Farewell to Hallelujah

SHROVE TUESDAY. . . . At Vespers today – or at the services last Sunday – the church sang the last Hallelujah, and Lent began. . . . From time immemorial the Hallelujah has been omitted from the services of the Church during the season dedicated to the remembrance of the Passion of our Lord. . . . The last Hallelujah dies away in chapel and cathedral, and while the echo still lingers among the rafters, the violet paraments of sorrow are placed upon the altar. . . . It will be Easter morning before the Hallelujah is heard again. . . .IMG_2227b

     There is wisdom in this. . . . It is another and profound difference between the Church and the world. . . . The world never willingly abandons joy. . . . Her votaries hang on to happiness with all the strength they have – until, inevitably, it is taken away from them. . . . They have forgotten that the line of life must sometimes go down into the darkness of sorrow. . . . It is never easy, but it is a great deal better to go down willingly than to be driven down like a slave. . . . To give up joy by the strength of Him who gave up heaven is a part of the way by which joy and heaven will return. . . . Easter can come only to the heart that has known Lent. . . .

     The shadow which clings to all earthly good when it is seen in the light of faith is inevitable. . . . Because of this the Christian view of life appears so much darker than the pagan – checkered with a darkness the more intense the brighter the light of faith shines upon it. . . . But the farewell to Hallelujah, though necessary, is only temporary. . . . It springs from the strong compulsions of the dust from which we came and the stronger compulsions of the everlasting mercy which lifted us from that dust. . . . When all is said and done, Christianity is a religion of deeper gladness just because it is a religion of deeper fear and greater sorrow. . . . The Cross remains the world climax of divine and human sorrow, ineffably distant and ineffably close, the sorrow of sin and the pain of man’s long and lonely separation from God. . . .

     So it is good that our Hallelujahs are silent for a little time. . . . In their stead appear the crown of thorns, the drops of blood, the way of mourning, the five wounds, and the sound of our hands driving nails. . . . And on Easter Morn our returning Hallelujahs will say that our Lord arose and ascended into heaven, that He is now the King of Glory, who has given us a share in both His suffering and His victory, in His passion and His power, in His former pain and His present peace. . . .

O. P. Kretzmann, THE PILGRIM, 1944, Concordia Publishing House.  Originally published in The Cresset.

getting back to normal

My Grandpa Baker died on June 3.

We buried him on June 8.

His estate sale is done, and the remnants went to auction.

The keys to his duplex have been turned over.

Only a few details remain.

Everything can go back to normal now.

For about two months I made the most of my time in order to spend as much of it with him as I could.  I crammed my workweek into less than four days so I could get to where he was by Thursday afternoon.  But there are no more Thursday afternoons.  I am no longer a caretaker.  My time is left to me to do what I will with it.

There is time enough to afford an extra fifteen minutes in the morning to commute to work by bicycle, and and extra thirty in the evening to get back home again.  There is enough time to do some chores I’ve put off, like cleaning out my storage unit.  All that stuff I’ve been dragging around, saying I was going to sell it on Ebay?  I’ve got most of it listed.  My laundry is not just washed, it is also folded and put away.  I even made venison stew for supper, which required a monumental commitment of time since a whopping nine ingredients were involved, and most of them required cutting up.  Yes, now that one of those unavoidable sad and bad parts of life is over, everything is getting back to normal, and everything is good.

Except it isn’t.  This world is still pretty rotten.

It’s funny how we look back on a year and say it was good or bad.  From my perspective, 2009 was a good year – my nephew was born.  ’10 was bad – Mom got sick.  ’11 was a good year – another nephew was born!  ’12 was pretty much awesome – my brother got married.  But ’13 is shaping up to be a tough haul, and it’s only half over.  People die, people are still sick, churches split, brother is set against brother, disasters strike, accidents happen, healthy people are killed in the course of their work, perversion abounds, and the list goes on.  All of it is simply what happens in a broken world, in a world in which people sin because they are sinners, in a world in which creation groans under the curse.  It’s messy and dirty and painful out there, but it is still better than we deserve, sinful sinning sinners that we are.

People want to comfort you in your pain.  All of them mean very well, and their comforts usually take some form of one of the stock phrases hauled out for this purpose.  One I heard was, “Well, everyone dies!”  I thought, Not permanently!  If you think death is permanent, your sense of time is rather short!  A more common one is, “Well, he’s in a better place now.”  And I wanted to reply, Only half of him is!  We had to bury the other part!  Finally, there is the ubiquitous “Well, he had a good long life.”  By the point of this utterance, I’m almost bursting to shout, He still has!

