Greetings, Timekeepers:

I’ve been musing over a lecture given by Lutheran theologian Joseph Sittler a number of years ago at the Episcopal Student Center in Hyde Park. It was part of a series called Last Lecture, in which various scholars were asked to compose their thoughts around what they'd want to say if they knew this was their last formal address. Sittler, who was in his eighties at the time, began by observing that he, perhaps, had the easiest time with the assignment; his advanced age made it quite possible that his contribution may be a fact rather than a mental exercise. While this wasn’t his last lecture, he did pass away about eighteen months later.

Sittler began by discussing his blindness. Macular degeneration had been creeping around the center of his vision for several years until darkness became dominant. Always an optimist and a scholar of good humor, Sittler said that his loss of sight came with advantages; he finally had an excuse to decline reviewing articles and books by other theologians he didn’t like. He also said there was a certain beauty in having more and more time to think about less and less material. Sittler, now in his sunset years, confessed that as a young man he had failed to recognize the power of little things and the depth of simple words.

In these days, confined as we are, we may find some solace in Sittler’s observation. Perhaps we can lean into the advantage of unfilled time paired with the necessities of forced simplicity.

Time itself was one of Joseph Sittler’s topics of focused contemplation. He expressed his disdain for digital clocks, dividing the steady flow of time into herky-jerky increments. His preference was the sweep second hand that helped us visualize the stream of chronology. He quoted the Isaac Watts hymn, "O God, Our Help in Ages Past," wherein verse seven begins, “Time, like an ever-rolling stream.” (This is verse five in our hymnal, #687, which leaves out three stanzas.) Comprehending time’s movement rather than its marking may explain why you sometimes don’t know which day it is; we’ve lost the notch marks of meetings and appointments. Like driftwood, we’ve become unaware of our location, but acutely aware of our surroundings. 

I’m not sure what we’ll take from these days of separation. Whatever we’ve learned has required time as we know it to stop. Sometime our calendars and digital chronometers will matter again, and we will return to insisting that time bow to our will. But in the meantime, we are the ones who must bend.

Wishing you a good time, I remain,

With Love,
Jonathan Krogh
Your Pastor