Golly gee, Mr. Wilson! (I think that was it. Anyone remember the Dennis the Menace show?) Anyway, golly gee, we actually got ourselves a snow storm. What a great event! I think God gives us these things to break the February blahs.

Starting sometime Thursday evening, the Weather Channel (whatever happened the plain old weatherman who had five minutes on the evening news?) devoted hours and hours to this "winter wallop" (as one guy called it). By Saturday morning the map was a rainbow of colors. (I’m still not clear on the difference between light pink and regular pink). Their ominous predictions would make you think a swarm of flesh-eating locusts was on the horizon.

The cancellations started on Friday when the two baptisms planned for the weekend went into postponement. Then the synod LEAD event, at which I was to be a presenter, called it quits. As the weather news began using the word "blizzard," closings and cancellations began showing up on television. Wow! This was going to be exciting.

There was the possibility of freezing rain. So we filled up our bathtub so we would have water in case the power decided to cancel, too (we have a well). Oooo, this is really getting good.

On Saturday afternoon the pressure mounted. To cancel or not to cancel? That was the question. Whether (weather?) ‘twas better to cancel worship for the well being of all or to keep on going for the stouthearted to brave the elements.

First, there’s the peer pressure. "Look dear, Good Shepherd closed." They’re a really big church. St. James, Verona packed it in. Our neighbors Burke and Bristol canceled. Messiah, Trinity, St. John’s. Hey, let’s hop on this bandwagon and have a free snow day.

Ah, but then the competitive part of my temperament raised it’s ugly head. "Those wimpy pastors and congregations. We’re better than them. We’ll stay open and have worship no matter what." Compromise set in - cancel everything BUT worship.

A restless mind woke me up at 4 a.m. on Sunday. I just had to take another look at the crawl atop the television closing list. Darn! St. Stephen’s, Monona was still having worship. Man, if Bruce Burnside (the pastor there) can do it, then I have to do it. I’ll never be able to face my friend again if I cancel and he makes it.

Ponder, ponder, ponder. It’s now 5:30 a.m. Hmmm. The snow has stopped. The wind doesn’t seem too bad. We CAN do it!!

And that is how my mind, in it’s own mental blizzard, weathered the storm. Thanks to all you brave souls who took on the elements. Seventy-nine came on Saturday night. Nine filled the pews early on Sunday (that number includes me, one usher, one sound technician, one acolyte (and her mom), and Brett). And about 60 were able to get to their cars for the 10:30 service.

Yep, Mr. Wilson, we sure made water cooler conversation and some memories this weekend.

Pastor. B.

So, I’m driving toward Madison on one of those cold but dry days a week or so ago. Passing under the freeway I see, eerily hanging in the air just above the pot-holed concrete of East Wash, a great cloud of white. "A sign?" I ask myself. An apparition (or maybe an aberration). I considered the upcoming Sunday of the Transfiguration of Our Lord, and considered that this could be the cloud from which God’s voice spoke. Would God speak to me? (Heaven only knows how much I need that these days).

With great expectations (cough) I closed in on the mysterious (hack) cloud. Could it be (cough, cough) a message from the (bark, whoop, choke) Almighty?

Alas, (hack, hack, cough, cough) ‘twas not a sign of divinity but rather a result of salinity. There was so much dried up salt on the road that auto traffic was stirring it into a billow of sodium chloride (or whatever it is) dust that blows wherever the wind will take it. Somehow I don’t foresee God coming in a cloud of salt dust. The Lone Ranger came in a cloud of trail dust (and a "Hi Ho Silver, Away"), but God belongs in a different kind of cloud.

While on the subject of dust. Ash Wednesday is this week. If you’ve ever cleaned out a wood burning fireplace, you know about ash dust. (By the way, if you use a shop vac to clean it, be sure the hose is not plugged into the "exhale" hole). Dust can find its way to every corner of any place. No matter how hard you try, the dust finds its way in.

As we come to the altar for the mark of the cross from the dust of burned palm branches, we hear the words, "Remember that you are dust." Yeah, dust. Although the meaning of Ash Wednesday is to bring us back to the humility of our total dependence upon God, I hope it might also be a reminder that we are little particles of dust carrying the message of Jesus Christ to every corner of the world.

