Requiem aeternum--or something like that

It is interesting how we honor our dead within our culture and how we shy away from the discussion of death.  I beg your pardon, but let me rattle that cage just a little.

In my current commute I drive past the Lone Rock Cemetery.  It is an apt name because I see it as a very lonely looking cemetery. The grass struggles against the weed growth and the weeds are winning.  Some of the graves are decorated with plastic flowers that are faded and wind-blown.  Flags on the graves of veterans desperately wait to be replaced by an auxiliary this coming Memorial Day.  Cemeteries by nature are sad.  That cemetery by its very neglect is sadder.

Halfway Creek Lutheran Church Cemetery, Holmen, Wisconsin, on the other hand, is a place of beauty and reverence.  I spent my first 9 years as a pastor of that congregation.  The cemetery remains a source of pride among the people.  The arbor vitae are pruned every year.  The grass is mowed with precision.  Floral tributes, real or artificial, are disposed of after they reach their peak.  A walk through the cemetery is an unfolding history lesson.  Luther College spent its inaugural year, 1861, on that site before settling in Decorah, Iowa, which adds to the sense of pride the congregation places on this garden of remembrance.  Meanwhile, the church council would expend a great amount of time and energy each month discussing the needs of the cemetery.  I often wondered if we were ministering more to the dead than to the living.

We certainly dispose of the dead in various ways.  Sometimes it is done with pomp and formality.  Sometimes it is done with cool casualness.  Sometimes it happens as a callous afterthought.  Disposition may be accompanied with overt grief or quiet resignation.  Burial may take place with six strong men carrying a fine piece of cabinetry to a grave surrounded by astro-turf that denies the reality of dirt. The deceased’s final resting place may be in an above ground mausoleum for whom, in life, may not have liked the feel of soil.  With an increased choice of cremation, some churches have designated areas on their property for a memorial garden where cremains (I love that word) may be inurned (I love that word, too). I see ads in professional magazines for columbariums that are located in a quiet spot in the church so that Grandpa’s ashes are placed in a little niche in the wall for eternity. I can imagine, however, Grandpa always checked his watch and sputtered when worship lasted more than an hour.

Pardon my irreverence but this has been a frequent topic of conversation for me. My mother was the community funeral singer and my dad was president of the local cemetery association.  The subject of death and funereal customs were commonplace at our dinner table.  My mother had definite opinions about what she wanted at her funeral and we abided by those desires.  “One step above a county funeral” was the direction that we were given.  Being a farmer, my dad lived within the “circle of life” recognizing death as a part of life. He understood that he came from dust and ashes and to dust and ashes he would return.  He just wanted to make sure he would become good topsoil.

For me, I have not gotten around to determining my wishes.  I, too, shall return to dust and ashes.  Shall I delay the inevitable with a hermetically sealed casket and waterproof vault?  Or shall I, in the words of a sainted custodian, “hurry up the process” by way of cremation.  The one thing I know for sure, don’t let them put that horrible lipstick on me!

Here’s the point:  We remember those who have gone before us with reverence and affection.  We may do so with lavish symbols and significant physical memorials.  Or, we may do so with very few markers and reminders because the memory is most important.  I simply ask that whatever choice is ours; it is done tastefully and honorably:  no faded, sleazy arrangements, no tattered flags.  Let them say, “He is at peace.”

We Need More Lerts--Be Alert!

Yes, we all know that I am a geezer and a curmudgeon.  Because of that I confess my sin of self-righteousness.  But, by jingo, there are some things that this geezer sees that are observations of the world around us.

I remember those days when television was in its infancy.  Call me uppity but in northeast Wisconsin we had 3 channels.  Watching the “Noon Show” was very important for farmers with the latest market reports and the entertainment of the little combo that would play live music.  Local news at supper time was sacrosanct.  The weather report by Bobby Nelson required reverent silence.  The sports segment concluded with Big Al Sampson pouring a glass of Schlitz beer into a glass so that it would foam to perfection.  That impressed this kid whose family never had a bottle of beer in the house.

During college years students had to decide if they would eat supper before or after the evening news.  Of course, those were the “war years.”  I don’t remember if it was Vietnam or the War of 1812; it was a while ago.  There were fist fights in the library over the newspapers.

