comments at a 45-year class reunion

[The following comments were part of the Middleton High School Class of 1979 45-year Class Reunion at a kick-off event held at the Middleton High School Performing Arts Center Lobby, Middleton, Wisconsin, re-dedicating an original wall mural donated in 2004 as part of the Class of 1979 25-year class reunion. Generous class donations allowed the mural to be digitally re-imaged and then mounted permanently]

 

 

My name is Jim, and it is my great pleasure to welcome you to the kick-off event in a series of festivities marking the 45-year reunion of the Middleton High School Class of 1979!

 

It is my privilege to act as emcee for this first special event, a re-dedication of this beautiful mural donated by our class to the school 20 years ago, originally on the occasion of our 25-year class reunion.

 

I’m not a class officer, nor did I have much of anything to do with all of the amazing logistics and arrangements for this wonderful reunion weekend. We’ll hear in a minute who really deserves credit for that. Still, I get the pleasure to emcee for this event!

 

Because we have a number of guests today, I thought it would be good to reflect on the story of all these aging alumni standing around the lobby. These are members of the MHS Class of 1979. Reflecting on our story is also helpful for some of us class members who are finding our memories increasingly foggy.

 

Members of the Class of 1979 were born around 1960-61. That makes us around 63-64 years old. Some have retired. Some are longing to retire. Some are never going to retire.

 

These are former students who attended elementary school when the new music on the radio was from a group called the Beatles. In Middle School and High School, these students danced to what my adult daughters now call “the greatest pop music of all time”, namely classic rock from acts like Boston, Toto, Queen, REO Speedwagon, Kansas, Styx, Heart, Fleetwood Mac, and James Taylor. Then, by late in our high school years, another dance genre emerged and swept our world – disco!

 

And you need to know that the MHS Class of 1979 is both epic and legendary.

 

This was the 100th graduating class from the school. That was such a big deal that the Governor of the State of Wisconsin was the commencement speaker for our graduation.

 

And this was the class that changed the concept of a homecoming skit forever by re-creating Steve Martin’s Saturday Night Live “King Tut” with live musicians, dancers in Egyptian costumes and togas, an actual casket, and an actual mummy playing an actual sax solo. Middleton High School had never seen anything like it, before or since. I’m told that the MHS Class of ’79 homecoming skit remains a legend. It changed homecoming forever. 

 

Yes, the Class of 1979 was epic in its creativity.

 

But that wasn’t all.

 

This is the class that pulled off the greatest homecoming prank in the history of the school – also still a legend. A team of class members somehow managed, without death, injury, or significant property damage, to lift a highly decorated and modified VW Bug sedan onto the roof of the MHS main entrance under cover of darkness. A phone tip came to my house that evening. My brother was the staff photographer for the school yearbook. “If you can get to the school in 10 minutes you’ll have the greatest photos in the history of Middleton” said the muffled voice on the other end of the line. He arrived with his black and white manual SLR camera to document a hilarious scene, complete with squad cars and police officers mingling with school administrators in the MHS parking lot, staring at the VW on the school roof. What made things particularly funny was the mixed expressions on the faces of these adults – trying to look stern and disapproving while at the same time suppressing smiles of amusement and, yes, true admiration.

 

it was another legendary example of creativity by the MHS Class of 1979. Full photo documentation continued as the car was dutifully removed from the roof that evening. But the photographic evidence of the epic prank lives on.

 

And the MHS Class of 1979 provided much of the core talent to anchor the school-wide musical production of “Hello Dolly!” that spring, elevating the legendary musical theatre tradition at MHS, and starring Class of ’79 actress Jaye Maynard McClure, who went on to a performance career spanning both Los Angeles and New York City.

 

Epic.

Legendary.

 

And the MHS Class of 1979 is a generous class that has stuck together across the years. A loving reunion organizing committee has kept momentum that makes our class the envy of other MHS classes. The MHS Class of 1979 has implemented service projects, raised money, and donated gifts like this beautiful original mural for public display.

 

We celebrate this creative generosity today.

 

Yet there is something bittersweet about our recognition of generosity today. Originally 266 young students, not all members of the Class of ’79 are still alive. We have lost dear friends to death over the years. I long for us to remember them as they were in their vibrant high school years with us.

 

I’ll be honest – I dearly long to see them again someday.

 

So, as we rededicate this gift mural from our class, it is not only to current and future MHS students and staff…and not only to our assembled classmates, but especially in memory of our departed classmates.

 

Alice Acker

Jody Anvoots

Jon Jon Davenport

Mike Flanagan

Dave Gerhardt

Dan Helt

James Kuehn

Kelly Larson

Loan Lundey

Mark Maier

Jim Nygren

Jim Parks

Dan Paske

Mark Perrin

Julie Pierstorff

Linda Rundle

Kara Gray Sailing

Janet Stilen

Wendy Sindberg

Dale Statz

Mike Swanson

Rick Topp

Dan Vosen

Pat Webster

Jay Widmer

 

Now to our order of business. We have four items to accomplish. I have a few key recognitions. Then we’ll re-dedicate this beautiful mural and hear some guest comments about it. I’ll then invite my classmate Diane to describe another act of class generosity, and we can then adjourn for a tour of this beautiful Performing Arts Center, guided by its director, Jonathan Hagberg.

 

So first, some recognitions. Our reunions are organized by a loving group of seven incredibly dedicated classmates, all with only X chromosomes, who spend hours and hours planning all the logistics and communications.

