Funeral Food

No, I'm not talking about scalloped potatoes and ham. I'm talking about the culinary highlights of my week of interstate travel and celebrating the life of my late grandfather. And boy, were some of them bright.

On Sunday night, after a gruelling wake at the mortuary during which the family seemed to comfort the guests who dropped by rather than vice versa, we - that is, my mother, brother, uncles, aunts, cousins, and I - decompressed at Jake's Sports Cafe in New Brighton, MN. I'm told it's a place Grandpa liked. He must have had good taste, because the sweet-and-spicy appetizer known as "Jake's Wings" went really well with a tall, cold, locally-brewed pale ale called Summit. That was followed by a big, delicious Bleu Cheese Burger and more steak fries than I could finish. All this went on top of a basket of fresh, complimentary popcorn that seemed to be this restaurant's answer to free tortilla chips. Everyone went home full, which under the circumstances was as close to happy as could be expected.

Monday's funeral was followed by a meal at the Chianti Grill (formerly known as Ciatti's) on Larpenteur Avenue in St. Paul. This too was one of Grandpa's favorites. The meal was on the family, and everyone at the funeral was invited. Sixty-four dined in memory of my mother's father that evening, and the gathering was highly convivial. I had more Summit, but I enjoyed my tall mug of Stella Artois even more. My mother and aunt both took the same taste test but declared the opposite preference. Go figure. I suppose Belgian beer is an acquired taste. The meal also included a generous house salad, a choice of several Italian entrees (I went with baked mostaccioli, very satisfactory), and in most cases, a choice of several mouthwatering desserts, including the hugest and chocolatiest slice of cake I have ever seen. I ended up splitting with my brother an equally huge slice of the cream-cheese-frosted carrot cake to end all cream-cheese-frosted carrot cakes. The only way I could give it a higher "thumbs up" would involve space travel.

As I may have mentioned, I spent all day Tuesday driving my Mom to Nebraska. She rewarded me with a half-rack of St. Louis-style pork ribs at the Whiskey Creek Wood Fire Grill in Norfolk. The ribs were good; the fresh-baked marble rye bread was nice; the buttery baked potato was very comforting; but the barbecue beans were the best part of my evening. Whiskey Creek is one of those places where you get to throw your peanut shells on the floor. Walk carefully, but do go there sometime.

Things are back to normal now: I am too broke to eat out, and too far behind on too many projects to be able to spare much time for reading. I won't be seeing any movies this month. But I hope I can still put an interesting word here, now and then, about music, theology, and the books I have read lately. Stay tuned!

Safely Returned

Uff da. I'm home safe, sound, and ever so tired. I swung into town last night an hour before midweek worship (which I was scheduled to accompany) and, after church and talking with my pastor, finally came home at 9:30 p.m. It was a longer "weekend" than anticipated. The funeral was in Minnesota on Monday; my Mom bummed a ride home with me on Tuesday - to her home, that is, in Nebraska; so here I finally am, back in the saddle and desperately far behind on every project I am working on. Summer is ending too quickly!!!

More later on food, travel, the funeral, and every other thought that has crossed my mind in the last 7 days. That should come to about 4 paragraphs. (Yeah, right.)

Death in the Family

I will be out of touch for a few days. My maternal grandfather passed away this morning at the age of 93. He was my last surviving biological grandparent. So, over the weekend, I will be with my mother's family, dealing with this loss together.

My plans for the weekend also include some time with my stepmother's father. I haven't seen him in way too long. Because of geographical distance and financial limits, I may not have many more opportunities to see him. I owe a lot to the kindness and love of my stepmother's folks. Once this gentleman is gone, there won't be any more Grandpas or Grandmas for me.

Norwegian-Style Tackiness 4

As I noted in Part 1, Part 2, and Part 3, the Association of Free Lutheran Congregations (AFLC) published the Ambassador Hymnal (AH) in 1994. If it seems conservative, even dated, it is. AH is a throwback to a style that prevailed in the late 19th century, and that was already tackily passé by the early decades of the 20th - a spiritual fusion of Scandinavian pietism with British-American evangelical revivals. This age, when most of American Lutheranism surrendered its distinctives and merged with mainstream Protestantism, is the "golden age" that AH attempts to preserve.