It isn’t normal that we had to bury Grandpa.  It isn’t normal that he has to wait.  It isn’t normal that we suffer and die.

Do you want to know what normal is?  You can see it, in a way.  You can actually hear it. You can even taste it.  Eternal life isn’t so much a place, as it is a Person.  He comes to His people with the words “Drink of it, all of you; this cup is the new testament in My blood, which is shed for you for the forgiveness of sins.”  He comes in the faithful reading and preaching of His Word.  He comes in the absolution.  He comes in ordinary water with the words “I baptize you in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit.”

It’s just a foretaste, but it is still eternal.  And it’s entirely normal, right now.

 For I consider that the sufferings of this present time are not worth comparing with the glory that is to be revealed to us. For the creation waits with eager longing for the revealing of the sons of God. For the creation was subjected to futility, not willingly, but because of him who subjected it, in hope that the creation itself will be set free from its bondage to corruption and obtain the freedom of the glory of the children of God. For we know that the whole creation has been groaning together in the pains of childbirth until now. And not only the creation, but we ourselves, who have the firstfruits of the Spirit, groan inwardly as we wait eagerly for adoption as sons, the redemption of our bodies. For in this hope we were saved. Now hope that is seen is not hope. For who hopes for what he sees? But if we hope for what we do not see, we wait for it with patience.

Romans 8:18-25, ESV

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This painting was on the wall of every house my Grandma and Grandpa Baker lived in during my lifetime.  It now hangs here on my wall, which is really too small for it.  It reminds me of them.  It reminds me of the hymn in the previous post.  And in that way it reminds me of my Comfort.IMG_5880b

. . . when sorrows, like sea billows, roll . . .

Like sea billows indeed, these days . . .  Tonight, this hymn is on my mind.

 

When peace, like a river, attendeth my way;

When sorrows, like sea billows, roll;

Whatever my lot, Thou hast taught me to say,

It is well, it is well with my soul.

It is well with my soul,

It is well, it is well with my soul.

 

Though Satan should buffet, though trials should come,

Let this blest assurance control,

That Christ hath regarded my helpless estate

And hath shed His own blood for my soul.

It is well with my soul,

It is well, it is well with my soul.

 

He lives – oh, the bliss of this glorious thought;

My sin, not in part, but the whole,

Is nailed to His cross, and I bear it no more.

Praise the Lord, praise the Lord, O my soul!

It is well with my soul,

It is well, it is well with my soul.

 

And, Lord, haste the day when our faith shall be sight,

The clouds be rolled back as a scroll,

The trumpet shall sound and the Lord shall descend;

Even so it is well with my soul.

It is well with my soul,

It is well, it is well with my soul.

 

 

When Peace, like a River, Lutheran Service Book 763

 

falling asleep

These days I go about life with one primary objective: Thursday afternoon.

My workweek begins on Monday at 7 am.  I am fortunate to have an employer that permits me to do my job at hours that suit me.  By Thursday at 11 am, I have completed my 40 hours for the week, and I hit the road for Mom & Dad’s, 99 miles away.  That is where Grandpa is.  I usually get there by one in the afternoon, and that is where I stay until Sunday evening, when I drive north again to do my job the next week.

So I do everything else in order to get here on Thursday, and relieve some of the burden on the rest of the house who gives care seven days a week.  It is my great privilege to watch over Grandpa two nights a week, taking my turn on the sofa opposite his bed in the living room.  Dad takes two nights a week there when I am gone, and the other three are covered by people from outside the house.  Tonight is one of those.

The outside is nearly as still as possible.  My bedroom window has been open for two hours, but the air has not changed.  Nothing stirs.  Strange that amid the exhaustion of the routine, tonight is the night I cannot sleep, the night when I have my chance.  Strange that I cannot sleep as Grandpa cannot stay awake, preparing and being prepared to fall asleep in Christ.  He is tired – 33,000 days of tired.  Perhaps two handfuls remain.  His Old Adam has been under water for 65 years, and the sentence pronounced so long ago is almost carried out.