 

They demonstrate their love for us selflessly. I am honestly so thankful for them:

 

Vicki Cushman Edgren

Phyllis Dresser

Brenda Liegel

Jackie Malliet

Jaye Maynard McClure

Katherine Perreth

Diane Schwartz

 

Let’s shown them our thanks!

 

Then I want to acknowledge special friends who may or may not be in attendance – but who have played crucial roles in making this mural re-dedication possible:

 

Janet Ballweg (our artist)

Zane Enloe (former Performing Arts Center [PAC] director)

Jonathan Hagberg (current PAC director)

Peg Shoemaker (MHS Principal)

Brad Crandell (MHS student activities coordinator)

Dale Rhodes (MHS facilities director)

Ryan Paulson (Owner, Alphagraphics, and Good Neighbor Festival chair this year)

Chuck and Karen Tracy (original mural graphics company owners 20 years ago)

Lisa, Michael and Jacob LaBissoniere (community members)

Reese Johanningmeier (recipient of MHS Class of 1979 Fine Arts Scholarship)

 

Let’s shown them our appreciation!

 

And now to the mural re-dedication itself. This beautiful mural was created by classmate Janet Ballweg more than 20 years ago. The original small painted panels were digitally scanned and enlarged for printing on canvas and mounting in a different location in this Performing Arts Center lobby in 2004. The mural was a gift to the school from the Class of 1979 on the occasion of our 25 year class reunion. During remodeling of this space several years ago, the mural was rescued by Performing Arts Center Director, Zane Enloe, but the original canvas print was no longer sized well for display in the new lobby. This led to the creation of a fresh digital scan of the mural and the creation of this beautiful new permanent installation.

 

Though she can’t be here today, artist Janet Ballweg provided the following comments of reflection on her work from more than 20 years ago:

 

 

“Dear Classmates,

When Jim and Diane approached me about creating the mural back in 2001, my first thought was “What can my work possibly say to a high school student of today?” 

 

I pondered this question for a while and eventually returned to my own experience - growing up on a dairy farm in Cross Plains and then finding my passion as a professional artist and teacher. I could not have envisioned this trajectory during my high school years. Based on that, I decided on 5 main themes for the mural:

 

“Maintaining Roots” is about the importance of remembering where we come from and maintaining those ties. For this concept I chose a morning glory, a plant that can develop roots 15 feet long; it’s beautiful and far reaching.

 

“Seeking Direction” is about the need to find one’s own path in life – to follow our own compass or weather vane to whatever journey and destination awaits us.

 

“Taking Aim” is about identifying dreams and going after them, even if those dreams seem like a long shot or they seem fleeting, like a cloud.

 

“Cultivating Passion” is about latching onto your strengths, your talents, and pursuing those with abandon to see where they might take you.

 

Lastly, “Finding Balance” is about keeping yourself in check and finding peace for yourself in the world through family, friendship, love, work, and play.

 

It’s my hope that this mural has inspired, and continues to inspire, high school students to dream big and make those dreams happen.

 

And I thank you, fellow classmates, for believing in me as an artist enough to, not once but twice, support the installation of this mural at Middleton High School. It is a unique gift from a unique class of students!

 

As a teacher myself, I’ve come to realize every one of my classes has been different but there have only been a few truly remarkable classes in my 36-year teaching career. Sure, every class shows intelligence and talent, but it’s a special class that bands together to form a sense of community, that revels in hope, joy, friendship, and laughter, and that stands together not just during those 4 years but throughout life. 

 

The class of ’79 was, and is, an incredibly extraordinary class and this mural speaks to our ability to rise above the ordinary, to be something special. I’m sorry that I can’t physically celebrate with you today but please know that the class of ’79 is always in my heart.

 

Enjoy the reunion! – Janet Ballweg”

 

 

 

We thank Janet for her talent and thoughtful remarks.

 

I now want to recognize and emphasize that this mural has impacts beyond the students and staff of Middleton High School. This is a public space. It touches the lives of many of all ages in the broader community. Some won’t notice the mural. Others may just sense the vibrant colors. Still others will pause to contemplate the meaning of the panels and wonder about this mysterious Class of 1979 who saw fit to invest in this public gift. Some may even pause at the informational plaques to learn about the art. Several years ago, Zane Enloe made me aware of a special and beautiful community story and connected me with Lisa, Michael, and their son, Jacob. I confess, and my wife will attest, that when I first read their note, it brought me to tears.

 

 

 

“Dear Jim, 

 

As Zane may have related, Jacob and I started exploring the halls of the high school during Jacob’s Middle School years at Kromrey.  He seemed to particularly enjoy the wonderfully bright PAC lobby entry area and always inspected the large mural hanging above the doorway into the HS common area.  As an autistic kiddo his routine was unbreakable – we had to talk about each section of the mural and identify each of the images:  the flower, the weathervane, the target, the pear and the 'bob'.  

 

Our weekly visits continued until construction began on Phase I of the current structure. Imagine our dismay when the beautiful, bright entry to the PAC lobby came down in a pile of rubble and glass, along with the rest of the surrounding spaces. We found other places to explore during that year of construction and waited eagerly to inspect the new, revitalized building when it opened in the summer of 2021 prior to Jacob's 8th grade year.  I must say that the new North Entrance to the school was a disappointment compared to the large windows and grand design of the original PAC entry. But the bigger surprise occurred when we entered the building and ran to where the mural had always hung – only to find it wasn't there – it wasn't anywhere!   Our every visit during that year was tainted by the missing mural.  

