Snowy Sabbath

There's a silence in snow that is unique and profound.

I can remember in 1993 when Pittsburgh got 36 inches of snow overnight, and my father and I dug our way out of our house. There was a dampened silence in the air, as though the world demanded stillness.

I can remember it as an adult in 2010 when a blizzard made our cars look like barely identifiable drifts of snow. There was a silence that caught your breath, as though nature was showing off and insisting on our praise.

And every year, the first flakes of snow in the air bring a magical silence, a stillness that is dripping with awe and wonder. Last night, I stayed up and watched until the rain turned into snowflakes just so that I could see them reflected in the streetlamp.

Perhaps the silence is because people are not venturing out and making all kinds of noise. Or perhaps there is a scientific reason why quantities of snow dampen sound. And perhaps it's just the majesty of snow that changes my heart. But perhaps there is just something about the way that God designed snow that demands rest and sabbath.

Today, some of our very wise and thoughtful staff made the challenging decision to close Unity Presbyterian Church today and tomorrow to protect people from venturing out onto icy and snowy roads. It's never an easy decision, canceling church, and no matter how bad the weather, there is a sense of something missing on Sunday morning without it. 

A lot of northerners scoff at the South for its cautious attitude toward white fluffy flakes, but I have found this to be the most endearing and beautiful thing about the South (besides biscuits...and grits...and fried chicken...). There is an attitude reflected in the South that the work will still be here tomorrow, and it won't miss us today. There is a sense that slowing down is not a weakness but a strength, that pausing is healthy and good. There is a value that perhaps the warmest, most beautiful memories can be made as families huddle up in their homes during a storm. While I'll never eat snow (I grew up in the city...you never know what's in your snow), I readily embrace the understanding that snow days are sacred, holy space, a space where God enters in unexpected and profound ways. God himself rests at the end of his work of creation: not because God was tired or couldn't continue, not because God was weak, but because God showed for us an example of the sacred gift of silence, the sacred space of rest. Perhaps Sabbath rest is God's version of a snow day: a chance be still, to be silent, and to appreciate all that God has done. 

I wrote this prayer to be read this morning in worship, but I wrote it on Wednesday, knowing I might not be sharing it from the lectern. At first, I considered pulling a previously written prayer, so that I wouldn't be doing extra work just in case we didn't have worship. But instead, I thought I might like to have some words for all of us. No matter if we're in our PJ's or sitting by a fire or still cuddled up in our beds, here is a prayer for us:

It seems fitting that today we light the candle of peace as the chaos of a storm brews around us. When I think of peace, I think of the halting stop and the deafening silence that a good snow storm brings upon a town. Peace, you see, is not the absence of chaos, but a sense of stillness, calm, and rest when all around us is in chaos. As we come to a time of prayer, we invite Jesus to bring peace into the chaos that fills our hearts, our lives, and our world. Let us pray:

Father God Almighty, like a kind parent, 
you hold our world in the palm of your hand
You make wars to cease and you call us to put down our weapons. 
Bring peace to our country: 
where there is hatred and division, bring your love and acceptance. 
Where there are men and women 
who are fighting in wars,
bring a solution and safety. 
Where there are natural disasters, 
bring help. 
Where there are acts of hatred, 
may peacemakers rise up to spread your word. 

Lord Jesus, we invite you.

Messiah, Emmanuel, as God who dwelt among us in the flesh, 
you held out your hand 
to include the outcasts, 
and you lived 
as though the world were full of people 
just waiting to be loved. 
In our lives,
 where there are family members we struggle to spend the holiday with, 
may we be agents of your peace. 
Where there are people being ugly at department stores 
or in the Amazon comment section, 
may we be agents of your peace. 
Where there are hurt feelings 
and cranky toddlers and bitter teenagers, 
where there is anger and brokenness, 
may we be agents of your peace. 

Lord Jesus, we invite you.

Spirit of the Living God, as the power that breathes your spirit in us, 
you seep into every millimeter of our being. 
You know us entirely, 
physically, emotionally, and spiritually. 
Where there is doubt, bring us serenity. 
Where there is fear, 
bring us a sigh of relief. 
Where there is illness, bring us your strength. 
Where there is injury, bring us your patience. 
Where there is stress, bring us your calm. 
Where there is chaos, bring us the deafening silence of your snowy-calm peace, 
that we may learn to look for your quiet, restful presence 
even in the most bustling of times. 

Lord Jesus, we invite you.

In this season of Advent, we wait for your coming, and we invite you into our lives, in much the same way that you, Lord Jesus, invite us. You invite us to be your disciples and to follow your ways. May we do so this day and every day, in the name of Jesus we pray, Amen.

Have a blessed snow day everyone!