Note: If you don't know anything about church history and the reformer, Martin Luther, you should read "A Short History of Martin Luther" by my 16-year-old daughter before you read this essay. Come to think of it, you should read the thing by my daughter even if you have a PhD in church history. Trust me!

Jung felt that daydreams, like night dreams, contain great personal significance for us. Your unconscious speaks to you both at night and during the day. The exact nature of the unconscious and the meaning of these dreams remain a mystery. But that’s where the fun comes in.

I have a recurring daydream that comes to me quite often. I do not understand the significance of it, and if you think you do, I would prefer you keep your thoughts to yourself. I don’t really want to know.

This daydream comes mostly when I should be working on a sermon or when I’m in an elevator. In the dream I am showing the 16th century reformer, Martin Luther, the modern world. How he arrived in our century is not a part of my daydream. Nor is there any explanation for why he speaks modern English.

Martin Luther is absolutely astounded by Diet Coke, elevators, and canned soup. And he says that our world smells funny.

I wince as I look at his monk’s robe, which certainly has not been washed in this or perhaps any other century. “You’re a bit ripe yourself, Marty. But what’s an odor or two among brothers in Christ, eh?”

“Well put,” he says with a polite nod.

He is startled by the fizzy pop when I open an ice cold Diet Coke. He lifts the can to his ancient lips, and his eyes open wide. Then he bends forward at the waist, spraying foamy suds all over the floor.

“What in the unholy name of Zwingli is this? It burns like a brew straight from the devil’s arse!”

“Oh, sorry. That’s called carbonation. They have this way of putting bubbles in some of the things we drink. I don’t know why we like it, but we do. I guess it’s a bit of a shock if you’re not used to it.”

He squints at the can, sounding out the letters. “'Diet of Coke.' I am not familiar with this particular council. Is there to be a disputation? Will I be asked to defend myself? You understand I’m a bit nervous after the incident at Worms.”

“Oh yeah, the Diet of Worms. That’s that council meeting where you were excommunicated, right?”

His eyes broke away from mine, and he looked around the room, then back at me. He nodded hesitantly.

“Don’t worry man, Diet Coke is a whole other thing.”

He looked relieved. Then I had a great idea.

“Hey man, SAY it!”

“Say what?”

“You knoooow” I say, dragging it out enticingly.

“Oh very well. I suppose you'll pester me until I do.”

Martin Luther clears his throat and lifts an arm, affecting the posture of an old fashioned orator.

“Here I stand. I can do no other!”

“YES!” I shout, pumping my fist like Tiger Woods does when he sinks a long putt. “Larry is not going to freakin believe this.”

“Larry?”

“Oh yeah, he’s a friend of mine, a pastor up in Dallas…uh, this city north of here.”

“He’s not a Calvinist, is he? Or an Anabaptist? If he is, by God I shall lay my hands on a stout quarterstaff and beat his head until the mule shite that fills it pours out of his ears.”

“Whoa Marty, calm down. Take it easy. He’s a Baptist, and that’s a group that didn’t get started until you were pretty much already dead. And Baptists…well, you don’t wanna know. Anyway, we don’t really do head pounding as such anymore. Things have calmed down a lot since your time.”

To get his mind off quarterstaffs and heresy, I take him on his first elevator ride. He is beside himself with glee and pushes all the buttons. Every time the door opens he thinks we are in a different place and laughs like a madman. A woman in a business suit enters on the 8th floor, frowns when she sees that all the buttons have been pushed, then pushes the lobby button. She glances at Martin Luther, who is trying hard to suppress his giggles, and pushes the lobby button two more times. Then she puts a handkerchief to her nose and gets off on the 7th floor.

For lunch I pull out two cans of Campbell’s Beef and Vegetable soup. I toss one to him, enjoying his puzzled look.

“It’s soup, Martin. Watch.”

I put a can opener along the top and squeeze the handle until it locks. Then I twist it and the can rotates until the top pops off. Martin Luther leans over and watches everything. I pour the soup into a couple of bowls and pop them into a microwave. He puts his forefinger against the glass and fiddles with the buttons a bit while the soup is heating. He is startled by the “ding,” and then we have hot soup together.

“It’s a bit salty,” says he, “but extraordinary, considering it came from those strange cylinders. What did you call them again.”

“Cans.”

“And you may simply open one of these CANS whenever you’re hungry?”

“Yep.”

“Remarkable.”

After the soup we both get quiet and things are a little uncomfortable. Martin Luther picks at his robe, while I make two or three attempts at small talk. After the way he laughed on the elevator, I’m a little worried about showing him anything else.

“So…how much longer will you be here?”

“Not much longer. Just a few more minutes and I have to go back.”

“Oh,” I say, sadly. “Okay, how about this? We each get to ask the other two questions about life in his time. I go first.”

Martin Luther nods in agreement.

This is the opportunity of a lifetime, and I don’t want to blow it. But suddenly I can’t think of anything to say. And time is running out. I open my mouth and say the first thing that comes to mind.

“What was the longest time you ever went without brushing your teeth?”

“Brushing my teeth? What does that mean?”

“Never mind, that pretty much tells me more than I need to know. Okay, how about this: Why were people in your time so uptight about theology? You killed each other, for God’s sake. I mean literally, FOR THE SAKE OF GOD, you tortured and killed each other. Why?”

Martin Luther answers quickly and with a straight face. “That’s easy. We really believed.”

“Whaddya mean? In God? WE believe in God.”

He smiles. “No you don’t. Not really. You have so many options. There are so many different things that people in your time can believe. Your belief is a whispy, smoky, light-weighted sort of thing. I can see right through it. People in your world really don’t know WHAT they believe. For us, God is as real as rocks and wind and rain and summertime. And because we believe, we are passionate. Too passionate at times, I will admit. I see things much clearer now.”

“How do you know that much about us? All you’ve seen are Diet Cokes, elevators, and canned soup. I mean, we have a whole lot more than that.”

Martin Luther smiles. “I’ve seen enough. And now it’s my turn. I have only one question for you.”

“Shoot,” I say.

He looks puzzled.

“Oh, uh, go ahead and ask.”

“Our lives are filled with much hardship. Winters are hard; Summers too. Only wealthy people may hear music, and most people cannot read. Just securing food and water takes hours out of our days. In my entire lifetime, I only managed to write a set of commentaries and an assortment of other works and treatises. With your many labor saving devices, your elevators and your canned soup, I imagine that people can accomplish so much more with their lives. I imagine your days are filled with prayer and creation and loveliness. It is a marvelous time in which you live, is it not? Are people fully educated and busily engaged with writing and art and music and philosophy and theology?”

I can’t think of a way to answer him, and Martin Luther is fading away. I have to speak quickly.

“No, most of us produce very little. We tend to consume a lot, though. We spend most of our time consuming and using things. And we work an awful lot so that we can pay for all the things we want to consume. A lot of us consume more than we can pay for, so we buy on credit. And then of course, we have work doubly hard to pay our creditors. That’s just the way it is.”

Martin Luther looks puzzled, and just before he fades away he says, “I don’t understand what you mean.”

He’s gone before I can reply, but I speak anyway.

“Yeah, we don’t really understand it either, Martin.”

rlp