It started with Holy Communion.  When people ask me to share my experience with leaving the ELCA, the story begins where questions of church fellowship must always begin: the altar.

Following the churchwide votes of 2009, people started using “impaired communion” more frequently to describe the ELCA’s situation.  I particularly recall David Yeago using it to good effect.  To commune is to share something in common, and what the Church shares is Christ.  Not only the 2009 votes, but also the long trajectory of the ELCA’s doctrinal development, made it clear that differing Christs were confessed in the ELCA.

I remember a dedicated revisionist agreeing with me, already in 2003.  “Yes,” he said, “that would be the classical Lutheran understanding of our situation.”  Communion could not proceed as usual.  I realize that many people, including many conservatives, might disagree with that diagnosis.  But that’s where my experience began: the simple recognition that “impaired communion” impairs Communion.  It is there, at the altar, that impaired communion is either repaired, or it is not.

Our first bishop under this new circumstance didn’t like our perspective, especially when we informed him that we would no longer host the Supper at conference or synodical events, but he did not press us to change.  The second bishop was far less sympathetic.  Here I should pause and note that we’ve already encountered two key points about leaving the ELCA.  Having led two congregations out of the ELCA, and counseled and accompanied several others, I’ve seen these points prove valuable time and again.

First, start by asking what your dissatisfaction with the ELCA has to do with doctrine, if anything at all—determine if you disagree on the fundamental question of “Who do you say that I am?”—and distinguish those concerns from other, lesser ones (like, “We’re willing to bet we can get a pastor faster and cheaper somehow else” [unfavorable odds, honestly]).  Then, if you have a doctrinal disagreement, ask yourself how Jesus repairs that sort of thing.  Is it at the conference table, debating constitutions, or at His table, communing or not communing? 

At the very least, that sort of reflection will help clarify your thought.  Constitutions are works; Communion is grace.  Are your problems with the ELCA work problems or grace problems?  If grace is being misunderstood, then the place to begin the remedy (and, potentially, to begin changes in fellowship) is where grace is clarified.  Trying to address a grace problem through a works solution (i.e., trusting a constitutional rearrangement alone) won’t get at it, ever, because the problem is not disagreement about your works, but about the Lord’s gifts. 

Fumbling this distinction continues to hound the various departure movements, I would suggest.   Holy Communion is where Jesus forgives sins.  So, if we now disagree over what sins He forgives, how He forgives them, or who He even is, then we also disagree about what He does at His altar.  Burying that simple problem under layers of constitutional finesse will not clarify the situation to you or to the people whom you serve—and when I say, “the people whom you serve,” I include representatives of your synod, which brings me to the second point.

One bishop is not like another.  Like you and me, each is his or her own little bundle of insecurities, aspirations, and ideas half finished.  If you think it’s hard to be you, being you as an ELCA bishop would be ten times worse for everyone.  I don’t say so out of any animus towards those who hold the office.  We should sympathize with them.  The office as presently constituted is a nightmare, as if someone had found the corpse of a thirteenth-century bishop of Bangor and used an electrical storm to try combining it with Grok, only to find too much personality remained.  The point is: the bishops need your help.

The bishops and their representatives belong to a much larger organization that tries to solve grace problems with work solutions.  “Synod means walking together,” apparently, and each churchwide assembly tries to lock the step, but the differences only widen because they’re trying to heal a flesh wound with a welding torch.  Still, that’s the solution they have, and so the bishops and their representatives will come to you by way of constitution, not Communion.  If your beef is a grace problem, you will need to help them face it, not for the sake of justice or something like it (you’re a Christian, so there’s no room for revenge here), but for the sake of their own souls.  

They will not appreciate this idea.  It won’t be easy.  I call it “playing catch with someone who won’t throw back.”  Here’s how it went for me:

Bishop: “Well, Steve, thank very much for meeting with us today.  I appreciate that your time is valuable.  Why don’t we begin with you explaining to me what your concerns are?” [this starting point can be a trap, but that’s another article]

Me: [Explains my concerns.]

Bishop: [silence]

Me: [shrugs eyebrows]

Bishop: I’m not going to engage you on that topic right now.

Different words could be used. Sometimes no words would be used. There would simply be a long stare, followed by a deep breath and a change of subject.  At other times, there may be honeyed expressions of sympathy followed by continued denials: “That is not the problem.”  Or as one bishop put it to me, “I don’t accept what you’re saying, because I never learned that.”  He said so years ago, and it’s not a horrible answer in some instances.  But it is rather like being asked to play catch, and in good faith tossing the first pitch, only to watch the other person catch the ball, drop it in a bucket, and look back at you.

They won’t engage you on theology.  They don’t think it’s a grace problem.

So if you have a confessional point you want to make, you will need both to confess the truth and to create a situation in which they slow down long enough to a) hear it and b) consider their own confession in light of it.  At its best, the process of leaving the ELCA is an opportunity for everyone to walk away knowing more clearly who they are and why.  There are some synodical leaders who understand this, and if you should encounter some, you’ll feel the difference and be thankful for it.  Either way, remember that what you’re doing is for their sake, not yours, since you are a Christian.  The goal isn’t for you to win, nor is it only for the congregation to leave, but also for the bishop and their representatives to grow in the faith.  They will not necessarily look at it that way—to many of them, you are the problem, and you will be fixed constitutionally—and so you must help them see it.

You’ll do so by starting with Communion, not the constitution.

With all that said, there is one particular way that the ELCA constitutions perform a strangely gracious function, though I’ve rarely heard anyone acknowledge it.  By including in its governing documents a method for leaving the ELCA, the ELCA acknowledges that leaving its fellowship is both permissible and potentially good.  Constitutions are works and seek to govern works.  By including among their works the ability to leave the ELCA, the ELCA constitutions confess that it’s a potentially good work to do so.  If you are part of a congregation considering leaving the ELCA, please make that point to your congregation: the ELCA believes it’s okay to do this.

You’d be forgiven for not realizing it.  I do know one bishop who acknowledged that leaving can be a good work, and she didn’t even mean it in a passive aggressive way.  The acknowledgement is rare!  But no matter.  It’s there in print, and no church should pass into law something it thinks is inherently sinful.  If it is—if a church thinks that leaving is inherently wrong—then it needs to take the process right off the page.  But if it stays on the page, and so far it has, then every congregation needs to know that even the ELCA thinks this process is a totally okay thing.  Sure, you’ll sin along the way—watch for it; repent of it—but so it goes for every good work.  Abusus non tollit usum: the abuse of a thing does not nullify its use.

