Floyd the dog has a 3 year old Border Collie friend named Layla, who lives with her people in the next building over in our apartment complex. He has figured out where. Recently, on our circuits of the parking lot, he has started pausing outside her building and trying to encourage me to do the same. He has also learned the sound of a door opening and insists on waiting to see just who will emerge. (He has a long memory for people who have scratched his ears, not to mention, it could be Layla.)
All this strikes me as a coherent if unsettling mix of endearing and creepy, until I recognized that I used to/would still do the same thing in Mueller Hall, Huegli Hall, the Valpo Chapel, the Duke Chapel, the Langford basement, the Langford sub-basement...
Thursday, July 22, 2010
Thursday, March 18, 2010
The Perception of the Lutheran Church-Missouri Synod at a Pretty Okay American Divinity School
Just in case anybody was wondering.
The back-story: making broad sweeps in my History of Modern European Christianity class, we touched on the "Confessional Awakening" that accompanied Lutherans' 19th-century emigration to America. The awakening bit was defined as follows, that these sojourners were arriving at the view that the Lutheran Church was the best model among churches because it possessed the fullest truth of Christianity. Then, the comment was made, "Now... If anyone knows anything about the Lutheran Church-Missouri Synod..."
In case you were wondering. Yes, people know about us. Here's what we've taught them.
In an era when the question carries particular force as well as open-endedness, "What does it mean to be a Methodist/Episcopalian/Baptist/Presbyterian/Lutheran today?" the LCMS cuts a figure as a church body that does a fine and thorough and admirable job of building confessional identity among its member congregations. This is directly a result carried over from that sense of confessional awakening, which expounds upon the belief that Lutheranism (later, LCMS Lutheranism) is the purest and fullest truth of Christian doctrine and practice. The other direct result to carry over from that sentiment, and so the other inevitable aspect of that figure the LCMS cuts in the imagination of our fellow pilgrims, is elitism, exclusivity, and pride.
In other words, as a church body, the Lutheran Church-Missouri Synod is known for knowing who it is. And claiming that identity, often in very harmful ways.
Now maybe that confessional elitism reading sounds implausible to you. Maybe you think close communion practices and the marginalization of women and homosexuals within the denomination are harmless idiosyncrasies, part of being "conservative," or maybe you think it's right. You'll be happy to know I made the case (since I have some experience with this), that there are LCMS pastors out there who have no investment in this confessional awakening hooey and have as their priority simply ministering to their people, to the best of their abilities. There are wonderful examples of this mentality; my pastor in Florida is one of them.
And now let me lay out the other side.
When I was in high school my LCMS congregation decided to revisit and reviatalize its Christian practice of hospitality. Part of this involved swelling the lists of congregation members who would serve as ushers or greeters. That's where I got pulled in; and that's where I had the opportunity to hear a pastor (he's no longer there) describe our intention thusly: We were there to welcome people to a church that would be good for them. We already had the best theology; now we were going to show them we were loving, too.
Kind of sounds like my class notes: "the Lutheran church as the best model among churches because it possessed the fullest truth of Christianity."
This is not the isolated view of a single clergyman. It's being taught at the seminary. Once, when I thought St. Louis might condescend to let me study there for a masters of divinity, I wrote to them that my desire to apply stemmed from my desire to be formed by their standards for the exposition of scripture and Christian doctrine. The reply came, informing me that part of what made their standards for the exposition of scripture and Christian doctrine so great, so in possession of the fullest truth, was the exclusion of people like me from that degree program. (That would be women.)
All that's to say, when the comment came up in class, what most struck me was not the fact that other denominations pay attention to us. Just that they've paid enough attention to know us quite so well.
The back-story: making broad sweeps in my History of Modern European Christianity class, we touched on the "Confessional Awakening" that accompanied Lutherans' 19th-century emigration to America. The awakening bit was defined as follows, that these sojourners were arriving at the view that the Lutheran Church was the best model among churches because it possessed the fullest truth of Christianity. Then, the comment was made, "Now... If anyone knows anything about the Lutheran Church-Missouri Synod..."
In case you were wondering. Yes, people know about us. Here's what we've taught them.
In an era when the question carries particular force as well as open-endedness, "What does it mean to be a Methodist/Episcopalian/Baptist/Presbyterian/Lutheran today?" the LCMS cuts a figure as a church body that does a fine and thorough and admirable job of building confessional identity among its member congregations. This is directly a result carried over from that sense of confessional awakening, which expounds upon the belief that Lutheranism (later, LCMS Lutheranism) is the purest and fullest truth of Christian doctrine and practice. The other direct result to carry over from that sentiment, and so the other inevitable aspect of that figure the LCMS cuts in the imagination of our fellow pilgrims, is elitism, exclusivity, and pride.
