God and Pastor Rittberger

From the moment my grandmother first read me the "Little Golden Book About GOD" I already had my own private idea about what religion was. Perhaps it was because she said I looked just like the little girl in the illustrations. But when I experienced things that the book talked about, that little girl was the way I looked to myself, too. The book showed me who I was and how things should be. God simply encompassed everything and explained everything, and that was all one ever needed to know. This version of GOD was remembered long after the book was forgotten. Only once did I waver...

"The right hand shouldn't know what the left is doing." Pastor Rittberger intoned.

That seemed a little uncoordinated didn't it?

"Why do we do good works?" he continued.

"Because it's the right thing to do?" I proffered.

"How can you know what the right thing is?" He answered with another question.

"It's like when everybody benefits and nobody gets hurt?"

"That could be called 'secular humanism.' But, what 'benefits everybody' would always be different depending on the situation, right?" he observed.

Oh, new words! I nodded.

"That's called 'situational ethics.' The idea that you can think your way through and arrive at the right thing."

That sounded about right. This was fun.

"You agree with that?" he asked.

I nodded enthusiastically.

"But what if you can't think of the right thing?" He thought he had me there.

Huh? "Oh, that's easy! You can always tell by how the other person feels."

Ha, got him instead!

"That's called empathy. But what if you can't tell how someone else feels?"

Empathy. Another new word. I like that. But what a silly question.

"Can't you always tell?"

"But what if you couldn't? What if what was right involved more than one person, or the other person didn't know what was right?"

I felt my forehead wrinkle.

He persisted: "That's what's wrong with situational ethics. You can't always know by yourself what is right. That's why God gave us the Bible. So we would know how to live."

"Like the Ten Commandments?" somebody else piped up helpfully.

"That's right. They are God's rules to live by."

I noticed the reflections in the black shine of his shoes. I still felt wrinkled.

"But, but, then we're just supposed to follow rules? ...There aren't enough of 'em." I observed.

Now it was his turn to get wrinkly.

"You mean... there aren't enough rules to cover every situation?"

I nodded. "And, and, what if you think a rule means something different?"

Pastor: "What if two people think the same rule has..."

"Yeah, then wouldn't that be sitchu-ational too?"

Try to get outta that one!

Now he was looking thoughtfully down at his shoes and slowly started to pace.

"That's why we are Christians. We all believe in the same rules."

"But why are there so many kinds of Christians? Why doesn't everybody always follow the rules if that's all you have to do?"

"Christians always want to follow God's rules," a fellow student suggested.

Pastor grabbed at it. "That's called intention. We always intend to do the right thing by following God's word."

From that point on I hardly ever let Pastor finish a thought. He challenged me or I challenged him. We never compromised, or quite reconciled our beliefs. He said it was the most interesting confirmation class he'd ever taught, even if he never quite got around to teaching what he had intended to. Toward the end I worried to him that maybe I wasn't Lutheran enough to be confirmed. Even as I took my first communion I couldn't help but feel that I might be a fraud. But he was proud to think that his faith was open-minded enough to accommodate more 'far-out' interpretations. And he thought my own heritage was enough of an incentive for me to join the church, which was eminently logical.

Pastor Rittberger always stood reassuringly tall and handsome in the pulpit. No one thought of him as the 'new guy' at First Lutheran by the late 1960's, which was around the time I'd been confirmed and graduated from Sunday School. How grown up I felt listening to his sermons instead of toddling off to class mid-service with the kids. He commanded the service with a velvety basso voice with just the right amount of flourish. Guiltily, he made no secret of loving the pomp and theatrics of his profession. Yet, far from counting the 'number of angels that could fit on a pin,' he spoke as much about science as he did religion, which didn't endear him to everybody. He had me convinced, however, that both science and religion were just using different words to explain the same things. There can be an understanding between the two about the universe. And a new hopefulness came from trying to divine the nature of their combined paradox. A much needed hopefulness when wars and riots and assassinations were seemingly all around us. Sometimes it is easier to trust what is "beyond all understanding" than to try to make sense of chaos. In difficult times, we were blessed with this Pastor's understanding for us 1st 'New First Edifice' kids to trust. So long, B.P. (Beloved Pastor).

Love, Steff

In the Albany Times Union...

Rev. William H. Rittberger, 80, of Albany, died Sunday, July 4, 2010 at Albany Medical Center. Born on July 30, 1929 in Queens, he was the son of the late Carl F. and Frieda E. (Gerner) Rittberger. Rev. Rittberger was a graduate of Wagner College in Staten Island in 1952 with a B.A. in history. He graduated from the Lutheran Theological Seminary in Philadelphia with a master's of divinity degree in 1955. He was ordained on June 8, 1955 at St. John's Lutheran Church in Manhattan. Rev. Rittberger's ministry started on June 15, 1955 when he was called to organize the St. John's Lutheran Church in Burlington, N.Y. In 1958, he was called to serve at the St. John's Lutheran Church in Hudson, N.Y., until 1965, when he was called to the First Lutheran Church in Albany. He retired from active ministry on July 31, 1991. He received an honorary doctor of divinity degree from Hartwick College on May 3, 1984. On May 23, 1953, he married his beloved wife, Joan (Fox) Rittberger. They were married for 57 wonderful years. Also surviving is their daughter, Lisa Rittberger of East Greenbush. A celebration of his life will be held at 10:30 a.m. Saturday at the First Lutheran Church, 181 Western Ave. in Albany, N.Y. Donations may be made to the Abiding Memorial Fund at the First Lutheran Church, 646 State St., Albany, NY 12203. Arrangements are with the Bates & Anderson - Redmond & Keeler Funeral Home, 110 Green St., Hudson 12534.

