Evendays

Our reading for Monday is Mark 11.12-18 and John 12.20-36. Tuesday’s is Matthew 21.28-25.46 and Mark 12.41-13.37. – I cheated and didn’t preach about the triumphal entry yesterday, even though it was Palm Sunday. I guess I wasn’t in the mood because it’s become so, what’s the word, commercial. Ash Wednesday was barely over and the stores were already playing Hosanna music. Chocolate palm fronds take up half the aisles in the grocery stores. The neighbor’s dancing palm tree display with neon lights makes it hard to sleep at night. It’s impossible to find a good donkey around because local pastors reserved them a year in advance for triumphal entry reenactments. What is it with those “talking (plastic) rocks” that sing out “Blessed is he who comes in the name of the Lord” every time you walk by? Do people really buy those things? It’s time we stopped this blatant and irreverent “capitalization” of this important event. We should emphasized the REAL meaning of the day:

• God who keeps his promise;
• The humbleness of the King;
• The joy of the people;
• The blindness of the religious leaders;
• Impending doom on an unbelieving city.

Then maybe, we’ll get back to the true meaning of Palm Sunday.

Today, several of us from the Lausanne church are starting the Passion reading with John 11.55-12.11. For Palm Sunday we will read Luke 19.29-44. One of Wife’s best friends and a wonderful neighbor is celebrating the confirmation of her oldest daughter at the local Reformed Protestant Evangelical Church, Canton of Vaud (our State church). Wife helped her with the shopping and transport and heard all about the plans. The neighbor’s family is taking this seriously, but I’m not so sure about the State church. Confirmation is deeply rooted in Swiss Protestant tradition. It originally confirmed infant baptism. Today it is a Palm Sunday ceremony where the candidate stands up and expresses his/her convictions, doubts, beliefs or lack of beliefs in front of the congregation. The change was made recently because less and less youth were confirming. The process was seen as archaic at best, hypocritical at worst. Supposedly, adolescents were confirming for cash and presents. Integrity was being sacrificed for material benefit. Many in the clergy were against the confirmation celebration because it made a distinction between believer and unbeliever and, for them, no distinction should be made. (Go figure.) I haven’t asked neighbor’s daughter what she’s confirming… doubt or belief. I’m praying it’s belief.

Some people think that just because you live in Switzerland, you are their source for unlimited amounts of chocolate, that the streets are paved in black chocolate, the walls are mortared in white chocolate, and that pralines are for the taking at each crosswalk. Of course, Europeans know that Americans are the world’s source for unlimited numbers of hamburgers. And they ARE right. You drive by a busy street corner in Centerville, USA and there’s a BK on one corner, a McDonald’s on another, a Wendy’s just across the street and 12 Starbucks within spitting distance. (I know… They don’t sell burgers.) I bring this up because of the Economist’s Big Mac Index, a faulty tool that measures currency parity between different countries. FYI, you pay $4.93 for a Big Mac in Switzerland verses $3.15 for the same tasty burger in the USA. This year, we took the lead for the most expensive fast food in the solar system (though Iceland and Norway are not on this year’s list, but I’m not sure they count as part of our solar system). I love Lausanne, but it is expensive. We deeply appreciate our partners in ministry who generously help us out. Thanks.

C. and I ran across a lady I hadn’t seen in years. She’d got fed up with our church and had moved on after 15 years of on-and-off investment. There were reasons. Her life was falling apart and we couldn’t fix it or even make it better. She’s ok now. Separated from her husband, working seven days a week, feeling needed by those she works for. She’s honestly happier. She’s got life by the tail. Since I don’t feel threatened anymore, I asked her where she “worships”. She said she’d just left a church after 5 years and was now attending an English-speaking church near her place. She doesn’t speak English. Well, not much. But since she’s so solidly grounded in faith, who needs the teaching? She’s got it all down. (Her words.) I think she’s grown. I remember her despising all of our English activities. No lie, 5 minutes later we ran across another old friend whose son used to be a member (and good friend). She hardly recognized me. Said I’d aged. She asked where my hair had gone. “I really wouldn’t have recognized you had it not been for C.” Tomorrow I’ll stay indoors and work on my sermon and wrinkles.

Hi: Breaking tradition, here’s a 450-word story about a kid who loves baseball. Thanks for stopping by. – The kid grew up on baseball. He played it, watched it, listened to it, had even been betrayed by it. He’d collected the cards and memorized the box stats. He always took his fielder’s glove to the games. Always. The sport united the kid to his dad. Giants’ fans forever, both lived and died (mostly died) through June swoons and play-off autumns. The kid respected the game and the players. But he had never tried to approach one. It wasn’t that he was afraid of them. It was more like he was in awe. Talk about the players? Sure. Talk to them? Never. For his 16th birthday, he asked for, and miraculously received, not a car, but a ticket to Row 6, Seat 15 in the right-center field bleachers, a Friday-night game against the Diamondbacks at AT&T Park. And dad was going too. The late-April game day arrived and they found their seats. The kid was ready with hat, glove, wind-breaker, sunflower seeds, and a secret weapon, just-in-case. For Number 25 was already at #713. In his first at bat with one man on, Number 25 slapped a pitch by an Arizona ace into McCovey Cove. The crowd exploded. The big-screen score board flashed “714” and showed the soaked and lucky ball holder being escorted to safety by stadium security. Number 25 walked in the fifth. He came up to bat again in the seventh and drilled an outside pitch into the bleachers, four rows up and over the kid’s head. As he and his dad turned to see who would catch #715, the wave of hands and gloves broke too soon and slapped the ball back at the kid, right into his glove. He fell to his knees, his dad protecting him. Security materialized to escort them out. The kid didn’t rise. He huddled over the ball, secret weapon in hand, doing what he had practiced many times in the last week. Finally pulled to his feet, the kid and his dad were guided toward a lower exit. Number 25 came out for a second bow. The crowd roared. The big screen then switched cameras to show the kid on the steps as he reached into his glove, grabbed #715 and, with all his might, launched it back onto the field in the direction of the slugger. The crowd gasped, then thunderously applauded the kid’s generosity. A single camera followed the ball as it slowly rolled toward the infield on the thick green grass, then stopped. Number 25 jogged over, bent down to pick it up. But he didn’t. The huge smile left his face. For the camera image on the big screen showed a white ball with red seams and in large, black, permanent ink, two asterisks: the kid’s unmistakable commentary on the hero’s achievement.