Don’t look at the process as your enemy.  It’s a friend if you make it so.  “To the pure all things are pure” (Titus 1:15).  You agreed to that process by virtue of being in the ELCA, so follow it.  That’s part of love.  At the same time, you can always read the process closely.   To create a circumstance where you may press the confessional point and help everyone clarify who they are in the light of grace, you may find unexpected, entirely permissible ways to fulfill and participate in the process outlined.  These unexpected ways will surprise others, but just so, they may create, for the Gospel, a forum. 

The cool kids are now calling that sort of thing “interruptive,” and they make it part of their mission statements.  I’d suggest that you just call it “all in day’s work” and not think very much about it.  It can be done politely and kindly enough, even joyfully, the way you’d perform a Baptism or eat soup at a soup supper (yes, Baptisms are very different from soup-eating, but you doing the Baptism, and you sitting with your congregation and eating the soup, are not).  Other, cooler kids will have even more important things for you to consider than what I’ve written here, but this is what I’ve got: start (and end) with Communion, be prepared to play one-sided catch, work hard to create a situation where they at least catch it, and know that the ELCA totally thinks this is an okay thing to do.

Otherwise, it wouldn’t be on the page. 

Here’s a true story, related to me by someone who witnessed it.  A small church, considering departure from the ELCA, solicited questions from the congregation.  One question surprised people, but it was, apparently, asked in earnest: If we leave the ELCA, will we go back to being a church that bans people of color?

Wait—what?  “Go back”?  “Ban”?  Some questions require their own hour to answer.  Did the questioner believe that her congregation had once banned persons of color?  Why?  Also, had the questioner never heard that the ELCA is “the whitest denomination in America,” as one of its own pastors has called it (not that other Lutherans are far behind)?  What string of pastors had neglected to teach, not only Lutheran failures in racial reconciliation, but also the Lutheran church’s rich contribution to civil rights, refugee resettlement, and the fair treatment of all people in congregation, school, and institutions of care? 

I don’t know how the congregation’s leaders ultimately addressed that question, but it proves that the question of race is on people’s mind.  Lutherans want to know where it resides in their faith and church’s life.

You know this.  You can’t breathe in America and not know it.  It has dominated the news, and one particular development has especially captured recent attention: critical race theory (CRT).  In general, conservatives have balked at CRT, criticizing instances of “CRT training” that seem to demean and unfairly condemn people of European descent.  States have begun passing resolutions banning its use in government and public education.

That criticism has echoed in the church’s halls as confessing Lutherans of various stripes point out where CRT differs from the Gospel’s more liberating message of “neither Jew nor Greek, neither slave nor free, nor male and female, for you are all one in Christ Jesus” (Galatians 3:28).  Yet a question lingers: if not CRT, then what?

How shall denominations, congregations, and believers critique the biases that linger within their own hearts and minds?  Are there aspects of Lutheran church culture that have made it one of the whitest denominations in America, and how might the Gospel overcome that culture?

Real Forgiveness for Real Sins

I don’t pretend to have hard and fast answers.  But as I’ve reflected on the question—and if you haven’t reflected on the question, it’s time to start, for the sake of the church you love—a few thoughts have struck me as worth sharing.  You probably already know them, but it doesn’t hurt to see them in print.  As St. Paul told the Philippians: repetition doesn’t hurt the author, and it’s good for everyone else (Philippians 3:1). 

It would all seem to start with real forgiveness for real sins.  It’s one thing to say, “We don’t rely on CRT; we preach the Gospel” (and that statement is fair and true enough), but it’s another thing so to preach that Gospel that it forgives a real sin brought to light.  Where have you, your congregation, and your denomination been blind to persons of color?  How have you or your church harmed them or rebuffed them, even if unintentionally? 

These questions are safe for you to ask (that is, they may hurt, but they are ultimately secure and good), because you know the One in whose presence you ask them: Jesus, who has carried the sins of the world.  You may let them have their way with you, critiquing, judging, and enlightening you, because you know that the more real the sin is, the more real the forgiveness that comes in Jesus’ name.  So let the sins take shape, in even startling contour, and then let the grace of Christ clothe them in a brilliant mercy that overcomes them.

The church has its own language for this kind of preaching, distinct from the vocabulary of secular justice warriors.  The Bible may not speak of racism and inequality or inequity, but it does speak of old-fashioned, rotten things like enmity, strife, jealousy, fits of anger, pride, divisions, envy, greed, and the like.  How do these works of the flesh, unearthed for us by the Spirit, illumine our problems with race, and what is Christ’s forgiving word for them? 

Preach it, and expect that preaching to change things, including you.

“You Do Not Have Because You Do Not Ask”

St. James has his moments. The second verse of his fourth chapter might be one of the better ones: have you tried asking?  Once God has spoken to us in our sin, we speak to Him by His generous grace. Only by His Word do we have words to speak, and when His Word calls out our sins and tells us, “These sins are forgiven; there is a limit to their power; you need not live under their bondage,” then we know what to ask.  Ask Him for what He desires; ask Him for the sin to be overcome and healed; ask for your soul, your congregation, and your church to welcome the people of every nation.

There’s really not too much more to say about this call to prayer, I don’t think, except do it.  Pray daily for the Gospel that we preach and the doctrine we confess to be the means by which the Lord draws all nations to Himself.  Maybe you pray from a place where God’s answer to that prayer won’t change how your congregation or life looks very much—congregations reflect their neighborhoods, after all, and so not every congregation has to be a microcosm of “The Church,” somehow ideally diverse, and thinking that it does actually denies the catholic nature of Christ’s body—but you’re not praying for only parochial concerns.  You’re praying for the whole Church, and for the Fisherman’s net to be cast across the world.

Pray, and say the amen in the confidence of God’s faithfulness. 

The Grass Isn’t Always Greener

This last suggestion (I know: there are lots more things to be said; what we have here is just a smattering) runs afoul of certain strands of church critique.  I call it (fairly, I think) the anti-institutional critique, which insists that buildings and polity and such things are irrelevant to faithfulness in mission, if not harmful to it.  To be sure, the faithfulness of a church is never measured by its stuff.  But stuff is no more irrelevant to the conduct of the ministry than our bodies are. 

God will raise our bodies, and so He calls us to steward this flesh in a certain way.  So also will He liberate creation from its bondage to decay, and so we steward creation in a certain way.  In particular, the Lutheran church should probably start paying more attention to where it lays its foundations, as in, its literal foundations. 

