The wheels keep turning...

My father died.

There is an entire set of encyclopedias within that statement.  And yet that is all I can really say or write.  Too much is too confusing and too complicated.

A month ago, I suffered a loss that still has me curled in a ball in the corner of my closet.  Figuratively if not so much literally anymore.  Two weeks following that, a text that I knew meant the end.  A day later, another text confirming my fear.

I personally believe that God moved heaven and earth so that I could go to my father's funeral service.  I am still not sure if going was right.  While there, my sister noted that this was probably the last time the three of us would ever be together, my brother, sister, and I.  I happen to believe that she is right.  For that reason alone, the physical and financial cost should be worth it.  I almost did not recognize her.  It has been so many years since I have seen her.

My father died and the wheels keep turning.  The sun rises and sets.  Buses carry children to and from school.  Roads are clogged with commuters.  My father died and nothing changed for the rest of the world. Nor, seemingly, has it been marked by his passing.

Fathers die every day.  With a world as full of human beings such as this one, fathers probably die hourly.  Fathers.  Mothers.  Sisters.  Brothers.  Aunts and uncles.  Husbands and wives.  Children.  Neighbors. Colleagues.  Classmates.  And the wheels keep turning.

I have not posted on the Snippets from the Christian Book of Concord blog in a while.  I did yesterday. It was the 200th one.

I have not posted there in a while because I am at the point where in this collection of excerpts some portions of our Confessions are tapped out.  The others, such as the Apology or the Formula Solid Declaration, have thoughts that need longer quotations to contain them.  So, I am unsure if I should continue.  After all, it is not as if the blog has many readers.  I think, in fact, I might be the only one using the labels to search for topics.  I regret not, though, the labor in creating it.

Just as I regret not the labor in creating the Praying the Psalter blog.  That I know is not much visited, nor useful as a tool for anyone, given the stats I see.  I did discover that Blogger only allows for 20 labels per blog entry.  Some of the psalms in the Psalter are so rich and so complex that choosing just 20 labels is brutal.  In fact, I wonder if I am committing an egregious perfidy against the Psalter in so doing.  Truly, I do.

In any case, other than my sweet and kind Facebook friend who "likes" nearly everything I post as a way of saying, "I see you, Myrtle." I am not sure many of my few friends are even reading the psalms I post there.  That's okay, though, too.  I enjoy typing them out.  And in so doing I have discovered things I have forgotten, already, about my beloved Psalter, such as what I posted the other day about Psalm 15.

In any case,  I am in caught in this maelstrom of doubt and certitude, of revelation and secrets, that has me wondering what is true, what is real.  I have grave and serious concerns about my being at my father's service because of where it was held, because of the theology preached, proclaimed, sung.  Those worries and fears are knotted up in great tangles with other worries and fears and thoughts and feelings.

Yesterday, I think, a pastor on Facebook posted the following:

You know them ... they have never been robbed of the Gospel, or seen others robbed of the Gospel. They have never gone to church Sunday after Sunday and not heard that their sins are forgiven, not heard the forgiveness denied amidst the Supper ... they look at those who have been bludgeoned to death with the law as mere enemies of the Gospel, not souls for whom Christ died. They express it in a flippant manner. And, in an odd way, this does not allow them to know the seriousness of the law, which they ignorantly try to apply to others. Theology, for them, is a zero sum game.

For a guy who gets many "likes" for his posts, this was largely ignored.  And yet it was rather timely for me.  So, as I am wont to do, I stood rather naked on Facebook in my responses to his post.  First I wrote:

I sort of thought this might have dozens of "likes" by now. Part of what you write here is why my father's funeral service was so difficult, a difficulty that caught me off guard. It was not so much the female minister, but all the things that were being proclaimed and all the nodding of heads.

Sometimes, I am criticized as not wanting the Law, which is not true. To me, to the ex-evangelical me, the most beautiful part of the pure doctrine is the second article of the Augsburg Confession. It freed me from trying to establish/enlarge/deepen/secure my relationship with Jesus, to be responsible for my saving faith. So, starting from that understanding, from knowing that I cannot fear or love or trust God without the gift of faith, I think the Christian Book of Concord has helped me understand the Law better. But I am weary of being bludgeoned by it (awesome word there), so even the tiniest whiff of Law woven into Gospel makes me recoil and want to run and hide. Yet I also want to scream and shout that Christ crucified is NOT about what we do with our lives and in our worship.

I admit that I do not understand the phrase "zero sum game," but I do think that I understand the whole of it. I mean, I stand back and watch, over and over and over again, people with the pure doctrine cast it aside and chase after myriad theologies that are basically all veneers over the same error: works righteousness. In a way, I have come to think that some Lutherans are rather masterful at veneering works righteousness, giving specious teaching that can be compelling in its logic and use of doctrinal phrasing.