Music plays most of the time in his room.  Usually it is country western for this old cowboy, a 15-hour loop of classic hits from Hank Williams, Tammy Wynette, George Jones, Loretta Lynn, Willie Nelson, Johnny Cash, Alabama and the like.  But most concerns of this world don’t concern Grandpa as much anymore – only one foot stands here I suppose.  And so the last evening, these songs of heartbreak, cheating, and loneliness were traded out for the 24/7 stream from Lutheran Public Radio.  The songs that sing of fallout and consequences of sin are now replaced with the Alleluias he will sing with the greatest choir ever.  The Te Deum comes in over the speakers in the middle of the night.  Grandpa probably doesn’t know its name, but he has sung it before in his low, gravelly voice that scoops and slides to all the notes.  Too soon for me, he will sing it better than I ever can here.

So too, the familiar sounds of the gospel music playlist are used a little less.  When one song asks, “What will you choose? Heaven or Hell?” I cringe a little.  Should doubt be cast in his mind?  Why would this be asked of a man who already has 100% certainty of salvation on account of Christ’s death for his sins and Christ’s righteousness that enrobes him?  In addition to the human eyes that watch tonight, there are those of His holy angel that watch to ensure that the evil one has no power over him until such time as his Master calls.

So too, time and space have lost their usefulness.  There is no need of hours or minutes.  Even day and night are little matter.  It seems to be one continuum that goes on forever, yet somehow unmetered.  Time works different on the other side, but I don’t know exactly how, and it doesn’t really matter.  Meanwhile, I count the minutes here between three and four.

I’m not OK with death.  Death is not good.  Death is not a part of life.  Death is not a rescue from temporal pain.  Death is not a gift.  Death is not a friend.  And death is not natural, except in a broken nature such as ours is.  But what death is for the Christian, is temporary.

When I tell people about Grandpa, they usually ask how old he is.  When I say, “91,” they usually reply, “Well, he’s had a good life.”  It is as if all that there is to live for is what has already happened, and that spent, it is all over.  It is as if his great fortune was in a long number of years.  I want to say, “No, he has a good life!”  He’s already had a good life for nearly seven decades and it goes on eternally!  It doesn’t start when he gets to heaven.  It doen’t start only when he goes to his Lord’s side.  No, until then, his Lord comes to him in with and under the bread and wine, in the absolution, and in the Word.  He is baptized!

Yes, it is rough going here, especially for Grandpa.  And caretakers say this is the hardest part of being a caretaker, these two handfuls.  But I don’t mind it because Grandpa is a Christian.  I would have a difficult time of caring for a non-Christian because apart from Christ there is no hope of salvation.  But I know that Grandpa will be waiting the resurrection there as we do here, waiting for the final fulfillment of all His promises.  And on Sunday, when we sing with all the heavenly host, “Holy, Holy Holy!” that means Grandpa too.

So please forgive my one-track-mind, and forgive me if I write about Grandpa a few more times.  After all, these days I live for Thursday afternoon, but Grandpa lives forever.

A chaplain in a whiteout, a mortar, a boulder, water and the Word, and some neighbors

To most people, Grandpa’s stories of his service in World War II are just war stories.  He will tell about how he was a marksman.  He will tell about the weapon he used, an M1 Garand, and how he preferred 12- and 6-round clips over the larger 18-round clips.  He will tell of the service dogs used in his unit.  He will rattle off some of the places he was: Salerno, Naples, Leghorn, Monte Cassino, Mt. Belvedere, Venus, Brenner Pass, and lower Austria.  But until the last fifteen years, he didn’t tell much.  He didn’t like to talk about it, and that is understandable – PFC James Baker was a marksman in the middle of a horrible war.  But as he began to tell more, it became clear that to him, the story was not just of the war.

His parents were not Christians.  A neighbor had taken him to church, but that was it.  The war was when he became a Christian.  The story is rich, the scope wide, and many of its branches are only glanced at and passed by here.

+++

A story he told long ago was of when he was in a meadow, and enemy tanks were advancing to his position.  He began to dig a foxhole, but found that where he had been digging, there was also a massive boulder that was too large to move, and there was no way to dig around.  The hole was not deep enough, and the tanks were too close to begin a new hole.  He had nowhere to go.  He blacked out.  When he awoke, the tanks had already passed, he was in the hole, and the boulder was lying in the meadow.

