Here in Wisconsin the story is very different. Last week a sloppy, complicated storm plowed through the Midwest like a cattle stampede. A few miles north or south dictated either snow, rain, or the ambiguous "wintry mix" (sounds like some snack food for a New Year’s party.)

The radio meteorologists explained the difference between a "watch" and a "warning." Every DJ, talk show voice and forecaster stated and overstated the weather. Now that nearly up-to-the-minute radar is available on our computers, we can sit and watch the advancing blue (snow), green (rain) and pink (wintry mix) come upon us like a cloud of locusts.

We talk about weather because it is something we all have in common, we all suffer through together, and we all find it a relatively safe subject.

When we call our friends and family members around the country we ask about the weather (except for our friends in Napa Valley). The weather is the enemy we all share.

At year’s end, I would like to give thanks to God for the weather. It fills us with unity of spirit. It gives us something to talk about. Some weather forecasters became our friends – "Charlie said it won’t snow ‘til after midnight."

Happy New Year. May your days be sunny and bright even if it’s a wintry mix outside.

I had a long talk with the inspector. He clearly was filled with angst over the decision. We noted that we disagreed over the danger potential of the tree. We agreed to disagree. Yet, as he noted, in case of a tie the fire inspector wins.

Still, the Nativity of Our Lord will arrive with or without a tree. Even if no angel chorus had announced the birth of the messiah, Jesus would still have been born for us in Bethlehem. Of course, all that straw and hay in the manger surrounded by oil fueled lanterns and burning candles would have been a problem for the fire inspector. Oh well, he can send a citation to the inn keeper.

The miracle of God’s Son actually came to a place over which no government agency has jurisdiction. Our hearts. All the stories of shepherds, angels, wise men, mangers, stables and stars do not really lead us to the Bethlehem of Roman occupied Israel. They lead us into our own hearts where the Christ child is born and can grow to change our lives. And all those Christmas stories also lead us to the heart of our faith community reminding us that the love of God holds us together in the mild meekness of a baby wrapped in swaddling cloths.

From our hearts, then, not from a decorated tree, we must shout from mountain tops, house tops and the top of our lungs: JESUS CHRIST IS BORN.

Pastor B

For whatever reason, I got to thinking about the letter carriers who delivered the much anticipated mail to my parent’s home. When I was very young, we actually got two mail deliveries a day. I can still recall the gray-blue uniform and the leather bag slung across the mailman’s shoulder. The leather squeaked as he walked and sorted mail at the same time.

We had a short hedge between our yard and the Hawkinson’s who lived next door. We had strict prohibitions about cutting through the hedge. With five boys at the Hawkinsons and two at the Berggrens, this was a tough law to obey.

The mailman, however, always cut through a small opening. He would turn sideways to make himself a bit thinner and then go on his way from the 2901 address to the 2909 address next to us. When I asked my dad why the mailman got to cut through the hedge he told me the postal carrier was working hard for a living and I wasn’t. My dad almost always recognized the hard work of folks who seldom get the appreciation they deserve.

And that brings me back to our 14 to 16 inches of pretty, wet, heavy snow. My driveway was already blown out before the plow came through to clear the road. I watched from inside the house as he came by. He tried to go easy at the end of my driveway, but there wasn’t much he could do. He was a plow driver working hard for a living, and last Wednesday was about as hard as it gets.

So, here’s my thanks to all men and women who work so hard to make our lives better. You labor for long arduous hours with little recognition. And especially to all the men and women holding tight to the steering wheels of plows – Thank You.

Pastor B

It works like this. Fred and Freida Faithful are not members of any church. However, they participate in three or four or more. On Sunday, they worship at Alleluia Height Church for their upbeat praise music. Except when they know that Pastor Wordsmith is preaching at the United Methodist Church because they really like her sermons.

Come Tuesday, Freida attends the Bible study at We Gather Together Baptist Church because she knows some of the people there, and they explain exactly what scripture means. Meanwhile, Fred goes to the Wednesday morning prayer breakfast at St. Matthew’s Lutheran because he can make a number of business connections there.

Together they’ve gone on mission trips with Reach Over ministry at Second Presbyterian and volunteered for a Habitat for Humanity build through St. Joseph’s Catholic Church.

On Christmas Eve and Easter they wouldn’t miss the music at the Mid-Town Cathedral because the music is out of this world. And during Advent they regularly go to the Positive Power Church’s Christmas pageant. They go there for the Good Friday Passion Play, too.

And so it goes with Fred and Freida. They selectively choose the various church offerings that fit their schedule and their desires. Best of all, they can do all of this with very little long term commitment. They are practicing the ultimate consumable version of religious faith. They practice a cafeteria faith.

Is it a sign of the times to come? Let me know.

Pastor B