Each day that passes I realize more and more how little Gospel I heard in 31 years in the mainline evangelical church. I grieve for those brothers and sisters in Christ. But I grieve, too, for those who have it and yet hold it in in such disregard ... or who had it and walked away.

I admit, confess rather, that when I see so many chasing after relevancy and harmony and personal holiness and ways to sanctified living ... so many ... I begin to doubt what I read in the Christian Book of Concord and even in the Bible. I doubt because I cannot understand how one could read the pure doctrine and then fiercely defend such blatant false teaching. I don't understand how the Christian faith has become a means to correct, to fix, to save society or culture. I really don't.

So I wonder what I am missing.

Thanks for the post. 

His response, among other things, was that perhaps we are the only two on Facebook who have lived without the Gospel.

I bared myself further:

You know, I find such solace in the Confessions (as I have written probably too much), each and every time they speak of anguished souls and those needing comfort and consolation, those burdened, even terrified, when they consider their sin. The authors write as if such are the norm or at least not unusual at all and the authors write that they (that I) are the very reason for the Gospel. So, it is sweet, very sweet. I understand fully why the psalmist writes that the Word of God is sweeter than honey. If you put a dollop in your mouth and taste that explosion of exquisite sweetness and then think that Gospel message is even sweeter, even more, well, then you can become overwhelmed.

I want never to go back, never to be embattled on all sides with the constant and cruel condemnation of the Law. Only, when I read those who still hold it out as being a part of the living of the Gospel somehow, I think that the Gospel is so sweet, so overwhelming in grace and mercy because I wanted it to be. I think that what I read in the Psalter, the compassion and intimate knowledge of my heart and soul, of my mind and body, of my failings and desires, is only there because somehow I am putting it there.

I think, surely, our Triune God could not be this good. It shames me, but I do.

But I also know, wholly and fully and deeply, that I cannot fulfill the Law or please God or earn merit. I know, like I know the sky is blue and the grass is green, that nothing in me is good, that the kind or merciful things I do are not of me or from me but from the Holy Spirit. I know this because I cannot hide from my heart and my mind, I cannot deny the less-than-kind or less-than-merciful thoughts to flit through me even as I am serving my neighbor.

Even so, I hear and read such passioned calls to live this way, worship that way, where the freedom of the Gospel is limited not by mercy or compassion, but by rules for living in every facet of life. I see such fierce fighting for those strictures and not for the sole and completeness of Christ crucified, not for the sole and completeness of the work of the Holy Spirit. I see how I am to help the Holy Spirit along in His work and despair creeps in, doubt begins to take root.

For, as I said before, how could God be this good?

Okay, so the weak and weary co-opted your post. But just as the Confessions help me to feel less lonely and more likely to possibly be a part of the Body of Christ, so also do your words. I see not the sharpness of the pen; I see the grief driving it across the page (or the fingertips across the keyboard).

Grief of the losing of the Gospel ... on all sides.

Then I went to the BOC and flipped it open.  Where I landed, after skimming a bit, was the post I made to the Snippets blog:

They also cite the daily sacrifice. Just as there was a daily sacrifice in the Law, so the Mass should be a daily sacrifice of the New Testament. The adversaries have made out well if we allow ourselves to be overcome by allegories. Clearly allegories do not produce firm proof. We readily allow the Mass to be understood as a daily sacrifice, as long as that includes the entire Mass: the ceremony with the preaching of the Gospel, faith, invocation, and thanksgiving. Joined together, these are a daily sacrifice of the New Testament because the ceremony of the Mass, or the Lord's Supper, was set up because of these things. The Mass is not to be separated from them. So Paul says, "For as often as you eat this bread and drink the cup, you proclaim the Lord's death until He comes" (I Corinthians 11:26). But it cannot be shown from this Levitical type that a ceremony justifying by the outward work (ex opere operato) is necessary, or should be applied on behalf of others, that it may merit the forgiveness of sins for them.

The type represents appropriately not only the ceremony, but also the preaching of the Gospel. In Numbers 28:4-8, three parts of that daily sacrifice are represented: the burning of the lamb, the drink offering, and the offering of wheat flour. The Law had pictures or shadows of future things. So Christ and the entire worship of the New Testament are shown in this picture. The burning of the lamb illustrates Christ's death. The drink offering illustrates that everywhere in the entire world, by the preaching of the Gospel, believers are sprinkled with the blood of that Lamb, that is, sanctified. Peter says, "In the sanctification of the Spirit, for obedience to Jesus Christ and for sprinkling with His blood" (I Peter 1:2). The offering of wheat flour means faith, prayer, and thanksgiving in hearts. Therefore, in the Old Testament, the shadow is discerned. In the New, the thing illustrated should be sought, and not another type, as sufficient for a sacrifice.