+++

I . . . might tell you how I found the Lord.  That was, I always believed in the Lord and the things that He done for me, but I was over in Italy one early morning.  A German barrage of mortar shells come in.  Usually the first one falls short of it’s target, the second one goes just beyond the target, and the third one is usually dead on.  There was a man ahead of me on a little trail, myself, and a man behind me, and we were about 30 foot apart and we were on a hillside.  The first shell came in below us and it didn’t hurt us because it spread out below.  The second one came in, it come above us, we were lying down and all the shrapnel came out over the top.  The third one come in and it lit in the trail just ahead of me, close enough that it cracked the ground back to where I laid, and it did not go off.  It was what we called a dud.  And a dud seldom ever happened in a German mortar shell.  And knowing that that was . . . my life was handed to me by God from that point.

+++

I had a gold leaf bible carried in my pocket all the time, a little bitty guy. Whatever happened to that, I have no idea, but I would give just about anything to be able to carry it again, but whatever happened to it, who knows . . . it got hit with a bullet, and it saved my life, because with that little metal bounding on it, it kept the bullet from going through into my body . . . I had a great big black spot there where that little bible was, but it got over it.

The bible had been worn over his heart.

+++

It was my sister who thought to ask, “When did you become a Christian?”

“Do you know what a whiteout is?” came the reply.  He beckoned to Poppy, the dog at his feet. “When I’m standing here in a whiteout, and I can’t see Poppy, it’s a whiteout. That’s what we were into, that kind of situation. It’s not that our uniforms were white, the fact is that there was nothing there to see, just a blank wall.”  Grandpa proceeded to tell of the terrifying conditions in which he, eight other soldiers, and a Lutheran chaplain were trapped on Mt. Belvedere.

We had to dig a hole to get into, because the enemy tanks were coming down upon us.  Their constant behavior to us was hard going.  And we all held hands together, not a one of us knew how to pray except Chaplain Davis, and he started a word of prayer.  And his praying is what got us into a position where we got out of this predicament, which we all said, if it wasn’t for him and him and his prayer and teaching us to pray, and about three-and-a-half hours, that’s why we got into the position that we were as Lutherans.  There’s a lot more to that story than just what I can tell you here tonight, but it’s old and original, and it’s been good for us.  It’s been good for me.  Bradford Russow, and Dick Cundy and myself, all of us got together and had prayer together.  Dick Cundy and Bradford Russow never got out of it, but I did.  And because of being taught how to pray, what to pray for and how good it was for us, that’s why we became Christian people amongst us. . .  All of us joined the Lutheran Church when we got over this scramble in this whiteout.

Grandpa continued to tell of another day when he and Dick and Brad parted ways.

We had been called voluntarily out to help some of our people that were in a serious position.  And I myself was one of three of us us that volunteered to do this job.  There were excellent reasons for the three of us to volunteer at that time.  We had shell plates and so forth for protection, but not like what we had hoped for. . . The Germans threw mortar shells [at us], lobbed them in.  The mortar shells usually go off at the rate of third one is deadly.  One hit in the cowpath up the mountain right ahead of me, the next one hit in the cowpath just a little to the right, both of those were what we call duds which you never heard of, and I was saved because both of them were duds.  And the third one was not.  I got up to where the third one went off and stood up to see what was going on, which was a foolish trick to begin with. . . It was hard to explain why did we go up there on the third one and stick our neck out to a good chance of being killed. . .  The machine gunner opened up fire and I got shot through the leg.  They got shot and killed by ammo and that’s why they died. . . When the German traversed his gunfire, I jumped up on a stump to see where it was coming from.  Got up on the stump and I looked both ways, both sides, both directions, and Brad and Dick were shot in the chest and killed, I was shot in the leg because I was on a stump, above their elevation.

He had intended to protect Dick and Brad by taking the more dangerous position.  It was seven days before he reached a hospital.

+++

I knew when I came home that [your] Grandma had accepted God years before I ever did.  She knew what it was all about.  Not me.  Thank goodness she knew how to accept God, what God’s pleasures were to our life.  I knew nothing of her acceptance of God, only that she was a very highly Christian lady.

In 1948, the year after his discharge, Grandpa was baptized into Christ at Perrydale Christian Church, near where he was farming.  The farm was sold in 1954 and the family ended up in West Salem.  Some neighbors invited my grandparents who were raising two daughters by then, to visit their church, Peace Lutheran.  Peace is where both daughters were baptized, confirmed, and married.  And one of those daughters is my mom.  And that’s about half of how I came to be baptized into the body of Christ as a Lutheran.  All it took was a mortar, a boulder, a Lutheran chaplain in a whiteout, water and the Word, and neighbors some thirty and forty years earlier.