 

That's when we contacted our friend, Mr. Zane, to see if he could help us determine what the fate of the 'big picture' was going to be in the new High School.  He was able to locate where the mural had been stored during construction and unrolled it to take pictures that he sent to us so we could continue talking about each of the images. But the ultimate fate of the mural itself was uncertain until after the completion of Phase II when the school was fully open. That was Jacob's 9th grade year, his first year of High School!  We came back to explore again during that summer when the new phase opened and there it was... a new, permanent version of the mural, right at the entrance to the PAC lobby!

 

What a joy to see that it was restored to a place of prominence in the new space.  

 

Lisa and Jacob LaBissoniere"

 

 

 

Thank you for your beautiful words, Lisa, and for sharing with us how the MHS Class of 1979 mural as piece of public art has had a positive impact on your lives.

 

So now we re-dedicate this mural by sharing the words from the informational plaque:

 

 

Celebrating 45 years of creative leadership, Middleton High School’s Class of 1979 presents this mural with appreciation to our teachers, staff, and classmates for the 720 days we shared together in this building. The mural is the original design of Janet Ballweg, Professor of Art at Bowling Green State University, native of Cross Plains, and MHS Class of 1979 graduate. Presented in 2004 by the Class of 1979, Middleton High School’s 100^th Anniversary Class. Rededicated 20 years later: August 2024.

 

 

Finally, I invite my classmate, Diane Schwartz, to remind us about another act of creative generosity made possible by our class this spring. Because class giving exceeded what was required for the mural reinstallation, it was possible for the Class of 1979 to offer a one-time scholarship of $1760 to a graduating MHS student pursuing a fine arts college degree. Competing students must have achieved at least a 3.2 grade point average and completed community service. An MHS committee made the selection. The awards ceremony was May 15, 2024.

 

The Middleton High School Class of 1979 Fine Arts Scholarship winner is Reese Johanningmeier.  Reese is attending Coastal Carolina University, majoring in Musical Theatre. She described many artistic and service activities in her application. Among other comments, Reese stated:

 

“I have been passionate about theatre since my first musical in 6th grade. I discovered my singing voice and learned how music and lyrics helped tell the story and that I could share that story with the audience. Since then, I have loved all aspects of theatre, especially musical theatre. I've now done numerous Summer Stage production and Main Stage shows, along with every MHS musical and most of the theatre productions each year. Performing is my passion and it's thrilling and rewarding to be able to present to an audience something that I've worked so hard to prepare.”

 

A poster with Reese’s note of thanks to the MHS Class of 1979 is here on display.

 

As we conclude our remarks and turn now to the opportunity to tour the Middleton High School Performing Arts Center, let us recognize with true pride the generous gifts that our class has been able to provide to the students and staff of Middleton High School, and to the broader community.

 

 

 

Friday, August 23, 2024

all on you

For all I knew

It was all on me

Mine to live

Mine to do.

 

For all I knew

My faults all mine

Burdens borne

Penance due.

 

Now, now, now

Nothing’s the same

Now, now, now

It’s all on you.

 

Now, now, now

Could it be true?

Now, now, now

It’s all on you.

Could it be true?

My faults and shame

Don’t count for me-

They count for you.

 

Now, now, now

Nothing’s the same

Now, now, now

It’s all on you.

 

Now, now, now

Could it be true?

Now, now, now

It’s all on you.

 

 

 

 

5/24

how I used to be

 

Each new day a quest for why

Each new hour a search for me

Each new week the joys fly by

That’s how I used to be.

 

Each new day a lonely walk 

Each new prayer from guilt to free

Each new thought of you so far

That’s how I used to be.

 

One day a glimpse so different

One distant died for me

My quest to earn and justify

That’s how I used to be.

 

The one I sought to please

My guilt to shed for good

Has done it all – already

His choice, his story told.

 

Now each new day – adventure

Forgiven is my theme

Purchased from my hopeless quest

That’s how I used to be.

 

And now your cross my answer

Your joy the call for me

So different from those distant days

That’s how I used to be.

 

 

 

5/24

Jeremiah

 

 

 

I’ve been reading the Old Testament Book of Jeremiah, who is thought to have lived in the Holy Land six centuries before the birth of Jesus.

It is a tough read.

This is the part of the Bible where God is described as angry, vindictive, unforgiving, threatening, caustic, overbearing, petty, violent, bitter, hateful, short-tempered, unyielding, furious, regretful, vengeful.

And worse things.

The prophet is given a message that amounts to a statement that God hates, yes HATES, his people for their persistent attraction to the gods of neighboring nations, and to the customs of these people and their gods.

Jeremiah is given the task of announcing unremitting destruction of the entire Jewish nation, and that it is too late to do anything about it. Babylon will destroy Jewish society, Jewish monuments, Jewish animals, and the Jews themselves.

This fiercely angry God is unloving. He is terrible to envision.

He seems absolutely nothing like the Jesus I have come to know and love and worship. Nothing like the one who surrendered his life for me, though I did nothing to deserve his sacrifice. Nothing like the one hanging on a cross, having not spoken a word of self-defense at the hands of his killers.

The question is an obvious one – how can we reconcile the depiction of this violently angry, impatient, vindictive, petty Old Testament God with Jesus, the self-sacrificing God?

It is an old question.

I am fascinated by Marcion of Sinope, an early Christian theologian a bit more than a century after Jesus’ life. Marcion lived in Rome and his contemplations led him to an honest conclusion – the triune God revealed by Jesus Christ is simply a different God from this angry Old Testament ogre. To Marcion they were simply incompatible, too different in character to possibly be the same entity.

I actually give huge credit to Marcion for stating the obvious rather than ignoring it. This obvious incompatibility goes conveniently undiscussed in Christian churches. The threats and hateful words assigned to Jeremiah by God are not often mentioned, let alone discussed, in sermons from Christian pulpits.

