Whatever happened to "You're welcomed?"  As I watch television or listen to the radio, the host will, at the conclusion of the conversation, say "THANK you" to the guest and the guest's reply is "Thank YOU."  I don't get it.  When opening a door as a courtesy, I was taught to say in reply to the "Thank you" from the one for whom the door was opened was to say "You're welcomed."  Now I hear "Thank YOU" echoed everywhere. "You're welcomed" has all but disappeared from polite conversation.  It's one "Thank you" after another; as if a transaction wasn't completed; as if it's ongoing and needs more comment.  "Thank you."  "No, Thank YOU."  'No, Thank you."   Where will it all end?  Is it too difficult a thing anymore to receive a verbal mention of gratitude with a genuine "You're welcomed?"  I know this might seem odd as a topic for a pastor's pen, but it's been on my mind for a few weeks and I thought this more appropriate than any comment pro or con on our most recent election.  This way I can remain above the political fray.  And by the way, "You're welcomed."

I was watching the news a couple of nights ago and the civil war in Syria was worth two minutes and 12 seconds of precious air time.  Four different soldiers were shown firing their weapons over walls at some perceived enemy.  Over 12% of the Syrian population is either dead or wounded according to the United Nations.  That's more than 470,000 dead; 1.9 million wounded.  If those statistics were compared to America, they would be a combined 38.4 million dead or wounded.  Those are staggering statistics.  What's more, nearly half of Syria's citizens is either displaced or officially refugees.  The city of Alleppo is where the fighting is currently raging.  Its population is larger than Houston's.  I don't think we could imagine that kind of death and destruction in America.  Today we go to the polls to vote.  However unpleasant this campaign has been, our sons and daughters are not killing each other to determine who rules.  We press buttons in a voting booth.  We don't pull triggers behind barricades.  When I wake up Wednesday morning, no matter who the winners are, I still have a roof over my head, cash in my pocket, and the "right to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness."  Would that all God's children were so fortunate.

When next you read the Pastor's Memo it will be after the World Series and the 2016 Presidential election.  We'll know by then if the Cubs are still lovable losers or the toast of Chicago and the baseball world.  We'll also know who will be the president of the United States for the next four years.  There is no comparing the two.  After all, baseball is only a sport; being president is of consequence for all the world.   If Chicago is delirious with victory we can share in their delirium with as much fanfare as our wallets will allow.  If, on the other hand, Cub fans must cry in their beer, well, we can sympathize with them.  And say, as has been said for over a century, "Wait until next year."  We're not permitted such a choice about the election of a U.S, President.  Fateful decisions are in his or her hands.  The siren voices of advice and threat are everywhere to be heard.  Choices for good and ill must be made every day.  Like it or not, life and death will be on the president's plate more often than not.  Just remember this: both Mrs. Clinton and Mr. Trump asked for the job and spent an alarmingly huge sum of money trying to win it.  One of them will have it.  Only one.  Pray God our next president will rise to the task and be found worthy for a season of leadership none can imagine until after the oath of office is administered.

The Nobel Committee has awarded American singer/song writer Bob Dylan with this year's award for literature.  The committee recognized him for "having created new poetic expressions within the great American song tradition."  He now stands within the pantheon alongside Kipling, Shaw, Yeats, Churchill, and Eliot.  That is distinguished company, indeed.  I will note, however, there are other very well known and beloved composers and lyricists who did not win this prestigious award.  Among them, Gershwin, Porter, Berlin, Sondheim, Rogers, Hart, Hammerstein, et. al.  I dare say when the last echoes of Dylan's repertoire expire Rhapsody in Blue and God Bless America and My Funny Valentine and Climb Every Mountain and even Send in The Clowns will be bringing joy to hearts across the fruited plain.  Just saying.

I’m going to miss Arnold Palmer.  The gentleman from Latrobe, Pennsylvania, died last week at 87.  The golfing world isn’t the only world that will miss and mourn him.  I remember watching him on television with my dad and brother when I wasn’t yet a teenager.  That was a long time ago.  It was even before my family had a color set.  And, boy, oh, boy, that was a long time ago.  Palmer was alive with a kind of enthusiasm for golf that infected tens of millions of regular duffers.  Those many millions wanted to see a regular guy like themselves achieve greatness.  “Arnie’s Army” at first consisted of soldiers from Camp Gordon near Augusta National where The Master’s was played.  They’d come at the invitation of the golf course’s owners.  It wasn’t long before everyone who watched Palmer play, in person or on TV, was a member of his army.  The character of the game of golf itself is emblematic of the image Palmer exuded as a man.  Personal integrity, courtesy, decorum.  Honorable behavior that a parent could point to and say to any young person:  “That’s how a man behaves.”  All of his wins and near wins notwithstanding, Arnold Palmer’s memory will endure because he was a true and gracious gentleman.  Your army salutes you, Arnie.  Rest In Peace.