New York State Park Closure Protest

... And read how two children from New Zealand met their first American friend camping in a New York State Park.

Remembering Thompson's Lake

Read how two children from New Zealand met their first American friend camping in a New York State Park.

We stayed close that summer. Thacher Park and Thompson’s Lake beyond it were little over a half hour away from home. One had to be a little more careful about poison ivy and oak than on Cape Cod (not that they ever bothered me), but otherwise, this extra green of my own extended backyard was just as satisfying. Scampering over and under rocks, climbing trees, following every stream bed from the lake’s shore into the forest, I s’plored every nook and cranny for hours. When I’d come back to the campsite to eat or sleep the sound of my own voice would startle me.

Then two kids moved in to the next campsite. They said things a little like Faraway Grammy. It drew me to them. I liked to listen to the way they talked. I watched them from my forest a long time before they saw me. They were a happy family, naturally kind to one another, touching often. The kids were shy about s’ploring

and stuck close. They acted overwhelmed by what seemed to them to be a very big and exotic place.

They didn’t mix comfortably with the older kids either. They were a rough bunch always trying to play baseball in the field out by the entrance to the park. They spent more time trying to find the ball or even the bases than actually playing a game. The outfielders themselves would get lost, as they tended to disappear completely into the tall grass, unable to see where they were going or keep track of an incoming ball.

“I got it! I got it! I” Bonk! “Ow!”

Over and over they swung, ran, chased, tripped, slipped and fell. I tried to join in at first, but I never could catch or hit anything in motion. Just watching somebody else do it all day long, day after day, seemed kind of pointless.

I watched the new kids watch the spectacle for a little while and get just as quickly bored. More and more they seemed different in ways that I recognized. But I wasn’t ready to approach them and give up my solitude just yet. More and more I liked being on my own best.

The next day I was up before the ground fog had risen from between the trees and made my way to the lake. I liked the way the far shore would vanish behind the fallen clouds. Places like people could be hidden from sight but you know they are there just the same. There was nothing at all to rest one’s eye upon across the water, as if the misty morning went on forever. The new kids came out onto the beach from another path near by and ambled in my direction.

Suddenly, we all noticed the water a little ways out from shore had begun to bubble and roil.

Our mouths fell open in unison. From out of the water a shiny black head and a pair of eyes behind a glass face mask emerged and glided towards us. As ‘it’ came closer a nose rose above the water. Then a chin, neck, shoulders. He was holding his arms out. There was something in either hand.

All three of us took an involuntary step back. The scuba diver had two limp but still wriggling snakes by their heads! As he cleared the water I could tell that both were longer than I was tall.

The man spit out his mouth piece with difficulty. “Hi, Kids. Aren’t they somethin’? I just wanted to show someone.” With that he hurled one hapless creature and then the other back out into the lake. They spun end to end straight out like sticks and splashed far out into the water. We took another step back.

“It’s okay, they’re just water moccasins. They won’t bother you if you don’t bother them. I didn’t know we had any out this way.”

Bother them? What would you call what you just did?

The man didn’t bother to take off the fins from his feet but awkwardly flip flopped his way past the other two astonished kids on his way back up to the campground. Lloyd Bridges he wasn’t.

I looked out at the dark, still water that was now just as it had been before. “I don’t think I want to go in swimming today.” I said to no one in particular. We all nodded in agreement. The girl looked back at the diver and began to laugh as she observed, “He looks like a frog.”

“That’s why they call them FROGMEN!” We all said together, practically falling over one another laughing.

We introduced ourselves. Holly (pronounced Haw-lee) and Bill were from New Zealand, touring the United States while visiting relatives along the way. This was only their second stop so far.

“I thought moccasins were a kind of shoe?” Holly asked.

“Well yes.”

“But the aboriginals make them out of snakes?” Bill added.

“The What? No, I think they’re usually made out of leather.”

“Aborigines. Natives?”

“Oh, you mean Indians.”

Before I knew it I had gotten around to telling them about having Mohegan ancestors. Suddenly felt very proud of the Is-Sho-Da Girl Scout Day Camp patch newly sewn on my hooded sweater.

“Our first friend in America and you’re a Native Indian?” Holly enthused.

“Not most of me. I don’t think. It was a long time ago. Ummm.”

“Nonsense, Jack. You’ll be our Indian guide and take us on safari!” I protested that safaris were supposed to be in Africa, but to no avail. Bill also continued to call me ‘Jack’ the whole time, although I never figured out why. I didn’t care, I could listen to him talk all day, and I did. They asked so many questions I never learned anything about where They were from, except that it was somewhere all the way around the other side of the world.

