Rev. Arthur Simon+

Longtime family friend Rev. Arthur ("Art") Simon died on November 14, 2023. To read an official announcement, go here.

Art's father and my grandfather were colleagues in ministry, serving as fellow Lutheran Church-Missouri Synod pastors in Oregon. Art, his brother Paul (not the famous songwriter/singer but the famous US senator from Illinois, who was also a one-time presidential candidate), my uncle Bob, and my dad were friends when they were active in the LCMS's youth organization, the Walther League. Art wrote briefly about his friendship with my dad in the opening chapter of one of his books, The Rising of Bread for the World (Paulist, 2009). He also wrote about my dad, and about my nephew Andrew, in another of his books, Rediscovering the Lord's Prayer (Augsburg/Fortress, 2005). Art and my uncle Bob were co-students at Concordia, Portland, and Concordia Seminary, St. Louis. And then, years later, after the death of my dad, Art and my mom became very close friends, not least because of their shared interest in the Oregon Ducks football team. I thought perhaps Art and my mom might get married, but that didn't happen for various reasons. In 2014, when my wife, son, and I visited Art and his wife, Shirley, in Baltimore, he graciously gave me his entire library, which we brought back to Valpo in a large rented van. 

From my time on the faculty at Concordia, Portland, through my years here at Valpo, Art has been a mentor to me, especially in matters regarding the relationship between Christian faith and public service. (When I was facing oppositional headwinds in the LCMS over the issues of women's ordination and six-day creationism, Art was a frequent conversation partner. He provided me with a lot of pastoral consolation in those difficult years!)

I'm grateful to God for Art's life and ministry. I am also glad that some of my former Valpo students, while serving as interns in Washington (or as participants in various summer fellowships), benefited from Art's vision and expertise when they reached out to him. 

As the founder and first president of Bread for the World, Art tirelessly worked to end poverty and hunger. His engagement with these issues initially grew out of his pastoral ministry on the lower east side of New York City. Along with a dozen other church leaders in his region, Art began to brainstorm about how they could address the local and global root causes of hunger. They wanted to lead Christians to try "to prevent hunger from happening in the first place rather than just reacting to it." So toward that end, Bread for the World was founded in 1974. (If you watch Rick Steves' travel show on PBS, you'll see a brief promo for Bread. I once had a brief conversation with Rick, in which he shared how much Art's first book about hunger had changed his whole outlook on that issue.)

To learn more about Bread for the World, go here.

To quote from Bread's announcement about Art's death: "His work has helped initiate programs that have reduced hunger, decreased poverty, and improved nutrition, impacting hundreds of millions of people in the United States and around the world."

Bread's current president, Eugene Cho, nicely summarizes Art's legacy: "To this day, I’m inspired by the three ideas he had in the founding of Bread: to prevent hunger from happening in the first place rather than just reacting to it; to work within the system of American democracy to ensure political leaders hear about hunger from their constituents; and to organize Christians to speak up collectively against hunger – these speak to things that are as relevant in the 2020s as they were in the 1970s."

Precious in the eyes of the Lord is the death of his saints. May light perpetual shine upon Art, and may God grant comfort and peace to Shirley, their family, and all who mourn Art's death.

Crossings Table Talk about Atheism

On Tuesday, Nov 28, at 1pm (Central Standard Time), I will be leading an online Crossings "Table Talk" discussion about atheism, based on a chapter from my upcoming book, Fundamental Theology , 2nd ed. (Bloomsbury, 2024). 

For an introductory "trailer" for this Table Talk, go here.

This talk is free, but you must pre-register with Cathy Lessmann via email. After registering, you will receive an invitation to join our Zoom-based Crossings Table Talk. 

To register, go here.

The Beauty of Dusk

On the morning of Christmas Eve 2018, after getting out of the shower, I couldn't see very well. The vision in my right eye was clouded by large blind spots, scattered gray areas, splotches of nothingness. I initially thought I was suffering from an optic migraine, which I have experienced several times throughout my life. But the blind spots didn't go away. During that night's Christmas Eve service, all I could do was to keep wondering, "Why can't I see out of my right eye? What has happened? Lord, why this blindness?" Needless to say, my Christmas that year was a bit more anxious than normal.