Technology has since expanded.  I do not need to enumerate the myriad ways to communicate from when I depended on jungle drums as a lad.  Despite the instantaneous communication I posit that we have a different perspective.  Where there was once a period that people were excited about getting information and anticipated the next release of news, our society is blasé.  There are way more options at 5:30 p.m. than watching the network news.   At 5:30 p.m. we now give our attention to a sports channel, an oldies channel, the cooking channels, ad nauseum.  In other words, we have narrowed our focus to those things that satisfy and interest us (emphasis on "us").  As a result I think we have limited our Weltanschauung (I love to flaunt my German vocabulary).  Weltanschauung means our vision of the world.  We have lost our global perspective and I think that is sad.  Has instant global communication become so commonplace that we have lost excitement about what is happening in the world?  Have we lost the sense of what is exotic?  Have we become arrogant in how we relate to the world?

I love my computer and I love my smart phone and I love my expanded cable.  But I also love the smell of ink on newsprint as I spread a newspaper across the kitchen table.  I love hearing a local radio newscaster stumble over the names of foreign diplomats and then read the local news.  I love receiving a first-class letter from someone I know that I can read again and again.

There was once a bumper sticker that said, “We Need More Lerts—Be Alert!”  That would be what I am preaching:  expand the vision, see what’s going on in the world.

Can We Talk?

My “brush with celebrity” includes 1) a snapshot of Tennessee Ernie Ford at the Seymour fair and 2) Marissa Myer, the new CEO of Yahoo grew up in one of my interim congregations.  Bless his pea pickin’ heart, Tennessee Ernie Ford is no longer with us.  Marissa Myer on the other hand has been making business news.  She recently reversed the privilege of working from home for Yahoo employees.  Whenever a policy change occurs in business there will be dissent and so it was with this decision.

I’d like to think Ms. Myer’s decision stemmed from her strong confessional background and the influence of Luther and Melanchthon.  But, my guess is that it is purely business theory.  The policy appears to discourage isolationism in the workplace and to encourage communication and teamwork.

For being a sexagenarian I think that I am fairly tech savvy. I text message and depend on email.  I send attachments.  Not to mention, I blog and have two different Facebook pages.  However, nothing compares to live human communication.  Electronic communication will never (in my lifetime) pick up the nuances of human communication.  As far as I know there is not a font for sarcasm or sincerity, skepticism or concern.

The human condition depends on community.  Without some sense of community we slowly weaken.  The human spirit erodes into something that simply goes through the motions of life. There is a certain kind of energy when we come together for a purpose.  As Christians we believe the words of Jesus, “Whenever two or three are gathered in my name I am in the midst of them.”  I think it happens in the secular realms as well.  When we are in cooperative work relationships the results are greater than the sum of the parts.

It’s more fun when we do stuff together, too.  A few years ago I was an interim in a parish where I often had no human connection from Sunday to Sunday.  I had no secretary to kid with, no custodian to kvetch to.  When Christmas came I decided to have a staff party at Culver’s.  I bought an eggnog shake at the drive through.

I hear of people whose religious connection is watching a preacher or two on TV while sitting in jammies and a bathrobe. It may be entertaining but where is the human connection?

From my pastoral perspective or maybe my sexagenarian perspective, in a time of growing isolation, we need those moments to celebrate community.  We need to talk to one another.  We need to wait in lines together.  We need to gather around the water cooler.  We need to be assigned to work together as a team.  We need to initiate dialog.  The human family will only be made strong when it is linked together.  Families are made healthy by authentic communication.  Congregations are healthy when people are in genuine conversation.  Workplaces are productive when face-to-face contact leads to cooperation.

Talk among yourselves!

Lutheran Nuns, Or What?

On one of my church calendars the other day it reminded me of the commemoration of Elizabeth Fedde.  Sadly, Elizabeth Fedde is not especially memorable in church history books.  She was significant in the development of the deaconess movement in the 19^th century.  The notification, however, brought me to a moment of nostalgia and something that modern church members hardly know anything about.  Deaconesses are part of the American church special to the post-immigrant years.

