Filtering sanctification

LutheranChik’s musings on sanctification have triggered some processing. In particular, she observed:

My own dad, on one of the rare occasions when he waxed theological, tried explaining to me that the Sermon on the Mount was designed not to actually give us guidance in living but simply to make us feel so guilty about our inability to follow Jesus’ impossible instructions that we’d be driven to throw ourselves upon the mercy of God, which is what God really wants all along. Which, if you’ve grown up in a Pietistic Lutheran household, makes a crazy kind of sense.

It reminded me of an exchange with my mother, following my nephew’s baptism years ago. The baptism took place in a small-town (pop. 258) Lutheran church (one of two in that town!) that wanted to secede from the Evangelical Lutheran Church in America synod (ELCA), which it saw as too liberal. But first, the backstory, which has a number of intertwined strands that are difficult to separate out--the influences are not excusively Lutheran. I grew up Lutheran, but left on the cusp of some major changes (formation of the ELCA, ordination of women, new service book and hymnal), which I never fully assimilated. I knew intellectually that they were good things but I was apathetic. Nominally my first, little country church (not the one where the baptism took place; this one was 10 miles from town) was a part of the American Lutheran Church (ALC), which later merged with others into the ELCA. Out in the boondocks back then, the local sensibilities had more pull than a synod. I really couldn’t tell you what part, if any, the synod played. To further complicate matters, from grades 6 through 8 I attended a parochial school of the Missouri Synod. That synod was way more conservative than the ALC. To give you an idea: one of my school-mates, when we all hit the local secular high school, told one of our friends that she was going to Hell because she was Catholic. Perhaps the Missouri Synod guy wasn’t representative in other ways, because he didn’t seem to see his rock band, drinking, smoking, and sexual activity as way stations on the slippery slope to Hell(!). I attended a college of the Lutheran Church that had a requisite three credits in religion. One of the courses I took was “Folk Religion in Taiwan,” which was my way of eluding any further potential indoctrination. So I’m not sure if I learned the prescribed theology, but I can sure tell you the lessons carved in my heart and soul. There was no forgiveness for divorce (true of most, if not all Christian denominations then). The pastor of my little church had refused to marry my parents because my mother was a divorcee. Never mind that she had endured every kind of abuse at the hands of her former husband, the son of a southern Baptist minister, which set the scene for many of her resultant biases, and also makes it quite difficult to sift out what in her mindset came from her own upbringing (Lutheran, but with a crazy mother) and what resonated with her because of that first marriage. (Needless to say, “Son of a Preacher Man” was not a favorite tune.) Though my brothers and I were dutifully baptized, and Mom and Dad were members, our family was marginalized until a new pastor arrived. Communion (never referred to as Eucharist and always held at an altar, not a table) was so very important that it had to be guarded from all unworthy. Below a certain level of development, one was unworthy--unable to receive the Body and Blood with proper understanding, which could be developed only by the confirmation process. Intellect was an important tool in battling evil and the will, and the intellect couldn’t effectively battle without requisite instruction and proof that the instruction “took”. Now I contrast that with “I believe that I cannot by my own reason or strength believe in Jesus Christ, my Lord, or come to Him; but the Holy Ghost has called me by the Gospel, enlightened me with His gifts, sanctified and kept me in the true faith…” [from the explanation of the third article of the Apostles’ Creed, Luther’s Small Catechism]. When we moved, the new church held confirmations in the tenth grade (my one brother and I were quite annoyed because our older brother got to be confirmed in eighth grade back in the old church). Important as Communion was, it still took a back seat to the Word. Sermons (lectures, really) ruled, every Sunday, while Communion was held once a month (whether we needed it or not). And Communion was something a number of people endured while gritting their teeth, not because of differing theology but because it made the service run long. It could add on as much as 15 minutes; as church was already punishment (the only good part was the music--hymns and choir anthem or “special music”), Communion extended the sentence. The sermons were not shortened on Communion Sunday. Because there was no nursery in my first little church, children attended the entire service. I still remember my mother frowning at me as I squirmed yet again, holding my doll with the matching dress (as I have a photo of us then, I know I was around three). My parents both sang in the choir; lacking a babysitter, I ended up processing with the choir, following my mother, and sitting at the end of a pew where she could keep an eye on me. I hated that! It certainly hammered home the “children are to be seen and not heard” rule. Even though the church in which I was confirmed was much “kinder and gentler,” and I certainly participated fully there, I know my first impressions ran deep. The pastor who confirmed me had a wonderful sense of humor, and I knew he was truly a pastor, someone one could turn to in difficult times, yet certain rules held fast. I memorized Luther’s Small Catechism (1921 transl.) in preparation for confirmation (one could not be confirmed without passing the memorization test) and through the years had memorized many Bible verses in Sunday school. The double whammy of also attending Trinity Lutheran parochial school had meant that I also did their requisite memorization along with their confirmands (in eighth grade!) without being confirmed there. Rules, rules, rules. I knew the words “grace” and “mercy,” but they had only the meaning LutheranChik’s father knew. I never felt particularly assured, contrary to certain Bible verses. Faith? I was chided in high school by a charismatic when I confided my fears about our family situation. Fear was a sin, the absence of faith. Believe and trust in God, bad things can't harm you and good things overflow on you. I understand much differently now. Martin Luther's struggle over grace certainly resonates deeply. I know from my Lutheran friends that their churches aren’t like those of my upbringing, but to describe my further journey would require probably multiple posts. Back to the exchange with my mother. She and my father had attended my Episcopal church a couple of times, at a time I was finding great meaning and deriving much-needed strength from being there. They loved the music, but had said nothing about any of the rest (other than my mother’s concerns about the incense, kneeling and vestments--too much “like Rome!”). The pastor who baptized my nephew preached the kind of fire and brimstone sermon I hadn’t heard in years. It certainly took me back. Back to LutheranChik’s father’s theology. And I remember looking over at my brother (the baby's father) and knowing, just by his posture, that it would be a good many years before he set foot in a church again. My mother had quit attending church by then (yet a different Lutheran church), but had dutifully gone to the baptism. “Now that was a sermon,” she said. “Not like that watered-down stuff you’ve been getting.” At that moment her experience was encapsulated for me (though not for her): she hadn’t been to church if she hadn’t been beat up.