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In the left-hand kingdom, we exercise our common priesthood by serving each other lovingly, though we are fallible (we are human after all). We make mistakes but also take comfort in the knowledge that "God will put things right in the end," as Dietrich Bonhoeffer wrote in his prison cell before becoming a martyr at the hands of the Nazis. Though we must not embrace the ways of this sinful world, we are called to engage it fully, lest we disobey the hidden God. He has created us as his co-creators—partners in the ongoing process of cultural renewal. We are his associates when we give love to others, when we plow the land, start a family, develop new medicines, teach the next generation, invent machines, tend to the sick, and at some future date, colonize the universe.

This idea—that by doing our daily chores we are priests equal to the minister serving at the altar—is hugely liberating, especially as we know that in our other abode, the right-hand kingdom, we are already redeemed. With this theology, Luther put laity on par with liturgists, preachers, and others officiating in divine service, and thus laid the groundwork for the modern vision of democracy. And this is perfectly biblical. Down here, in this imperfect environment with its dirty politics and asinine talk shows, we are nevertheless "a kingdom of priests," God's chosen nation, his very own possession, as St. Peter wrote ().

As masks of the hidden God, we perform our priestly duties by going to the polls and running for election, by cooking for our families and doing the bookkeeping, by cutting someone's hair and issuing speeding tickets, and by storming with guns blazing an enemy position in Iraq. We are priests when we create beauty in music or other forms of art and when we teach the next generation to do the same—and when we appreciate beauty, which Scripture sometimes uses as a synonym for God. We are priests until the moment when our last priestly act might be to let doctors and nurses, friends and family tend to us in love.

Max Weber, the father of modern sociology, found that by internalizing this doctrine, Lutherans became manufacturers of some of the best products in the world (the quality of German and Swedish cars serves as a good example). Tragically though, even faithful Lutherans have forgotten this theological treasure, which is badly needed in our perplexing era.

This deficiency became apparent in the results of the last U.S. midterm elections. Of the 535 members of Congress, 37 are Episcopalians, even though no more than 2.2 million Americans belong to this denomination; 43 are Jews of which 5.2 million inhabit the United States. In comparison, Lutheran denominations in the United States have 9 million members and only 18 men and women elected to Congress. My own confessional Lutheran Church–Missouri Synod (almost 2.5 million members) has two men in the House of Representatives—significantly fewer than the five that Christian Scientists (estimated membership: 150,000-450,000) managed to get elected.

Does this mean that American voters hold a bias against Lutherans, who otherwise excel in the sciences, the military, and many other fields? I don't believe so. I suspect that although their realistic theology explicitly frees them to dirty their hands in national politics and the major media—CNN's grumpy Jack Cafferty is the only well-known Lutheran on U.S. television—Lutherans, especially those of the confessional variety, are simply dragging their feet. It just might have something to do with what sociologist Peter L. Berger calls "Lutheran tribalism."

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November 2007, Vol. 51, No. 11