The church has always needed buildings for its mission.  The fact that the church first met in homes wasn’t a rejection of public buildings as much as it was the commandeering of private buildings for public use.  Throughout the church’s history, wherever missionaries spread the Gospel, they quickly built a shelter for its public proclamation, and they chose the placement of those shelters wisely.  It was an incarnational move, seeking to proclaim by the place wherein the Body gathers who and what the Body is. 

How our churches continue this ethic today may be key to understanding our problem with race.  That is, looking at our buildings and where we put them may be one way both to identify our real racial sin and to welcome God’s gracious balm for it.  For how we build has everything to do with how we use our money and why, and those economics may be the deeper root of Lutheran racial woes.

A case in point (another true story, and one repeated other places): a church in a mid-sized city had a beautiful neo-Gothic church in a busy, even crowded downtown.  Because that downtown had grown so busy, and so few of the people at the church lived there any longer, they decided to sell that building in favor of building a new house of worship far on the city’s margins, surrounded by a lush, green campus—it’s fair to say, not too different from a country club.  I knew this church a few years ago and just recently drove through its city.  I decided to check on it, and what did I find?

I found the downtown church, still a bit crumbly but nevertheless standing and beautiful,  purchased by another congregation with a more evangelical thrust and looking very well visited by a variety of people. As for the new Lutheran church—well, I almost didn’t find it.  Surrounded by beautiful green trees and a busy, suburban commercial center, it was easy to miss.  It would take effort, in fact, to find.  It would also require a car to attend, and it would take some personal courage, I imagine, to drive up to such a very nice church with anything less than a very nice car.

So in the city where this church stands, where white people comprise the Very Nice Car classes and blacks and Latinos fill cheaper housing downtown near the bus lines, which of these churches will have a better start to overcoming racial barriers?  In order to overcome such barriers, the church must be present as its Lord is present—and how present is a church hidden behind well-manicured trees?

I’m not saying, “Build it, and they will come.”  We’ve seen that approach fail so many times.  There’s no gimmick here, and the soul-work of preaching and prayer is more than everything else.  I’m also not suggesting that persons of color are always poor or whites always rich.  But I am saying, as many others have said, that racial divisions may find their deeper roots in class divisions, and the Lutheran church’s recent architectural history may illustrate the truth of it (as does the fact that that our churches appear to lack poor and working class whites as much as they lack persons of color!).  The church must be present to those whom it seeks.  It must bring the font and Bible and altar to them, clothed in their own neighborhood. 

Taking up that calling will mean that those already in the church may have to dedicate their resources and wealth for local ministries and houses of worship either not in service of themselves or at a distance from their own homes, requiring them who are more equipped to travel to do so.  Why not?  What checks the sins of enmity, pride, greed, and rivalry more than for those with the most to take up a weekly pilgrimage to gather with those who have the least?  Wouldn’t such a pilgrimage confess, “These sins are forgiven, and therefore, they no longer set the limits and conduct of our devotion”?

Yes, I know that persons of color are guilty of their own sins of enmity, pride, greed, and the like.  I also know that they aren’t the ones most likely reading this article, and I know it because most of you are Lutherans, and Lutherans are one of the whitest Christian traditions in America.  It needs some new and more Biblical attention.  CRT is not the way, and so what is?  Preaching, praying, and showing up to be present, all of it concrete and real and down-to-earth, seems to be the way I know, the way that I’ve been given to confess.  What are some other parts of that way?  I imagine you know, or that God will show it to you if you ask.

Editor’s Note: The Rev. Dr. Steven K. Gjerde is a former VP of Lutheran CORE.

“The spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak.”  So says our Lord Jesus Christ, and who knows spirit and flesh better than He does?   Through Him and for Him all things were made, and in these last days He has become all that He made us to be: flesh, soul, and spirit, and heart and mind, too — even now He lives and rules in our flesh, His Spirit testifying with ours that we are children of God.  So when this Lord and God says, “The spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak,” we stop to listen.

 His Special Concern

If the flesh is weak, then our flesh is the object of Christ’s special concern.   “It is not the healthy who seek a doctor,” He reminds us, “it is the sick,” and even so our Good Physician came for the sinful and not the righteous.  Our flesh rests in the perpetual care of Dr. Jesus.   Ages ago He fitted Himself to our embodied life, matching His Word to our speech by means of a mouth and our disease to His health by the touch of His hand.  That same, gracious work continues today as He fits His salvation to our dying flesh, making His grace speakable and edible, hearable and felt.  “Gospel is touch,” a friend of mine likes to say, making even the least gnostic of us a bit uncomfortable and exposing just exactly why quarantines hurt.

But if our flesh rests in the care of Christ, then so do other things that pertain to the flesh, such as the whole tactile life of the church, with all of its dreaded institution, nearly a byword among the diaspora.  Like it or not, you cannot escape it.  Sure, you can have the Holy Supper in the open air, but you’ll still be standing on ground, ground that can be taxed or untaxed, mowed or unmowed, shoveled or drifted, beautiful or ugly; someone will have to agree to buy the stuff (and you know how it works: once people have skin in the game, it gets serious); and finally, you’ll have to arrange it at a time and a place where all of us little hobbits and earthlings can make our way without too much trouble.   You get the point: if you want Christ, then sooner or later you’ll want that dreaded institution, too, in one form or another, because with Christ the Virgin’s son comes all of human flesh, His special concern, the thing He loves to raise from the dead, and with human flesh comes all of the creation made for it. 

With the Church come buildings that shelter and fellowships that organize and papers that say things in ink to make it all clear and bank accounts, because soon you’ll have real people with real bodies and individual minds and arthritis and hormones and a longing for beauty and health, and most of all, backpacks full of sin and history and grief.  Associations and coalitions follow hot upon their (our) heels, and some of those organizations will become big enough or deluded enough to start calling themselves The Church, this Church, or herchurch, and the pious will start wondering if it’s all just the anti-Church, and maybe life as a spirit would be better?  Some say the angels are bodiless spirits, and they don’t seem to complain (at least not the ones who kept their club privileges).  But no, it’s not better.  There’s a reason why the angels envy you, and the devils hate you, and it’s not your spirit —

–and all this I say by way of introduction as to why my congregation and I stayed in the ELCA, and why we have now left it.

On Being Dust, Soil, and Free

“Why are you still ELCA?”  I think I got Christmas cards with those words embossed in gold.  On the one hand, the only possible answer is that I am a sinner, a rotten sinner lousy with sin, who did it all wrong; and on the other hand the answer is that I’m a saint with the courage of King David (the Early Years).  But really, it’s not even about me, it’s about Jesus and His special concern for the flesh. 