+++

Thank you, Grandpa.

Remembering today my brothers in Christ, Brad and Dick . . .

most unique, but still the same

Last month, I traveled to Atlanta as a trainer in the repair of one of my company’s music delivery platforms.  As nice as it is to meet people and see another of my company’s offices, it was pretty much just work.  But there were two things that were really great about this trip.

First, my brother, Austin, who works a few hours from Atlanta, managed to come over for a visit one night.  My food was all coming from the Publix supermarket down the street from the hotel and office, so this was my one real meal out.  We were in the Atlanta suburb of Norcross which neither of us knew, so GPS was how we selected our restaurant.  We settled on Polish.  For some reason, the restaurant was not there, but in the strip-mall where it should have been was a place called China Garden.  We were both starving, so China Garden it was.  But as we approached, one glance in the window told us to keep walking – the only people in the restaurant at 7:00pm were behind the counter.  The last suite in the mall had a sign for tacos, and nearing it, we could see the place was hopping, and the whole waiting area was full.  It was worth the 20 minute wait for a table: a conversation about life, remodeling, careers, neighbors, disappearing garbage cans, and theology over a couple 32oz Dos Equis, fajitas, and a shrimp quesadilla.  So if you’re in Norcross Georgia and the choice is Polish, Chinese, or Mexican, head for Kiko’s Tacos.  Taking your brother is recommended.

Second, I was looking for an Lutheran Church – Missouri Synod congregation that held a Lenten service on Wednesday.  I went to the Synod website, www.lcms.org, and started looking near the hotel.  To my surprise, I had to go thirteen miles before I found one in Tucker.  There were a bunch of them closer that had “family night”, or youth group, or some other function that night, but none closer than St. Mark Lutheran Church had an actual Lenten Service.  I was surprised because of the four LCMS churches I have been a member of, all have (or at least had) Wednesday Lenten services.

I wasn’t sure what to expect.  I’ll be honest here – this is in the South, and population demographics are somewhat different than in the Northwest from whence I hail.  My high school had one black student, the Student Body President in my senior year.  My university had three black students, one of which I sang with in the men’s choir.  Perusing St. Mark Lutheran’s website I saw the pictures of three pastors –  two of them were black, and the white one was an interim pastor.  I just wasn’t sure what it would be like.  Would I know the hymns?  Would they even sing what I know as hymns, or would it be some other kind of songs?  Would I even be able to follow along?  Of the three Sunday services described, one is English, one is Wengalawit Eritrean, and the other appeared to be another congregation.  What is Wengalawit Eritrean?  But for whatever reason, this is the congregation I found, so this was where I was headed.

St. Mark Lutheran, Tucker Georgia

I was greeted by several parishioners just as soon as I chose a pew and sat down.  Of course, they asked my name, where I was from, and how long I would be there.  They seemed disappointed I was leaving on Friday.  They had Lutheran Service Book in the hymnal racks, much newer than The Lutheran Hymnal that is at my home congregation in Vancouver Washington.  The sanctuary was modest, and not too big, with old stained glass windows set into thick walls.  Rev. Dr. Wilton Heyliger approached me and asked some of the same questions his parishioners had, although I had more questions for him than he had of me.  I asked about the three different services on Sunday, and he told me that this is one of the most unique worshipping communities in the United States – St. Mark has two services, one in English, and one in Eritrean, and then the third is a separate congregation, Incarnate Word Lutheran, that uses the facilities of St. Mark.  Rev. Heyliger is the pastor of Incarnate Word, and since this was a joint service, he would do the liturgy, and interim pastor Rodger Meyer would preach the sermon.  I asked what Eritrean meant, and he said Eritrea is a country, very small and right beside Ethiopia, and the language there is the Tigrinya language, in case I know it.  I replied that I not only didn’t know Tigrinya, but that I did not even know a place such as Eritrea existed!  Rev. Heyliger smiled, and assured me it did, and that this community of immigrants to the United States worships here on Sundays.