This "low-church tackiness" is no different from the enthusiasm (historiolatry?) of the liturgical movement. Both sides want to dial the church back to some historical "restore point." They only disagree about which century, or which corner of the church, to identify as the ideal moment to repristinate. For the low-church guys the "restore point" is often some time after American Lutherans gave up doctrines for which our forefathers faithfully fought. For the high-church guys, it is way earlier, often before the Reformation; with the result that their leaders always seem to be edging toward Roman Catholicism or Eastern Orthodoxy (if not tipping over the edge). Now I wouldn't become a Catholic, Orthodox, or anything but Lutheran for all the cheese in Wisconsin; but it astounds me that there is always a huge scandal when a Lutheran pastor or theologian converts to Rome or Constantinople, or even (now and then) Canterbury, but never for apostasizing in the opposite direction. Where is the outcry when Lutheran leaders, often followed by entire congregations, become Methodists, Pentecostals, and the like?

The fact that they usually remain (nominally) in the Lutheran Church is a partial explanation, but that just makes it more disturbing. It means, in the first place, that Lutheran families looking for a new church home, Lutheran college kids looking for a church near campus, etc., may be drawn into a church-within-the-church that sets its face against Lutheran teachings. In the second place, it means that new members drawn into these churches (often from other denominations) are not catechized as Lutherans, thus widening the theological split within our church. It means, in the third place, that congregations ashamed to identify themselves openly as "Lutheran" - congregations that give casual visitors and readers of their billboards no clue that they belong to, say, the Missouri Synod - can continue to enjoy the financial benefits of LCMS membership (such as borrowing from LCEF, participating in Concordia Plans, etc.). The leaders of the Missouri Synod aren't doing much to discourage these folks. In fact, they hold them up as examples for the rest of us to follow.

The AFLC is only a bit farther long the same road the LCMS is on. Perhaps it begins with an intolerance of everything that smacks of Roman Catholicism (where lie the roots of the Lutheran Church), coupled with a tolerance of, and even a wish to connect with, the Protestant culture prevailing in America. How does this impact hymnody? Simple. We sniff at historic, Lutheran hymns that clearly second Jesus' teaching of Baptism and the Sacrament, constantly wary lest they go too far; but we uncritically accept decadent ditties riddled with receptionism, decisionism, moralism, holiness theology, and pentecostal enthusiasm because the assumption that they have "gospel" in them puts them above scrutiny.

That this happened to the AFLC is evident from the AH. That the LCMS is flying on a similar trajectory is evident from the Lutheran Service Book (LSB). So the tackiness you are about to witness is where we Missouri Sinners are headed. God have mercy on us and our children's children's children.

Hymn 303, "O Zion, haste, thy mission high fulfilling," owes its first impression of triumphalistic hamminess to the tune Angelic Songs by James Walch. Mary A. Thompson's missionary text begins with some promise (though one may well roll one's eyes at words like "darksome"). Stanzas 4 and 5, though arguably a message the church needs to hear, have the effect of ending the hymn on a note of threat or warning: Do this mission work, lest Jesus return and find some of his redeemed people, "thro' thy neglect, unfit to see His face." I suppose it is valid to warn the church lest, by our lack of missionary activity, we be responsible for the damnation of souls who did not hear of Christ. But what a downer of an ending! Here is an example supporting Walther's contention that, in an evangelical sermon, Law must not follow Gospel. So with nit-picking care I can find fault with Thompson's hymn, but what really nails the coffin shut is the tune. Nevertheless, this text-tune pair figured in at least half a dozen Lutheran hymnals throughout the 20th century.

Hymn 304, "I love to tell the story," struck me as a nice song when I was in Kindergarten. Each year I grow more ashamed to own that I liked it, even at that unformed stage of my life. William G. Fischer's tune Hankey is very pretty and has the mild sentimentality of an alma mater. The lyrics by Catherine Hankey blather on and on about how "I love to tell the story," without actually telling the story. The song is ultimately in praise of "my" emotionally fulfilling habit of telling others about Jesus, rather than anything Jesus has done. And I would bet real money that most of the Baptist Bible campers who sing this song (in full harmony, just before retiring to their cabins at night) don't really mean it. So why is this a hymn we should sing?

