There has been a full moon in the sky these past days, which has made it a bit more difficult to notice the vast array of stars in the heavens. I remember as a Boy Scout learning the patterns and stories of the different constellations. Some were constellations with all large, bright stars. Some constellations had several strong, bright stars, and several lesser, faint lights, but the point was that they gathered in a cluster that made them a unique presence in the firmament of God.

For instance, the Big Dipper, with its seven large stars, is part of Ursa Major, twenty stars and a Greek myth to go along with it. As I am getting older, I have to tell you that it is getting harder and harder to distinguish Ursa Major in the heavens. It feels like I am losing the stars one by one, even some of the brightest ones.

The constellation Orion also has bright stars and fainter stars. It’s the pattern, the cluster’s unique arrangement, that differs Ursa Major from Orion.

In our ecumenical era these days, it’s becoming harder for me to see the Lutheran Constellation as I learned it and heard of its story. I learned much of it at “seminary camp,” George Anderson and Scott Hendrix pointing out the stars to us.

There were bright stars like Justification by Grace through faith, Law and Gospel, the radical powers of sin, evil, and death that required a rescuing God, Saint and Sinner, the external Word, alien righteousness, the Happy Transfer, the Incarnate Word that filled  manger, cross, tomb, water, bread, wine, preaching, the Word that would fill the very depth, height, breadth, and length of all things, the two kingdoms, the theology of the cross, the orders of creation, the real presence and ubiquity of Christ, the God who comes for us, given for us, who doesn’t wait, the comforting understanding of predestination and the peculiar distinction of the bondage of the will for things above and the apparent freedom of choice in things below. There was a Lutheran hermeneutic that had the lens of the crucified and risen Christ that even Abraham and Joseph could see, according to Luther’s sermons in Genesis. There was knowing fruit by the quality of the tree, not knowing the quality of the tree by the fruit.

I am older now, and my vision grows more faint. I don’t see the stars in the current sky as well.  In our ecumenical life we point to the common appreciation of starlight, and we compare how we all orient ourselves to the north star, to Jesus Christ, around which the whole body orbits. The question is whether or not constellations matter anymore.

Ursa Major has two stars that point straight to the North Star. They are a sure direction when you get lost, whether on land or sea. I still get lost… often.

But the stars seem to be growing dimmer. Sin isn’t quite so radical and rescue isn’t quite so necessary. Saint and sinner is only faintly more than a nice way of saying I’m really OK with my flaws. I've been told by some recently that the theology of the cross isn't really a star after all, just an icy comet for a time. The orders of creation are distant planets reflecting whatever greater light hits them, but no one can name what greater light is shining on them now. The lens of Christ as the hermeneutical key grows fainter among the brighter hermeneutical lights of the biblical criticisms; Luther dims as a sixteenth-century anachronism amid the theology de jour. The alien righteousness has lost its glow; socially-adjusted righteousness burns brighter. Two kingdoms is faint compared to the social gospel while a recent seminar of scholars trumps an ancient array of apostles.

It isn’t that one group is out to destroy the constellation. Lutheran scholars are dimming some of the stars, biblical scholars others, personal anecdotes dim others, and modern times antiquate the old. The new stars rising in our times just outshine the former.

The loss of several stars means the loss of the constellation. A big dipper without three stars and ladle is nothing more than a celestial trapezoid. It might still point to the north star, but its unique story is lost, its shape, scope, raison d’etre. Its witness becomes indistinct, less radical or passionate. It no longer has something to teach or shine in its unique way.

I’ve got two more years in this term as bishop, and I admit I’m seeing stars. I fully admit that I am out of touch with the new stars rising, but I daily encounter in the hearts and lives around me the real powers of sin, evil, and death that need a rescuing Christ. I sometimes sound anachronistic to myself—until I hear the prayer petitions written at our youth events, spoken by our service personnel in distant lands among horrifying experiences, listen to a billion who are hungry while we burn mountains of corn for our car to go on errands, know a great deal about the swine flu in the local high school but nothing about the rampant spread of HIV, AIDS, and malaria around the world. Since when did sin become only individual? Since the stars began to lose their luster.

I don’t know how to put stars back once you let them fade away, discount their presence, challenge their being stars at all. I just know that I need specific constellations to give my walk of faith an orientation.

It is the Lutheran Constellation that still gives me my bearings in a GPS world where all eyes fixed on the nearby screen, ignoring the heavens that tell the glory of God. The Lutheran Constellation still has a breathtaking understanding of sin, evil, death, you, me, a broken world, and a relentless, entering, rescuing God in Christ who will gather up all things in heaven and earth. Not because it’s the only Christian light in the world, but because it remains a constellation of absolutely necessary stars that never fail to point me to the Daystar of the rescuing Christ in the night sky.

James F. Mauney is the bishop of the Virginia Synod.