Although a ceremony is a memorial of Christ's death, it alone is not the daily sacrifice. The memory itself is the daily sacrifice, that is, preaching and faith. Faith truly believes that, by Christ's death, God has been reconciled. A drink offering is required, that is, the effect of preaching, in order that, being sprinkled by the Gospel with the blood of Christ, we may be sanctified, as those put to death and made alive. Offerings are also required, that is, thanksgiving, confession, and troubles.
~BOC, AP, XXIV (XII), 35-38

I could write for hours, days really, even if my brain were not compromised in the least, about hearing the Gospel as like being sprinkled with Christ's blood that the Holy Spirit might sanctify me.  Such hope there ... and such peace.  But it was the last sentence that has caught and held me, wrapped itself around me to dampen the effects of being buffeted about:  Offerings are also required, that is, thanksgiving, confession, and troubles.

Thank you, God, for sending your Son to save me and the Holy Spirit to sanctify me and give me faith.

Thank you, God, for doing this, for daily and richly forgiving this wretched, despairing, doubtful, sinner.

Thank you, God, for tending to my brokenness even when my wounds keep me from crying out for help.

Perhaps you might take a different stance on the latter.  Perhaps you read it not as I did: "Offerings are also required, that is, thanksgiving, confession, and (the) troubles (you bring to Me to carry)."  Maybe you read it not as John 16:33, but perhaps as Romans 5:3-4.  Oh, how the latter passage has troubled me!

I read the former as a promise.  Christ tells his disciples that they will be scattered each to his home and that they will leave Jesus alone, but that He would not actually be alone because God the Father was always with Him.  Then Christ added:  "These things I have spoken to you, that in Me you may have peace.  In the world you have tribulation, but take courage; I have overcome the world."

Not, in the world you might have tribulation but that you have it.  Period.  End of story.  No doubt there.  To live in Christ is not to live in the world; oh, how the world doesn't like it if you disagree with it.  But really He is merely reminding them, I believe, that the world is fallen.  The world is filled with sin.  Including its occupants.  So tribulation is part and parcel to life in this world.

I read John 16:33 as a promise and an offer of hope, of blinding light flashing across a darkened world, reminding it that it cannot overcome because it has already been overcome.  And I think about all the dozens and dozens and dozens of times in the Psalter where we are given the words to pray:  Call upon Me ... I will hear you ... I will answer you ... and all variations thereof.  All with the same certitude and lack of qualification.  Not I might answer, but I will.  Not call upon me if you are righteous or if you have been following the Law or if you been a good little girl.  Just call.  I will hear you.  I will answer.  Call because I know you have troubles in your life.

Is there any Gospel sweeter than all that is contained in John 16:33?

I read the latter passage as condemnation.  I read Romans 5:3-4 and I tremble and shake; I become filled with failure and shame.

And not only this, but we also exult in our tribulations, knowing that tribulation bring about perseverance; and perseverance, proven character; and proven character, hope; and hope does not disappoint, because of the love of God has been poured out within our hearts through the Holy Spirit who was given to us.

Oh, the weight of that passage!  It fells me each and every time I hear it read, hearkening back to all the teaching I have heard about how I am to work out my faith by following the instructions of this passage.  All the ways in which I am to rejoice as I suffer and work on my character and such and be able to demonstrate the great hope I have.  You know, the suffering saint.  The suffering saint who is such a good witness for Christ that others might come to know Him.  The suffering saint whose light shines so brightly that all know that Jesus is God.

But, as I think on that bit from the Apology, and how all the pure doctrine boils down to Christ crucified, I wonder ... dare I type it??? ... I wonder if the character that is proved, resulting in hope, is not my character, but Christ's.  Could it be?

Oh, Lord, let it be!

My father died.  And the wheels keep turning.  The world moved on while I am still there, in that moment.  In the moment I heard of my first loss. In the moment I read the text.  In the moment I realized I knew nothing about my father.  In the moment I heard a Gospel foreign to that which I have been clinging these past three and half years, surrounded by all of those nodding heads and believing hearts.

I am no suffering saint.  In fact, it seems to me the more I try to be the less I am.  And the more I suffer the more I am but a huddled mass of human misery too weak and weary even to voice the cry of her soul to God.

I have no great character.  In fact, the more of I learn of me, the more I realize how flawed and sinful I am, how nothing I do is free from some sort of pride or greed or self-pity or doubt or frustration or any number of the facets sin takes in my life.

I have no hope in me, of me.  Any time I hear the slightest bit of what I should be doing, how I should be living my life, I recoil in terror and shame so great I become paralyzed.  All I really want to hear is ... as I have written ... it is okay.

It is okay that you are a sinner.

It is okay that your character is dross.

It is okay that you have no hope.

All you are required to offer is thanksgiving for Christ crucified, for His faith given to you, His character proved into hope great enough, pure enough, strong enough for all of creation.

It is okay that you have troubles.  They ... they are your offerings, which I gladly receive, for that is what I am given to do as your Father, your Creator, the One who loves you.  Even now.  Even this day.

Even when you cannot believe the wheels are turning for everyone else ... and you are hurt and angry that they are.

Lord, I believe. Help my unbelief!