Back in college I participated in the Semester Abroad program spending a semester of my Junior year in Germany.  University of Wisconsin-Stevens Point arranged the month of travel before settling in for the academic term in Munich.  One of our first stops was a stay in Kaiserswerth, a village outside of Dusseldorf.  Kaiserswerth was the motherhouse for a very large deaconess community.  I knew nothing about deaconesses and in retrospect I wish I would have taken greater note.  Deaconesses are women of the Lutheran church dedicated to the social ministry of the church:  nursing, teaching, social work, etc.  Yes, there are similarities to Roman Catholic nuns.  Deaconesses wear a “habit” but not like the medieval garments formerly worn by nuns.  The deaconesses in Germany wore a modest black or gray dress.  Some of the older deaconesses wore a white cap similar to a nurse’s cap.

When I started seminary I was introduced to Sister Arnetta Beyer who was the bursar (bookkeeper) at Wartburg Seminary.  My Kaiserswerth experience gave me heads up but other seminary students were clueless about Lutheran women called “sister.”  Sister Arnetta was from the Milwaukee motherhouse of Lutheran deaconesses.  She and another deaconess were working in Dubuque, Iowa.  Sister Arnetta was from North Dakota and became a deaconess because she was influenced in her youth by another deaconess. 

Deaconess Hospital in Milwaukee, which has long since been merged with another hospital, was the center of ministry for the Milwaukee deaconesses. Unless she was a parish worker, a deaconess worked at the hospital.  Stories were told that if a Wartburg Seminary student became ill and needed hospitalization (days before health insurance), they would be put on the train in Dubuque and sent to Milwaukee to be cared for by the deaconesses.

Because of dwindling numbers of new deaconesses, the Milwaukee motherhouse disbanded as an organization.  The remaining deaconesses working in secular fields continued their tasks.  The consecrated women in their light blue jumpers and white blouses became a ministry of the past.

There are still some deaconess communities within the United States.  Diaconal ministers are recognized within the Evangelical Lutheran Church in America.  Valparaiso University in Indiana has been a training center for deaconesses in the Missouri Synod and the ELCA.

Here’s my point:  Ever since the early days of the Church, diaconal ministry was vital to the church:  Stephan who was martyred, women like Priscilla and Agrippa, Lois and Eunice tended to the details of serving widows and orphans.  There has always been a spot in the life of the church for those blessed deacons and deaconesses who literally touch the lives of the people of God.  Maybe there still is a place for those communities of similar spirited people dedicated to prayer and healing and teaching.

Interim Time

“Interim Time”

When near the end of day, life has drained
Out of light, and it is too soon
For the mind of night to have darkened things,

No place looks like itself, loss of outline
Makes everything look strangely in-between,
Unsure of what has been, or what might come.

In this wan light, even trees seem groundless.
In a while it will be night, but nothing
Here seems to believe the relief of darkness.

You are in this time of the interim
Where everything seems withheld.

The path you took to get here has washed out;
The way forward is still concealed from you.

“The old is not old enough to have died away;
The new is still too young to be born.”

You cannot lay claim to anything;
In this place of dusk,
Your eyes are blurred;
And there is no mirror.

Everyone else has lost sight of your heart
And you can see nowhere to put your trust;
You know you have to make your own way through.

As far as you can, hold your confidence.
Do not allow confusion to squander
This call which is loosening
Your roots in false ground,
That you might come free
From all you have outgrown.

What is being transfigured here in your mind,
And it is difficult and slow to become new.
The more faithfully you can endure here,
The more refined your heart will become
For your arrival in the new dawn.

John O’Donohue, from To Bless the Space Between Us: A Book of Blessings, 2008.

Listen to Sister Jane!

It was August 1978, the day before I was to be ordained.  Among all the other cards I received congratulating me and wishing me well was a modest envelope holding a notecard from Sister Jane, a Dominican nun whom I came to know my last year of seminary.  She started with kind words in the note and concluded in big letters, “Preach to convert!”

Nearly thirty-five years later, author Douglas John Hall is telling the church that the world is waiting for the gospel.  That used to be a pious phrase that would punctuate this preacher’s banter.  Now a theological professor writes puts it in print and we stand up and take notice.  He has the sociological statistics to back up what Sister Jane exhorted me to do three and a half decades ago.

Golly, a feller’ would think by now that we don’t have the luxury to be splitting hairs when it comes to letting those who have never heard that there is hope and forgiveness.  There is peace and freedom for those who have been burdened by who-knows-what.