Hymn 307, "So send I you to labor unrewarded," sounds like something a soloist would warble into a microphone at a Billy Graham rally, backed by a full orchestra and maybe a choir humming in full smarmony. John W. Peterson composed the music for this cloyingly sentimental gospel ballad, with words by Margaret Clarkson in which Jesus appears to be commissioning each individual Christian to go out as a barefoot, wandering missionary. Problem 1: Taken literally, this hymn would empty the church. Problem 2: It's not really addressed to the church, but to the individual believer. Problem 3: It doesn't make the Lord's work sound like a good career choice, especially as it omits the more upbeat stanza Clarkson added later. Problem 4: The curiously phrase "So send I you" is repeated so many times, it begins to sound like an invocation of some forever-lost homeland: Sosendaiyu (possibly in the neighborhood of Kubla Khan's Xanadu). Finally, the last stanza is followed by a brief coda quoting the words "As the Father hath sent Me, so send I you." Musically, this line is like a finger down the throat after a stomach-upsetting binge. Only a Lutheran church that has abandoned the biblical doctrine of the ministry can sing this crap with a straight face.

For hymn 308, "We've a story to tell to the nations," author-composer H. Ernest Nichol is entirely to blame. It is so exquistely shmaltzy that, as I played it on the piano in my thin-walled apartment, I worried what my neighbors would think of me. Hearken to it! This hymn is the sound of a spiritual culture in the final stages of decline. God save the nations from hearing the story "we" have to tell! The refrain speaks of darkness turning to dawning, "and the dawning to noon-day bright" - but this is music for the twilight of a religious empire. Plus, its final line, "And Christ's great kingdom shall come on earth," betrays a whiff of postmillennialism: the idea that, when we do all this, when we bring enlightenment to the nations and cleanse the world of darkness and evil, Christ will return and establish his millennial reign on earth. Luther and the Confessions have little time for this "Jewish opinion." Its presence in a "Lutheran" hymnal can only mean the church has little time for Luther and the Confessions.

Hymn 315, "Lost in the night doth the heathen yet languish," comes to us from a Finnish folk-song by way of a Norwegian translation, translated in turn by Olav Lee. In the awkward, prolix fashion made necessary by the tune's unusual meter, Lee's missionary hymn revolves around imagery of light penetrating darkness. Unfortunately it expresses itself in a whiny, tragedy-queen manner: yet another missions hymn clubbing us over the head with guilt, or at least threatening us with its club until we turn out our pockets.

Hymn 323, "The vision of a dying world," also titled "Macedonia," is a mission hymn with words by Anne Orlund. After a couple of stanzas begging Christ to revive, awake, arouse, and equip His church to reach out to those in need, Orlund says: "O, clothe Thy Word in bright, new sounds...empower us To preach by every means!" I have already said what I think about this use of 1 Corinthians 9:22. The final lines of the hymn pray: "O Lord, constrain and move Thy church... Begin within my heart." Putting these words in the church's mouth is like telling your child, while saying his bedtime prayers, to repeat after you: "Lord, help me to be nicer to my little brother." If the congregation had no interest in mission work, having them sing these words would be practicing upon them. Plus, the usual way faith is transmitted is that the church passes on to its members what we are to believe and how we are to live; but this hymn asks God to make a direct address to one member and let the change spread from there. If this is an admission that the church is apostate and needs a reformation, maybe it would be best to leave proselytizing to other groups.

Hymn 324, "O happy home, where Thou art loved the dearest," is a C. J. P. Spitta hymn of characteristic, Romantic-era prolixity. Grammatically, the first four stanzas are nothing but exclamations like: "O happy home, where ev'ry wounded spirit is brought, Physician, Comforter, to Thee!" One could argue that this is the grammar of the beatitudes: "O the blessedness of this! O the blessedness of that!" The beatitudes, however, make bona fide assertions: "...for they shall be called the sons of God," etc. The hymn's lack of assertions may only irk a few formalistic sticks-in-the-mud, but I think it shows a lack of clear thought. Instead, the text conjures images of what a pious family would be like if we could manage to make it thus, and wraps up with a fifth stanza ("And when at last all earthly toil is ended...") that draws a lovely conclusion from all these ifs, but without ever explaining how we poor, weak, fallible, flesh-and-blood people are to find strength to carry out all the moral advice on which this end depends. Spitta's writing style lacks concision. In keeping with this is the tune One Radiant Morn: a piece of syrupy sappiness that thrives on the appeal of hymns like "How Great Thou Art."

