Introduction

This is the sermon I preached at Holy Cross Lutheran Church, Beatrice, Neb., on Saturday and Sunday, Dec. 12–13, 2009, the weekend of the Third Sunday of Advent.

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Readings

Zephaniah 3:14-20
Isaiah 12:1-6 (antiphon v. 6)
Philippians 4:4-7
Luke 3:7-18

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Prayer

As we hear and heed your Word, O God, may it be for us a voice crying in the wilderness of our lives, calling us to prepare the way of the Lord, your Son and our Savior. Amen. (based on Luke 3:4b, NRSV)

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Message

It begins with only the breath of a whisper.
A quiet kiss of chill air frosted with flakes.
A breeze swirls a scarf of white across the road.
And the snow falls to the ground.

Each hexagonal crystal a unique expression
of God’s creative whimsy, painted with water,
the flakes together cleanse a world grown weary.
And the snow blankets the earth.

The silent beauty, the muffling drifts,
the brilliant quiet of sun and snow and wind,
all speak with one voice, saying, “Stop.”
And the snow covers our world.

There’s a little child hiding in each of us
who awakens when a storm passes through.
Maybe not enough to get us dressed for playing,
to beckon us outside to drop onto our backs
and sweep our arms and legs
and then to give birth, oh so carefully,
to a snow angel in the yard.

But that child stirs enough for us to say, to sigh,
“Ah, isn’t it good to be home, to be warm,
to have nowhere to go, because there’s nowhere we can go,
nowhere worth going when the weather is like this.”

And we gather around the fireplace,
maybe cradling a cup of hot chocolate in our hands,
and we just sit, and rest, and talk with our loves ones.
And outside, the snow tucks us in for the night.

It’s almost as if God our Father, in his wisdom,
sees that we are tired, so tired,
so fractured and frantic,
so burnt out, so busy,
that he says, “It’s time for bed. You need your rest.”
And all around, the snow sifts into drifts.

The snow is like the kingdom of God.
There’s nothing we can do to control its coming.
We cannot make it float down on cue.
We cannot make it fall on days that fit our schedules.
It is what the insurance companies call “an act of God.”

And in many ways, the underwriters speak more truth than they know.
For in truth, the whole creation is an act of God.
Each flake, each gust of wind,
the trees and grasses that inscribe their dark lines
across the fresh blank paper of the snow—
and you and I who are stopped to wonder at the beauty,
to wander in familiar places suddenly sculpted anew—
we are all an act of God.

He chooses to make everything that is,
and not only to make it,
but to create it anew each moment.
We breathe…and we breathe again,
only because God has chosen and is choosing now
to give us the gift of life.

And most times, we don’t even notice.
We rarely stop to give him thanks.
But even so, he gives his gifts because he loves us.

This reminds me of the words we sing in the beloved carol,
“O Little Town of Bethlehem”:

How silently, how silently
The wondrous gift is given!
So God imparts to human hearts
The blessings of his heaven.
No ear may hear his coming;
But, in this world of sin,
where meek souls will receive him, still
the dear Christ enters in. (LBW 41)

How silently Christ comes into our world,
as noiselessly as the snow falls,
so silently no ear hears his landing.
He comes quietly, but inexorably and unstoppably.
He comes and leaves no one, no place untouched.
Like a blizzard, he covers “the world and those who live in it.” (Psalm 24:1, NRSV)

And so we prepare for the coming of Jesus Christ—
remembering his birth in a distant time and place,
receiving him now in Word and Sacrament,
keeping a vigil until he returns in glory and power.

We can be reminded of how we embrace the snow,
how we submit to a force greater than ourselves,
how it lulls us into a state of gentleness and peace,
how it reminds us of God’s cleansing grace,
as Psalm 51 tells us:

Purge me with hyssop, and I shall be clean;
wash me, and I shall be whiter than snow. (Psalm 51:7, NRSV)

It’s the same with us when we welcome our Lord into our lives.
This is the attitude of quiet gratefulness
that St. Paul admonishes us to embrace,
when he writes to the Church at Philippi:

Rejoice in the Lord always;
again I will say, Rejoice.
Let your gentleness be known to everyone.
The Lord is near.
Do not worry about anything,
but in everything by prayer and supplication with thanksgiving
let your requests be made known to God.
And the peace of God, which surpasses all understanding,
will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus. (Philippians 4:4-7, NRSV)

When I listen to these words,
I cannot help but be reminded of how we respond
to the respite from the crazy pace of our lives
given to us by God in a snowstorm.
We rejoice in the gift; we relax in its arms; we watch its glory.

God calls us to “let this same mind be in us” (Philippians 2:5, NRSV)
as we prepare for his Son’s coming.
As Paul says, “The Lord is near.” (Philippians 4:5b, NRSV)
And so he calls us to be witnesses to our faith:
“Let your gentleness be known to everyone.” (Philippians 4:4, NRSV)

And Paul also tells us not to worry,
but to let God know all that is on our hearts,
coming to him in “prayer and supplication with thanksgiving.” (Philippians 4:6, NRSV)

And finally, before we can lapse into fear,
or give voice to our doubts,
or slide into cynicism,
St. Paul encourages us with a word of grace:

And the peace of God, which surpasses all understanding,
will guard your hearts and your minds
in Christ Jesus. (Philippians 4:7, NRSV)

This unsurpassable peace begins with only the breath of a whisper.
A quiet touch of Spirit upon a young woman.
A time to wait in peace and to time to greet in gentleness.
And the Son, “the dear Christ, enters in.” Amen.