He gave me a call, voted, inked, and delivered, and those votes and ink (that earthiness!) make it no less but all the more the call of God.  I served and still serve a real people with a real zip code, different from yours, and therefore with different longings and gifts and histories and griefs.  Diversity isn’t our strength (saith the Lord), but it is a thing, a flesh thing, and if you’re a pastor who is also a believer, then you’re a priest in the best sense of the word, and pretty soon that diversity of your people is part of you like a country’s soil is part of its wine and cheese.  Within the very real diversity of the church, far transcending the fiefdoms of identity politics, the Lord fits His time to different calendars and lengths of patience.  “The Lord is coming soon!” — it’s true.  But just as soon as a man’s ready to fit that clarion call to his own schedule and jump in the car, he remembers he’s married, and there’s a five year old who has to pee, and the man must wait.  Along with the Church in every time and place, he discovers, after all, that he is but dust.

 I’m not getting into specifics, is the point.  The specifics would only bore you and tempt you to sit in the seat of scoffers, which is very bad.  But you get the drift: there were reasons good enough that they don’t need defending anymore, because it’s all done with, anyway.  We simply pursued our Lord’s path of fitting grace to the flesh, with its drooping hands and weak knees.  We looked on our institution as a gift, not a burden—I mean, what else is it, unless you’re a Manichean? — and by pursuing that God-given mission, we pressed ourselves more and more deeply into the local soil and the call of the neighbors and the catholic stink of evangelical ministry, until pretty soon we became something the ELCA simply didn’t want anymore (“inclusive”), and we said, “Ah!  There it is.  Well, okay, then.”

The Transfigured Flesh Part

You’d have done and said it differently if you’re from Georgia or Albuquerque, but you’d have done it somehow — I know you would have, because you’re all brothers and sisters, believers and sinners and courageous saints.  But here’s the last part, and one of the best parts, the transfigured flesh part: when I first stayed ELCA, it was just my single congregation and me.  We spoke our objections loudly, got picky about the pocketbook, and fenced the altar—and still it was just my congregation and me.  But as the Lord squeezed His time into our time and thus turned our time into His time, and as He led us down deeper into the flesh and the soil over the objections of so many, He changed all that. 

He turned this congregation into this congregation plus another one to serve and love, and a third one who wants to know more; and He turned me into me and another pastor, and then an intern who’s now a pastor, and still another pastor, three good brothers in the ministry who joined me at this address and walked its path, the path right into the ELCA and now out of it, even though they weren’t originally on that path, and they’re pure gold; and He turned all of us into us with all of you, Lutheran CORE and the NALC and the LCMC, and Missouri Synod folk, too, you who are a consolation and strength in all of this.  A seed fell to the earth, died a thousand deaths, and bore a thousand-fold harvest.      

So now we’re LCMC, and probably will be other things, too, and that usually makes lots of folks happy except when they feel we didn’t do it fast enough — but land’s sake, people: the kid had to pee, the car needed fuel, she forgot the casserole.  There were reasons.  Cut us some slack, take our coats, and put on the kettle.  You’re Lutherans.  You know how to be gracious with the flesh, and how to be people of skin and bones, with all the history and grief and institution that comes with it, because you know, as so many other Christians do not know, just what it is for the spirit to be willing, and the flesh weak.  It means showing greater honor and more consideration to the weaker member, because that weaker member is Christ, crucified for the sins of the world.

Where Love Is Known

The flesh is where love makes itself known, see, and that’s why the devil hates our flesh: Christ has shown it such great honor by becoming it and redeeming it.  And that’s why everything, absolutely everything that we face these days, is all about the flesh.  Not only church but also the culture wars and politics, with Trump and Biden and all the rage and spite — it’s all about the flesh, in the end, a heavenly conflict stoked by the bitter disappointment of the devil, that angry, ravenous wisp, howling for the flesh that he is not, frantic to devour it all so that it will no longer be, and (he hopes) the hobbits and earthlings won’t even be bones anymore but pure smoke, having cast themselves into the flames, confusing smoke with spirit.    

Against all that, we devour the flesh of Christ, which only increases the more it’s eaten.  Yes, that’s how it goes: wherever the Supper is, there you find the Words of Institution; and where the Words of Institution, other institution follows, all the flesh and land and shelter and ink that a Supper demands, and through this weakened flesh the willing Spirit has His way, and He knits together the growing body.  For who knows our flesh and spirit better than He who became our flesh and breathes the Spirit?  He makes us bold to bear that weakened flesh, that beloved body, the body that He has so lovingly destined for glory, no matter the times it may bring.

The stuff of a thing must match its purpose. “What father among you, if his son asks for a fish, will instead of a fish give him a serpent; or if he asks for an egg, will give him a scorpion?” (Luke 11:11-12) If I set out to bake your child a birthday cake, I wouldn’t use beet mash and kippers. I’d use flour, water, sugar, eggs—the things that make for a blessed moment of contentment in a room full of reveling toddlers. Sweetness for sweet moments, or something like that. So also the Father, in seeking to make the world righteous, did not send us a sinner, but an innocent, to make us what we were not.

Would we expect the church to operate differently?

Fewer people speak of church unity these days (or so it seems to me), but the subject nearly dominated my time at seminary. During my first year at Luther Seminary in St. Paul, 1996-1997, the campus was roiled by the ELCA’s impending full communion agreement with Reformed churches, the “Formula of Agreement.” Professors lectured on it, and students chewed on it over lunch. In time, Bishop William Lazareth of the Metropolitan New York Synod came to debate the subject with the seminary’s president, Dr. David Tiede. Tiede stood for the agreement, and Lazareth against it.  

Each man seemed to take on the flesh of his argument. Tiede, arguing for the careful, academic formulas of a decades-long process, stood straighter and with a more polished, fresh-faced poise than the energetic, nobby-nosed Lazareth, the latter all in clerical black, his eyebrows as thick as his confessional objections. They started with the issues at hand (the Holy Supper, predestination, the lifting of confessional condemnations), but they soon hit on the question of the Church and its unity.

Like any good ecumenist, Tiede invoked the words of Jesus in John 17:21: our Lord Himself prayed for his disciples “that they may all be one.” Why would we not be open to the fulfillment of that prayer among us?  Those words animated Lazareth like no other point in the debate, leading to what would become its most memorable moment for me. Leaping to his feet, his eyebrows arching sharply, Lazareth stuck both of his meaty index fingers in the air and declared, “That they may all be one—that the world may believe!”