The scat is flying thicker and faster in this part of the hymnal. I give up for now. IMAGES: A billboard from one of the LCMS churches that doesn't wear Lutheranism on its shirtsleeve; Catherine Hankey; Margaret Clarkson; Philipp Spitta.

Tip for Tastebud Overload

Today I whipped up a batch of "picante chicken" flavored ramen for lunch. Afterward, while profusely sweating and picking flakes of red pepper out of my teeth, I remembered a bit of advice given me by a Mexican-American lady with whom I used to work. When you've had more "hot and spicy" than you can stand, and you want to cool down fast, the trick is not to drink an entire pitcher of beer in one gulp (though that can be fun). For fast relief, eat something starchy. This is why a side of fries goes so well with an order of hot wings; why a mound of white rice is always welcome alongside a plate of Kung Pao chicken; and why, when the complimentary dish of salsa at your friendly neighborhood Mexican restaurant proves to be set on "stun or temporarily cripple," the remaining basket of undunked tortilla chips can be a Godsend.

I happened to have such a Godsend today, having snacked earlier on some leftover beandip and tortilla chips. I was thankful for the leftover chips, as the stick-to-your-teeth pepper from the ramen was still on the ascending slope of the "cumulative potency" curve, and I was starting to feel like that Peter Lorre-ish guy in Raiders of the Lost Ark just before his face melted.

Norwegian-Style Tackiness 3

More pietistic tackiness from the "Lutheran" Ambassador Hymnal...

Hymn 203: "Dear Lord and Father of mankind," with words by John Greenleaf Whittier and music by Frederick C. Maker. Those of us who read too much fantasy will already be picturing these two guys as a wood-elf and a sand-worm. These reflections are more interesting than any stirred by this hymn, which asks Jesus to cool the heat of our desires and "reclothe us in our rightful mind." Put another way: "Anaesthetized by Jesus, I fain, fain, fain would swoon..." (My lyrics, not Whittier's). The music is like the dreck left at the bottom of the cauldron from which a Fanny Crosby hymn was born.

Hymn 209 offers some really Norwegian tackiness: "O can you sing the new song of salvation," with a Norwegian traditional tune arranged by Oscar R. Overby in the style of a C-minus assignment in first-year music theory. The tune has some merit, and the text more still; but unless I am deeply prejudiced against Overby (and I never met the man; he died 8 years before I was born), he seems to have a touch for adding a dollop of tackiness to an otherwise fine hymn.

Hymn 210 is an oddity. "Christ, we do all adore Thee" appears to be a refrain in search of its stanzas. The words and music by Theodore Dubois seem to belong to something called "The Seven Last Words of Christ," but there is no sign of the seven words here. It is simply two lines of text, one of them repeated three and a half times, with too little musical interest to make it worth the reach (or screech; it goes up to a high F), and too little text to fit all the music, judging by the instrument-only half-phrase near the end.

Hymn 214 begins with the words "Praise God from whom all blessings flow." Don't be fooled, though; it isn't Thomas Ken's Long-Meter Doxology. Rather, it is a hymn from the Tamil-speaking region of South India. I don't want to be culturally insensitive (ha!) so I'll confine my remarks to saying that this hymn must sound better in its original Tamil. I refuse to be a judge of the music, but I find the text (as translated by the late Daniel Niles) a bit awkward in places, such as "He is bringing with Him for your marriage its true adorning." Am I saying I could do better? No. But a hymnal is a serious matter. Why should we make room in them for one- or two-time experiments in cultural diversity, at the expense of enduring treasures of church song? And please, before you fire back an answer containing the word "catholicity," read what I say about it here.

Hymn 248, "On Our Way Rejoicing," with words by J. S. B. Monsell and music by Frances R. Havergal, gets an "honorable mention" simply because it is arranged as a choir piece, with a vocal staff supported by a piano accompaniment that often strays from the melody line. Again, there are places for this kind of music: for instance, the choir portfolio. Why does it need to be in the congregation's face? They'll never sing it.

