Mr. Tippet had warned of his recovery and incipient return, so Joey’s month of work was nearly over when Joey was notified that the rector of Augsburg Community College was anxious to see him. Joey was scarcely aware there was a rector or any sort of pooh-bah higher than the dean or the chaplain who tended to preside over the school’s Sunday services. As a student he was in good standing, though not quake resistant, and he felt his organ playing, admittedly pissy at first, was now at least adequate to the four square tunes he was expected to perform. Surely, rumors about Madame’s defiled pillows could not have reached the rector’s distant ears, however large they might be. So Joey was at a loss.
He went without evident anxiety up a staircase protected by mahogany rails. A door on the first landing displayed a plaque below its frosted window that read DR. GUNTER LUTHARDT, RECTOR, splayed out in old German type. The name and title were gilded, but much of the gilt was worn, as though Dr. Luthardt had been in his position longer than paint; indeed he might have been there since the building was built for all Joey knew, and this time Joey’s considerable ignorance about everything near and far dismayed him, and he felt a flicker of resolve. Dr. Luthardt had black hair and a deep dark suit, and he was sitting in a high-backed dark chair in front of a window heavily draped, so his very white face glowed like a malignant moon. This effect was doubtless aimed at. His eyes were small and his lips were as thin as the edges of a letter slot. Through this slit his voice emerged like a blade from a block; its speech seemed to glint, although you couldn’t see teeth; it hadn’t a hint of accent despite the rector’s formidable look and Dutchie name.
Mr. Joseph Skizzen — Dr. Luthardt appeared to be looking at a piece of paper held just above the top of the desk — it has been reported to me that in a session of Lutheran Studies during your first semester here, you said that — ah — you wrote that — from what you’d read Martin Luther seemed awfully eager to get God on his side, and that’s why our namesake decided to become a monk … as a bribe — as you put it — to bribe God with his good behavior.
Gee. I don’t remember.
By becoming a monk in a monastery — it was reported to me — a monastery supported by a church that Luther later decided wasn’t worth much, and no place to go or be if you wanted to get right with God—
I just thought …
Since the church — what else is written here? — wasn’t right with God either—
Well, I guess I meant …
So his choice of monastery — hence his choice of church — to honor with his piety was the choice of the Devil’s as it turned out—
Dr. Luthardt’s voice came at him like something swung, and a corner of Joey cringed—and a sign he was a sinner not a saint. What do you say to this, young sir, that has been reported to me?
I don’t … he was more Catholic than most before he became a Lutheran. He was scared … his horse was frightened by a bolt of lightning, so he promised to behave … to be a monk … but the monks weren’t going to heaven just for beating their chests … Joey received the rector’s look like a slap to his face. I don’t remember what I said, he said.
You knew well enough then, didn’t you?
We are all sinners, sir, aren’t we?
Some of us sin more than others; some sins are small as rice, and some are more sizable; some sins are momentary as a sneeze, some are lifelong; some sins are made worse by their situations and surroundings, but others shrivel and become limp; some sins are normal and occur in the course of things, while some sins are aberrant, outlandish, and perverse; yet God can grant grace to the worst of us, forgive sins both grand and grisly; but for those who wallow in the wickedness of sexual desire, or sin outside the true church, there can be no salvation.
I suppose so, sir.
Suppose so …?
Suppose no salva—
Martin Luther was clothed in the grace of God; and when God chose him to become a monk he did so — you know very well and should have thought very long about it — in order that Luther should eventually learn the extent of the moral diseases that infected the Catholic church, and consequently be motivated to make his great protestation, for what do you think would have come of us had he not left the law and its secular license for the cell and its sacred walls?
Sort of a spy, then?
Of course not. He was aware of the maxim: Know your enemy.
And for those who don’t sin outside the church …
What?
But only sin in it?
Who?
Can there be salvation for them?
I just said, young sir, that God is grace, only God is grace, only God can purify, only God can steer us aright. Your mind is a mess, Mr. Skizzen. To be outside our church is itself a sin.
Oh.
The very worst kind.
Oh.
For nothing we have done are we saved. God extends his grace — as I said — in a way most mysterious, for reasons incomprehensible — extends it—
To Lutherans who have sinned.
God helps them stay straight. Upright. I just said. Their faith is a sign they shall be redeemed.
Keeping the faith must be hardest of all.
Failing the faith is the one sin. Actually, God keeps the faith for us. As I said. We are weak. We are woeful. Yet he sees in us a solid vessel for true belief.
But only some shall be saved?
Some.
Some. A few?
A few.
A remnant?
“Remnant,” sir, is a Jewish word.
Like “the chosen”?
“Chosen” is another of theirs — yes — an arrogation, a word full of false pride, indicative of the devil. We, sir, are elected.
Dr. Luthardt sounded neither weak nor woeful but triumphant, a solid vessel indeed. He sounded saved. The paper slid across the desk unimpeded.
Another matter, Mr. Skizzen, remains.
Sir?
I understand you play the organ for us.
Yes, sir.
The rector pointed himself directly at Joey, though he was busily silent, as though adjusting his aim. For a terrible moment Joey thought he was about to say: And you have played your organ at Madame Mieux’s and come off on her colored silks and cottons.
But now you play for Saint Agatha’s?
Their organist — Mr. Tippet — is ill.
You play.
But he is nearly well again.
Lutherans do not blend; we do not meld; we do not weave, Mr. Skizzen, you should know that. It is one of the sins — did I mention? — to mix our worship with sewer water.
I didn’t — weave — whatever you meant.
We do not dilute.
I did not water down on purpose. I just played some hymns. Hymns they asked for. I could get you the numbers.
Your mind is a mess, young man. Our denomination frowns on any ecumenical or interfaithless activity. That means we do not pray with others; we do not sing with others; we do not in any sense or in any aspect jointly perform or share our service with others. The word for your failure is “syncretism”—something you should have learned about by now and a very serious thing. You must reconsider your employment and cease your playing at once.
Mr. Tippet is returning.
All religions are not created equal. All but ours are sordid.
God must have a reason for permitting other religions, mustn’t he?
God’s reasons are quite beyond our ken. But hell will be filled.
Catholics are Christians, aren’t they?
Just barely. They maintain idolatrous ways. They worship images of Mary. Had you played for Mormons, for instance, Mr. Skizzen, you would have participated in heathenry and might have been expelled from the church. You must stop this ignorant mingling at once. And beg for forgiveness. Hope for forgiveness. Long for forgiveness.