05-4 Theology of the..

32 LOGIA
fied with Christ. 4 We fail to see anything particularly wonderful
or miraculous about the gospel—and this is why we do not or
cannot sing about it with much enthusiasm. This is why we
Lutherans tire of the Lutheran chorales and write no new ones of
our own. It is not where our treasure is. In fact, One suspects the
traditional liturgy is unpopular, in large part, not just because of
its unfamiliar style, but because of its all-too-familiar doctrinal
content. It is the old-fashioned message, as well as the old-fashioned
medium, of the Agnus Dei or Luther’s hymn Aus tiefer Not
(“From Depths of Woe”) that offends the unconverted heart. 5
Unbelievers in the church, whether they are visitors or long-time
pew occupants, feel uncomfortable and even angry when they are
presented with the great issues of judgment and mercy. We need
to remember that the gospel, so comforting to stricken sinners,
also arouses the hostility of the devil, the world, and our flesh.
And we should ask ourselves whether our present reluctance to
use the traditional liturgy does not stem, at least in part, from our
unholy desire to be as inoffensive as possible, to please man
rather than God, to be considered successful in the world’s
terms—rather than its “offscouring.” 6
Now it is very difficult to have anything
resembling a sensible discussion of class
or the classics in America, where our
Declaration of Independence pronounces
all men to be created equal.
nb
Just as we Americans are bored with God’s plan of salvation,
so, too, one could add, are we bored with all of his creation in
general. We are most fortunate indeed that God is not so easily
bored with what he made. Otherwise we would never see another
rose or sunset or rainbow! The rhythms of nature that we know
so well, the rising and setting sun, the cycle of the seasons, the
design of a leaf or a tree, the pattern of ripples on water—don’t
we take all of this, too, for granted The child, by contrast, does
not pass over these miracles lightly. Of such is the kingdom of
heaven! There is too little of the child—or of the artist—in us
grown-up Lutherans. One of the authors of Proverbs, the littleknown
Agur, observes (chapter 30): “There be three things which
are too wonderful for me, yea, four which I know not. The way of
an eagle in the air; the way of a serpent upon a rock; the way of a
ship in the midst of the sea and the way of a man with a maid.”
When was the last time you were struck with wonder by the way
of a bird in the air
II.
“Classic” suggests that a thing is not only old, but that it is also
considered to be the best. The word comes from the Indo-European
verb root kal-, as in Greek kaleo, or Latin clamo, or the English
call. In ancient Rome the people were called together for public
assemblies and there divided into different groups for voting
purposes. These groups were called classes. And there were differences
among the classes. People with enough money to buy a
horse, for instance, were put into one class. Those who did not
have enough were grouped together in a lower class. At the top
were the nobiles, the patricians of old, distinguished families who
often possessed great wealth. They were the first class. “Classic”
comes, therefore, to mean not only old, but also the highest class,
the first-rate, the elite, the noble, the best.
Now it is very difficult to have anything resembling a sensible
discussion of class or the classics in America, where our Declaration
of Independence pronounces all men to be created
equal. 7 Many of the early revolutionaries who signed this document
felt uncomfortable with their dependence upon what they
considered to be outworn traditions of excellence, quality, and
class. These old distinctions should not hold true in America,
they felt, where what mattered was not supposed to be breeding
and background, but native wit, good will, and the willingness
to work hard. Benjamin Rush, one of the signers of the Declaration
of Independence, and even Noah Webster, the influential
lexicographer, along with many others before and since, urged
schools to teach only practical subjects (not Latin, for instance,
which was traditionally associated with the ideal of a liberal
education reserved for gentlemen). 8 With the advent of Andrew
Jackson’s presidency, this egalitarianism became even more radical.
Good manners became a liability. Bad taste became good
taste. After the Civil War and the demise of the southern aristocracy,
classlessness grew even more prevalent. In our own
century, the followers of John Dewey have developed an educational
system that “polishes pebbles and scuffs jewels” with
frightening efficiency.
Christianity is certainly not just for aristocrats. “Not many
wise men after the flesh, not many mighty, not many noble, are
called.” Our Lord himself was born into a carpenter’s family and
spent much of his time with fishermen. Paul was a tent-maker.
Luther’s father was an iron-worker. But we Americans would do
well to remember that Christianity is not necessarily democratic,
either. The earliest Christians were communists who did not do a
lot of voting. Democracy can, in fact, be an oppressive kind of
tyranny, especially if one is not in the majority. The only view that
really counts in America today often appears to be the one that
the greatest number of people have. Concern for numbers outweighs
practically every other consideration—in business, politics,
education, and the church. Our statesmen consult polls constantly—not
only on how popular they are, but on what they
should be doing. The assumption is that the people, the average,
ordinary people, know best. Truth does not exist anywhere else.
What should we do about welfare Ask the people. What should
we do about Bosnia Ask the people. The only trouble is that
most Americans have trouble finding Bosnia on a world map—
or even spelling it. 9
One result of this militantly democratic atmosphere in America
is that questions relating to value or quality, especially as they
relate to matters of style, are now almost impossible to ask or
answer. We have been raised not to be critical or judgmental. We
instinctively shy away from pronouncing Bach better than Bob
Dylan, or Dickens better than Doonsbury—even if some of us
hold (silently) such graduated judgments to be true. And when