Hymn 251, "God be with you till we meet again," is a sentimental cliché with words by Jeremiah Eames Rankin and music by William Gould Tomer. Written with all the fulsome dullness of an Arthur Sullivan tune, its refrain includes cute little echo effects that can only be pulled off by a group singing in four-part harmony. I hope, if my congregation ever chooses to learn to sing in parts, they don't start with this.

Hymn 257, "Break Thou the Bread of Life," has words by Mary A. Lathbury, but surprisingly it is the music of William F. Sherman that gives it the suffocatingly feminine touch. This kind of hymn might help one understand why fewer and fewer men and boys go to church. They suffer emasculation at home, at school, at work, and in the entertainment media. Must they be spiritually castrated in church? As to whether Lathbury's text has such an effect, I can't say; but then, I also can't say whether or not it suggests a source of revelation outside God's Word ("Beyond the sacred page I seek Thee Lord..."). Its language is just too fuzzy for my analytical mind to pin down.

Hymn 284, "Sent forth by God's blessing," isn't so much tacky as jaw-gnashingly horrid. I'm not personally bothered by the Welsh folk tune "Ash Grove," though I have heard it criticized by at least one person who said it made her think of Girl Scout meetings and campfire sing-alongs. It's the text that gets up my nose. Omer Westendorf misapplies the Parable of the Sower: "The seed of His teaching, receptive souls reaching..." (So, it ultimately depends on how receptive you are!)

Hymn 285, "Let us break bread together on our knees," invites the casual visitor to enjoy the spectacle of a bunch of Norwegian-Americans putting on an African-American spiritual. As a communion hymn, it makes a pretty slipshod confession of what we're about: breaking bread and drinking wine together. At least it does say "wine." The next edition may have a footnote suggesting an alternate text: "Let us sip juice together..." But with the sun rising in your eyes, you won't be able to read it anyway.

Hymn 288, "Take the Name of Jesus with You," threatens to make me sound like a broken record. Whatever I said about the music for Hymn 251 goes for this tune as well, only with an added pinch of shmaltz. William H. Doane's music may turn out to be good therapy for patients suffering from a misplaced devotion to such hymns; evidence of their tedious sameness might shake them up. Lydia Baxter's confirmation hymn distracts you from its own meaning (which is "just OK") by framing it in terms of hypnotically dull sentimentality.

That gets me through Hymn 300. If you think I'm being too picky, you should see the material I'm skipping over. I'm setting the tackiness threshold fairly high, I think. And look how far we have come!

IMAGES: Theodore Dubois; J. E. Rankin; W. H. Doane

Norwegian-Style Tackiness 2

All right, we've looked at enough "control group" hymns for the moment. At least they should fortify us for another look at the Ambassador Hymnal and its shmaltz-basted demonstration of what happens when "old time religion" passes for Lutheranism. Note that when I speak of "Norwegian-style" tackiness, I do not mean that the hymns come directly from Norway, but that the spirituality inherited from Norwegian Pietists has brought churches like the Association of Free Lutheran Congregations (which publishes TAH) to the point of singing songs like these...

Hymn 169 is titled "God of history," though it begins with the line "Gospel treasure, Christian story." Here is a hymn that talks about the Gospel without actually proclaiming it. It is also high-yield ammo for taking pot-shots at the inerrancy of Scripture, since it shows how "inerrancy" talk and a moralizing spirituality can go hand in hand. For example, take the refrain: "God of history, we pray for wisdom now. Holy Spirit, knees and hearts we bow. Poised for faith's good works, O Lord, Show us when and show us how."

The same contemporary author and composer (Wayne Hollaway and Lee Eddie Johnson) responsible for No. 169 also collaborated on 170, "Receive this hymn, our praise." This song emphasizes that worship is a work we do. Lutheran spirituality, as I understand it, emphasizes that worship is receiving what God does for us. "We speak back what He first speaks to us," etc. In other words, it is God's gift, created by Him. But I can't say this with much authority, since my own Synod's leadership would probably endorse this hymn's refrain: "Praise! Praise! Our heart's ablaze..."