Purpose

Belief in the truth of Jesus: here is the purpose of the Church’s unity. Therefore, the stuff of that unity must match its purpose. It must be a unity in and of the truth, even if it means ending fellowship with falsehood.  So Lazareth argued, convincingly for me. Lutherans could not and should not overlook their serious objections to the Reformed teaching of Communion and predestination, thinking that the mere form of unity (the human will to be one, with all of its social achievements) was itself instrumental to the faith God creates. Only the unity comprised of truth could lead others to truth. Only sweetness leads to sweetness; only the Son’s innocence makes us innocent; only a unity conceived by the truth can beget faith in the truth.

This view, formed so clearly by Articles VII and VIII of the Augsburg Confession, continues to have implications not only for those remaining in the ELCA but also for those who have left it. By rooting the unity of the Church in the truth of the Word, it locates the possibility and assurance of unity, not in constitutional arrangement, but in the teaching of the Gospel and the administration of the sacraments. As the Church speaks its proper message and sets forth the Lord’s true Supper and Baptism, it is revealed to be the una sancta, the one, holy catholic and apostolic gathering of believers that midwifes new believers into the world.

And if the unity of the Church resides in its preaching and ministering, then so do its limits. Votes and constitutions have their place, as signposts and jingle bells for keeping every cow in its field. But they provide no lasting or certain refuge, nor do they fulfill the call of Jeremiah: “Go out from the midst of her, my people!” (51:45) In as much as the Church experiences its unity in the doing of the ministry, it is there, too, that it must experience its division from the world and from heresy.

As Lazareth saw in regards to the Formula of Agreement, closed pulpits and closed altars are part of church renewal. The degree to which “closed is closed,” I will not pose in this article. But suffice it to say, renewal seeks faith in the truth. Publicizing false confession in the pulpit or at the altar will not result in that faith, and thus, it will not result in that renewal. I understand that I may stand in the minority on this issue among my own ilk. But I also understand that the mere will to be one (or better, the mere will to be distinct), with all its social achievements will not herald the renewal of the Church.

That renewal takes place in local ministry. Denominational constitutions are the highways that plow across states and regions to move people along in mad efficiency. We need them, but they flatten the landscape in brute fashion. Local ministry is the footpath worn in response to the particular contours of a place, with care for the critters found in every burrow and den. It is there, as the congregation of believers both looses and binds, both admits and restrains, that the Church rises up from the ashes, its wings on fire—yes, it is there that faith is born.

Gateway

Those confessors remaining in the ELCA may therefore wish to pause and question to what extent their denomination’s manifold constitutions remain the gateway to their pulpit and altar—they may wish to review how open is open, and how closed is closed, in their local ministry. To start there, rather than in the baseline acceptance of a brokered political settlement, may prove illuminating and even reforming, if also excruciating. Similar illumination and crosses may await those who have left the ELCA, as they ponder the spiritual demand that faces them daily in Jeremiah’s call, quoted above.  

The Church is a creature of the Spirit of truth. “If you then, who are evil, know how to give good gifts to your children, how much more will the heavenly Father give the Holy Spirit to those who ask Him!” (Luke 11:13) He knows how sweetness leads to sweetness, and innocence to innocence, and truth to truth. With this Father, if you ask for an egg, you get an egg. As we ask for the Church’s renewal, we ask also for its unity, and to that end, we pray fervently for truth.

Have you ever preached the Gospel
to people who don’t care about anything but the present moment?  Or to put it differently, can you imagine
sharing the good news with people who don’t believe that the past and future
have any claim on today? 

Past, Present, Future

A Facebook group to which I belong recently shared a “Preaching Moment” video by Thomas G. Long, homiletics professor at the Candler School of Theology, in which he addresses this situation.  According to Long, the so-called “narrative” mode of preaching has become less effective in recent years because fewer people view their lives as a story with a past, present, and future.   

“The narrative mode of preaching addressed this need: the need is, I have heard the gospel; I know the biblical message, but I am not existentially engaged with it,” Long explains.  “And therefore I need to move from knowledge to delight.”  Narrative preaching seeks to move listeners from passive knowledge of the Gospel to a lively faith in it by telling stories that help listeners see themselves within the grand narrative of Scripture. 

Location on the Timeline

But you know how stories work: they
typically connect the past, present, and future, making sense of how one event
touches another.  What if the culture to
which you preach lacks that sense of time? 
That is, what if it lacks not only knowledge of the biblical narrative
but also what Long calls narrative
competence, the ability to view things in chronological relationship and
locate oneself within that timeline? 

Referencing an Oxford scholar named Galen Strawson, Long points to the rise of people who understand themselves in this “episodic” way.  People who think “episodically” know that certain things happened to them in years past, but they insist that those things don’t have a material effect on who they are today.  Moreover, they don’t view their present in light of any anticipated future. 

Instead, the present moment alone becomes the workshop of identity.  A person’s origins, experiences, and ultimate destination have no necessary bearing on beliefs and moral decisions.  “Who I am today may not be who I am tomorrow” — we’ll have to wait and see.  (You may read Strawson’s argument here.)

You and I, like Long, may disagree with this episodic interpretation of human nature.  It seems, perhaps, a bit defensive, like an argument for how someone wants things to be more than a confession of how things really are.  But now consider some of the trends that we see in our culture and churches. 

Trends and Doom

In the realm of identity politics and intersectional theory, both personal and national identities can be forged through hard breaks with the past that disavow its relevance for the present.  Perhaps the past is viewed as too oppressive or indecent for serious consideration, even to the point of rejecting the literary and artistic accomplishments of prior eras due to their supposed moral degeneracy. 

Likewise, scientific and
quasi-scientific foretelling of the earth’s future can sometimes paint such a
vision of doom as to deny any real future at all.  Ecological prophecy can leave people anywhere
from dismal about tomorrow to blithely unconcerned about it.  The future looks as impossible as the past
looks dangerous, rendering both irrelevant for the present.

Torching the Church’s Past

We have whiffs of this episodic malaise
in the church, too.  Some of its leaders seem
intent on torching the church’s past, perhaps deeming it too white, too
capitalist, or too cis.  Better, they
say, to remake the church in light of present sensibilities alone.  Others, in their radical calls for social
justice, appear almost to despair of any future change, their cries
increasingly vengeful.  Where, one might
wonder, is their enlivening hope in the advent of Christ?  You can always smell a church without a
Christ-centered vision of the future, especially if you’ve had prior experience
in smelling corpses.

How Now Shall We Respond?

