The Uneasy Award of Divine Faith
By Ian Scholes
March 31, 2026
“The Lord be with you.”
“And also with you.” The congregation’s response is dull.
While the pastor informs us of the announcements for that week (the youth group is going to mini-golf at 3:00, with a pizza dinner to follow), the church smells of stale coffee and mold. Everyone in my pew has either been transformed into a musty shell or put to sleep.
The pastor asks if anything else needed to be announced, and without hesitation, skips directly to the next line in his script. “Our ‘Learn-by-Heart’ passage is on the back of your bulletin. Today we take up Holy Baptism, as the head of the family should teach it in a simple way to his household.”
Is this a simple concept? I wonder. Is life simple? Should anything theological really strive to be, above all things, simple?
“We read the Second Article,” the priest recites as we all join in to drone, “What benefits does Baptism give? It works forgiveness of sins—”
Again, unintentionally, hardly engaged, feeling a bit guilty, I think, Why does every Sacrament “work forgiveness of sins”? Is that Biblically accurate language to describe what is happening in baptism?
“—rescues from death and the devil, and gives eternal salvation to all who believe this, as the words and promises of God declare.” We rise for the opening hymn.
I would like to shut my head up for at least thirty seconds. Does that mean that one has to believe that the baptism does these things for the baptism to do these things? What about those mega-church Protestants who do not know any better? What if I am not sure about that exact definition?
I am not losing my faith. I am wondering where that religion truly is. Is this really the place where God Himself enters into physical form in our midst?
While the electric organ pounds out the block chords of the first German hymn of the day (of five), I can feel my English ancestry stir up my boiling blood. My face has become flush. My ears are burning. Every weak rhyme (“Lord” and “Word,” “dear” and “bear”) annoys me. After six verses, the hymn ends.
The Old Testament lesson is long. The Epistle lesson is Pauline. The Gospel is short. I enjoy reading the Bible, and feel the need to dedicate myself to its study, but for some unknown reason in this context, it feels cherry-picked to win arguments about which denomination is the truest.
We do not have a steeple, but we do have fluorescent lighting. We do not have stone floors and walls, calling to mind those early Christians surviving in the Catacombs, but we do have carpet. We are bare. Is our Triune God there?
As our second German hymn of the day plays, I devote myself to the study of this church’s architecture. The cathedrals of old were intentionally designed—they were beautiful works of art that proclaimed the wonder of God. Their steeples towered over the rest of the cities, marked with a cross that indicated the exact purpose of the building. The smell of incense, like prayers appealing to heaven, would ignite the imagination of the soul and refresh the hope of the congregants. These hallowed halls were for God.
We do not have a steeple, but we do have fluorescent lighting. We do not have stone floors and walls, calling to mind those early Christians surviving in the Catacombs, but we do have carpet. We are bare. Is our Triune God there?
During the sermon, I am outside of a house that we passed on our way to church, just thirty minutes prior. The house, like far too much of Southern Illinois, is falling in. The weight of Chicago’s ignorance has torn off pieces of its roof. Everyone remembers the May 16th tornado that wreaked havoc in St. Louis, but who remembers the May 16th tornado that leveled homes in Marion, Illinois?
In the cluttered front yard is a small cross that seems to have been constructed with leftover 2x4s from an uncompleted pool deck project. The boards have been spray-painted white, nailed (or maybe power-screw-driven) together, and planted into the ground. The grass, creeping up around the base of the cross, is littered with ox-eye daisies and dandelions.
Some of us would say that we are more theologically apt than that person. After all, we believe in right teachings. The Law and Gospel are clearly spoken every Sunday. Our Sacraments are rightly administered. Are these things not the most important?
I flinch upright as my chin thumps my chest. It is time for the prayer. I beg the Lord to answer me. I demand signs and wonders. Show me the way, I pray, while ignoring the map.
I have been to Mass, and the Eucharist is my favorite part. The whole of my being shudders in anticipation at the Words of Institution. He is coming.
This, however, is not the Mass. Today I am bearing witness not to the empty tomb, but to the whitewashed one. I am bearing witness to myself.