Hymn 182, "For the Beauty of the Earth," is a nice little litany of thanksgiving, listing stuff we have to be thankful for and ending each stanza with the line: "Christ, our Lord, to You we raise This our sacrifice of praise." Most if it is all right as far as that goes. But I have always wondered about the last stanza: "For Yourself, best gift divine To the world so freely giv'n; Agent of God's grand design, Peace on earth and joy in heav'n..." Agent of God's plan?? Is that what Folliott S. Pierpoint spent five stanzas building up to?

Hymn 187, "Come, Thou fount of every blessing," is the hymn my mind associates with the Presbyterian Church my grandparents used to take me to when I was tiny. When I hear it, I get flashbacks of "baseball sermons" and, particularly, their pastor's Easter Sunday sermon in 1980, which can always be dated by its timely theme of "Who Shot J.R.?" Other than the huge bush of nose-hair he sported, this is literally all I can remember about that preacher. Apart from raising these memories, this hymn also raises irreverent snickers, owing to an obscure reference to 1 Samuel chapters 4 and 7 in the opening line of stanza 2: "Here I raise my Ebenezer." What are teenage boys supposed to think when they spot this line in a hymn?

Hymn 190, "Sweet hour of prayer," has words by William W. Walford and music by William B. Bradbury - and if you deduced, from the name "William," that they flourished in the 19th century, you would be right. This hymn apostrophizes the time spent in worship. Spending part of that time singing this hymn seems like a great waste. It is so saccharine, so indulgently theatrical, so mediocre in every respect, that I feel almost certain that singing it (if not writing and publishing it) is a sin. How many minutes must we spend singing about hastening to the place where we already are? Get on with it already!

Hymn 191, "This is my Father's world," which shall from henceforth prick memories of the Shire scenes in Peter Jackson's Lord of the Rings film, is an enthusiast's anthem if there ever was one. In singing it, one claims to be able to hear the music of the spheres; to put confidence in "the thought of rocks and trees, of skies, and seas"; to hear God speaking in nature. It concludes that, come what may, "Jesus who died shall be satisfied." Now that's interesting. I thought Jesus died to give satisfaction. But what do I know? With a name like Maltbie D. Babcock, the author of this ditty must know something!

Hymn 192, "Blessing and Honor, and Glory, and Power," is sung to an (ahem) 19th century tune called American Hymn, by Matthias Keller (not the German soccer player). This tune title intrigues me. I have lived in America for nearly 36 years now, and I have spent at least half of that time obsessing over hymn tunes, but I can't say I have ever heard this "American Hymn" being performed. Yes, I have noticed it in several other hymnals; but the fact that each time I play it, I feel as if I have never heard it before, suggests that it's very thin stuff, even as Pomp & Circumstance goes. Blustery, random-sounding, it exactly suits Horatius Bonar's forgettable text.

Hymn 193, "My Jesus, I love Thee, I know Thou art mine," is a collaboration between poet William Featherstone and composer Adoniram Gordon. Any guesses as to which century it comes from? The refrain - "If ever I loved Thee, my Jesus, 'tis now" - really opens itself up to irreverent interpretations. ("If"??) It's a revival hymn, pure and simple. Work them sinners up to making a decision for Jesus! And if they've made one (or a dozen) before, that's OK, because that "If" throws the validity of all previous decisions into doubt. But what does it do to the present one?

Hymn 201, "The love of God is greater far," is entirely the creative work of one F. M. Lehman, who died in 1953 - though the Ambassador Hymnal lavishes credit for the arrangement on Claudia Lehman Mays (d. 1973). Since it might seem like speaking ill of the dead, I won't play a riff on the phrase "damning with faint praise," but I can't see why anyone would be so eager to take credit for a harmony that consists almost entirely of three chords. It's as if someone took the song "God loves me dearly" (Hymn 370), stretched it on a taffy pull, added a few rhythmic grooves from "How great Thou art," and moved it into a key where it can all be played on the white notes. The result is twelve phrases of tedium multiplied by three stanzas. Stanzas making doubtful claims, e.g. that God's love "reaches to the lowest hell." (Isn't the point of hell to be separated from God's love?) Stanzas followed a by an unintentionally funny refrain ("O love of God...It shall forevermore endure The saints' and angels' song"). With words and music like this, "endure" is right!

All right, I'm out of time again. More Norwegian-flavored tackiness to come! IMAGES: Old Time Religion; Larry Hagman; Horatius Bonar.