So Strawson and Long may have
touched on something significant.  Their
reflections dovetail with what others have noted about the growth of a “new
paganism” in America, given that many non-traditional spiritualities also lack
a clearly linear conception of time.  
But now the question is: how shall confessing Lutherans respond? 

First, we should answer for
ourselves the basic challenges that the episodic mindset poses to our
confession of faith.  For example, speaking
of forgiveness necessarily assumes the relevance of both the past and the
future to the present.  Forgiveness only
matters as part of a story where people are otherwise responsible for their
past action and face condemnation in the future.  But why should that be?  Why should my actions yesterday have any
claim on who I am today?  Don’t Lutherans
believe in a “new Adam and Eve rising daily” before God? 

Why the Past and Future Matter

In response, Lutherans might start
with what we consider the hallmark condition for freedom and life before God: “the
righteous shall live by faith.”  Trust in
Christ justifies the sinner, Scripture says, and just a little reflection on
the nature of faith will reveal why the past and future matter as much as the present. 

Simply put, trust is necessary for
happiness.  It is trust that allows us to
form commitments that provide us with daily security and open the future to
such fundamental things as love and family.  
At the same time, trust thrives on the past and anticipates a future.  Whether it’s trust in God or trust in our
neighbor, faith in anyone depends on the reliability of that person, a
reliability that is only known through the narrative of that person’s past.  As a colleague of mine points out, you may
consider yourself as free of your past as you wish, but your boss may have
other thoughts.  A boss relies on your
dependability in anticipation of the company’s future success. 

Why Trade Freedom for Bondage?

Having reflected on those
connections between happiness, trust, and time, confessing Lutherans may then critique
the episodic mentality and answer its challenges with the renewing Word.  By way of the Law, we may press a culture
that seeks to ignore the past and future with a simple question: why would you
trade freedom for bondage?  Why give up
the necessary conditions for trust
and commitment and love (the life God would have for
you)? 

Indeed, why not acknowledge things
for how they really are, even if it means finding yourself saddled with a
history of wrong?  Facing our past error ultimately
sets the stage for greater trust, commitment, and love in the future by
exposing our unreliability and asserting that both God and we hope to end
it. 

Then, having exposed the happy
life’s dependence on both the past and the future, we may introduce the
narrative of God’s utter dependability.  His
trustworthiness, pictured through the history of Israel and fulfilled in Jesus,
not only justifies the existence of sinners now — they exist for His glory, as
it turns out — but it also opens the future with the promise of their ultimate
healing.  Preaching this faithfulness of
God starts to root a rootless culture into His narrative. 

Rise of the New Adam

It also allows us to grant the
episodic mindset at least one gracious nod. 
Inherent to episodic thinking is the desire to be continually new.  As noted earlier, some might say that
thinking episodically is good Lutheranism. 
“Don’t Lutherans believe in a new Adam or Eve emerging daily?”  Yes, it is essential to faith in Holy Baptism!   Recognizing that the past and future play a
role in shaping identity should never steal from the believer that fresh joy of
Christ. 

But now we can see what makes such joy possible.  The believer only comes to newness of life by trusting God’s trustworthiness over the sinner’s unreliability.  That is, it only comes by way of repentance, and that repentance is made possible only through trust in God’s mighty works and what they promise in the world to come.  Only through this intersection of the Biblical narrative and one’s personal narrative does the New Adam arise. 

I’m not writing these reflections to advocate a renewal of narrative preaching.  To the contrary, I agree with Long that the narrative preaching of the last century has probably enjoyed its heyday.  But consideration of how the church and its neighbors divide over one key aspect of narrative (time!) may help us speak the Gospel.  It may lead us to understand better why some people are not hearing us, and how we may overcome that divide with the good news that turns past, present, and future into a really good time.

Whoever said it, said it well:
without the absolution—“I forgive you all your sins for Jesus’
sake”—Lutheranism has no particular reason to exist.  Every issue of the Reformation, from
preaching and the sacraments to papal authority, revolved around the bedrock
confession that sinners receive mercy through Christ alone.  Luther put it clearly in the Large Catechism:
“Everything, therefore, in the Christian Church is ordered to the end that we
shall daily obtain there nothing but the forgiveness of sin” (Large Catechism,
The Creed).  Forgiveness is God’s
mission, and there is no clearer statement of it than the absolution.   If we want to talk renewal, both in the
Church and in society, it must begin with that justifying word.

For Jesus’ Sake

I see a video of prisoners in
Madagascar crowding around a Lutheran pastor for worship.  What brings them?  I imagine, perhaps wrongly, that they are
like the incarcerated men and women to whom my congregation has
ministered.  Some of them come because
they want a good word, while others are there to look good or because it’s a
break from the cell.  Despite such mixed motives,
they also come knowing something basic about the faith: it’s supposed to be
good for people with problems.  It’s
supposed to welcome people like them.  Why
do they think so?  Where could such a
rumor have started?  “I forgive you all
your sins for Jesus’ sake.”  The Holy
Spirit has fitted those words like a virus to the mixed up ideas and motives of
men.  It seeps through the cracks of all
our walls as a day-long conference on dismantling patriarchy never could.

But now I come to a church near you, the one that promises to welcome everyone.  I spend 65 minutes there trying to be invisible, as I’m on vacation and don’t feel social.  Yet where I usually fail at being invisible, something else succeeds at doing so perfectly well: “I forgive you.”  Where did it go?  Is it still around here somewhere?  Why, yes, it’s buried between two hard covers the color of a Thanksgiving relish, and it stayed there, too.  There was a lot of splashing about at the font — it’s the “Thanksgiving for Baptism,” the bulletin says — but no one ever heard what it’s all about.  Is renewal possible here? 

The absolution is the renewal, for both church and society, for several reasons.  First, it renews the church because it puts the church back where it belongs: in front of the empty tomb, facing the wide-open future that shines in the face of Christ.  Like the empty tomb, forgiveness doesn’t erase the past.  To the contrary, it carries the past forward — He’s still the man who died on the cross, wounds and all — but in such a way that this person with such a past may yet live, love, be worthy, and even rule.   What excitement!  What release! 

