknowledging anything. The ‘all bets are off doctrine', also known as divine denial or Salvation by Grace. We can't get to heaven by works, wealth, or gardening. While, in our hearts, we know that Salvation by Grace is a true and good thing, we liked it a lot better when we thought we were saved by angst. Lutherans are good at angst.
"And Luther said, 'let all things be judged by these standards... Is it practical? Does it make sense? Will it produce modest things? Can you keep it out of the papers?'" (Source: The Anderson's Explain it All: How to be Saved and Be a Cowboy, High Mountain Pub. 1998)
But the most important thing he said was, "Does it produce Angst and is it Norwegian?" (He was a German far beyond his time). And, to this day, Lutherans use this standard to judge all things. Centuries after the Reformation we can ask the fundamental question of our doctrine, "Is it Lutheran?" far better than we can sing Amazing Grace. But then, Lutherans don't really like to sing and we have, through centuries of dedication, produced a whole hymnal of 'unsingable' hymns testifying to this. While these hymns may pass the "Is it Lutheran" test through their efficient production of angst, they proudly defy the logic of tune, range, and harmony.
Our suppression of all things emotional starts out early in our childhood. It is our equivalent to Bar Mitzvah or fertility rites. It’s a transitional experience. A coming of age. A bonding with our elders. It is simply the secret ritual of "Emotion suppression through the forced partaking of Lutefisk."
"Lutefisk is a delicacy," my father once said. "It is one of the finest things God has given us," he proclaimed. And upon breathing his Lutefisk laden breath upon thy cat, it passed out.
Lutefisk, a food group unto its own, bears in all its sensory offensiveness, similarities to licking the bottom bins of a recently emptied fishing trawler. In Houston. In 100 degree heat. Lutefisk is defined as pickled herring aged in lye. Considered the high point of Scandinavian cuisine. Ironically, Lutefisk is also found on the same dictionary page as Lust, Lutheran, and Liposuction. Also high points in human experience. And all of them can be described as the definition of Angst.
Partaking of Lutefisk means fellowship. Tradition. It set us apart from, well, everyone. Lutefisk was to our family, what the apple was to Eve. It was the first bite of the last bite of the rest of our lives. Nothing, absolutely nothing, would ever taste the same.
Let’s review. Assembly of God folk speak in tongues. Lutherans try not to acknowledge what ours are telling us.
Other denominations honor diversity. Their potlucks are enriching. Tasty. Survivable. Catholics get a taste of Italy, Baptists get Kentucky Fried Chicken and Methodists and Assembly of God folk get Cracker Barrel. And we, we as Lutherans get screwed with Lutefisk, Red Jello, frozen peas and crushed potato chip topped tuna casseroles. And, if we are lucky, maybe someone brings baked beans.
"And as thy fish settles onto thou tongue, and the odor envelopes thee and though thou art male, and though thou senseth 'morning sickness', thou sayest, 'Our forefather, who art in heaven, hell of a thing thou've done. Cursing thee. And I curse thou. And Thy Baptists, Thy Catholics, and Thy Assembly of God heathen folk: Have they no pain? Do they not knoweth thy heavy burden?
Yea though I walk through the valley of the shadow of the piers, thou Luther art with me. Thy rod art attempting to desperately deny thee thy gagging reflex, which thou knowest can not come. Nor shall there be a bubbling out, thy fish must remainest swallowed and thou will comfort me... thou instinct of "But Is It Lutheran?" reinforcing thee that although thou knowest that this is not a human food thou must keep swallowing." III Timothy 4:3-7
We must eat this…this…. food group This rite of passage. Indeed it is Lutheran. And if we can suppress swallowed Lutefisk, we can certainly suppress emotion.
Angst. Repression of Emotion. Unsingable Hymns. And a constant bitterness towards all other denominations. That defines Lutherans. We are not only saved by grace, but it is our sole option; we HAVE to be saved by grace: It is the only way the other denominations would let us in. They know all about our Lutefisk and they know it's not for them. Sorta' like the neighbors that don't want the landfill in their backyard.
But Lutherans are also a people of conflict. We subconsciously acknowledge our lack of emotion and we compensate for it very well. Whenever we want to know what emotion feels like we follow the lead of our great ancestors. We hold a church council meeting.