Marcion said what needed to be said – this Old Testament God COULD NOT POSSIBLY BE JESUS CHRIST.

Marcion eventually was branded a heretic and fell from any kind of authority in orthodox Christianity. 

 

So much for Marcion.

But.

What about his POINT? It still is valid. How do we understand the tone of the caustic message reportedly given by God to Jeremiah, compared to the self-sacrificing message of Jesus Christ on the cross?

I’ve been thinking about it...

I’ve concluded that our New Testament God is the same God with the same demanding expectations for faithfulness.

But the equation has changed.

I am no longer responsible for living up to God’s demands for faithfulness.

This God knows that I cannot, any more than his people, the Jews, ever could.

God’s original covenant with his people, communicated to Moses, was about his people trying to be faithful, and failing. The only prescription for reconciliation after failure was the scrupulous ceremonial sacrifice of innocent animals and the offering of their blood. The prophecies of Jeremiah make clear that animal sacrifice had become thoroughly inadequate.

I am so utterly thankful that something changed, and that God changed it.

God announced a new covenant that is no longer about our faithfulness – it is about his faithfulness. It is about the faithfulness of Jesus Christ.

In the midst of the hateful threats given to Jeremiah to call down on his people, we find a remarkable message from God to Jeremiah, slipped with subtlety into Jeremiah 31:31-33:

“This is a brand-new covenant that I will make with Israel when the time comes. I will put my law within them – write it on their hearts! – and be their God. And they will be my people. They will no longer go around setting up schools to teach each other about God. They’ll know me first hand…I’ll wipe the slate clean for each of them. I’ll forget they ever sinned!”

There in the midst of the hate, this angry God slips in an unimaginable promise of a new covenant to take effect sometime in the distant future.

Few details, but a very different premise.

It takes six more centuries to unveil the truth.

In the Gospel of Luke, chapter 22, verse 20 we read about Jesus’ last night alive with his friends. Celebrating the ceremonial stages of the Jewish Passover meal, Jesus reached the prescribed step where the cup was to be shared with all reclining around the table.
 

"This cup is the new covenant written in my blood, blood poured out for you."

How many times have I heard those words and let them slide past me meaninglessly at communion services?

The same demands for perfect faithfulness. The same responsibilities to a perfect God. The same need for some kind of blood to pay for shortcomings.

All the same.

But so different. This new covenant, promised to Jeremiah, announced by Jesus, is not about my obedience. It is about Jesus’ obedience. It is not about me living up to standards. It is about Jesus living up to standards. It is not about the repeated sacrifices of innocent animals. It is about the one sacrifice of an innocent God himself.

For me.

And you.

Marcion didn’t realize that the answer to his puzzle was not that there are different Old Testament and New Testament Gods.

The answer to his puzzle was that there are different Old Testament and New Testament covenants.

I am so glad that there is a new covenant.

Now with every hateful and vengeful prophecy I read in Jeremiah, I think with tears of the one who somehow felt the full weight of that anger, paying once and for all for me and you and for all who will ever have sinned.

Yes, I am so glad that there is a new covenant.

3.25.23

see myself

 

 

I see myself on gleaming shore,

– warm are the ripples here.

The path behind me, scarcely seen,

no haste, no pain, no fear.

 

 

I see myself, I stroll alone,

the breeze and sky bathe all –

Yet far ahead another comes,

with features unknown now.

 

I see myself, drawn to that form,

more warmth than person yet –

What story brought me to this shore?

How could I now forget?

 

I see myself, oh sudden thought,

this place – the other side.

And the one who walks toward me –

the answer for all time.

 

All that matters is this one –

this countenance now seen.

Things past and gone, though happy gold, 

count not at all in thee.

 

I see myself, the old is past,

all mem’ries quickly flee.

Now grasping how my way was paid,

to bring this shore to me.

 

I see myself now kneeling here,

in timeless sun and sand.

In tears I lose myself in joy.

In tears I take your hand.

 

 

 

Luke 20:27-38

2/24

you see a crown

 

When you see me, you see a crown

Braided thorns to lacerate

When you see me, you see his tears

Feel again his last heartbeat

 

When you hear me, my voice is his

My merit gone, his payment still

My falt’tring words give way ‘ere long

You hear him begging for your will

 

How can one who knows my all

Who’s seen me dark and loathsome live

Yet blind yourself now to my fall

See only him and freedom give?

 

 

Ever seeing yet as blind

You choose to keep him in my place 

‘Twill never change, in him I’m found

Forever mine, you see his face

 

 

When you touch me, ‘tis like a dove

Graceful wings, so silently 

As if you smile again on him

Bestow yourself for all to see

 

 

How can one who knows my all

Who’s seen me dark and loathsome live

Yet blind yourself now to my fall

See only him and freedom give?

 

 

 

4/23

sunrise

 

 

Sunset was my time of day

Painful mem’ries washed away

Deep’ning colors, growing breeze

The boughs begin to sway

 

I’m tired now, the nights grow cold

My sleep eludes, my dreams are old

A distant light, a still voice calls

A glimpse of diff’rent gold

 

Now sunrise ever calls to me

The gold of promise, come to be

Payment, freedom, rescue mine

Forever death from light will flee

Forever death from light will flee

 

I'll never be the same again

Changed for all through what you've done

Your goodness giv'n, your gift alone

Behold the rising son

 

Now sunrise ever calls to me

The gold of promise, come to be

Payment, freedom, rescue mine

Forever death from light will flee

Forever death from light will flee

 

 

 

 

11.30.22

mom

It was Sunday, October 16, 2022. It had been a busy weekend with Liz joining us from Minneapolis with her dogs, and Laura’s sister and mom visiting overnight from Madison. Family members had dropped by to greet Laura’s mom. All but Liz had departed by Sunday morning so around noon we three headed for lunch at a favorite local food hall and plopped down with hot food and cold drinks. As I was returning to the table with a few last items, Liz mentioned that Laura had a phone message from Madison that my mother (now 87 and living alone at home since the death of my father four years ago) had not made her daily morning wellness call to the local agency. That was unusual. I got up from the table and walked to a quieter part of the large room and called my mom’s cell phone. No answer.     