Lost in Jesus

So if we want to renew the church’s mind on the matter of sexual ethics, for example, then we need to start talking forgiveness into that subject.   That is, we must show more than how the New-Old Lies, with all their denial of family and creation, drift from the Biblical prescriptions.   We must also carry those prescriptions to their end and show how the New-Old Lies corrupt the proclamation of forgiveness.   Did Jesus die for this or that behavior?  If so, then He died to forgive it, and we must contend for such — Christ’s honor demands it.  “I cannot say it isn’t a sin, for then I would be stealing Christ’s glory from Him.  He died to forgive it, you see.  It’s in His hands, not yours or mine.”  The sin must get lost in Jesus somewhere between Gabbatha and the grave, preached as sunken into His flesh and buried with Him, so that it’s no longer God’s to condemn nor ours to practice.  It’s all on Jesus now—you can’t have it back! 

That kind of absolution-thinking keeps opening a new future to the same old past.  It disarms those who would make our debates a matter of old vs. new, letter vs. spirit, Pharisees vs. Jesus People (the binary couplings that even revisionists can’t kick, apparently), and turns our controverted subjects towards God’s mission, the speaking of the Gospel into every sin and circumstance.  Most importantly, it passes on the rumor that first spread like fire among the apostles: God’s in love with you, and isn’t counting sins against you.  This faith is good for us people with problems. It gives us a future with God and with each other and all of creation—“for wherever forgiveness is, there also are life and salvation” (Small Catechism, The Sacrament of the Altar).

Infectious Rumor of Mercy

Yet this absolution, coming from God, may renew things well beyond the church, because God’s goodness always seems to spill over its borders.  The absolution carries in itself more than a new future and a happy Lord.  It carries also the stamp of that Lord’s virtue and wholesome way.  To trust forgiveness is to trust patience and compassion—who can forgive a sinner without taking the time to sympathize with him?  And for Christians to trust and preach forgiveness is to trust and preach Christ crucified, the very picture of God “counting others better” than Himself (Philippians 2:3).  When that image and rumor of mercy start permeating Christians, and Christians start seeping into society and infecting it, they take that virtue and ethic with them.

I read a poll recently that said
most people think America stands on the brink of a civil war.  The sexes, too, are increasingly estranged,
as young people avoid dating either because they fear relationships or just
getting arrested and sued.  What we do as
children becomes national news and a cause for mockery or hate.  How can it be otherwise in a land that has
mostly stopped hearing absolution?  Roman
Catholics find they can commune just as well without it, and Protestants are
busy casting new visions for ministry or splashing at the font or running a
stewardship drive.  With the gradual
disappearance of absolution and its attendant preaching, so also fades the best
image we have of patience, compassion, humility, and the thirst for reconciliation—and
if absolution fades, can Lutheranism shine?

Renewal in Absolution

I include this latter reflection about
societal renewal because I know that cultural as well as churchly issues lie
heavy on the hearts of Lutheran CORE folk. 
I commend to you the thought that both society and church will find
their renewal in the absolution that we alone may speak: “I forgive you all
your sins for Jesus’ sake.”   Lose that absolution, and you lose the point
of being Lutheran.    Lutheranism is simply being God’s church, and
God’s church exists to preach and believe forgiveness.  Speaking, preaching, and believing it, for
sure, remain the priority.  Consider also
what the absolution teaches about God’s will for His creation and who you are
and what life really is, or how it delivers both righteousness and holiness of
living.  Any Christian or church could
benefit from such reflection on God’s most important word. 

And a good place to start might be,
you know, actually going to confession and hearing it.

Shortly after the ELCA’s vote to change the sexual standards for ordained ministers in 2009, a strong and unexpected wind knocked over the bell tower of Central Lutheran Church in Minneapolis, which was helping to host the churchwide assembly.  Many conservatives interpreted this stormy event as an act of God, expressing His displeasure with the vote.  Revisionists responded in kind, saying it was God unleashing divine joy at seeing an oppressive structure of yesteryear finally knocked over.  The whole thing was a good lesson in why Lutherans generally avoid seeking the clear will of God in natural occurrences.  The Word suffices.

2019 CWA

Now fast forward to the ELCA’s triennial churchwide assembly this past August in Milwaukee.  No tornado struck the Wisconsin Center where the voting members gathered, leaving the question of whether God approved or disapproved in serious doubt for theological interpreters of the jet stream.  In the end, though, no gust of wind was needed: the churchwide organization of the ELCA just may succeed in knocking over its own steeple. 

“We Are Church” was the assembly’s theme, as though the ELCA were trying to assure itself.  Probably, the theme developed under Presiding Bishop Elizabeth Eaton’s influence, part of her Sisyphean effort to remind the ELCA what sort of thing it actually is.  She almost elicited a crowd gasp when she asserted, in her report, that social concerns were “peripheral” to the Gospel and the preaching of Christ crucified and risen.  The assembly swallowed its gasp, though, having just overwhelmingly re-elected Eaton a bit earlier.  Is she being kept as a token sort-of-traditionalist?  If not, the rest of the assembly’s decisions would suggest that its voting members did not especially share her Christ-and-Gospel-centered vision.

You can read a summary of those decisions here.  I’m not going to re-hash them, as I only attended the assembly for a few days as Lutheran CORE’s observer, being pulled away for parish matters later in the week.  Suffice it to say, the decisions generally represent a socially-conscious array of All the Right (Left?) Things, with condemnations of patriarchy and white supremacy leading the charge.  A few celebrations were sprinkled here and there, a couple new and heresy-ish-sounding strategies, and one change in polity (the ordination of the diaconal office) that would have split the ELCA once upon a time but that barely received notice today.  All those things have already received a host of criticism, online and around the church.  But, in the end, they may not be a breeze that tips the campanile.

Not Much from Churchwide to ELCA Congregations

Through it all, one set of questions kept emerging for me: What is “churchwide ELCA” doing for the rest of the ELCA?  How is it positively affecting congregations?  Don’t read in those questions some sort of anti-institutional bent.  I tend to think that conservatives can be hampered in mission by their anti-institutionalism.   Institutions are dirt: good in some places, bad in others.  Use as necessary.  So of course a church should have some kind of office tending to lists and rosters and things.  But looking over the resolutions and memorials, and listening to the Presiding Bishop’s report, I was struck with how much of the direction was from the congregations to churchwide—please memorialize this, please authorize that–and so little flowed from churchwide back to the congregations.

To be sure, there were likely many congregations, pastors, and lay members who rejoiced at the ELCA’s decisions.  But beyond their rejoicing, how were even the supporters of the assembly’s “actions” seriously affected by them?  Many of the resolutions or memorials seemed simply to affirm things that were already happening locally.  Would any of them have stopped had the churchwide ELCA yawned at their affirmation?  In his rather interesting report, Secretary Boerger noted that less than 6% of the ELCA’s total offerings are headed towards the synods and churchwide offices.  Why, particularly, should there be more?  Does that dearth of offerings signal a sense in the ELCA generally that its synodical and churchwide expressions are—what?  Less than inspiring?               

