According to Norm Teigen's blog, the Minnesota Bridge collapse is being blamed on an ELS member, Carol Molnau.
Finding Fault
That would be unfortunate, but typical, since government likes to have one person accepting all the blame. One engineer's study of the reports shows that the bridge was a wonder. What Kept the Rust Pile Up So Long? - should be the question, not - What Brought the Bridge Down?
What Brought the Bridge Down?
Mrs. Ichabod has always had an inordinate fear of bridges falling down. Every time she hears of one collapsing, she says, "See?" We often used the Zilwaukee bridge, which fell during construction, due to faulty handling of materials. We tried to avoid it when going to Saginaw. If we happened onto it, I would say, "Oh no. The Zilwaukee Bridge!" My wife's work at an engineering firm made her more conscious of potential disasters everywhere.
My first thought about the tragedy was that rust and poor maintenance were to blame for the I-35 bridge tragedy. I was more certain when they said de-icing equipment had been installed on the bridge. It doesn't take a slide rule to conclude that, after living in Minnesota and using that bridge.
I have always favored fixing a problem early, rather than ignoring it. Politicians would rather focus on glamorous ribbon-cutting ceremonies (their names on a bronze plate) than start boring repair work that snarls traffic. WELS ex-president Gurgel favored exotic and expensive foreign missions over school maintenance. Now he is an Asian missionary when he should have been sent to Saginaw to teach required English.
Justification for the expense of sending him? It's just a vacation! (Thanks, ELS Bad Boy.) Why be frugal and address a problem when "spicey breezes blow soft o'er Ceylon's isle?"
The same things have developed in the Lutheran Church. One or two Synod Minders (see the Fiends label) have tried to deflect people away from the issues with name-calling, the straw man fallacy, ad ignoratiam, and ignoratio elenchi. Do not worry, readers, I was trained in these in the Michigan District, where logical fallacies were daily discourse.
The synodical leaders (big, small, and micro-mini) share one thing in common, besides their love for false doctrine - incompetent management. They cannot help it. They won office by being politicians. They stay in office by being politicians. They have had success, using devious means and massaging every issue. Besides, people love liars. They do not want to hear the cost of facing the truth about apostate leadership. Every group has a cult-like persona. Even the mildest comments threaten synodical infallability, which must be maintained to promote synod worship.
Ralph Bohlmann used to write, whenever his leadership was questioned, "Satan must really be laughing now." I always thought, "Not until that letter was sent." I got one of those simply by stating why I did not join the LCMS ministerium. Like many other synodical politicians, he equated leadership with divine favor. Fidelity to God's Word was not an issue.
Maintenance of the I-35 Bridge and preservation of Lutheran doctrine are quite similar. Hundreds of little matters need to be addressed before disaster strikes. For 30 years the so-called conservative synods have gleaned their truth from ELCA (LCA/ALC) and Fuller Seminary. When pastors and laity should have addressed the issues, they cringed and trembled. A few objected and their cohorts let them get mowed down, whether they were fellow laity or brother pastors. Just as most of the hetero priests left to wed Sister Mary Immaculata, so have most of the faithful ministers and laity left the apostate synods to study and worship independently. Some are left, but it is more difficult each year.
One study showed just as many Lutherans outside of the church as were nominal members. In other words, half of all the people who define themselves at Lutherans will not go to a Lutheran church. I recall these outside-the-synod members did not attend anywhere.
I predict that the synods will collapse as surely as the Minnesota Bridge. The question today is - What is keeping the aging rust-piles up? Holmes wrote about a similar phenomenon, the end of New England Puritanism.
The Deacon's Masterpiece or The Wonderful "One-Hoss Shay": A Logical Story
Oliver Wendell Holmes (1809-1894)
"Have you heard of the wonderful one-hoss shay..."
Have you heard of the wonderful one-hoss shay,
That was built in such a logical way
It ran a hundred years to a day,
And then of a sudden it -- ah, but stay,
I'll tell you what happened without delay,
Scaring the parson into fits,
Frightening people out of their wits, --
Have you ever heard of that, I say?
Seventeen hundred and fifty-five.
Georgius Secundus was then alive, --
Snuffy old drone from the German hive.
That was the year when Lisbon-town
Saw the earth open and gulp her down,
And Braddock's army was done so brown,
Left without a scalp to its crown.