A minute later we got a phone call from one of my mother’s church friends in Madison. Mom missed her zoom church service that morning, where she had been scheduled to read a Bible passage. Unusual. The rector and a friend intuitively drove the few blocks to mom’s house after church, knocked and called from the various doors, but got no response. They called the police for a wellness check. As one of a hundred well thought-out plans, mom had her garage code on file with the police, so access was easy. As another example of the hundred plans, kind neighbors across the street had a back-up house key and they also stepped forward, noticing the arrival of police and then an ambulance.     

Mom was found unconscious next to her small bed, wearing her pajamas. She had likely been unconscious for several hours. She was not responsive and was conveyed promptly to the University of Wisconsin Hospital, the same facility where I had done my PhD work in the mid-1980s.   Mom was in the ER and had received a CT scan. I found the phone number for the hospital and was quickly transferred to the ER desk. Within a minute, remarkably, I was on the phone with the young female physician caring for my mom. I carried my phone back to the table where Laura and Liz sat across from me. Laura handed me a sheet of paper as I took notes. The two women watched my face and listened to my half of the conversation and saw my writing.     

Mom had suffered a severe stroke with a large accumulation of blood deep in her brain. There was blood also in the ventricles. It was, clearly, an unrecoverable event.     

While listening I felt a mixture of sorrow and resignation. Liz could see it in my face and hear it in my voice. Tears welled up in her eyes across from me.     

The doctor and I spoke briefly, and I thanked her. She asked about my mother’s ‘do not resuscitate’ bracelet and I affirmed that mom’s care should not include interventions other than comfort. This direction had been made crystal clear by mom over the years. I was certain about it in my mind, and I knew with confidence that the direction would resonate with all family members and friends. Mom had left no doubt.     

Minutes later I got a phone call from a nurse regarding medication to reduce mom’s blood pressure, and I declined it, clarifying to the team that decisions could now be simplified going forward – no medications or interventions or escalations other than comfort measures. The nurse was appreciative of such clarity.     

I had one piece of pizza and finished my drink while Laura and Liz packed up our otherwise uneaten food. It was evident that I needed to drive the three hours to Madison. I left a message for my sister in Fond du Lac. Laura helped pack enough for three days. I emailed colleagues for back-up help with my graduate school class, and my faithful lab manager for back-up help with my research lab.     

I printed off a special document that created the foundation for the next 3 days. It was 14 pages of digital answers to a list of vital and end-of-life questions that my brother and I had posed to my mom earlier in the year. She had dutifully and accurately assembled all the requested information. I had organized it and shared the compilation with my brother and sister, just in case. 

 

Now, here we were.     

 

The document was perfect. It, together with a file that included memorial service preferences and a pre-written obituary, were all at hand.     

Remarkable.     

Then I was off.     

I love the drive from Rochester to Madison, crossing the Mississippi in La Crosse. Laura let me take her car with hands-free phone, and this allowed me to speak with my sister and brother and make plans to have my sister meet me at our childhood home before driving to the hospital.     

The house felt totally normal. One hall table had been moved, presumably to facilitate gurney access. Mom’s bed was unmade, but the room was otherwise normal. Everything felt normal.     

 

Except mom was gone.     

It had been an odd few weeks for mom. Things had been fine over the summer except for the need to euthanize her last beloved kitty. Just a few weeks before her stroke, mom experienced a heart event and had received a pacemaker. I had been busy with teaching and mom and friends had managed. My sister had driven down twice to help on weekends. Mom wasn’t happy about the pacemaker, the software connections, the need for physical therapy at home to restore arm mobility after the implant.     

But she was improving and back to being herself. The day before her stroke she and my brother had a long phone call. He said she was very much herself. Lots to say. No shortage of opinions, coherent, bright.     

 

Mom’s stroke was a gift of pure grace in that it immediately incapacitated that mind so there was no pain, no anxiety, no distress. It was the blessing she had always sought – the path to a peaceful and uncomplicated death, a death to match her husband’s quiet death in his bed at home. Mom spoke with deep gratitude and frequency about that experience.     

Her death turned out to be very much the same.     

Grace.     

My sister and I met mom’s good friend in the emergency room. The place had entry security protocols and a TSA-like feel. Masks, the usual buzz and waiting patients. Limits on guests. It was late afternoon and mom’s friends had generously been keeping vigil with her the whole time.     

Mom was quietly asleep in her bed. She had nasal oxygen but otherwise looked completely peaceful. We and her caregivers spoke to her politely, but in her coma I am convinced that she was already gone.     

I asked myself – where is she really? How does resurrection work? When does faith become sight?     

 

My sister and I prayed together as we held mom’s hands. We cried quietly. I found a small box of tissues. The box became a note pad for our time in the ER. I began using my cell phone to take pictures as notes and records.     

I spoke on the phone with the palliative care team lead, a perfectly trained and entirely professional physician who clarified everything in just a few minutes.     

