A quiz for the Gottesdienst Crowd. How many dreadful things can you spot in this picture?

First, the easy ones. A pastor in a mask. We have spoken before on this, and more than once. Especially fitting is Karl Fabrizius’s remark: “The celebrant must in every way confess that the Holy Body and Blood of Christ are given and shed for the recipient’s good.” And another, “Any mask is at best a distraction, and at worst an insertion of fear. Such a message is inconsistent with our theology and the public administration of the Sacrament” (see his entire post here). In these pages we have also lamented the loss of the face. So why should a pastor, of all people, be one to add to our lamentations, when he is supposed to be the man of comfort? Some say it’s loving your neighbor. That’s nonsense, as we have also opined before. The celebrant shall never wear a mask. That is not a “may” rubric.

Then there’s the grotesque elbow bump. We can’t shake hands any longer? We have to teach this little girl that she (whose odds of contracting or spreading the virus are virtually nil) must learn this new way of communicating? This is sickening.

And then there’s this outdoor scene. We have no way of knowing whether this occurred at one of those dreadful outdoor celebrations of the Sacrament that have transpired since Covid began, but we have to wonder whether the picture is at least subtly advancing the idea in the Covid context here, what with so much of it still going on. Not that there’s anything fundamentally wrong with outdoor communion in itself, say, on the battlefield or in cases that require it. But Covid does not require it. It’s a virus, for crying out loud, and although a nasty one to be sure, its deadliness for the great majority of people is now lower than driving a car, so by encouraging parking lot communion you’re encouraging driving, which is deadlier. So if you’re doing that, stop it. Go back inside, and stop fretting about Covid, when the blessed Sacrament is in fact your failsafe heavenly vaccine. At least this picture conjures up the church parking lots with cars lined up to receive the Sacrament through the window. Is this what holiness at the altar has been reduced to?

Then there’s the fact that this comes as an “important updated from the LCMS” but is nothing of the kind. It’s actually just a postcard telling us that there’s another item coming in the mail soon, saying, “In the days to come, please keep an eye on your mailbox” as you await the Synodical President’s update letter. Can someone tell me why this expense was deemed appropriate? How much does it cost to mail a postcard? How many were mailed? And whatever for? Don’t we always keep an eye on our mailbox? At least I thought so. But now, lest there’s anyone who doesn’t routinely keep an eye on his mailbox, this postcard will surely alert him, as if he were a puppy at the window watching for his master. The note on the other side of the postcard says it is from “the Executive Director of Mission Advancement.” A fancy name, I suppose, for the guy in charge of fundraising; and I do understand the importance of fundraising (what with my being, as it happens, the Executive Director of Gottesdienst), but honestly, why not call a thing what it is? And why should I support this kind of mission advancement? Masks? Elbow bumps? Et cetera? I never thought missions were about that sort of thing.

I could go on about the sign on the lawn, and someone could call that nit-picky. But whatever. “Let me introduce . . . Jesus.” I find that a little off-putting. As in, Have you ever heard of Jesus? No? Well, come on in, then. Ok, maybe I am being a little nit-picky here, but it goes to my general distaste for so many little weekly changing pithy sayings on church signs. Do they ever work?

And what’s with that stole? When are we going to convince people that an empty cross draped with the grave clothes does not depict the resurrection? It looks like the letter M. Hm, Marquette University maybe?

Ah, well, maybe I’m just crabby today. The reason? Well, this goofy postcard came in the mail the other day . . .