Church council meetings were once described by my father as the closest comparable thing to a Woman's monthly cycle. The annual congregational meeting, is darn near an equivalent to child birth. All that emotion. The angst. The bitterness. Simultaneously being felt by people who aren't supposed to be feeling anything at all. If there is one thing that does not pass the sacred "But is it Lutheran?" test, it is our little forums. Here, we scream past the Catholics, trample the Assembly of God folk and annihilate the Baptists. When we have Lutheran Church Council Meetings, we bring a whole new meaning to visions and speaking in tongues.
My father once served in a small Lutheran church located in Albany Oregon, a quiet farming town. The church, built on Queen Avenue, was a block from the high school I graduated from. As churches go, it was an average one, including a modest two story building which contained the sanctuary, a kitchen, and an education wing. Facilities which tried not to disturb the order of things in that town. The congregation spent decades perfecting this role. Lutherans are to be seen and not heard. These were a community of believers who did not wish to stand out. They were a loose association of people who were born to blend.
But as in all organizations, there are always a few people who are not content with the order of things. These are people who visualize. They dream of greatness. They enjoy change. And as a result, they hold onto their Lutheranism by the skin of their teeth. These are known collectively as New Age Lutherans.
New Age Lutherans are different by definition. The visualize crystals and hear wolf songs in hymns. They want reduced whole wheat communion wafers and low cal communion wine. Sunday worship bulletins should be printed on recycled paper with non toxic inks. They loathe potlucks and always bring vegetarian dishes. These New Age Lutherans are labeled by the rest of the parish as 'Not Right' Lutherans
In my father's church, appropriately named Faith Lutheran, these people somehow managed to get elected to two committees. Committees "bound for greatness". But nonetheless committees still disturbingly outnumbered and controlled by the status quo set.
As good Lutherans, we accept that if angst is our creed, then control is our higher power. People who have control have moved beyond angst. And of course people who have angst do not have control. It is the Ying and Yang of Lutheranism. Our unwritten, unsolvable problem. We know we are saved by grace. But can we control it? Or must we have uncontrolled angst to know we are truly saved. These are fundamentally difficult issues.
And, they were issues which in Albany were further complicated and confounded by the presence of covert New Age Lutheran visionaries on the music and building committees. To hear Mrs. Brewer tell it, "Our church was perfectly happy being unhappy…until it was overtaken by these trouble makers wrestling for control of our precious place."
And the conflict began with a most unlikely dilemma. A quiet little problem that no one had previously recognized as being a threat. But once the dilemma was defined, a course of action determined, and plans set into motion to address the problem, there was no turning back. Our discontent could hardly be suppressed and within days there was the makings of a showdown at "the NO that's not OK if you do that" corral
The issue started subtly enough. Someone determined the sanctuary's soft pastel stained glass windows leaked air. The windows were old. They were outdated. In the winter the congregation froze. In the summer they roasted. For years everyone agreed that although the windows could be better, they could also be far worse. That consensus held until Gloria Olsen mentioned in council meeting that the windows looked like someone had vomited onto the stained glass. Her statement produced emotion. Emotion that at all costs had to be suppressed and contained as soon as possible. The church council voted to replace the windows.
A meeting was held. Various samples of stained glass were produced. The congregation voted on the samples. Eventually the democratic process of council meeting and congregational meeting choose a stained, red glass to replace the old pastel windows. The vote was fair, complete, and unanimous. The vomit-like pastel windows were replaced with the red ones.
Unfortunately no one considered the effect that light plays upon these types of windows. While the sample red stained glass appeared harmless enough sitting on a table alongside the other samples, the same glass held entirely different characteristics when placed where light could shine through them.
The dedication of the new windows in the sanctuary was a monumental moment in the history of Faith Lutheran Church. Everyone planned to attend. The Albany Democrat Herald ran a feature story on the redecorated sanctuary. Rumors circulated that the Bishop might be there. Anticipation ran high that this would be 'The defining moment' in the history of this modest little church. It was.
The dedication occurred on a beautiful, clear sky Sunday. The sanctuary was filled to 'standing room only' as people filed into the pews and looked at all the black plastic covering the soon to be bared windows. The church, setting off on an exciting change of course, mirrored renewal, transformation and revival. Members of the congregation secretly hoped that the new windows would give the church increased stature in the community.