My sister followed my mom as she was relocated to a quiet and spacious room in the palliative area of 6th floor oncology in the B tower. I met them there after moving our car.     

The room was perfect. The view was of mom’s beloved Lake Mendota, the University of Wisconsin campus, State Street, and the state capital. Mom would have loved it. She slept quietly.     

There were two striking things about our two days in this room.     

Mom was silently asleep. This was a woman who could not otherwise stop talking, and these last two days were kept in silence.     

Mom was entirely peaceful. For years she had been struggling with a muscle tremor that affected her neck, making various aspects of life uncomfortable. She never complained about it. Now she slept without tremor, completely still.       

The care teams were exceptional. The young nurses shared unexpected connections to Fond du Lac and to a former MD-PhD student of mine. The palliative care residents demonstrated excellent emotional intelligence, rapidly sizing up the room and who in the room needed attention. This was never mom, as she slept quietly. It was often my sister, whose own prior career as a hospice caregiver made these two days easier, and harder.     

My sister and I were gifted these hours to work together, to care for each other, and to talk. She would nap or chat with me. I was seated with my laptop working through my list of final wishes and contacts for my mom, sending texts and emails. Had mom died immediately, my sister and I would not have shared this experience.     

Throughout my mom’s death, I had the very clear impression that I was reading from a lovingly prepared script, in a play that had been written by grace.     

There were no hard moments.     

My sister and I decided that we would leave the hospital each night for food and rest. Sunday night and Monday night we returned to our childhood home, now missing its primary occupant. We ate together there or at various fast-food destinations. We slept as best we could.       

It wasn’t clear how long this vigil might last. By Monday night I had worked my way through most of the list.     

Mom’s breathing was becoming shallow. Her face still peaceful, skin tone changed subtly, mouth slightly more open.     

My sister said that maybe this would be the night that mom would die. We agreed to go home to sleep, and that we would not be sad if we got the phone call during the night.     

We didn’t.     

Tuesday morning we woke and dressed. We had breakfast. We arrived at the hospital just after 8 AM. It was chilly. There had been snow flurries Monday – a typical Wisconsin fall. There were whitecaps on the lake.     

We took off our coats and approached mom’s bed. My sister spoke a greeting and gently touched mom’s face. I took mom’s left hand. She was warm and peaceful under the covers.     

Peaceful.     

At that moment, not one minute after we arrived in the room, mom inhaled gently but audibly, and was silent.     

My sister and I looked at each other.     

“That might have been it. She waited for us.”     

We checked for mom’s pulse at her wrist and neck. There was no pulse. Her body was finished with its earthly work.     

It was one of the most remarkable moments of my life.     

It was a privilege to be there, and to experience that kind of focused grace.     

We prayed again, in tears, believing that Jesus had long ago paid the debt that mom, and me, and everything else that will ever have lived, could not pay.     

Jesus taught that heaven’s joys will far exceed the joys we have known here.     

That may be.     

I thought of the joys of a young high school couple in Iowa in the 1950s.     

And I was filled with gratitude. Again.         

10/23/22

words

A detail of the Saint John's Bible, designed and illustrated by Donald Jackson and colleagues. Monmouth, Wales, United Kingdom. Commissioned by Saint John's Abbey and University, Collegeville, Minnesota. A gift to Mayo Clinic by Stephen and Barbara Slaggie

 

 

I’ve been reading an interesting book about the proper role of women in Christian churches. What actually interests me most about the book is not its conclusions about women in Christian churches, but how the author, a conservative Christian Bible scholar and the product of evangelical divinity schools, chooses to think about the Bible. Because of her theological education in this environment, the author believes not only that the Bible is a special and supernatural book, but that the original Greek, Aramaic, and Hebrew words translated for us into English, were individually inspired by God.

 

In essence, the author works from the assumption that the Bible is not just God’s Word, it is God’s words.

 

Though this may be a common view in conservative evangelical Christianity, it wasn’t until reading this treatise on women in the church that I recognized how different is my own understanding of biblical inspiration. Readers of my blog will perhaps not be surprised to hear this, based on the past essays posted here (for example this and this and this).

 

I contend that the Bible should be understood as a scrapbook, not as a textbook.

 

Let me also be clear that what I am sharing here are my own opinions based on informal Bible study. I claim no formal divinity school training at all. I am not a Bible scholar. I read neither Greek nor Hebrew nor Aramaic.

 

 And I could be wrong.

 

But, what I write follows from 40+ years of thinking and reading since I first understood that the remedy for my guilt and moral failings comes through accepting that Jesus Christ died in my place. My faith in him undeservedly grants me his righteousness forever.

 

Is the Bible God’s Word or is it God’s words?

 

I will begin by making it quite clear that the ancient texts collected and translated as our Bible are strikingly unusual with respect to the strong evidence for their faithful and accurate transmission over centuries. Though no original manuscripts are available, the copies of copies that have been handed down provide evidence of accurate transmission that far exceeds that available for any other ancient texts. It appears that these biblical documents have been transmitted with care and accuracy.

 

This, however, does not imply that the documents are supernatural or have been supernaturally preserved from error.

 

The faithful transmission of these documents also does not tell us if they are God’s Word or God’s words. That judgement requires a decision on our part.

 

We need to remember that what Christians now call the Bible was assembled through a process over multiple centuries. This process involved collecting separate documents and various committee discussions and eventually votes on the canon, i.e. the essential compilation.

