the life of a seminarian is not all it's cracked-up to be and...
THIS IS A STORY ABOUT MY TIME IN THE SEMINARY...
AND TELLS THE TALE OF THE WAY ONE HUMAN BEING became aware of the fact that the culture of a seminary life endures because it offers so many pseudo rewards: confidence for the shy, clarity for the uncertain, solace to the wounded and lonely, and above all, the elusive promises of friendship and love from a God you cannot see or hear or feel or touch. Snuggling up with God is the goal; thus, you embrace it, struggle with it, get hurt by it, and perhaps finally leave it behind. The tale has no hero.
The year was 1962, my final year of study at Central Lutheran Theological Seminary in Fremont, Nebraska; and after a long and hard academic climb of 4 years and 4 years in the seminary, my goal was just about to be reached. I was happily engaged to a wonderful girl and about to be ordained. The problem with all of that was this: I listened in class, and to the fearful whisperings of my older professors about sin and evil and redemption and salvation; but I didn't know if I believed any of what I had been taught. This is one of the secrets I carried with me throughout my days as a seminarian. I couldn't talk to my Mom or Dad about my terrible failure to imagine the reality of a God; I certainly couldn't discuss it with my professors; so I kept silent.
I seemed not to care about the Holy Ghost (though I loved his cartoony name), the Blessed Trinity, or Original Sin. I couldn't figure out what exactly my own sins were, was unable to get anyone to explain it to me in any detail whatsoever, and wondered why Original Sin was my responsibility, since it had apparently come to Earth long before I was born. One other problem I had with the church was that it didn't follow its own list of rules. It certainly did not seem to care passionately about the poor. It shamed us into contributing money every Sunday under the guise of what we liked to call Stewardship, which became a regular November ritual affectionately titled: Stewardship Month. I seldom saw ministers on picket lines outside a factory, fighting against the bosses who were defrauding workers. After sex-out-of-marriage, most of their negative passion was reserved for communion, which would apparently save us from our most recent sins, but had to be repeated on a monthly basis to ensure that the body and blood of Our Lord Jesus Christ had remained in proper working order; and when asked, the majority of our professors would never try to help us understand the truth behind the mysteries of the church, of our faith, or how communion actually worked.
We were taught that the chief sources of sin were: Pride, Covetousness, Lust, Anger, Gluttony, Envy, and Sloth. Most of the focus seemed to be on Lust; which was something I had been quite fond of, thinking of it as something that was awesome and darkly attractive, so I made the decision to discuss my doubts with one of my younger professors about this sin which apparently would eventually lead to blindness of the intellect, hardness of the heart, loss of faith and piety, the ruin of health, and a whole slew of unnamed diseases; all of which had magically been sent down to us from Heaven above by the ancient philosophers of the Old Testament who seemed to me to be guys with a well-developed sense of horror.
I could not imagine that someone as all-powerful as God would be sitting on some throne, being pissed off about what I may or may not be doing down in Fremont, Nebraska. The seminary professors made God sound as if He were some glorified scorekeeper, endlessly filling in box scores of sin and lust and then punishing those who made errors. It seemed to me that with so many people on Earth that He would have little time for anything else. That alone would keep Him busy. And if He really had to do all of America, all of Russia, all of Europe and every woman and man committing sins of Lust, all the movies stars and all the baseball players and all the wise guys in the Mob, how in the world would He ever get around to noticing what I was or was not doing in the backseat of my Chevy Impala?
I did, however, respect some of my professors, particularly a kind man named Wesely Fuerst who, at the age of 36, was only 6 years older than I was. He taught Old Testament Theology, and was the fastest man in a pulpit that I ever saw, the words falling from his lips as if he were a tobacco auctioneer, mostly due to the fact that he did not think of himself as much of a preacher. Since none of what I had learned thus far made any sense and because I trusted him, I asked if I could have an appointment with him in his office at the end of the school day.
And when I arrived, I began by telling him of the disbelief I had carried with me, even as a school boy. I informed him that sex seemed to be as natural to real life as is breathing; that I felt that the Prophets were just men like other men; and that the more I learned, the more I thought that it was all very strange. I also wondered why I had entered the seminary in the first place, and thought that I may have done so at the urging of my pastor at my home congregation in Denver, Ben Weaver, and the fact that my grandfather, Albert Daugs, had once been a Lutheran minister. Professor Fuerst sat quietly listening as I rambled on-and-on-and-on, and when the quiet finally came, he asked:
Do you believe in a God exists in any manner or shape or form, Mister Daugs?
I do, Sir, I immediately said.
He then began to ask rapid-fire questions: What kind of a God? I'm not sure, I answered. Why aren't you sure? he said. Are you stupid? he asked. No! I replied. I was agitated. If you're not a stupid ignoramus, what are you? he asked. A blithering idiot? A fucking fool? What?! No!! I shouted. Fuck you! I yelled. I didn't know what else to say. He then got up from his chair, his face was swollen but he looked directly down at me as I sat on the other side of his desk.
I'm sorry, he said.
Okay, I said. I'm sorry too.
He then eased himself down into his chair.
I want you to listen to me very, very carefully, he began: Believe it or not, I've been where you now are. I had doubts. About myself. About the existence of God. About my worthiness as a man of God. I then realized something. And that was this: There had never been a human being born who was was exactly like me and there never would be again. Thus, it was my duty to come to an understanding of exactly what the meaning of God meant to me. What I did believe and what I did not believe. And if I found that I would be a good fit as a minister in the traditional sense of the words: time-honored religion; I would allow myself to be ordained. If not, I would choose another profession. And that is the choice you have to make.
