taking the words of Jesus seriously

Author’s note: Oct. 31, 2017 marks 500 years since German monk Martin Luther nailed his 95 Theses on the church door in Wittenberg, sparking the Protestant Reformation and forever changing the Christian church and the world. Here’s my take on why, 500 years later, I still bother calling myself a Lutheran.

I remember when it happened.

For most of my life I’d been running away, then coming back. This time, though, it seemed more final.

I was sitting in the upper level balcony in a massive worship space at a Baptist church in Southwest Florida. I’d been going to their 20-somethings group, a single female sportswriter far from my Midwest roots in the South, and I sort of fit in, though not really, and most of the time the people who talked to me were not the actual 20-somethings but the 40s and 50-somethings who really wanted this 20-somethings group to take off, and it just sort of wasn’t beyond the tight-knit group who’d grown up together. Which wasn’t necessarily a weakness, considering that having about thirty 20-somethings gather together at a church, for something church-related, once a week, was about as close to a miracle as most of us had seen.

So I’d been going weekly most weeks, and even though I covered hockey games or baseball games most Saturday nights until early in the morning, I thought, OK I am going to go to church.

And the music. The music was fine, good really, probably better than most churches.

The message, it was probably good, too. Pretty inoffensive. Some Bible stuff. Jesus was in there, playing his part.

And I sat there, and I sang, and I didn’t go up for the altar call, and I passed the communion around, and none of it bothered me until I looked around and around and around, and I felt upside down there in church and here it was, with a sinking finality.

I missed the primacy of the cross.

I searched for it valiantly. Its theology was imprinted on my heart.

I couldn’t run anymore. It was clear.

I was Lutheran. I am Lutheran.


Half of my family, my mom’s side, has been Lutheran since Germany, where it’s not called Lutheran because Martin Luther himself never wanted to to make his own denomination, only to reform Catholic church.

And so much of my life, this was all I knew. The large, growing, bustling Lutheran church. Cherub choir and white robes. Bibles in church at age 8. First Communion at age 11 with a poofy white dress. Soup Suppers and Lenten services on Wednesday nights in icy Minnesota February and March. The ominous “Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return” message on Ash Wednesday, the Law lurking in the shadow of the Gospel.

Not that it was all Lutheran. As I said, I ran when I could.

Ran to Baptist Bible Camp in Northern Minnesota, where I learned praise songs and swam across the lake and did canoe races. Ran to the Covenant Church for Wednesday night youth group, where the boys were cute, and the youth pastor didn’t know my parents. Ran to Campus Crusades for Christ in college, to the upstart non-denominational church with a Calvinist bent, to Christian Campus House at the University of Missouri, where my friends went, and I learned that being baptized as an infant put me in the minority among Christians at Mizzou.

See, I tell you this today not because denominations necessarily matter that much anymore. Not because I think one is better than another, or because I think everyone should be Lutheran, or because I think the Reformation 500 Year Anniversary will get more press this year than Halloween. (It won’t.)

I tell you this because I want to explain why, despite all the running and all the questions, and all the potential problems and wonderings, and ethnic trappings, and infighting, and even schism — why I stay.

I bother being Lutheran, because I believe in the power of Lutheran to change the world: 500 years after Martin Luther nailed his 95 theses to the door of a church, this venerable faith still has something to say — in English this time.

Lutheran is theology of the cross. A dark theology rooted on Calvary that speaks to people in the depths of our souls: in grief, in death, in dying, in betrayal: God is there! God was there on Calvary and even as Jesus died and God cried, it was through this darkness on Friday that the sun rose again on Resurrection Easter Sunday.

Theology of the Cross says that we hope because of the darkness, we hope because of suffering and death, knowing that as Paul wrote in Romans 5: “And not only that, but we also boast in our sufferings, knowing that suffering produces endurance, and endurance produces character, and character produces hope, and hope does not disappoint us …”

Luther wrote about theology of the cross in the Heidelberg Disputation of 1518:

“That person does not deserve to be called a theologian who looks upon the invisible things of God as though they were clearly perceptible in things that have happened.