God Has A Way of Sorting His Church

My point is this: as bad as doctrinal revision may be, it may not be the only reason why a denominational superstructure ends up shuttering its doors (or even the most significant reason). Recent studies have suggested that conservative and liberal Lutherans in America are both shrinking despite their doctrinal differences).  A different kind of decay, the natural mold of bureaucracy and vainglory, may prove equally if not more effective in toppling a tower once considered mighty by men.  For God has a way of sorting His Church, does He not?  He dispenses with what isn’t helping, though He may keep it around longer than we would suppose, simply to heap up glory for Himself on the last day.  

In the meantime, the ELCA’s churchwide actions, as outrageous as some have been, sparked about as much reaction from me as hearing that my fourth child has just shoved a green bean up his nose.  After a few rounds at that rodeo, every parent knows to pinch the opposite nostril and blow out the bean, the tiny action figure, the bead from a broken bracelet.  It’s a problem, but not one that will long endure.   Keep preaching, resisting, and directing the sheep to green pastures; tend the table faithfully; and then pinch your nostrils, carry on, and remember that the Holy Spirit is a wind who blows where He pleases.

Photos of the 2009 CWA are courtesy of Pr. Steve Shipman. Pr. Steven Gjerde took the photo of the 2019 CWA.

Editor’s Note: this article first appeared in the March 2019 edition of CORE Voice.

Lutheran CORE strives to be a voice and network for “confessing Lutherans.”  But just what is a confessing Lutheran?  People sometimes ask that question, and it deserves a good answer.

Historically, the terms “confessing” or “confessional” hearken back to the Lutheran confessions, or statements of doctrine, published in the Book of Concord in 1580.  These documents, which include writings by Martin Luther, his friend and colleague, Phillip Melanchthon, and their successors, have served as touchstones of Lutheran orthodoxy across place and time. 

Most if not every Lutheran pastor has vowed some kind of allegiance to this set of documents at ordination, and Lutheran laity will (hopefully) recognize one of its most beloved portions, Luther’s Small Catechism.  At the book’s very start stands perhaps its second most famous document, the Augsburg Confession.   This document was written by Melanchthon in 1530 to set forth the doctrine of the churches in Germany (the “evangelicals”) that had embraced Luther’s teachings.  For this reason it carries the label of confession: it publicly states, or confesses, what the evangelical Germans believed. 

This history brings us to a simple definition: confessing or confessional Lutherans are Lutherans who adhere to the teaching of the Book of Concord over against all doubts and doctrinal assaults.  They stand in line with those earliest confessors of the Lutheran church and say, “Our churches teach thus and so.”  Lutherans do disagree over the status of some of the writings in the Book of Concord (notably, the Formula of Concord), but all would agree that confessing or confessional describes a Lutheran’s fidelity to the contents of this book.

Digging a bit deeper, we may look at the term confess in light of Scripture.  There we find that the term most frequently connected with “confess” is the Greek term homologeō: “If you confess with your mouth that Jesus is Lord and believe in your heart that God raised him from the dead, you will be saved” (Romans 10:9).  The term used here and in similar passages is a simple combination of two words, logeō (to say or speak) and homo (same).  To confess is to “say the same thing.”  

A beloved Lutheran theologian named Norman Nagel expressed this aspect of confession in his description of Lutheran worship from 1982:

Our Lord speaks and we listen.  His Word bestows what it says.  Faith that is born from

what is heard acknowledges the gifts received with eager thankfulness and praise . . . .

Saying back to him what he has said to us, we repeat what is most true and sure.

(Lutheran Worship [St. Louis: CPH, 1982] page 6).

The Book of Concord and the churches that cherish it seek to confess or say the same thing that the Lord has said through His prophets and apostles, trusting that word to be “what is most true and sure.”  We could therefore say that confessing Lutherans say the same thing as the Lutheran confessors before them because those confessors said the same thing as God says in His word. 

One famous use of the term confessing comes from May 1934, when German Protestants, under the leadership of such men as Karl Barth and Martin Niemöller, adopted the Barmen Declaration, resisting the racist, Nazi-inspired “German Christian” movement.  The Declaration condemned the attempt of National Socialism to change church doctrine and dictate church polity in support of Hitler’s “Aryan” ideology.  Indeed, whenever the church resists changes to the doctrines of its Lord, it becomes a confessing church, saying what God has said over against all falsehood.

With churches across America struggling to know and believe what God has spoken, and with attempts at changing church doctrine multiplying daily, Lutheran CORE exists to support Lutherans engaged in this act of confession.  As the Danish pastor and hymnwriter, Nicholas S. Grundtvig, teaches us to sing,  

             God’s Word is our great heritage and shall be ours forever;
		to spread its light from age to age shall be our chief endeavor.
		Through life it guides our way, in death it is our stay.
		Lord, grant while worlds endure, we keep its teachings pure
		throughout all generations. 

May God grant us the strength to will and to do this good and loving work.

Lutheran CORE has sent a letter to ELCA Presiding Bishop Elizabeth Eaton as well as Bishops McCoid and Macholz asking them for a public response to the recent abortion decisions made in New York. Click here to read it.

“But the wisdom from above is first pure, then peaceable, gentle, open to reason, full of mercy and good fruits, impartial and sincere.”  (James 3:17)

My parents taught special education, and many of their students would come to our home years after graduating from high school to visit with my parents and let them know how things were going.  As I came to know those former students of my parents, I came to know how wise they were.

Many a man with a Ph.D. will argue with his neighbors and grumble that they deserve all their woes, yet many of my parents’ students would listen carefully even to a little kid like me and show compassion to the plight of others.  They had no high degrees or credentials, but they had the “wisdom from above” that James describes.

Ultimately, it’s the wisdom that became flesh and dwelt among us in Jesus Christ–it’s the wisdom of the cross!  Pure, peaceable, gentle, open to reason, full of mercy—what a blessing if such a life were found in every government, home, school, and neighborhood today!  Such wisdom comes less by learning and more by faith, the faith that welcomes the love of God and cherishes it—and for this faith we pray.

LET US PRAY: Lord, dear wisdom made flesh: make me wise as the magi were wise, kneeling at Your feet in worship and believing in Your reign, that Your own virtue and blessing would work through me for the sake of my neighbors; for You live and reign with the Father and Holy Spirit, one God now and forever.  Amen

Pastor Steven K. Gjerde

Zion, Wausau