Looking back, I don’t know what all my apprehension was about.  It was mostly the same as back home.  When I Survey the Wondrous Cross (LSB 425), Psalm 119, John 14, Let Us Ever Walk With Jesus (LSB 685), Law and Gospel sermon, Offertory, You Are the Way (LSB 526), Prayers, Collect for Peace, Lord’s Prayer, Luther’s Evening Prayer, Benediction, Oh that the Lord Would Guide My Ways (LSB 707).  And though the words were all printed in the bulletin, I was actually able to use the hymnal here.  I loved it.

The cross over the chancel in St. Mark's is made entirely of square nails brazed together.

The cross over the chancel in St. Mark’s is made entirely of square nails brazed together.

A Specific Gravity

In the days of my childhood, there was a bookshelf, long since replaced.  On the bookshelf there was a set of encyclopedias from the 60’s or 70’s, the go-to information source for all school reports in the days before the Internet.  On a shelf below the encyclopedias, or maybe above, was one of dad’s books, titled How Long, How Far, How Fast . . . or something like that.  I never read it, but Dad said it was a book about measurements.  It’s the kind of book a science teacher should have on his bookshelf.

Bookshelf

Most measurements seemed simple enough.  The yardstick had inches on one side, and centimeters on the other.  Within the centimeters were millimeters, seemingly the smallest possible measurement.  What could be so small it would require something less than a millimeter to measure it?  Bigger distances were easy to understand too – the grocery store in town was close, Grandma and Grandpa’s was farther away, and shopping in Portland was a special trip because it was so far away.  Speed is easy to measure because faster on the merry-go-round is much more fun than slow – it isn’t necessary to understand that velocity is made up of two things, distance and time.  Even time is easy.  It takes two Mister Rogers’ to equal a Sesame Street.  And it is a very long amount of time when a dad tells his bored son, “It will only be 20 more minutes.  Be patient . . . ”

But some measurements are more abstract, like density.  Sure, metal is heavier than wood, but not if you have a whole lot of wood and not very much metal.  The trick was understanding that comparing density is measuring the weight of different things as long as the different things have the same volume.  Specific gravity is a handy concept I learned . . . sometime . . . that uses the density of water as a reference for the density of other liquids and solids, and it is a weight in grams for a volume of one cubic centimeter.  So if the density of a cubic centimeter of water is 1.00, the same volume of something lighter, like grain alcohol, is roughly 0.78.  And likewise, something heavier has a higher specific gravity, like aluminum which is 2.70.  Something really dense is lead, and we know this because people whose feet are made of it drive faster, and bricks of such are said to be very heavy, and we use it for fishing weights because it is 11.35 times denser than water, and that carries the line below the surface of the water quickly with a minimal surface area to move through the water.

Other things have higher specific gravities, but they are less common, and so it is harder to understand just how dense they are in a tangible way.  Gold is 19.32 times heavier than water, but it is hard to understand that by feel, simply because I have so little of it to hold in the palm of my hand.  A small cross and it’s chain are not big enough to really feel the density.  Platinum is a little denser still with a specific gravity of 21.45.  I once had a ring made of that, but again, one ring is just not enough to understand density by holding it.

Several months ago, while assisting my brother in procuring an engagement ring, I had to wait for the jeweller to perform part of the transaction.  I think they make you wait so you have plenty of time to look at all their other wares.  Another jeweller wanted to show me a fine watch made by a company with Leonardo DiCaprio in its employ.  The watch was significantly thicker than your ordinary Timex, and had a window in its back in order to show off the fine movement.  Even though the watch was thick, it was also surprisingly heavy when he handed it to me – so heavy that I wondered why anyone would want to wear it.  It might cause back pain from walking about in an unbalanced manner.  Anyone considering such a watch should buy two of them so that the weight can be distributed to the left and right equally.  I suspect that this watch had some very dense metal in it.  The price was in the low five figures, and I advised the jeweller that, while it was a very nice watch, it was well beyond my means, besides which, its earthly value would deter me from disassembling it, and so it would not be of much use to me.  He said “Well you never know when you might be able to afford it!”

Other than that watch, I can’t think of much else that I have held where a very high density was appreciable.  So it is left to imagination or other tricks of the mind.  Like when staring at the television in one position late in the tired night, and the screen seems to become very far away, and small.  And still the television has the same mass which can now be held between fingertips.  And before long, the whole room has become small and might be encompassed by one’s arms, yet still be very very heavy.

