O day full of grace, which we behold,
Now gently to view ascending,
Thou over the earth thy reign unfold,
Good cheer to all mortals lending,
That children of light of every clime
May prove that the night is ending!
—N. F. S. Grundtvig (1783-1872), trans. by Carl Døving
This was my first Christmas without my dad, Theodore Johannes (Ted) Thuesen, Jr., who died July 11, 2024, at age 96. As his health worsened last summer, I took a hiatus from blogging and am only now resuming to reflect on his death. I was grateful to be with him when he died, though it was hard to watch him slip away.
Dad became a father later than most. He was 43 when I was born and was on his second career as a sociology professor. As a young man, he had been a parish pastor for seven years, from 1956 to 1963. In those days, American Lutherans of Danish heritage were divided into two groups, stereotypically known as the “Happy Danes” and the “Holy Danes.” The “Holy Danes” tended toward biblical literalism and moral strictness. This definitely was not Dad. He and other “Happy Danes” were followers of the great theologian N. F. S. Grundtvig, who rejected biblical fundamentalism and saw earthly life not as an exile but as something to be enjoyed and celebrated.
That outlook is expressed in Grundtvig’s version of the old Scandinavian folk hymn, “O Day Full of Grace,” which speaks of the good cheer that God brings to mortals. (In 2019, I had the joy of hearing my daughter sing this with the St. Olaf Choir in F. Melius Christiansen’s gorgeous arrangement.)
The notion that life is filled with grace permeated every sermon I ever heard Dad preach. Though I was born after his parish days, I remember accompanying him when he was, as he used to joke, a circuit rider, or supply preacher. He did this even into retirement and would pull old homilies from what he called his “sermon barrel” (actually a file drawer in his clothes closet).
After Dad died, my sister and I went through his sermon barrel and found “Not Far to Fall,” first preached at Bethesda Lutheran Church, Newark, New Jersey, in 1958, and last preached in 1999. The sermon begins with a story, no doubt from Dad’s personal experience growing up in Iowa, of a young boy playing in a grain elevator, which is a dangerous place for a child to play.
The boy swings from a rope suspended over a huge grain bin, but in the darkness, he becomes afraid when he realizes he can’t see the floor. He slowly lowers himself all the way to the end of the rope but his feet still don’t touch bottom. Petrified, he holds on until his arms finally give out. Bracing himself, he drops—only to fall about six inches onto the soft grain below.
For Dad, the boy in the grain elevator was a metaphor for the unknowns of the afterlife—all the questions about what happens when we die. I quote Dad now:
We ask these questions because we all are, to some extent, afraid of death. We all, like the boy in the grain bin, cling to the rope of life desperately, with all of our strength as long as we are able. We cling because life is good and we were meant to love life and to be grateful for the days we are given to live on this good earth. And so we don’t want to let go. We are afraid to let go and fall into the dark unknown. But finally the day comes for all of us when we are forced to let go like the boy clinging to the rope in the grain bin. But we need not be afraid, for everything we read in scripture about death and God’s love for each of us leads us to believe that, like the boy in the dark grain bin, we fall only a little ways; only a little ways onto a cushion—a cushion of love. We fall not into a dark unknown at all, but into the everlasting arms of him who said: “I will raise you up at the last day and you will live forever.” “Let not your hearts be troubled; neither let them be afraid.” “Come to me all who labor and are heavy laden and I will give you rest.”
I heard Dad deliver this sermon numerous times, so it stuck with me. I can still hear him preaching it. Its message comforts me still, even amid my own persistent religious doubts. That message of comfort became basic to how I think about religion, which I do all the time as a religious studies professor.
Religion is many things, including differences of doctrine that divide Lutherans to this day. But as Grundtvig realized, doctrinal purity avails us little if religion loses its ability to comfort.
My dad appreciated this too. For him, every day on this “good earth,” as he put it, was a day full of grace. I miss him now that he no longer walks this earth, but I am thankful to carry his message with me.
© 2025 by Peter J. Thuesen. All rights reserved