But then, we hear this irritating story.  A new, young pastor in Newtown, Connecticut, took part in a community prayer gathering following December’s tragic shootings at Sandyhook Elementary School.  His picture appeared in national publications.  This new, young pastor is a member of the Lutheran Church-Missouri Synod.  Once his activity was public, he received a phone call from the president of the Missouri Synod reprimanding the young pastor for participating in an event that was contrary to the church’s policy. The Lutheran Church-Missouri Synod prohibits pastors from praying with others from outside the denomination.  The new, young pastor whose community was reeling from that horrific tragedy was forced to apologize for praying with other Christians and Jews.

That story grieves me without end.  It does not matter whether I am Lutheran, Presbyterian, or Holy Roller.  (Maybe it does bother me more because I am Lutheran and the world lumps us all together despite the alphabet soup of synods) When there is a world waiting for the gospel; when there are people hurting and in need of somebody representing God; when a community aches to gather for prayer together, they are waiting for the gospel.  The world wants words that tell them God loves them.  The world wants the Good News embodied in somebody who manifests God’s love for its people.  The world wants the simplest cross to cling to so that they know they are not alone but that God is with them.

That is why even as a Geezer, I am interested in what we call the emerging church.  Maybe the old model doesn’t always work for us.  There are new voices that have actually heard the world saying that it longs to hear the Good News.  Once again, my colleagues do not have the luxury of always following the same paradigm as every generation before.  Turn up that hearing aid and listen to where the Good News is needed!

Sister Jane was on to something.  She very well knew that “Preach to convert” did not mean strong-arming the unrepentant scoundrel. Rather, it is preaching to make a difference—a difference of hope and renewal, a difference of love and forgiveness, a difference of justice and freedom.

Here’s the question for the week:  where in your world is the good news waiting to be told?  Talk among yourselves…

Sing with me: Tradition, Tradition!

Once upon a time I played Lazar Wolf in “Fiddler on the Roof.”  One of those evocative songs is “Tradition.”  It sets the theme for the musical that all of the village’s routines are based upon tradition.  It is funny how our lives are dictated by tradition.  Sometimes, tradition is healthy and provides a solid foundation to build upon.  Other times, tradition bifurcates our view on reality.

The new bride surprised her groom with a ham dinner.  Being a modern man, the husband knew his way around the kitchen.  Oh, he complimented his wife profusely because it was delicious.  He did ask her, however, why she cut the ham in half before placing it in the roaster.  She didn’t know why but said that is what her mother always did. 

The next time they visited her parents his mother-in-law also prepared a ham adorned with pineapple slices and cherries.  It was wonderful. But, the ham was also sliced in half.  Daughter asked mother why she cut the ham in half.  With great confidence she replied, “That’s what you always need to do with a ham, Dear.”

At Easter, the whole family was invited to Grandma’s house.  Grandma served her customary baked ham and when she brought the platter to the table the ham was already cut in half.  Granddaughter sweetly asked Grannie why she cuts the ham in half.  “Does it improve the flavor?”  “Piffle,” Grandma chuckled. “The only roasting pan I have isn’t big enough for a whole ham so I have the butcher cut it in half.”

Ah, that which we hold as sacred began from necessity.

In Wisconsin, we participate in the weekly ritual of Friday night fish.  It comes from the area’s large Roman Catholic population, which in pre-Vatican II days anxiously refrained from meat on Friday.  The Weiner Lady doing a weekend store promotion was seen by some as an offense to their piety. Friday fish carried an element of penitence.  But where did that tradition come from?

In former times before refrigerators or ice boxes or even smoke houses, peasants couldn’t preserve meats. Heck, as peasants there weren’t many animals.  Winter months were harsh on food supply and there was no animal protein.  A benevolent prince concerned for his people encouraged the church to tell the people to fish for food and have it on Friday in honor of the salvation won for the people on that Good Friday long ago.  Friday became that day when peasants could look forward to a protein source to help them survive and stave off starvation.  Somewhere, that tradition evolved into adding an over-sized baked potato with sour cream, cole slaw, and rye bread served by a saucy waitress competing with the din of Happy Hour.  A tradition born out of survival has become a tradition of conviviality.

You have to love tradition.  Traditions are what hold families and cultures together.  Traditions are the actions that dramatize our story as a culture.  Traditions that are negative are unhealthy and should be avoided.  But those traditions that allow us to celebrate and give pride and strengthen a community are rituals to preserve and pass along to coming generations.