 

The Muratorian Canon fragment is a barely-legible copy of a canon list thought to date to AD 170 , including most of our familiar New Testament books, but without the letter to the Hebrews, the letter of James, and the first and second letters of Peter. The fragment is also unclear about whether the three letters of John were included. This suggests that a somewhat shorter version of the New Testament collection was recognized perhaps 140 years after Jesus’ death (the same number of years that separates me from the birth of my great grandparents).  

 

By AD 363, the Council (committee) of Laodicea had settled on the same Old Testament books that we recognize, plus the equivalent of our New Testament without the book of Revelation. Importantly, that council also recognized two Apocryphal books as belonging in the collection. These latter are books where the value and extent of divine inspiration were debated by the committee.

 

The current form of our Old Testament with five Apocryphal books and a New Testament canon with our 27 books is evident by AD 367 when Bishop Athanasius of Alexandria summarized them in a letter.

 

The Council of Carthage (AD 397) affirmed this modern list as authoritative, including the five Apocryphal books.

 

Thus within 350 years of Jesus’ death (the same number of years that separates me from Isaac Newton) a canonical Bible collection had been assembled. It should be emphasized that the value of the Apocryphal books in this canon continues to be debated even now. Catholic and Orthodox churches have voted to retain them, and Protestant churches have voted that these questioned documents should not be included in modern Bibles. Thus, although the Apocryphal books are generally not considered to carry essential Christian doctrines, we must admit that the question of which documents really belong in “the canon” is still actually unresolved.

 

Interestingly, as recently as five centuries ago professor of theology, Bible translator, and reformer Martin Luther (1483 – 1546) disputed the value of certain biblical books, suggesting that all Bible books are not equally inspired. Luther proposed what amounts to a New Testament Apocrypha.  He considered the letter to the Hebrews, the letters of James and Jude, and the book of Revelation to be disputed books with lower doctrinal value. Luther positioned these books separately in his German Bible translation, along with the traditional Apocryphal books.

 

This exercise reminds us that the Bible itself provides no table of contents. Humans are responsible for that. Christians trust that God’s wisdom influenced table of contents committees over the centuries. Those committee debates still aren’t quite settled.

 

I argue here that while the original Bible documents could be a supernatural and miraculous collection of God’s words, this is not actually a claim of the Bible authors, and it is not a necessary assumption for Christians who take the Bible seriously and seek to study it as God’s Word.

 

Instead, I see the Bible as a fascinating and complex collection of ancient documents representing many different kinds of literature written by many different authors for many different reasons over many centuries. I see the Bible as an extremely valuable collection because it tells a transcendent story that explains our purpose in the universe. This is one thing that science cannot explain. The stories told in the Bible are braided into one over-arching message of rescue and redemption. I think it is the most compelling story I’ve ever heard, and I think that’s why I believe it. It’s too beautiful not to believe.

 

Though there are facts to reference, my faith is inspired by an aesthetic argument, perhaps a surprising confession from a scientist.

 

The Bible is worth studying as the Word (that is, message) of God, but is it the words of God?

 

Beyond the story that God worked alone to inscribe the Ten Commandments on stone tablets in the book of Exodus, the Old Testament writers sometimes claim other forms of divine inspiration, using phrases like “Thus says the Lord.” In other cases, God’s voice is quoted. This doesn’t clarify whether what was inspired were ideas or individual words.

 

The New Testament claims about inspiration are more interesting. The author of the book that motivated this essay had been trained in a system where the original words of the Bible books are assumed to be supernatural and inerrant, so any biblical claims of inspiration must therefore be true.

 

What are these claims? I pick four examples (showing the New International Version translation):

 

2 Timothy 3:16-17

All Scripture is God-breathed and is useful for teaching, rebuking, correcting and training in righteousness, so that the servant of God may be thoroughly equipped for every good work.

 

This familiar passage makes a claim for all Scripture, but it is entirely debatable whether Paul thought that his own letters or other documents later collected as the New Testament should be considered to be included as what he meant by Scripture. Evangelical Christians choose to adopt this view, but it is not at all self-evident. It seems more likely to me that Paul was referencing the Jewish Scriptures. We don’t know. Moreover, it is not clear what Paul means by God-breathed. It is not necessary to interpret this as God choosing words. God can inspire in many ways to convey a message. God inspires actions and he inspires creativity in forms other than writing. God inspires art. This inspiration is not limited to written words. God is far more powerful than that.

 

Hebrews 4:12

For the word of God is alive and active. Sharper than any double-edged sword, it penetrates even to dividing soul and spirit, joints and marrow; it judges the thoughts and attitudes of the heart.

 

This powerful passage does not help us distinguish between the Bible as containing the Word of God or the words of God. It says that whatever is meant by “word of God” is powerful. Does this refer to the Jewish scriptures? More? Less? We don’t know. One thing is clear, there was no New Testament when this passage was written.

 

2 Peter 3:15-16

Bear in mind that our Lord’s patience means salvation, just as our dear brother Paul also wrote you with the wisdom that God gave him. He writes the same way in all his letters, speaking in them of these matters. His letters contain some things that are hard to understand, which ignorant and unstable people distort, as they do the other Scriptures, to their own destruction.

 

The conservative author of the book that inspired this essay uses this verse as a proof text for the Bible being the words of God. According to this reasoning, if Paul claims that all Scripture is God-breathed, and if Peter considers Paul’s letters to be like other “Scriptures” then Paul’s letters, at least, should be considered as word-for-word God-breathed Scripture. I see this as unnecessary circular reasoning to justify a narrow view of how the Bible is inspired. It's pretty much saying: “Why do I think the Bible is inspired? Because it says it is, and because the Bible is inspired then it must be true. And because ‘inspired’ must mean that every word was given by God then the whole Bible must be understood as word-for-word true.”