Concordia Theological Seminary's 27th Annual Theological Symposium begins Tuesday morning this week.  I have attended the last several Symposiums as continuing education.  I find them to be challenging and stimulating.  This year's theme is FROM FONT TO GRAVE.  The title struck me as daunting.  It obviously means the time from baptism to death.  Every Christian lives in just such a time frame.  But what occurred to me was not the life we live between these two events, but the death that accompanies it.  Romans 6 reminds us of a profound and comforting truth: ^" Do you not know that all of us who have been baptized into Christ Jesus were baptized into his death?  We were buried therefore with him by baptism into death, so that as Christ was raised from the dead by the glory of the Father, we too might walk in newness of life.  For if we have been united with him in a death like his, we shall certainly be united with him in a resurrection like his."  (vss 3-6)  At our baptism we are both living and already dead in Christ.  This paradoxical state of affairs is theologically correct.  Our hope is in Christ and our baptism seals us for the flesh-and-blood living we do.  What's more, when that living is complete the resurrected life continues from the grave.  I'm excited to be part of an event that will explore this life-in-death we live between our baptism and our burial.  FROM FONT TO GRAVE is the Christian's life span we know in the flesh.  And by the grace of God that life does not end when our flesh returns to dust.  For that we should all give thanks and praise to God.

A couple of weeks ago Mother Theresa of Calcutta, India, was canonized as a Saint by our Roman Catholic friends.  She was recognized for her exemplary dedication to the lost, least, and last in that teeming city.  The ancient practice of canonization is laden with tradition and purpose.  The Church takes note of lives which reflect the will and love of God.  While there are specific and necessary components to the Catholic custom, I only want to mention the most obvious.  The Latin word "canon" means "rule."  It is authoritative.  It is an example for our own following.  It's a guideline for our own living.  Following the gracious example of Saint Mother Theresa of Calcuttawould put us in good company, indeed.  And would surely bring a smile to the face of God.

 If tolling bell I ask the cause.

"A soul has gone to God."

I'm answered in a lonesome tone;

Is heaven then so sad?

That bells should joyful ring to tell

A soul had gone to heaven,

Would seem to me the proper way

A good news should be given.

Emily Dickinson wrote this poem inviting the reader to give pause when church bells toll.  Generally, those bells are mournfully rung and with distinct pauses between their number.  We can imagine the funeral carriage rolling toward the grave with family and friends behind in solemn procession.  It is our practice to be respectful and purposeful when saying our farewells at death.  The tolling bells  mark an earthly end and we muster all the dignity available to human hearts to pay our respects.  Miss Dickinson is quite economical in the words she pens as she notes the tension between grief and rejoicing.  It is the graciousness of God which permits, even demands, both emotions to live within our hearts at the same time.  Else life be cheap and grief be a pose.  Rest In Peace Darin Curtis.  And Rise In Glory.

Students will be in class this Thursday.  The school year will commence and learning will ensue and, before you know it, we'll be hearing Pomp and Circumstance.  Summer has been a blur.  Labor Day will come and then Halloween and then Christmas.  The days and weeks and months will pass as they always do.  Where does the time go?  Why is it so quickly we grow old and our memories fade?  And in the meantime?  Well, we live.  And we work and play.  We raise our children and plan for retirement.  We march along with all those seconds and minutes inevitably filling them with what makes for life.  As this Summer fades and the Fall takes its place, remember the Psalmist's gentle advice: "So teach us to number our days, that we may get a heart of wisdom."  (90:12)  The time will pass.  About that we can do nothing.  We can gain a heart of wisdom in this life and it would be a shame if our hearts were to remain empty.

Let your pastor share his happiness and joy and elation with you.  At 11:27pm, July 30th, Audrey Isabelle (our very first grandchild) was born to our eldest son and his wife Keith and Chris.  Audrey weighed 7 pounds, 8 ounces and was 19 inches long.  She has more hair than I do.  And she's way cuter; two things likely to be true her entire life.  I'm told being a grand parent changes your life in ways you cannot imagine.  Even after only the first couple of days it's clear I was told the truth.  It's a new kind of feeling to hold Audrey and watch her open her eyes and squirm and purse her lips and...   Well, everything is new and for the first time and I can almost see the future in her eyes.  When she lives into the next century Audrey will be 84 years old with grand kids of her own.  And, oh, the life she will have lived and the changes she will have seen.  And she'll still have more hair and be cuter than her Grandpa Henry.