So it's okay for me to doubt? I asked.
It's vital, he replied.
And I was ordained.
The year was 1962, my final year of study at Central Lutheran Theological Seminary in Fremont, Nebraska; and after a long and hard academic climb of 4 years and 4 years in the seminary, my goal was just about to be reached. I was happily engaged to a wonderful girl and about to be ordained. The problem with all of that was this: I listened in class, and to the fearful whisperings of my older professors about sin and evil and redemption and salvation; but I didn't know if I believed any of what I had been taught. This is one of the secrets I carried with me throughout my days as a seminarian. I couldn't talk to my Mom or Dad about my terrible failure to imagine the reality of a God; I certainly couldn't discuss it with my professors; so I kept silent.
I seemed not to care about the Holy Ghost (though I loved his cartoony name), the Blessed Trinity, or Original Sin. I couldn't figure out what exactly my own sins were, was unable to get anyone to explain it to me in any detail whatsoever, and wondered why Original Sin was my responsibility, since it had apparently come to Earth long before I was born. One other problem I had with the church was that it didn't follow its own list of rules. It certainly did not seem to care passionately about the poor. It shamed us into contributing money every Sunday under the guise of what we liked to call Stewardship, which became a regular November ritual affectionately titled: Stewardship Month. I seldom saw ministers on picket lines outside a factory, fighting against the bosses who were defrauding workers. After sex-out-of-marriage, most of their negative passion was reserved for communion, which would apparently save us from our most recent sins, but had to be repeated on a monthly basis to ensure that the body and blood of Our Lord Jesus Christ had remained in proper working order; and when asked, the majority of our professors would never try to help us understand the truth behind the mysteries of the church, of our faith, or how communion actually worked.
We were taught that the chief sources of sin were: Pride, Covetousness, Lust, Anger, Gluttony, Envy, and Sloth. Most of the focus seemed to be on Lust; which was something I had been quite fond of, thinking of it as something that was awesome and darkly attractive, so I made the decision to discuss my doubts with one of my younger professors about this sin which apparently would eventually lead to blindness of the intellect, hardness of the heart, loss of faith and piety, the ruin of health, and a whole slew of unnamed diseases; all of which had magically been sent down to us from Heaven above by the ancient philosophers of the Old Testament who seemed to me to be guys with a well-developed sense of horror.
I could not imagine that someone as all-powerful as God would be sitting on some throne, being pissed off about what I may or may not be doing down in Fremont, Nebraska. The seminary professors made God sound as if He were some glorified scorekeeper, endlessly filling in box scores of sin and lust and then punishing those who made errors. It seemed to me that with so many people on Earth that He would have little time for anything else. That alone would keep Him busy. And if He really had to do all of America, all of Russia, all of Europe and every woman and man committing sins of Lust, all the movies stars and all the baseball players and all the wise guys in the Mob, how in the world would He ever get around to noticing what I was or was not doing in the backseat of my Chevy Impala?
I did, however, respect some of my professors, particularly a kind man named Wesely Fuerst who, at the age of 36, was only 6 years older than I was. He taught Old Testament Theology, and was the fastest man in a pulpit that I ever saw, the words falling from his lips as if he were a tobacco auctioneer, mostly due to the fact that he did not think of himself as much of a preacher. Since none of what I had learned thus far made any sense and because I trusted him, I asked if I could have an appointment with him in his office at the end of the school day.
And when I arrived, I began by telling him of the disbelief I had carried with me, even as a school boy. I informed him that sex seemed to be as natural to real life as is breathing; that I felt that the Prophets were just men like other men; and that the more I learned, the more I thought that it was all very strange. I also wondered why I had entered the seminary in the first place, and thought that I may have done so at the urging of my pastor at my home congregation in Denver, Ben Weaver, and the fact that my grandfather, Albert Daugs, had once been a Lutheran minister. Professor Fuerst sat quietly listening as I rambled on-and-on-and-on, and when the quiet finally came, he asked:
Do you believe in a God exists in any manner or shape or form, Mister Daugs?
I do, Sir, I immediately said.
He then began to ask rapid-fire questions: What kind of a God? I'm not sure, I answered. Why aren't you sure? he said. Are you stupid? he asked. No! I replied. I was agitated. If you're not a stupid ignoramus, what are you? he asked. A blithering idiot? A fucking fool? What?! No!! I shouted. Fuck you! I yelled. I didn't know what else to say. He then got up from his chair, his face was swollen but he looked directly down at me as I sat on the other side of his desk.
I'm sorry, he said.
Okay, I said. I'm sorry too.
He then eased himself down into his chair.
I want you to listen to me very, very carefully, he began: Believe it or not, I've been where you now are. I had doubts. About myself. About the existence of God. About my worthiness as a man of God. I then realized something. And that was this: There had never been a human being born who was was exactly like me and there never would be again. Thus, it was my duty to come to an understanding of exactly what the meaning of God meant to me. What I did believe and what I did not believe. And if I found that I would be a good fit as a minister in the traditional sense of the words: time-honored religion; I would allow myself to be ordained. If not, I would choose another profession. And that is the choice you have to make.
So it's okay for me to doubt? I asked.
It's vital, he replied.
And I was ordained.
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