After my father's sermon finally concluded, the ushers came forward and, following a prayer of dedication, they began removing the black plastic from the windows. As the plastic was torn off, a horror that passeth all understanding descended on the congregation. The vomit-like windows were finally gone. Replaced by an energy efficient, holy house freak show. Simultaneously a quiet calm settled amongst the church members upturned faces. People struggled to find meaning in what they saw. They looked inward. They looked outward. And they looked around them to the other members of the congregation. Yet their gaze always silently returned to the windows. It was almost too much to consider. This airy light pouring down among them, indefinable, troubling and disillusioning. One woman behind us whispered to her husband, "Thank God the bishop isn't here to see this!"
As the radiance from the sun streamed in, the red windows were illuminated. The congregation remained frozen bathed in the blood red sheath of light. Everything, absolutely everything was red. The newly unveiled stained glass transformed the sanctuary from a place of light and higher callings into a deeply disturbing, fire and brimstone vision of Lutheran Hell. Communion wafers actually resembled human tissue. The wine became blood. And everyone in the sanctuary as a result was seeing red.
Literally and figuratively. Through no fault of our own, we had achieved communal angst, Lutheran Nirvana. In such a time of profound upheaval and crisis, as all Lutherans know, we needed to find our source of strength. Our solace. Our comfort. Instead we held another church council meeting. This served to make our agony complete and once again demonstrate beyond any shadow of doubt our need for salvation.
The tumultuous meeting was held almost immediately. Basically there were two camps: The visionaries and the Status Quo's, who for entirely different reasons felt the windows should stay and the second camp which lobbied for an entirely different set of windows. The Status Quo's were convinced that the red windows were an perfect example of what happens when New Age visionaries get power: Thousands of dollars spent on the unnecessary windows. Although the stained glass windows were already paid for, the status quo camp felt the retention of the windows would serve the congregation right and that enduring the windows was the just reward for the visionaries’ foolishness. If the congregation had endured vomit windows for 25 years, surely they could face "seeing red" for another 25 years. If the red windows were replaced, the status quo gang threatened to take their 'status' to the other Lutheran church in town.
The visionaries, on the other hand, refused to be persuaded of their errors. Instead they tried to put a brighter spin on the fiasco. Claiming that the red bathed congregation made Christ sacrifice on the cross all the more meaningful, they loudly proclaimed that the unintended glow was a blessing in disguise. If the Catholics could have Virgin Mary Sightings in fogged over supermarket cooler windows, couldn't Lutheran communion compete by being a bit more realistic especially during the all important sweeps weeks of Christmas and Easter? If the red windows were replaced, the visionaries threatened to take their vision to the Baptists.
Unfortunately, the second camp, being of sound color sense, argued that the vote was illegal from the start because it was held during the summer when only fools went to church. As a result, many members of the congregation were never given an opportunity to weigh in on such an important decision. The 'second chancers' wanted another set of windows but they wanted to get them ethically. They lobbied for another vote on replacing the stained glass windows regardless of their cost. In order to prevail, they persuaded many members of the church who had voted for the red windows to lie and claim that they never voted for the red windows in the first place. If another vote wasn't taken on the dispatch of the windows, then they threatened to leave the church and start their own.
The congregation was nearing implosion. That is, until a solution was found. Skylights! They were the perfect compromise. The exterior walls would be expanded and the stained glass windows removed entirely. The new walls would not have windows but the extra area in the ceiling on each side of the sanctuary would be converted into beautiful skylights. Instead of looking out at a sinful world, the congregation could look up. Towards heaven. It was a great idea. Everyone seemed satisfied except the status quo gang.
Surprisingly, the plan gained additional support from the music committee who unbeknownst to the status quos had closeted visionaries lurking in their midst as well. The visionaries on this committee had secret ambitions. They wanted Faith Lutheran's choir to someday be as prominent and respected as Salt Lake City's Mormon Tabernacle Choir. They envisioned prestigious Christmas concerts, glorious Easter Sunrise services and a choir that would make history. By extending the walls, the area around the altar increased. The additional space on the altar would now accommodate both the choir and the organ. The organ could finally be moved down from the choir loft, and for the first time in the history of the church, the choir could actually hear the organist and the organ. The down side of this was that for the first time in history the congregation would also hear every painful note the choir sang. In splendid off key harmony. In the past, the organ mercifully drowned out the choir.