He (or she, my edit!) deserves to be a called a theologian, however, who comprehends the visible and manifest things of God seen through suffering and the cross.”

The morning after Hurricanes Harvey, Maria, Irma…

The morning after Las Vegas…

The morning after 9/11…

The morning after your loved one dies…

The morning after the diagnosis…

The morning after a miscarriage…

It is the theology of the cross that speaks, that preaches, to a suffering world desperately in need of a moment of hope and truth in the face of so much darkness and evil.

If God was there at the cross, and Jesus rose again, then God could still be here. Even after death, even after suffering, after divorce and betrayal — God could still be here.

And the theology of the cross that is Lutheran not only heals, but it indicts.

To the Pat Robertsons of the world, who claim to understand the workings of God, who suggest that human suffering is wrought by the hands of an angry God, the theology of the cross indicts.

To the Joel Osteens of the world, who claim that once you give your life to Christ, suffering vanishes and wealth ensues, the theology of the cross indicts, reminding us that God’s greatest power often comes immediately following the greatest darkness and suffering we’ve experienced, and God’s greatest power often manifests in those whom the world would shun, forget, or oppress.

To those who would make Christianity an either/or proposition, who would attempt to ascertain who is in and who is out of heaven — the theology of the cross does what it always does, what always made me run back to being Lutheran, feet falling heedlessly — reminding human beings of the absolute sovereignty of a God who died and rose again — reminding human beings that what we have is not earned but given, by grace or by luck or perhaps by greed — that we are together in awe of a God who saves us not because of what we do or who we are, but because of who God is, and that is worth worshiping.


Lutheran is vocation: a word Luther took out of the Catholic vernacular to refer only to religious professions (like nuns or priests) – and moved it into the everyday, reminding each of us that each day we have the responsibility and the freedom to choose life over death again, as we received in the moment of new life of baptism.

Lutheran is to shun an all-encompassing theological system, and instead to rely on questions —prayers really — to God each day. Where am I called to serve my neighbor? Where am I called to serve God? Am I loving myself the way God loves me? Am I impinging on another’s freedom? Am I treating something or someone other than God as my Lord?

And finally, Lutheran is to accept the reality of the imperfect Christian community — the church as it is and as we live, not as we would have it be.

I, perhaps like you, dear friend, have spent many days and weeks and months and years wringing my hands over the state of our church, Lutheran or otherwise. Too conservative. Too liberal. Too traditional. Too contemporary. Too small. Too big. Too male. Too female. Too white. Too fast. Too slow. Too old. Too young.

The Lutheran church has within it all of those elements, all of those sins, those shortcomings – the -isms that bring us forward to confession, the tendency of a doctrine-based church to divide and divide again until there is no longer any church that remains, only angry individual Christians and their families and children who want nothing to do with Jesus at all.

And yet the Lutheran Church is not dead and is not monolithic. The Mekane Yesus Church in Ethiopia (with Lutheran roots) is the largest Lutheran church in the world, surpassing Sweden in recent years.

I bother being Lutheran, because I have run away and God has always brought me back to these truths, to this grace, to this freedom, and finally to this responsibility.

Five hundred years later, the church is still in need of Reformation. These Lutheran truths must speak again today, inasmuch as they point toward Jesus and away from the salvation we think lies within ourselves or within other would-be saviors. There is no such time as this for Reformation.

To 500 years more: if not of Lutherans than at least of Jesus-followers who never forget the cross.

This article was adapted from Angela’s new blog

About The Author


Angela Denker is a Lutheran pastor and veteran journalist. She's written for many publications, including Sports Illustrated, The Washington Post, and Sojourners. She is the author of "Red State Christians: Understanding the Voters Who Elected Donald Trump" (Fortress Press).

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