Verbo

A (Winter) Month of Sundays

Today is Saturday. It’s snow-sleeting outside, and church staffs all over the city are Chinese-telephone conferencing about whether or not to cancel church for tomorrow. The forecast shows continual precipitation and varying temperatures, but the struggle rests not on the weatherman but the spiritual rules man.

This may or may not be the pastor. Often, it’s the litmus test propagator, the person who determines whose skirts are long enough, whose hair is short enough, and whose musical special is sung with the wrong motive. The legalist. If your church doesn’t have one, first offer a prayer of thanksgiving or attend more regularly. If you still haven’t found one, don’t worry: your friends from other churches will take care of the condemnation for your assembly.

And no matter what Channel 13’s StormTracker map shows, driving safety is determined by said legalist. If he can get to church [even if it takes 3-4 times as long, snow chains, and/or a plow escort], the church doors will be open. And if the church doors are open, no one should be forsaking the assembling . . . even on a Wednesday night, a school night, a dark and stormy night. Postal carriers become deacons this way.

And the next Sunday, those who managed inclement attendance make a point to remind those in absentia what they missed. “We had a candlelight service and held hands under blankets—the power was out—a sweet time of hymns and prayer. The Holy Spirit warmed our hearts.”

It’s like Super Bowl Sunday night: your choice determines your seat at the heavenly table. Did you choose safety over worship, family over obedience, culture over the Creator? While there is some truth in there about priorities, the real truth is elusively secret. The spiritual barometer reader counts heads, not hearts.

I don’t know how many Super Bowl Sunday nights I’ve not heard a word my preacher said, while I broke down potential second quarter scenarios—or how many services through which I’ve shivered and pined for home, just to appease the Pharisee in me or my family. And I’ve been home, praying and singing and looking out the window at the concept of snow, the mercies that cover us every morning.

Having for so many years watched my dad deliberate over such situations for his small Maryland assembly, I remember church services in our house, family devotions in the fire-warmed living room. A Western New York native used to 300 inches of annual snowfall, Dad would have loved to go out and play in the snow—especially with vehicles. Ours were old expendables anyway, and he could’ve walked to church anyway in his massive wool overcoats and a dress hat from the estate shop.

But he would account for the elderly, hoping they would stay home. The single moms, the farthest commuters, and fragile bodies always took precedence over the sermons, the offerings, and the checklists. Especially when black ice would be a possibility on the way home.

I hope our pastor makes the best decision tomorrow—whatever that is. We’ve got 180 churches in our phone book; he can let the other 80-some Baptist ones risk law suits, lengthened hospital visitation rosters, and next-Sunday car pool assignments.

Besides, I rolled my car 6 times on the way to Sunday school one morning. And while I did a lot of praying that day, I’m sure the guardian angels would like their Sunday to remain a day of rest.