Well, they blossomed. That’s about all I can say about the army of tulips that beautify (usually) the front of our house each spring. They blossomed - barely.

They stuck their heads out of the ground a month ago. They were the picture of hope, the harbinger of spring, the expectation of fresh color against a dreary landscape. But, alas. The snows came. The wind blew. The cold descended like an iron fist. The long, slender, graceful leaves surrendered without a fight. Some clung to the ground as if asking the earth to take them back for certainly this was all a mistake. Others just drooped in lifeless sorrow. Their cheerful green downgraded to the tedious indifference of a death row prisoner whose final appeal had just been rejected.

The blossoms remained defiantly closed. But their defiance sprang not from a patriotic desire to beat back the winter. Rather, it came like the limp esteem of a last place finisher who only wants to finish the race and go home in anonymity. Their heads hung down for days (I was getting a sore neck just looking at them). They seemed ashamed of their error. Surely they had arrived too soon in a world that was not yet ready.

Finally, when the air warmed just enough, they let go of their chains, opened to launch their colors upon the earth, and almost immediately dropped their petals unceremoniously to the ground. The tulips would offer up no bouquets for home or office this year. Hello, good bye, see ya’ next year.

Some times life is like that. But then there is always next year.

Pastor B.

Did you get a chance to see the Sun Prairie Civic Theater’s production of Camelot? If you missed it, you missed a first class presentation of a marvelous story. I was fortunate enough to be able to take some pictures at the dress rehearsal, and I marvel at the ability of those talents who act, play music, build sets, set lights, and all the other stuff that goes into putting together a live performance.

Our addiction to recorded productions has fooled us into thinking it’s easy. When hours and hours of preparation end up on a tape or disc, we only see and hear the perfect. And we never have to worry about it again.

But live performance requires everyone to be in step night after night, day after day. The need for flexibility never ends. What do you do when a prop goes missing? A light burns out? A line is dropped? The lead gets laryngitis? Someone, anyone, doesn’t show? Live performance has an energy that cannot be duplicated in a recording.

First, let me encourage you all to support the performing arts, especially the local variety.

Second, do you ever think of worship as a performing art? It is. However, the assembly is not the audience. God is. The assembly is part of the action. Time to practice our parts.

Pastor B.

If you went through school and never got anything less than a B+, stop reading because you won’t understand this. If, however, you are among the large group of us for who school required a certain amount of work, you’ll get it.

The experience I speak of has occurred many times. It begins innocently when a test is scheduled. Not a quiz, mind you, but a real test. The big day comes. You know how much you didn’t do in preparation. And when you walk away after handing in the paper, your heart is beating from down in your stomach. It’s that old sinking feeling. And it stays with you until the day or reckoning - when you get your grade.

It’s been a long time since I had that feeling, but I sure recognized it immediately after the bishop forum event yesterday at St. Stephen’s. I fell like I totally bombed. Stunk up the place. One big, uff da! For those of you who are brave, the videoed event will be up here in a couple of days.

But alas, today is another day. Another day to begin with Psalm 121: I lift up my eyes to the hills - from where will my help come? My help comes from the Lord, who made heaven and earth. So, let’s celebrate another day of living.

Some of you send me funny stuff now and then. Some I keep so I can share it here. Below is something to bring a smile.

Pastor B.

An old Southern country preacher had a teenage son, and it was getting time
the boy should give some thought to choosing a profession. Like many young
men, the boy didn't really know what he wanted to do, and he didn't seem too
concerned about it.

One day while the boy was away at school his father decided to try an
experiment. He went into the boy's room and placed on his study table four
objects: A Bible, a silver dollar, a bottle of whisky and a Playboy
magazine. "I'll just hide behind the door," the old preacher said to
himself. "When he comes home from school this afternoon, I'll see which
object he picks up. If it's the Bible, he's going to be a preacher like me,
and what a blessing that would be! If he picks up the dollar, he's going to
be a businessman, and that would be okay, too. But if he picks up the
bottle, he's going to be a no-good drunkard, and Lord, what a shame that
would be. And worst of all, if he picks up that magazine he's gonna be a
skirt-chasin' bum."

The old man waited anxiously and soon heard his son's footsteps as he
entered the house whistling and headed for his room. The boy tossed his
books on the bed, and as he turned to leave the room he spotted the objectson the table. Curious, he walked over to inspect them. Finally, he picked up
the Bible and placed it under his arm. He picked up the silver dollar and
dropped it into his pocket. He uncorked the bottle and took a big drink
while he admired the Playmate of the Month.

"Lord have mercy," the old preacher disgustedly whispered, "He's gonna be a
Congressman!"