In other words, as a church body, the Lutheran Church-Missouri Synod is known for knowing who it is. And claiming that identity, often in very harmful ways.
Now maybe that confessional elitism reading sounds implausible to you. Maybe you think close communion practices and the marginalization of women and homosexuals within the denomination are harmless idiosyncrasies, part of being "conservative," or maybe you think it's right. You'll be happy to know I made the case (since I have some experience with this), that there are LCMS pastors out there who have no investment in this confessional awakening hooey and have as their priority simply ministering to their people, to the best of their abilities. There are wonderful examples of this mentality; my pastor in Florida is one of them.
And now let me lay out the other side.
When I was in high school my LCMS congregation decided to revisit and reviatalize its Christian practice of hospitality. Part of this involved swelling the lists of congregation members who would serve as ushers or greeters. That's where I got pulled in; and that's where I had the opportunity to hear a pastor (he's no longer there) describe our intention thusly: We were there to welcome people to a church that would be good for them. We already had the best theology; now we were going to show them we were loving, too.
Kind of sounds like my class notes: "the Lutheran church as the best model among churches because it possessed the fullest truth of Christianity."
This is not the isolated view of a single clergyman. It's being taught at the seminary. Once, when I thought St. Louis might condescend to let me study there for a masters of divinity, I wrote to them that my desire to apply stemmed from my desire to be formed by their standards for the exposition of scripture and Christian doctrine. The reply came, informing me that part of what made their standards for the exposition of scripture and Christian doctrine so great, so in possession of the fullest truth, was the exclusion of people like me from that degree program. (That would be women.)
All that's to say, when the comment came up in class, what most struck me was not the fact that other denominations pay attention to us. Just that they've paid enough attention to know us quite so well.
Thursday, January 7, 2010
Some dogs go to Hell, and I remember I'm Lutheran
Shortly before I left Florida, a cold front swept through, dropping temperatures and kicking up winds and giving Holly the idea that we should fritter away an afternoon flying kites. So Saturday found us crossing the vast parking lot at my mother's apartment complex for an open field across the street -- 'us' here including Holly, Holly's dog Molly (a two year old spaniel), our mom, me.
Rounding the dumpsters, we heard before we saw, "KILLER! NO! STOP! KILLER!" Given that those particular verbal signifiers might signify any among a great range of content, we immediately actualized the worst possible reality when a pitbull crossed with something meaner and then named "Killer" charged around the corner, chain dragging uselessly behind him.
All of us used to dogs that are not monsters, we watched for a split second that lasted its proverbial eternity while the pitbull continued on its merry way to Molly's neck. The spaniel yelped and twisted, the pitbull dropped her, and before he could have second thoughts I'd moved in, kneed him in the jaw and stepped on his chain. Neutralized. (Just picture Liam Neeson in Taken. That was me.) Mom scooped up the spaniel, the owner came and collected "Killer." We flew kites.
In other news, chief among the virtues of a position in any church's back pew is proximity to the liturgist who mutters to her acolyte minions "Time to rock and roll," over the opening strains of the processional hymn. I was recently delighted by this, so much so, that by the time I'd sufficiently recovered, the entire assembly was looking at me. Then I remembered, "Ah yes, this is a Lutheran church and we do that here," and I, too, turned to face the processional cross.
Rounding the dumpsters, we heard before we saw, "KILLER! NO! STOP! KILLER!" Given that those particular verbal signifiers might signify any among a great range of content, we immediately actualized the worst possible reality when a pitbull crossed with something meaner and then named "Killer" charged around the corner, chain dragging uselessly behind him.
All of us used to dogs that are not monsters, we watched for a split second that lasted its proverbial eternity while the pitbull continued on its merry way to Molly's neck. The spaniel yelped and twisted, the pitbull dropped her, and before he could have second thoughts I'd moved in, kneed him in the jaw and stepped on his chain. Neutralized. (Just picture Liam Neeson in Taken. That was me.) Mom scooped up the spaniel, the owner came and collected "Killer." We flew kites.
In other news, chief among the virtues of a position in any church's back pew is proximity to the liturgist who mutters to her acolyte minions "Time to rock and roll," over the opening strains of the processional hymn. I was recently delighted by this, so much so, that by the time I'd sufficiently recovered, the entire assembly was looking at me. Then I remembered, "Ah yes, this is a Lutheran church and we do that here," and I, too, turned to face the processional cross.
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