The Music Committee and the Building Committee formed a coalition and together the visionaries outvoted the status quos. The red windows were removed as well as the walls on either side of the sanctuary. The eaves were extended and skylights placed in the roof. And once again the church planned to hold a dedication ceremony when the work was complete.
On the day of the dedication, the sanctuary was once again 'standing room only'. The house of our Lord never looked so beautiful. The beams and support structure on either side of the pews were understated, engineering marvels and a soft beige carpet now silenced high heels and cowboy boots. People marveled at how light and airy the church was. Even the status quo set was forced to admit that maybe they had misjudged the effect the work would have on the church.
This was our great moment. It never occurred to us that the day of the dedication would be painless. We were, after all Lutherans. We could not live separated from Angst. Subconsciously or consciously. Yet somehow, we collectively let our guard down and as we sat in those pews admiring the beautiful, late May morning sunlight streaming down from heaven, into our midst, we were about to be receive a first hand lesson on the power of passive solar. Like all days in Lutheran history the humorous qualities of the day would be lost on the participants in this passion play. The other churches in town were the ones that received the pleasure from the unfortunate events that transpired next.
The church did not have air conditioning. The windows on the roof efficiently let in great amounts of light. They were well positioned so that the sunlight would not only illuminate the window area but stream down into the congregation reminding us of the light the heavenly hosts brought into our lives. Conceptually it was a great idea. And. as the service got under way several members of the congregation were blessed to be sitting under this ray of sunlight.
As children many of us experienced the profound truth of the power of the sun when held positioned over a magnifying glass. Lutherans are traditionally from far northern latitudes. Months out of the year we barely see the sun. We take it for granted and have learned to do without its warmth and light. We have grown to love our darker times and cling to the blackness as a deeper part of soul. So, of course, the prospect of building a sanctuary that accidentally served as a magnifying glass was something we never considered. Until now. And now was way too late.
The sun beat down upon us. We shifted our weight. We perspired. We tried to pay attention to the sermon but we couldn't. Women’s make-up liquified and then cascaded off of their faces. Men began removing clothing. Babies screamed. Mid sermon many farmers did what they always do when facing agricultural ruin. They prayed for change. When a drought plagues them, they ask for rain. When floods threaten, they seek relief from the skies. Today, they lifted their hearts to heaven and petitioned a Lutheran God for January. And he answered.
Near the thirtieth point of my fathers fifty point sermon, the skies darkened and the heavens collapsed. It poured. The rain came down in sheets. The packed, overheated congregation, just shy of ignition, silently gave thanks for the relief. Once again we were joyfully assembled to celebrate our newly completed construction marvel, and in the process forever putting the red windows behind us.
At first, the congregation felt that the moisture they were feeling was just residual perspiration. Wiping off our foreheads, we ignored the drops of whatever it was that was hitting our hymnal. But as the rain continued so did this wetness. It seemed to be increasing. It seemed to be gaining in intensity. And for those members of the church who were sitting directly under the new skylights, it seemed to be coming directly from heaven. In ever increasing streams of cascading currents which swirled above them in ever threatening amounts. Something had to give. And it did. Portions of the congregation were soaked.
I believe that it was on this day that a demographic shift occurred in the minds of many Albany Oregon Lutherans: A shift that considered the positive merits of capital punishment for visionaries. People crowded ever closer together in the pews, sliding as far from the skylights as possible.
Eventually the rain ended and sometime after that so did my father's sermon. The sun returned and small amount of steam began to rise inside the sanctuary. We pretended to not see this latest horror. We had already seen far too much. And we were nearing the 'all important' portion of the service: It was time for the actual dedication of the sanctuary. Nothing could steal away from us our moment of glory.