It was on that terrible Earthquake-day
That the Deacon finished the one-hoss shay.
Now in building of shaises, I tell you what,
There is always a weakest spot, --
In hub, tire, felloe, in spring or thill,
In pannel or crossbar, or floor, or sill,
In screw, bolt, throughbrace, -- lurking still,
Find it somewhere you must and will, --
Above or below, or within or without, --
And that's the reason, beyond a doubt,
That a chaise breaks down, but doesn't wear out.
But the Deacon swore (as deacons do,
With an "I dew vum," or an "I tell yeou")
He would build one shay to beat the taown
'n' the keounty 'n' all the kentry raoun';
It should be so built that it couldn' break daown:
"Fer," said the Deacon, "'t's mighty plain
Thut the weakes' place mus' stan' the strain;
'n' the way t' fix it, uz I maintain, is only jest
'T' make that place uz strong uz the rest."
So the Deacon inquired of the village folk
Where he could find the strongest oak,
That couldn't be split nor bent nor broke, --
That was for spokes and floor and sills;
He sent for lancewood to make the thills;
The crossbars were ash, from the the straightest trees
The pannels of whitewood, that cuts like cheese,
But lasts like iron for things like these;
The hubs of logs from the "Settler's ellum," --
Last of its timber, -- they couldn't sell 'em,
Never no axe had seen their chips,
And the wedges flew from between their lips,
Their blunt ends frizzled like celery-tips;
Step and prop-iron, bolt and screw,
Spring, tire, axle, and linchpin too,
Steel of the finest, bright and blue;
Throughbrace bison-skin, thick and wide;
Boot, top, dasher, from tough old hide
Found in the pit when the tanner died.
That was the way he "put her through,"
"There!" said the Deacon, "naow she'll dew!"
Do! I tell you, I rather guess
She was a wonder, and nothing less!
Colts grew horses, beards turned gray,
Deacon and deaconess dropped away,
Children and grandchildren -- where were they?
But there stood the stout old one-hoss shay
As fresh as on Lisbon-earthquake-day!
EIGHTEEN HUNDRED; -- it came and found
The Deacon's masterpiece strong and sound.
Eighteen hindred increased by ten; --
"Hahnsum kerridge" they called it then.
Eighteen hundred and twenty came; --
Running as usual; much the same.
Thirty and forty at last arive,
And then come fifty and FIFTY-FIVE.
Little of of all we value here
Wakes on the morn of its hundredth year
Without both feeling and looking queer.
In fact, there's nothing that keeps its youth,
So far as I know, but a tree and truth.
(This is a moral that runs at large;
Take it. -- You're welcome. -- No extra charge.)
FIRST OF NOVEMBER, -- the Earthquake-day, --
There are traces of age in the one-hoss shay,
A general flavor of mild decay,
But nothing local, as one may say.
There couldn't be, -- for the Deacon's art
Had made it so like in every part
That there wasn't a chance for one to start.
For the wheels were just as strong as the thills
And the floor was just as strong as the sills,
And the panels just as strong as the floor,
And the whippletree neither less or more,
And the back-crossbar as strong as the fore,
And the spring and axle and hub encore.
And yet, as a whole, it is past a doubt
In another hour it will be worn out!
First of November, fifty-five!
This morning the parson takes a drive.
Now, small boys get out of the way!
Here comes the wonderful one-hoss shay,
Drawn by a rat-tailed, ewe-necked bay.
"Huddup!" said the parson. -- Off went they.
The parson was working his Sunday's text, --
Had got to fifthly, and stopped perplexed
At what the -- Moses -- was coming next.
All at once the horse stood still,
Close by the meet'n'-house on the hill.
First a shiver, and then a thrill,
Then something decidedly like a spill, --
And the parson was sitting upon a rock,
At half past nine by the meet'n'-house clock, --
Just the hour of the earthquake shock!
What do you think the parson found,
When he got up and stared around?
The poor old chaise in a heap or mound,
As if it had been to the mill and ground!
You see, of course, if you're not a dunce,
How it went to pieces all at once, --
All at once, and nothing first, --
Just as bubbles do when they burst.
End of the wonderful one-hoss shay.
Logic is logic. That's all I say.
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