Because of the holiday, I couldn't get in to see an optic specialist until after January 1. From him I learned that sometime during my sleep on the night of December 23 I had suffered a stroke to the optic nerve in my right eye. The technical term for my condition is NAION: non-arteritic ischemic optic neuropathy. Thankfully, I was on sabbatical for the spring semester of 2019. I ended up spending a huge chunk of that term in and out of doctor's offices and hospital testing rooms. What was supposed to have been a period of writing a book, ended up being a time of getting pricked and prodded, scanned and studied.

For nearly five years now, I've been mostly blind in my right eye. The optic nerve specialist whom I visit twice a year has told me that there's about a 15% chance that I will suffer a stroke to the other eye as well. It turns out that I was born with abnormally narrow retinal blood vessels, the ones leading to the optic nerve in each eye. Ah, those blessed genes! Nevertheless, so far, so good--other than the blindness in the right eye, which, barring a miracle, will remain permanent. (Btw, my optic nerve specialist happens to be a close friend of a friend of mine who graduated a few years ahead of me at Concordia Seminary, St. Louis. Small world. The Doc and I occasionally discuss a little theology in between our focusing on optic issues.) 

While I can still see a little out of my right eye (which used to be the stronger of the two), most of that right-eye vision is dark and gray and blurry, a milky cloudiness. It's been a real cross to bear. But I'm managing. My brain has adjusted so that my left eye is doing a double load, so to speak.

For the first few years, I suffered pretty bad headaches most days, mainly as a result of the challenges of reading and working on my computer for long hours. Using a very large monitor (and enlarging my documents to 200%), I have been able to keep on writing. In fact, since 2018 I've published three books, totaling more than 2,000 pages. But I'd be lying if I said it has been easy. Much of that writing has been downright painful. The right-eye vision has been just good enough to interfere with the left eye's better vision. The result: some nasty headaches. Depth perception is non-existent. I have a lot more bruises, too, the product of accidentally running into things that I don't see on my right. I try not to drive at night. But now, after my brain has had a few years to adjust to the blindness, I don't suffer as much discomfort as I did earlier--or at least I know now when to stop reading and typing, and  when to give my one good eye a rest.

What Frank Bruni suffered and has written about so eloquently in his recent book, The Beauty of Dusk, is what I have been facing each day. (Mr. Bruni also experienced a stroke to the optic nerve in his right eye, in 2017.) I highly recommend his book, which is about more than just the loss of his vision and the challenges it has created for him. (He had been a columnist for The New York Times, and now he teaches journalism at Duke.) In that book he writes about a number of people who suffer from various levels of blindness. I was heartened and encouraged by the stories he narrates, including his own autobiographical reflections. 

I should add that my dad became legally blind after suffering a terrible battle injury in the Korean War. He was mostly blind from the age of 19 until his death at the age of 73. So his example of living many decades with near blindness, of leading a remarkably full and active life with only one half-way decent eye, has been encouraging to me as well. There's not a day that goes by when I don't think, "If Dad could live his life the way he did, I should be able to do so, too. Just take each day as Dad did, one day at a time." If my dad were still alive, he'd have been a good candidate for a Bruni interview!

The stroke I suffered in 2018 was not a Christmas gift I had wanted to receive that year. It's not the kind of set-back you want anyone to get in any year! But I have grown to see it as a gift of sorts. In a basic way, my partial blindness has led me to be otherwise grateful for things I had previously taken for granted. I'm grateful for the vision I still have. I'm grateful when I wake up each morning and can still see relatively well out of my left eye, that I can then see my beautiful wife across the breakfast table. I'm grateful that I have had to slow down in my reading, to slow down in my writing. I have to pay closer attention to details, to work hard at developing more patience. I'm now a strong proponent of "slow reading" and "slow writing." I think I'm a bit more patient and empathetic with students of mine who suffer from dyslexia or from other vision challenges. I'm grateful to learn from people who are blind, some of whom I've met in a doctor's waiting room, to be inspired by how they are navigating with their disability, with their cross. This blindness, this earthly cross I've been bearing, has taught me to see things in a new way.  I agree with Bruni: there is a new beauty that one can experience from such a loss. I am learning, slowly, the truth and wisdom conveyed in St. Paul's statements in Philippians 4:11-13 and 2 Corinthians 12:7-10. (That Paul wrote the ending to his letter to the Galatians "in such large letters," suggests that he likely suffered from a vision problem as well, maybe as a result of the blinding revelation of the risen Christ that he received on the road to Damascus.)