So go out and be dust. And I do believe in the cloud of dust made by believers, God does speak.

Pastor B.

Participate in the Lenten Disciplines

I might be Anna Nicole Smith’s kid’s father.  Hey, what the heck! I might as well get in line for the money train like all the rest of them.

Such a terrible loss. Anna will be long remembered for her. . . for her. . . ahhh. Well, let’s see. Talent? Nope. Wisdom? Nope. Philanthropy? Yeah, right! Service to the poor? Gag me! Other than a stint naked in front of cameras some years ago that got her married to a rich old (and I mean very rich and very old) geezer, there’s not much to memorialize. She was the grieving(?) widow of a multi-millionaire. My heart breaks? NOT

She is, even in death, one of the icons of our celebrity culture that idolizes people for no other reason than they are famous (even if they’re only famous for being famous - ala Paris H.). Her death will be headline news for CNN and The Wisconsin State Journal (a paper quickly declining in quality, by the way) for months. She will be popping up in tabloids for years (they aren’t releasing the photos of her body. . . did she really die?. . . maybe she is holed up in a Detroit suburb with Elvis).

There is money here, to be sure. And that’s really what’s driving the whole madness. We will investigate her death interminably, and be guessing how much the kid is worth. Determining the baby’s daddy will require lawsuits that will stretch ‘til the kid is 18.

Meanwhile, the photographers and news channels have tired of the mundane deaths of soldiers blown up or shot in Iraq. Men and women with far more talent, courage, fortitude, and integrity than Smith come home in caskets every week. They deserve our praise and honor. They often leave behind lost, forlorn, and despairing spouses and children. There are no huge bank accounts, and frequently there is huge debt - so no one is signing on to help those fatherless or motherless kids.

I’ve known many National Guard folks in my life. We used to laugh together at the Weekend Warrior nickname. Their spouses griped about the weekend-a-month and two-weeks-a-year spent in training. Extended duty events which might stress a family meant a few weeks away to help with things like floods, forest fires, and tornadoes. Not so today for anyone serving in the armed forces.  They'd be ahppy to have back those Weekend Warrior days.

Where’s the media? Reporters? Cameramen?

Where are the investigators? The public sympathy? The public recognition?

Let us repent. God, forgive us.

Pastor B.

I have a winter fashion philosophy for those of us who live in the upper midwest (and don’t escape to the warmer weather of Arizona or Florida - "Hey there all you OSLC snowbirds!"). The philosophy is this: When you go outside into cold weather you can either look good or be warm. You cannot do both.

The picture at the right is a witness to this fact. Standing outside shaking shivering hands after services means that I must sacrifice my killer good looks for the practicality of warmth. Although I’m sure you can see the handsomely debonair Swede (Lord, is it legal to put those three words together?) shining through the protective layer of clothing, still the sacrifice had to be made.

I’ve observed, and I may be wrong in this, that for the minions living in this ice cold wintry stuff of Wisconsin, the breaking point between needing to look good and finally giving in to being warm is around fifty years old. Somewhere around 45 you begin to realize that looking good is all pretty much a fallacy imprinted on your psyche by watching shows like, say, CSI Miami. By 55 you’ve come all the way to parkas, long woolen scarves (that don’t have to match your woolen mittens anymore (in fact, the mittens don’t even have to match each other)), two pairs of socks (remember cotton first, then wool), and long underwear from September through May.

Something about 50 frees us from the trappings of the world’s delusions and allows us to grab that which is really important - warmth. Advertisers for stuff to make you look good don’t target people over fifty. That’s not because they’re hopeless (again, witness the picture), but because they’ve grabbed onto a greater truth.

Maybe that’s why the Bible declares a Jubilee year at 50. It’s a year to be free of the encumberments of debt and concern. It’s a time to let go of what is false and reaffirm your faith in what is true - that is, the Lord alone.

Pastor B.

PS Congratulations and "Herzlichen Glueckwunsch zum Geburtstag" to SB in DE (aka Ger.) who turned L on 2/2.