Nothing that is, but our own choir. As a preface to the ceremony the choir took their places on the altar. As they stood in their random order and faced the congregation two things were immediately apparent. The first was that the organ was no where to be seen. A member of the status quo set had secretly paid movers in the middle of the night to return the organ to the choir loft. The second painful truth was that the new carpet had forever altered the acoustics in that temple. The sound reaching the choir from the organ was now a full two seconds behind the organist. By the time the sound drifted down from the choir loft, navigated all the 'dead space' in the carpet and newly created skylights, the choir was impossibly confused. Our great musical moment in the spotlight had turned our barely tolerable choir into a mass of deer in the headlights voices chasing a forever moving target.
As the choir somberly began to murder "Be Thou My Vision," (a hymn the visionaries specifically choose to crown their moment of glory) the babies resumed their screaming. The organ was several notes ahead of the choir, which now was several notes ahead of the choir director. Hidden in the midst of the choir, an undiscovered soloist could occasionally be heard getting a bit more emotional than was tolerable in a Lutheran hymn. Stern looks directed toward this individual's unnecessary and uncalled for performance were given mid-production by the other members of the choir. Meanwhile, upstairs in the choir loft, someone left a door open to ventilate the sanctuary and the resulting breeze blew the organist's sheet music off the organ. Mid hymn she began a Bach inspired improvisation while she tried to find her place in the quickly recaptured sheet music. The choir never had a chance to regain the tune after that. A packed house was treated to an acoustic disaster that the Democrat Herald Reporter simply described as a "Nightmarish and Garish interpretation of a formerly respectable hymn". The choir director resigned and the unacknowledged soloist became a Methodist.
Faith Lutheran church perfected angst. We'd single handedly inspired our own upstairs downstairs version of a train wreck of musical disproportion not seen since the inquisition. At the end of the service, members of the congregation streamed out of the church into the community stunned, with silent disbelief etched across their brow. Amazed at the wreckage that they, with so little effort, had let loose upon the religious life of that town. It would be years before anyone from either the building or the music committee would be allowed to speak in a church council meeting.
The church's funds were exhausted and it was at least a decade until the skylight problem could be addressed. Throughout the rest of my father's ministry at Faith Lutheran Church, the windows remained a great source of frustration. People argued over who was going to sit where during services. No one wanted to risk sitting under the skylights. Caskets expanded at funerals from the heat. Wedding flowers wilted. Christmas lights shorted during the deluges. The organ seemed to be perpetually migrating between the altar and the choir loft.
And yet in spite of and throughout all this perfect discontent, the visionaries remained quiet and hopeful. They hedged their bets, dreaming of someday regaining their power. Dreaming of an opportunity to fix this basically "good" idea. Waiting for the status quos to die off. And in the meantime everyone suppressed their bitterness and ate great quantities of Lutefisk while roasting in the summer and drowning in the winter.
We recently returned to Faith Lutheran church in Albany, Oregon. The window fiasco is now 15 years old. My father has not served in that congregation in nearly ten years. Since then, two additional pastors have come and gone. But the essential Lutheran struggle of the congregation remains. On the bright Sunday morning that my father drove past his old parish the irony of the struggle Lutherans face was once again clear.
It seems that the new age visionaries regained control of the building committee. The exterior walls were altered. The church once again had windows facing out into the community, the mission field of the congregation. Yet instead of vomit-like or blood red stained glass, this time the windows were clear. The congregation could look out across Queen Avenue and into the neighborhood. And, the neighborhood could look in on the church. The community could see what was happening within those walls. They could witness the congregation cringing as the choir sang "How Great Thou Art". They could check to see whether the organ was on the altar this week or if it was in the choir loft.
But the most powerful image remaining, was the image of the neighborhood dogs doing what sometimes neighborhood dogs do when they are running loose, unsupervised, and when it’s a warm delightful day. And when they are in heat.
The pained faces of the congregation looked out in horror, in the midst of the sermon. Their attention again diverted from the purpose at hand as they watched this spectacle occurring and unfolding before them during this holiest of hours.
The irony was impossible to ignore. This unsettled congregation facing their history head-on. The realities of creation and the unpredictability inherent in life. A congregation staring out on the brightest, sunny, Sunday yet watching events far from anyone's imagination taking them down paths better left unexplored.
As we drove past the church, we saw our beloved blending Lutherans in their native environment doing what they do so well. Suppressing emotion. Feeling angst. And somewhere, in those pews, I know that there was someone who was still, after all these years, seeing Red.
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