in memory of Loren Odland.

My childhood pastor, Loren Odland, passed away this week. 

To me, he was less of a pastor and more a member of the family. Pastor Loren arrived at my parents’ church in 1987: the year I was born. I have not known a life without Pastor Loren.

At my sister's baptism. I'm the one my dad is holding, not at all interested in the photo being taken.

Since the very beginning of my memory, I have had questions about Christianity. As a child, I found it hard to believe the world was created by some dude in the sky, that our dead relatives are watching us all the time (creepy), that we – out of the billions of people on earth – had the one true religion. 

None of it seemed quite right.

I’m pretty sure Pastor Loren knew that about me.

But he never said a word.

I spent tons of time with him during my child. I clocked a lot of hours in church listening to his sermons (and many more hours in confirmation when we had to take notes on those sermons). I went on an overnight retreat with Pastor Odland and my Sunday School class to learn about communion. He spent hours with us, making sure we all knew what it was about. When I entered junior high, I became old enough to be a part of Luther League – a young adult “club” where the only attendees (including me) were there under a mandate from their parents. It was often led by a church volunteer, but Pastor Loren would be there to take us on field trips. One evening near Christmas, he took the Luther League out caroling in our small town of Arlington – and managed to get pulled over for speeding. We teenagers thought it was hilarious… and so did Pastor Loren. He came along on another winter Luther League trip to go skiing at Great Bear in Sioux Falls. Pastor Loren shocked us all with his amazing skiing abilities while the rest of us (namely me) struggled to stay standing on the bunny hill.

We began confirmation classes in eighth grade, spending every Wednesday night with Pastor Loren until fall of our sophomore year. As an eighth grader, freshly drivers licensed, I got pulled over in front of the school (on the same long block as the church) for making an illegal left turn to park (which they didn’t teach us about in drivers’ ed). I was late for confirmation class that night, entering the classroom with my head hung. Pastor Loren was quick to make a joke about it, though, and said seriously, “I hear you got in trouble with the LAW.” Word travels fast in Arlington.

I made it through confirmation, and on confirmation day, I stood at the front of the church, head held high. 

I had picked out and recited my conformation Bible verse, which Pastor Loren said was one of his favourites. I told myself from this day on, I would be a better Lutheran. I would LISTEN in church. I would FIND JOY in church. I would BELIEVE.

But I couldn’t. 

I tried, but I still didn’t buy it. 

Nevertheless, I was a good Lutheran on the outside. Pastor Loren recruited my friend Bob and I to act out the parts of Jesus (Bob) and Satan (me) every Wednesday night at the Lenten services, which we did with relish. I taught Sunday School with Bob, and we decorated our Sunday School room to the nines. 

This was only year one. You should've SEEN it in year two.

Pastor Loren delighted in our room, telling us it filled him with joy to see our passion for teaching the younger students about the word of God. I felt like a fraud. Pastor Loren once told me I myself would make a good pastor, and I wanted to believe so I could do so and make him proud.

(In case you didn’t know, that never happened. I’m a librarian.)

Shortly after I graduated high school, Pastor Loren moved to a church in Sioux Falls. I went to church services there a time or to, once to hear my dad’s brass quintet play for Pastor Loren. I didn’t see a lot of Pastor Loren for several years, but I often thought of him.

When I was newly engaged, my mom requested I have a church wedding. I agreed, and decided only one officiant would do: Pastor Loren. I contacted him at his Sioux Falls church, humbly requesting he be the one to marry James and me. Pastor Loren enthusiastically agreed, thanking us for thinking of him. 

I was incredibly nervous for the required premarital counseling sessions. Pastor Loren was about to find out all sorts of things about me: that I had been living with James for years, that I no longer attended church except when I went to visit my parents, that I didn’t pray. I thought I was a good person, but none of those things pointed at me being a good person in the traditional eyes of religion. But none of that phased Pastor Loren. The only thing on our premarital survey James and I flunked was “praying together.” We passed such questions as “talk about our faith” (which we did, but in a more lack-thereof way) and “spend time with other believers” (my parents count, right?). Pastor Loren encouraged us to try praying together before the next session, which James and I awkwardly did. Nothing about it felt right to us, so that was the first and last time. But we owed it to Pastor Loren to give it a shot.

Pastor Loren was so kind as we navigated through our religious wedding. He let me only have one Bible reading instead of the usual two – “but I think you should have at least one,” he said. Pastor Loren let me heavily edit the wedding liturgy, removing anything about obeying husbands and producing many children. 

Pastor Loren even agreed to help us work around the rigid rules of First Lutheran Church, the church in which we would marry. Here’s what we did: my dad’s brass quintet played the familiar “Canon in D” as the parents, bridesmaids, and groomsmen walked in. However, as I began to walk down the aisle, the brass switched to the ominous “Imperial March”: Darth Vader’s theme. Pastor Loren waved his arms and said, “No, no, no, you’ve got the wrong song.” He walked to the brass, flipped a page, and urged them to continue. The brass then resumed with “Canon in D.” It was one of the most spectacular moments of my life.

The problem with that plan was that every bit of music played in the church that day had to be approved by First Lutheran’s dictator-like wedding planners. There could be NO recorded music, so it was James who arranged “The Imperial March” for the brass. This plan would not work without the cooperation of Pastor Loren, and we told him we intended to circumvent the rules of First Lutheran. Wholly agreeing to participate, Pastor Loren quipped, “What are they going to do – UNMARRY you?”

Pastor Loren’s sermon was lovely. Our rehearsal dinner had been at Nick’s Hamburgers, a family favourite, the night before. Pastor Loren asked the crowd how many had eaten Nick’s hamburgers before, and many raised their hands. He asked if they would agree that two Nick’s hamburgers were better than one, which they did. “Just like people. Just like Calla and James,” said Pastor Loren. “Two are better than one.”

I haven’t seen much of Pastor Loren in the years since our wedding. He was at my grandma Sheila’s birthday party, and we went to his retirement celebration in 2016. Pastor Loren was incredibly kind when my schizophrenic cousin appeared at his church to tell him how awful my family was. Even with this separation of years, I often thought of him.

Even though I no longer identify as a Christian, I do my best to be a good person. I don’t do it because of the promise of heaven or threat of hell, or because some mystical being is keeping an eye on me from the sky. I try to be a good person because I should. Because I want to. Because it’s the right thing to do. And even though the church is no longer a part of my life, I’d like to think Pastor Loren would be proud.