Brief Videos from Rev. Dr. Mitri Raheb

Rev. Dr. Mitri Raheb is the founder and president of Dar al-Kalima University College of Arts and Culture in Bethlehem, the West Bank. From 1987 until 2017 he was the senior pastor of Christmas Lutheran Church in Bethlehem. He is also the co-founder of Bright Stars of Bethlehem, an organization that helps to support Dar al-Kalima. Dr. Raheb has published more than 40 books. For more information about him, go here. For information about Bright Stars of Bethlehem, go here.

Dr. Raheb is a friend of mine. He has been on Valpo's campus many times. He has taught me much over the years, and my wife and I do what we can to support Bright Stars of Bethlehem.

Last week I contacted him to share my wife's and my support for him and those he works with in this very difficult situation, following the attacks by Hamas and Israel's retaliatory actions. Detra and I condemn in the strongest terms what Hamas has done in attacking Israel. We also continue to criticize the Israeli occupation of the West Bank and Israel's actions against  innocent civilians there and in Gaza. We should not forget that around 1,000 Christians live in Gaza, many of them displaced after 1948. For a basic overview about them, go here.

I encourage you to watch a brief video that Dr Raheb has published about people connected with Dar al-Kalima and its satellite school in Gaza. You can view it here. 

Along with more than 4000 other individuals, I have signed Tikkun's statement in solidarity with Palestinians and Jews. You can read that statement here.

Rev. Dr. Hans G. Spalteholz+

It is with deep sadness, tempered by faith and hope in the risen Christ, that I announce the death of my dear friend, mentor, and colleague, Professor Hans G. Spalteholz. After a brief illness, he died very peacefully last night in his living room. He was 92 years old. 

I am grateful that I was able to speak with him last weekend before he had to be more heavily sedated during this past week. I am also grateful that his suffering has now ended and that he has entered that perfect peace prepared and granted by the risen and glorified Christ. 

I will say more about him at his memorial service, but these are a few thoughts that come to mind this morning: Professor Spalteholz taught me to love the Holy Scriptures, to wrestle with them for the sake of faithful interpretation, and to apply them to the world’s deep needs and hurts. He taught me the distinction between law and gospel by unpacking the theology of the Lutheran Confessions. His love of books and of learning and of the German language rubbed off on me. He pointed me the way to the University of Chicago, and he later carefully proofread my doctoral dissertation. He modeled a truly ecumenical approach to the question of theological truth. He and Professor Richard Reinisch made room for me to join the faculty of Concordia University, Portland. In so many ways, the death of Hans marks the end of an era. He and others in his generation were among the best and brightest that the Missouri Synod educational system ever produced.

Since the fall of 1980, down through these many decades, Hans became a second father to me. At various times of crisis he was a spiritual counselor (serving multiple times as a "paraclete" when I was facing one charge or another in the LCMS). More importantly, he became the most influential and significant theological conversation partner in my life. For more than two decades we worked very closely together on several book projects, including the first two volumes of our translation of the writings of the German Lutheran theologian Edmund Schlink.

Since Hans and his wife Christa had no biological children of their own, I became one of their "adopted children." On many occasions, he let me know that he considered me his son. My son Jacob calls him "Opa Hans." So his death is hitting us hard, even though we knew this day was coming. We are experiencing what Hans' and my teacher and friend Martin Marty has called "the cry of absence."

The memorial service for Hans will be held at St. Michael Lutheran Church, Portland, Oregon, on Saturday, May 13. Dr. Robert Schmidt, our former colleague in the theology department of Concordia, will be preaching. 

Please keep Christa and her extended family in your prayers.

Precious in the eyes of the LORD is the death of his saints, who from their labors rest, and who sing their songs in endless light. Shalom, shalom, dear Hans!

P.S. Linda Borecki interviewed Hans two years ago and uploaded her three-part interview to Youtube. Below are the links to that interview. Thank you, Linda, for doing that! This interview is so meaningful to me. It really captures Hans' personality as well as his spiritual and intellectual depth. What an amazing  person he was!

Part One

Part Two

Part Three