I showed them every path and navigable stream bed, took them down the road to the little general store and around the lake past the swimmer’s beach. Showed them where to avoid the poison ivy and where the prettiest flowers were hidden. In the evening, we took in the cricket concerts and firefly ballet. Stuck marshmallows on long branches into the campfire and burned them to a delectable char-sweet, sticky, crisp. There were so many things they’d never done before. They didn’t even know what the Big Dipper was! The next day, we poked about the rocks looking for fossils and unoccupied snail shells. We swam and dove underwater, splashed and dunked one another. Holly cried so we didn’t do it anymore. I didn’t like getting dunked much either.

We dangled from tree limbs like Tarzan and hunted toads and frogs. I taught them how to hold them so gently and think at them so kindly that the little greenlings would sit as contentedly in an open hand as on a lily pad. Bill never quite mastered the trick, however, and was often left with a palmful of fright-induced toad poop, with which, of course, he was just as glad to harmlessly menace his beloved sister.

The day after that, we bought a box kite at the general store. I was disappointed that they didn’t stock balsa airplanes. The kite was a flimsy thing, hard to put and keep together. Over my protests, Dad took it away and made it himself, grumbling and cursing at it until it stayed put together out of sheer spite.

While the baseball players were off swimming for a change, Holly, Bill and I took the kite into their field to try and fly it. There wasn’t very much wind so we ran hand in hand in hand as fast as we could through the grass, dragging the kite behind us. One tripped and the other two toppled after.

Holly made a surprised, but pleased sound. We had nearly run out of string but she still had a hold of the end of it. All the rest rose up into the air in a shallow arch and disappeared. We had tugged the unwilling kite aloft after all!

Laying back, catching breath in lungfulls, all one could see was a golden ring of tall, ripe grass encircling a deep blue pool of sky. Our mis-shapen little kite floated in the middle of it as if some of Dad’s glue had perfectly stuck it there.

That was all there needed to be in the world in one moment.

But it could not last.

After awhile, the string broke and our kite disappeared in an instant, a foreshadowing of the day when Holly and Bill’s parents started to load up their car. We stood around watching, not letting go of each other until the very last minute. Their Mum borrowed my camera to take a ‘snap’ for me to remember them by. “Oh you’re just so sweet together,” she gushed as she clicked the shutter.

I didn’t feel sweet at all. I had had a brother and sister for just one week and now they were going to be gone. Gone ‘round the world somewhere, like our kite with the broken string. There was nothing, not anything, sweet about it. I stood in their emptied campsite until the last straw-thin twist of smoke from the last glowing ember of their extinguished fire puffed its last.

© 2009 copyright SAWiltse All Rights Reserved.

Save Thacher Park

My favorite memory of walking the edge of the escarpment of Thacher Park was the day after Thanksgiving in 2001. Nothing had been normal about that holiday thanks to 9/11. But I will never forget how many fathers we met walking with their wives and children that day. It reminded me that for those youngsters, 2001 might be remembered as much for the time that their families learned how to become closer and happier walking the trails of Thacher Park.

A few questions I'm going to ask my reps: Has there been any planning in regards to Thacher Park after closure? If it is to be left wild, then for how long? How will this affect the communities around it? Their safety issues, their economies? What are the plans regarding the park's reopening? Will it cost more to reopen Thacher Park then was saved by closing it in the first place? Or is this all a prelude to the state divesting itself of public parks entirely?

Rally at the Capital Wednesday March 3rd!

Thoughts for CPAC, Fox News, and the Secret Teabagger Funders

The self-deceived all eventually misguide their own steps into the stumbling blocks of history. But those that lie know better than anyone what the truth is. Yes, you do know what's really going on. All's fair in love, war, and the poisoned-well of politics, right?

You are a realist who even now tugs effectively at the political strings that insure your own security, your own fortunes. But how will you benefit when every greater good has been bent to accommodate your will?

What happens when that time comes when only the wealthy will be able to depend upon their own futures? How long then can you rely on the public's short memory to last? Can you really assume that the rank and file will always think with their hearts and not their heads? Especially when it is their own children who will be crying out to them, "What have you done!?"

Believe this before it is too late. You are holding now, not the reigns of power, but a match to set all our forefathers' dreams to ash. Ask yourself, how long will it be before someone blinded by the rage you yourself encourage flies a plane into your building?

Elegy for a House Cat

Dedicated to all those pets

who no longer share our lives

but still sing to our hearts in tune.

What calls these strange creatures,

so unlike us, so liking us, into our lives?

What calls them away,

and takes with them the soft pad of paws,

the contentment of dreamy stares

and warm cuddles,

the prowl of the hunter, the dart of a toy?

If only we could sing this duet once more,

but only the fading voice of wanting remains;

sometimes complaint, sometimes purr.

Still the lasting echo of a memory.

Or is it something more left behind?

A lasting song of the spirit

sung in the key of cat.

The sound of a loving slink ...and furry farewell.

©2010 SAWiltse