Liturgical Mysteries 01 The Alto Wore Tweed by Mark Schweizer Page A
Authors: Mark Schweizer
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time that we approach with reverent awe that celebration which makes us truly Protestant. I’m speaking of Reformation Day—the day on which, in 1517, Martin Luther set us free from the control of the Roman Church by nailing his ninety-five theses to the door of the church at Wittenberg proclaiming his dissatisfaction with certain papal decrees. It is fitting and proper therefore, that we should celebrate the foremost contribution by Martin Luther to the Protestant cause. No, not throwing the yoke of Catholic oppression off our shoulders, but something far, far more consequential.
As we head full-steam into the holiday season, we need only to turn to our history books to find that Martin Luther offers us a surefire way to lose 15 pounds before Thanksgiving. Yes, I’m talking about the DIET OF WURMS.
“My darling," Meg said, rather too sarcastically, I thought, as she read through my current choir newsletter. "I fear your current offering may be a bit too theologically obscure for the average chorister. How many, do you suppose, have even heard of the Diet of Wurms?”
By now you are saying to yourselves, “Well, I’ve heard of the Diet of Wurms, of course. Every scholar of comparative religion has—but does it really work?” I can assure you it does. By all accounts, Brother Martin lost about fifteen pounds from November 1 to November 8, 1521 and we have just obtained from an unnamed monk in upstate New York the actual manuscript of this famous diet.
“I cannot and I will not recant anything. Here I stand. I can do no other.”
“Yes, Dr. Luther, Very funny. Are you running out of steam on The Alto Wore Tweed?” Megan wondered aloud as she finished reading my latest missive. “At least we understood some of that.”
hI just thought that Reformation Day needed a little punching up. It’s not one of our more well-known feast days. I’ll get back to the story in a bit.”
“So what do we actually do for Reformation Day? I don’t seem to remember any kind of mention of it in the service.”
“Well, usually we all dress up as monks, walk barefoot in procession down Main Street and nail our complaints to the mayor’s door. Then we find a hotdog vendor and say ‘Make us one with everything.’ But we haven’t done it for a few years. Actually the last time was right before you moved here.”
She nodded thoughtfully. “This is a tradition I think we should resurrect. Do you still have your monk suit?”
“Of course I have my monk suit. Is it always your habit to be so inquisitive?” I added, smirking poignantly. I had a lot of monk jokes.
“Oh, haha,” Meg replied mirthlessly. “Your puns garner you no lady’s favors, sirrah. And what’s this stuff about the International Congress of Church Musicians? I haven’t ever heard of them.”
“It’s a secret society and I must advise you to pretend you never asked that question.”
Meg looked up at me from below arched eyebrows.
“Many people have made that same inquiry in various forms and were never heard from again.”
“Do tell,” she said.
“Sometimes they’d ask nicely and say, ‘Just what is the purpose and mission of the ICCM?’ and sometimes they’d just yell, ‘It’s three o’clock in the morning! Why don’t you idiots shut up and get that damn goat off my lawn?’ Then the cops would come and we’d have a heck of a time explaining sixteen men in raccoon hats, a goat and a five-gallon container of spaghetti sauce.”
“I see. So that’s what you’re up to all hours of the night.”
“I have no comment at this time.”
“You need to have your blood sugar checked. I think you may be a couple of bubbles out of plumb. Now, let’s see that clue you were talking about.”
I pulled a Xerox of the clue out of my shirt pocket, unfolded it, put it on the kitchen table and smoothed it out. Meg spun it around slowly so she could read it and sat down at the table.
“Hmmm,” she hummed, deep in thought.
“Any ideas?”
As we head full-steam into the holiday season, we need only to turn to our history books to find that Martin Luther offers us a surefire way to lose 15 pounds before Thanksgiving. Yes, I’m talking about the DIET OF WURMS.
“My darling," Meg said, rather too sarcastically, I thought, as she read through my current choir newsletter. "I fear your current offering may be a bit too theologically obscure for the average chorister. How many, do you suppose, have even heard of the Diet of Wurms?”
By now you are saying to yourselves, “Well, I’ve heard of the Diet of Wurms, of course. Every scholar of comparative religion has—but does it really work?” I can assure you it does. By all accounts, Brother Martin lost about fifteen pounds from November 1 to November 8, 1521 and we have just obtained from an unnamed monk in upstate New York the actual manuscript of this famous diet.
“I cannot and I will not recant anything. Here I stand. I can do no other.”
“Yes, Dr. Luther, Very funny. Are you running out of steam on The Alto Wore Tweed?” Megan wondered aloud as she finished reading my latest missive. “At least we understood some of that.”
hI just thought that Reformation Day needed a little punching up. It’s not one of our more well-known feast days. I’ll get back to the story in a bit.”
“So what do we actually do for Reformation Day? I don’t seem to remember any kind of mention of it in the service.”
“Well, usually we all dress up as monks, walk barefoot in procession down Main Street and nail our complaints to the mayor’s door. Then we find a hotdog vendor and say ‘Make us one with everything.’ But we haven’t done it for a few years. Actually the last time was right before you moved here.”
She nodded thoughtfully. “This is a tradition I think we should resurrect. Do you still have your monk suit?”
“Of course I have my monk suit. Is it always your habit to be so inquisitive?” I added, smirking poignantly. I had a lot of monk jokes.
“Oh, haha,” Meg replied mirthlessly. “Your puns garner you no lady’s favors, sirrah. And what’s this stuff about the International Congress of Church Musicians? I haven’t ever heard of them.”
“It’s a secret society and I must advise you to pretend you never asked that question.”
Meg looked up at me from below arched eyebrows.
“Many people have made that same inquiry in various forms and were never heard from again.”
“Do tell,” she said.
“Sometimes they’d ask nicely and say, ‘Just what is the purpose and mission of the ICCM?’ and sometimes they’d just yell, ‘It’s three o’clock in the morning! Why don’t you idiots shut up and get that damn goat off my lawn?’ Then the cops would come and we’d have a heck of a time explaining sixteen men in raccoon hats, a goat and a five-gallon container of spaghetti sauce.”
“I see. So that’s what you’re up to all hours of the night.”
“I have no comment at this time.”
“You need to have your blood sugar checked. I think you may be a couple of bubbles out of plumb. Now, let’s see that clue you were talking about.”
I pulled a Xerox of the clue out of my shirt pocket, unfolded it, put it on the kitchen table and smoothed it out. Meg spun it around slowly so she could read it and sat down at the table.
“Hmmm,” she hummed, deep in thought.
“Any ideas?”
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