What about sin?  Of course, sin isn’t a substance.  If it was, it would mean God created sin, which he surely did not.  But supposing sin could be quantified in such a way, how dense would it be?  We like to count sins, as if we can actually number them all.  Just taking my own sins, the ones I can think of . . .

. . . hang on . . .

. . . still counting . . .

. . . yeah.  It’s been a busy day.  There are others too, forgotten, lumped together, explained away, and ones I didn’t even notice.  I seem to be a nice guy.  The vast majority of people who know me would say so I think.  But there are a few who think I’m horrible . . . and the truth is, they’re right.  I’m so bad they say I must be sick . . .and really I am.  It isn’t so much that I am a sinner because I sin, it’s that I sin because I’m a sinner.

My Old Paint Scale

If a nice guy is so riddled with sin, how much is in the whole world?  All the billions of sinners who exist now?  All the billions who have already died?  All the babies not yet conceived and all of their sins not yet committed (or omitted)?  All the corruption of God’s creation?  So much sin that every living created thing is corrupted and dies?  Every murder, every murder in men’s hearts, every broken marriage, every sideways glance at a short skirt, every covetous desire, every failure to love perfectly, every permutation of every sin from the Fall to the Last Day . . .

How dense would sin be?  It would have to be so compact that one man could carry it.  And it would have to be so heavy that it would kill God.

But while one man, Jesus Christ, carried every bit of all that sin and even became sin for us, and while that same Jesus Christ, 100% true God died for it though He was blameless, a single perfect sacrifice more than sufficient to cover all that sin, it didn’t take all the sin of the world to kill Him.  He laid down His life willingly, and would have done it for just one.  For just one sin if that was all there ever was.  For just one person if only one might be saved.  For me.  For you.

He did it so that our death, the temporal consequence of sin, might not be permanent.  He did it so that we are not separated from Him eternally.  That He loved the world in this way is a gravity beyond measure.

No Imposition

There was no imposition of ashes on that Ash Wednesday.

In the early evening, I waited at the airport for my sister, Allison.  She had planned another trip, but something had told her not to book it.  At the last second, she used that money to set a flight for Portland instead.  I was parked in short-term parking, as close as possible to the arrivals, in order to make a fast getaway.  I waited, looking for any way to make things go faster.

Mom had called and said not to delay.  Breathing was labored, and a morphine patch would be applied to ease the distress.  There was no more time to waste.  The plane was on time, and after a hasty greeting while moving through the airport, we found the car and made our way to the freeway as quickly as possible for the 50-mile drive south.

Once on the road, I said to Allison, “I want to warn you, Grandma doesn’t look the same as the last time you saw her.”  I had been down to visit frequently in the evenings after work, and on weekends.  I wanted to warn my sister of how thin she was, how her eyes and skin were yellow, and how weak she would be.

A handful or two of days prior, Grandma told me weakly, “I’ve made up my mind.  I’m going to fight this.  I’m going to do what the doctors say.  I’m going to beat it.”  It was an aggressive tumor surrounding her bile drain tube, squeezing down on it and shutting off its flow, causing a chain reaction of failures.  I don’t think any of us knew just how bad it was, not until a day or two before.  Various treatments were used and more were planned.  One kind of stent was inserted to keep the drain open, and that failing, another more robust one was planned.  But that was called off.   I had not been there yet that day, but had been told the decline was rapid.  We knew this was really happening.  Grandma was dying.

Mom and Dad, my aunt and uncle, my cousins, and now my sister and I were there in the hospital room.  Only my brother, Austin, was missing.  He had finished his day teaching in a small town 250 miles to the south, changed his clothes, and was on his motorcycle heading up the freeway over mountain passes in the cold February air.  “Go Austin, Go!” I thought.

Grandma’s breathing was rough, impeded by fluid in her respiratory system, rattling.  I sat nearby, I stood, I held her hand, I talked with my family.  I didn’t really know what to do.  When it seemed best, I took her hand, whispered my name in her ear, and told her that I loved her.  I told her that I thought it would seem just a short time to her, but we would all be there right behind her.  I said goodbye.  Her breathing was in gasps, moments of stillness between.  Others said their goodbyes too.  We watched, helplessly.

Her pastor, Pastor Brauer, came to the hospital after the Ash Wednesday service at Redeemer.  He performed a Service of Commendation of the Dying, tracing on her forehead the cross he had made with ashes on the foreheads of his other parishioners that night.  “Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return.”

