The activities of America’s military muscle get well documented in the various press media of our day. We live in a nation that is at once strong and meek at the same time. The recent events off the Horn of Africa attribute to that.

What makes us even greater, I think, is the fact that our military commander-in-chief is a civilian. He is not a general or a colonel or even a sergeant. He is, even during the flourish of flag and formality, simply Mr. President. The men who cobbled together our constitution built a way of government that a later president defined as "of the people, by the people, (and) for the people."

When we say "Mister President" we know that we are a nation of equals. All other forms of address are secondary to Mister. Reverend, Doctor, or Professor fall short. Duke, Earl, or Lord fall way, way short. Our President is by the very way he is addressed, an equal citizen with the rest of us.

When we say, "Mister President", we lift up every other citizen of our country. We remind people that the most common form of address is the form we use for the person holding the land’s highest office.

When we say, "Mister President", we bring down our leader and all those who serve under him. We bring them down to acknowledge that presidents are in the eyes of our law no better than assembly line workers, nurses, farmers, letter carriers, waitresses, mechanics, secretaries, coal miners, shop owners, astronauts, musicians, or teachers.

I have a hunch most folks don’t know the importance of calling our nation’s leader "Mr. President". There’s a lot of stuff packed into that "Mister".

Pastor B.

Grandson Branden has a favorite soldier – the sniper. Any time Branden sees a picture of a rifle with a scope on it, he calls it a sniper rifle. He’s learned that snipers are sharpshooters who wait for an enemy to be exposed and then fires a high velocity bullet with the intended deadly accuracy.

My grandson only sees one side of the equation, however. In real life, snipers become the targets of a barrage of fire once their position is located. Still, for Branden they seem like a safe player in war since they are distanced from the trench fighting where a person might actually get hurt.

We also have snipers in our political and social ranks. These are folks who wait on the edges just waiting for an opening when they can shoot. In our country these snipers are protected by the First Amendment of the Constitution so they don’t even have to worry much about return fire.

Political sniping is everywhere. It came into the spotlight few weeks ago when our President spent a few minutes jawing with Jay Leno. In the middle of the conversation President Obama, reflecting on his poor bowling skills made a remark that could be an affront to people with disabilities. This had nothing to do with public policy, the economy, the military, health care, or any meaningful legislation. He simply let down the political correctness filter for a moment.

Out came the snipers. His political adversaries, including the always politically correct Sarah Palin, were quick to jump on the gaffe. Our President immediately took responsibility for the flub (he apologized even before the interview was aired). He said, "I’m sorry," and moved on. But the sniping continues. I keep thinking to myself – Let the one who is without sin cast the first stone.

If you’re looking for another great place to watch for snipers, go to a school board or city council meeting.

The fact is, we all have the ability, maybe even the inclination to be snipers shooting away at our perceived enemies with impunity. I decided long ago to avoid falling into that trap. Not to say I’ve never enjoyed that activity. Like many social snipers, I usually cover it with self-righteous cynicism painted with satire. (Remember the sniper in Saving Private Ryan who quoted scripture before every deadly shot?)

The world is filled with good people trying to do the right thing. The snipers of our world do very little other than to tear them down and make moving forward difficult. The snipers motto is "It is better to curse the darkness than to light a candle."

As we get further into the Easter season, I promise to redouble my efforts to avoid sniping. After all, God has chosen not to condemn the world but to save it.

Pastor B.

True story. I was pulling into the parking lot of one of the Madison hospitals on my way to visit with one of our hospitalized members. For some reason or another I was humming the hymn I Heard the Voice of Jesus Say. I’m never quite sure why these tunes pop into my brain, but they do. I should probably meditate on God’s attempt at revelation by diagnosing which hymns God plants in my mind.

Sorry, I digress.

I was pulling up to the entrance kiosk with this hymn running through my head and out my humming lips, and I tripped into this verbal coincidence connecting my humming and the kiosk "talking" to me: "I heard the voice of Jesus say, ‘Please take a ticket’".

A guffaw may have exited my mouth at that very moment. I was taken aback. Is this a revelation of the pearly gates? (If the gate to heaven looks like the wooden railroad crossing arm that lets you into the parking lot, I will be very disappointed.) Does this mean I may now tell Christians everywhere they will have to take a ticket?

But wait. There’s more. The gate opens when you get the ticket. That same ticket will not get you out, however. You will need cash or a credit card. (Checks okay at Meriter.)

Alas, O Lord, is this the revelation! There actually is a purgatory, and you can’t get out ‘til you give your ticket to the human at the exit kiosk along with sufficient merit (i.e. money)?

As you can see, my mind was racing. Not everyday do I get such a glimpse of God’s holy ways. My soul was about to sink into a pit of despair. Darkness began to enclose my spirit. Where, oh where would I get the merit to escape the purgatorial parking ramp?

Luckily, I found a paring spot on level four and didn’t have to think about it anymore.

Plus, the nice man in the hospital validated my ticket so I could get out free. I wonder, was he a Christ figure?

Pastor B.

A few weeks ago we wrestled some furniture around in a few bedrooms. No great reason except maybe to supply our grandson with a bigger bed for the nights he spends with us.  As you might expect, the hallways became nearly impassable as bed rails, mattresses, and dressers waited patiently for their new homes.  When the two or three hours of furniture moving came to a close, we had one extra piece of furniture.

Sitting by itself all the way out in the living room, a telephone table awaited assignment.  Painted a light blue, the table has traveled with us for years.  I figure my dad built it in the early to mid 1950’s.   It must have been his woodworking period – a craft era that lasted just as long as it took him to build the table.

The squat little thing stands less than three feet tall. The top might be a foot square, and that’s where the phone was supposed to sit.  (For youthful readers, yes there was a time when the phone stayed in one place – and there was one phone for the entire house.) Three shelves step down one side, and a drawer and cabinet are built in below the phone shelf.

Dad made this thing totally by hand.  No power tools interfered with the fine artisan works of a coping saw and sandpaper.  I do believe my toddler ears may have been exposed to language rougher than the sandpaper.  I recall my mom inviting me upstairs for ice cream or fruit whenever things heated up in the basement.

Our basement was not in any way finished off.  A concrete floor lay cold between the cinder block walls.  Above, the floor joists creaked and formed a hiding place for hoards of spiders.  The workbench was layered with all manner of tools, broken stuff, junk, and coffee cans laden with every nut, bolt, screw, nail, and washer you can imagine.  Two incandescent light bulbs hung from the ceilings, casting shadows into every space my dad was trying to work in.  I have no idea how long it took him to complete the project, and we used it to hold the phone for only a few months until a small desk replaced it.

Susan and I picked it out of the basement many years ago and it has served many purposes.  Dogs have chewed off the original knobs and left marks on the shelves.  It has held together through some hard knocks, a testament to the glue my dad used.

So, we briefly considered ridding ourselves of the piece, but then thought better of it.  Susan found a great spot for it in our dining room as a flower stand.  I think we’ll keep our devotional materials (devotions usually happen around the dining table) in the drawer.  Yes, it lives to serve another day.

Pastor B.