Oh, sweet Jesus! Now what? It would seem that Christians all over the word are up in arms over an anatomically correct chocolate Jesus in a crucifix position. I’m not sure if all the hubbub is because Jesus is made of chocolate or because he is anatomically correct (which is to say he doesn’t have a loincloth (i.e. he’s naked)).

Oh, sweet Jesus! This is serious stuff, folks. People are losing their jobs over this. The Cardinal (religious leader; not a bird or a ball player or a Sun Prairie student) there in New York is against it. The hotel that houses the art gallery has been threatened with violence. The article mentioned that the exhibit was up during the time when Roman Catholics are about to mark the crucifixion of Jesus. Hey! What about the rest of the western Christian world?  Don't Lutherans have Good Friday, too?

Oh, sweet Jesus! I, too have issues. First of all, is the art work hollow or solid chocolate? As a kid (or was it last year?) I can remember the disappointment in biting the ears of the chocolate bunny and discovering it was hallow. Christ is the solid rock of my salvation, so I expect him to be the solid chocolate of my art world. If not, I say tar and feather the artist. And then there is the anatomically correct part. I hope people in the know have been truly checking that out. Are we sure that the artist sculpted a circumcised Jesus? If not, throw the offender in the Hudson, and let’s find a Mohel to complete the task - a little slice of confection anyone?

Oh, sweet Jesus! I say, let’s carve up the work and send the pieces to those who don’t upset our sensibilities - like children. Send some to the children of Somalia who are starving to death - we don’t find them so upsetting. Send some to the young girls of Asia trapped into prostitution with a promise of a better life - we don’t find them so upsetting. Send some to my latest confirmation class on the Gospels where eight of the nine students didn’t know the meaning of the word "crucifixion" - we don’t find them so upsetting.

Oh, sweet Jesus! I know you’ve died and been raised just so we can protect our delicate sensibilities from chocolate. I’m sure that’s what Easter is all about.

Pastor B.

Multiple choice. Why is this holy week?

A. Because it’s the week between Palm Sunday and Easter

B. Because all weeks belong to God and are holy

C. Because the baseball season begins this week

And the answer is. . . . .

Well, I guess I’d better play it safe and say all of the above. Don’t want to get in trouble with the church authorities or anything like that.

Yes, baseball season began with two games last night and full slate scheduled for today. Baseball means summer, hot dogs, and enjoyable excursions to the ballpark. Baseball (or softball) is my favorite sport. Although my playing and umpiring days are long gone, there’s nothing better than spending a lazy evening watching the boys (or girls) of summer take to the field.

It is not, however, a sport made for television. You have to be at the park to see the many angles and small motions that take place all at the same time. Here is a reprint of a famous comparison of baseball and football done by George Carlin that probably explains my enjoyment of the game as much as anything.

I enjoy comparing baseball and football:

Baseball is a nineteenth-century pastoral game.
Football is a twentieth-century technological struggle.

Baseball is played on a diamond, in a park. The baseball park!
Football is played on a gridiron, in a stadium, sometimes called Soldier Field or War Memorial Stadium.

Baseball begins in the spring, the season of new life.
Football begins in the fall, when everything's dying.

In football you wear a helmet.
In baseball you wear a cap.

Football is concerned with downs - what down is it?
Baseball is concerned with ups - who's up?

In football you receive a penalty.
In baseball you make an error.

In football the specialist comes in to kick.
In baseball the specialist comes in to relieve somebody.

Football has hitting, clipping, spearing, piling on, personal fouls, late hitting and unnecessary roughness.
Baseball has the sacrifice.

Football is played in any kind of weather: rain, snow, sleet, hail, fog.
In baseball, if it rains, we don't go out to play.

Baseball has the seventh inning stretch.
Football has the two minute warning.

Baseball has no time limit: we don't know when it's gonna end - might have extra innings.
Football is rigidly timed, and it will end even if we've got to go to sudden death.

In baseball, during the game, in the stands, there's kind of a picnic feeling; emotions may run high or low, but there's not too much unpleasantness.
In football, during the game in the stands, you can be sure that at least twenty-seven times you're capable of taking the life of a fellow human being.

And finally, the objectives of the two games are completely different:

In football the object is for the quarterback, also known as the field general, to be on target with his aerial assault, riddling the defense by hitting his receivers with deadly accuracy in spite of the blitz, even if he has to use shotgun. With short bullet passes and long bombs, he marches his troops into enemy territory, balancing this aerial assault with a sustained ground attack that punches holes in the forward wall of the enemy's defensive line.

In baseball the object is to go home! And to be safe! - I hope I'll be safe at home!

And let’s hope we’re all safe at home.

Pastor B.