Her breathing became slower, the gasps more shallow, the moments longer.  I looked to my cousin, a nurse, for what this meant.  She confirmed what I already knew.

My heart was breaking.  It was breaking for myself, for all the memories of my Grandma.  My mind raced through all these as if they would depart with her, and I wanted to catalog them so they wouldn’t slip away.  This is the grandma whom I followed as she vacuumed her formal living room.  And as I followed, I carried a little chair stamping four feet marks in the smoothed golden carpet at every step, in awe of the pattern on the canvas she had smoothed for me.  The memory is actually in her telling of the story, and the many stories she told . . . feeding a whole stack of ears of corn to the hogs after they were shucked for dinner . . . filling the newly planted and tied-up cauliflower with dirt . . . other things I don’t actually remember.  The memory is of her smile and laughter, the laughter that was hard to stop once it was started.

Grandma Baker

For all the thousands of memories fixed in sounds, actions, looks, places, and pictures, the most vivid is the smell of Grandpa cooking bacon, then frying eggs in the bacon grease, of toast and coffee, and the ever-present smell of Grandma’s perfume mixed in.  That was the smell of waking up at Grandma and Grandpa’s in my childhood.  Grandma and Grandpa’s was the very best place to visit on the surface of the Earth.

Grandma Kissing Grandpa

I wanted that smell back again.  It wasn’t just her – it was her and Grandpa together – as it should be – as it seemed it always was.  My heart was breaking for him.  His wife of 60 years was being called away.  He had asked her to marry him the third time they met.

The boat Grandpa proposed in

After his basic training, they met a fourth time and were married that day.  The next day, he shipped out for the war in Europe, and she waited the 16 months until he returned.  In the remaining 59 years, there was one argument, and only one.  Their younger child, my aunt, an infant, was crying.  Grandpa held her that early morning.  Grandma asked him to give her the baby so he could go and milk the cows.  He said no.  That was it, the entire sum and substance of the argument.

Grandpa holding Grandma

I can point to nothing, save the hand of God, that could explain my Grandma and Grandpa.  Almost unbelieveable, their love for each other, and the way they treated each other seems to be located the smallest degree this side of impossible.  And yet it was.  He now sat beside her and held her hand, as she lay looking upward from the bed, those breaths becoming more and more delayed.

There was no imposition of ashes for any of us that Ash Wednesday, save Pastor Brauer.  None was needed.  The imposition of ashes as a symbol of repentance at the beginning of Lent is tradition and is not mandatory.  I have heard it said that to put on ashes, the recognition and of our sin and the penalty for it, is only half the confession . . . that the baptismal font should immediately follow the imposition, washing away the ashes, a remembrance of our baptism when we were baptized into death with Christ.  No, that Ash Wednesday, the consequence of sin was staring us in the face, in the dying body of my Grandma.  She was becoming dust before our eyes.

Where is Austin!  Dad was on the phone in the corridor.  Austin was circling the hospital outside, and did not know where to go.  Should I go and point the direction?  Should I go and take his bike?  I don’t know how a motorcycle works, what would I do with it?  How would I park it?  It’s after visiting hours, and he will need to be checked in and cleared by the guards at the door. . . can I go and let them know he is coming?  How can I get him here faster?  I already got to say goodbye, he should be able to . . .

Her breathing was barely perceptible.  It was so long between breaths . . . long suspensions . . . and then . . . she simply stopped.  Her pulse faded, and peacefully, she died.  Her burden was lifted.  Clothed in Christ’s righteousness, the sentence pronounced at her baptism finished, she went to her Lord’s side.  And there she waits as we do here, for the fulfillment of His promise, and to receive her body made anew.

Grandpa was in shock . . . grief beyond expression.  He had quit his job just a few days before in order to take care of Grandma full-time.  But that was not God’s will.  Now what . . . ?  The next few years would be hardest.

I met Austin at the door of the room two minutes later . . . two minutes. “I’m sorry, Austin . . . ” My heart was breaking for my brother.  Breathless, he put his hands on his knees for a moment, then stood upright, and went in.  Two minutes.  80 miles an hour for 250 miles in the cold winter air . . . two minutes.

Is there a better way to die?  Is there a better way than with the knowledge that your debt was already paid centures ago, His name marked on you by the Spirit in the plain water of Holy Baptism, and forgiveness received in His body and blood?  Is there a better way to live?

There was no imposition of ashes that Ash Wednesday.