 

Sorry. Not convincing to me.

 

2 Peter 1:20-21

Above all, you must understand that no prophecy of Scripture came about by the prophet’s own interpretation of things. For prophecy never had its origin in the human will, but prophets, though human, spoke from God as they were carried along by the Holy Spirit.

 

Here again we are confronted by uncertainty about what Peter considered to be Scripture? The Jewish Old Testament? Paul’s letters? Peter’s own letters, including this one? And which prophets are being mentioned? Old Testament authors? It is again not at all clear that this passage can be applied to itself and to other documents only later collected as the New Testament. Regardless of which prophecies of Scripture are described, the inspiration resulting from being “carried along by the Holy Spirit” need not imply word-for-word dictation. That assumption has been added by conservative scholars. Why not inspired in the same sense that music, painting, sculpture, and dance are inspired?

 

Thus, I choose to believe that the documents of the Bible have been accurately transmitted through history as a wonderful scrapbook, not a textbook, and they convey God’s Word (message), not God’s words. This view is consistent with what the Bible authors, themselves, write. This view explains the complexities and cultural contexts in which the stories are embedded. This view requires that a lot of homework be done before trying to understand the documents that convey the message. This view implies that God’s Word is carried by the thrust and themes of the stories, not by their individual words. This view allows for misunderstandings, contradictions, errors, exaggerations, pride, prejudice, pre-scientific explanations, politics, myths, and folklore. All these aspects of human literature can certainly be inspired by God.

 

It is threatening to some to perceive that the thrust of a message is more important than its individual words. This means that work must be done to understand the main point and resist normalizing cultural and temporal references that are tangential to that message and that, in fact, can distract from it.

 

The conservative author whose book inspired this essay devotes hundreds of pages in preparation before confronting the following familiar (notorious?) passage from St. Paul’s first letter to Timothy:

 

1 Timothy 2:11-13

A woman should learn in quietness and full submission. I do not permit a woman to teach or to assume authority over a man; she must be quiet. For Adam was formed first, then Eve.

 

Whether or not it has been properly interpreted, this and other verses have contributed for generations to a Christian culture that represses women and minimizes female leadership. I admire her, but the conservative author whose book inspired this essay has no self-consistent option except to say that the words reproduced above are translations of God’s own Greek words. She then must engage in all manner of logical and linguistic and hermeneutical gymnastics to try to escape the plain meaning of the text. Indeed, she gets points for trying.

 

However, I find this wriggling to be tremendously unsatisfying and unnecessary. Paul was writing in a time and place separated from us by 20 centuries of scientific insight and cultural evolution. This particular section of his writing simply reveals that Paul, no matter how progressive, is a creature of his culture and particular circumstances in a land far away and long ago. We should expect no different from a historical letter transmitted accurately across the centuries. This does not require us to understand these to be God’s words to us, even though they are collected as part of God’s Word (message).

 

I am attracted by the idea that the Bible is a complex and beautiful collection of documents, organized later by wise but struggling humans doing their best to sort out texts that shed light on God’s beautiful thematic story. I have no problem believing that God’s grace somehow led to this collection, without me needing to accept the document as a collection of God’s words, and without me needing to take sides on debates about whether the individual documents in the collection are equally inspired.

 

The authors don’t claim that, and we don’t need to. The beauty and transforming power of these documents don’t require such a limited view.

 

Thus, I don’t have a problem with the passage above from Paul’s second letter to Timothy because I simply don’t think it applies in modern America. It may accurately describe Paul’s opinion at the time and place that it was written, but that’s it. It is our responsibility to do homework to determine what should or must or must not be applied here and now. We should not be surprised at all when culture and science have moved us past the context of the authors. We should read carefully and seriously, but then discern which particulars do and do not apply. This should not be surprising.

 

Inevitably it will be objected that picking and choosing will result from this approach. I agree. Picking and choosing are exactly what we should do with a complex collection of historical documents. If we are honest, we must admit that we already do this all the time.

 

What do we do to find common ground if the individual words of the Bible are not themselves supernatural, and if people disagree over what does and does not apply to our current circumstances so many centuries after these texts were composed? Easy. We focus on the major themes and the beautiful rescue message carried by the text. We avoid preoccupation by distracting minor topics where culture and history cast doubt on modern applicability.  

 

This is one reason why the history of Christianity is marked by the composition of great creeds authored by committees, the same kinds of committees that voted on the canon of documents to include as the Bible collection. The goal of creeds is to place focus on the important teachable themes and set aside distractions. If we read the great creeds, things are simplified. For example, it was in AD 325 that a committee in Nicaea first decided on this creed:

 

We believe in one God, the Father Almighty, Maker of all things visible and invisible.

And in one Lord Jesus Christ, the Son of God, begotten of the Father, God of God, Light of Light, very God of very God, begotten, not made, consubstantial with the Father;

By whom all things were made;

Who for us men, and for our salvation, came down and was incarnate and was made man;

He suffered, and the third day he rose again, ascended into heaven;

From thence he shall come to judge the quick and the dead.

And in the Holy Ghost.

 

The essay you are reading was motivated by soul-searching inspired by a thoughtful and analytical but fraught book by a conservative author struggling with a theology of gender relations in the modern Christian church, while adhering to the belief that the Bible is God’s words. I admire the author’s valiant attempts and consistency within her conservative theology. I appreciated her book because it helped me realize that the author and I love and serve the same God and have accepted the same undeserved sacrifice to set us free.

 

But we understand the Bible differently.

 

To me, the Bible is God’s Word, not his words.

 

12.22.21