Director of Faith Development Ministries
Today we celebrate winter. My personal experience of winter has certainly changed in the past few years. I have lived most of my life in the south, so winter meant the world got a little colder. But snow was never a significant part of my winter experiences. Snow was an anomaly - something truly wonderful that almost never happened.
In the Carolinas and Tennessee, it snowed maybe once or twice a year. Everyone would stop whatever they were doing and enjoy it. Then the snow would melt and life would go on. In 2008 it snowed at our home in Louisiana – the first time it had snowed in Baton Rouge since 1989. It was gone by noon.
Then I spent last winter in Connecticut with my family. I remember the excitement of the first fresh-fallen snow. The entire world was covered in glistening white. Ariana was so excited to play in the snow, and she immediately made snow angels, snowballs, snow men.
But then the snow never left. Before it fully melted, more covered it. And more and more. Ariana tired of the snow by the time the banks were taller than she was. The snow plows pushed the mountain of snow at the end of the street until it was taller than our house. As the snow built higher and higher along the sides of the road, the world felt smaller and smaller. Claustrophobia set in. Rhye and I built new muscles as we shoveled and shoveled and shoveled. I adjusted and readjusted my work schedule every time the daycare was closed – sometimes 2 or 3 days a week. The glistening white was long gone. All we saw was gray.
How can we celebrate winter? Isn’t it something that we just endure, looking forward to moving on into more pleasant seasons? The winter solstice is at the very beginning of winter, and yet it celebrates the turning point, the movement from the darkest time of the year back into the light. This whole festival season is about celebrating the light in the midst of darkness – decorating our homes and streets with electric lights, lighting the candles for Christmas, Hanukkah, Solstice, Kwanzaa. Setting off fireworks for New Year’s.
One of my favorite passages about light comes from a 1990s TV show called “Northern Exposure.” Set in small-town Alaska, the town’s resident philosopher Chris says: “Ever since we crawled out of that primordial slime, that’s been our unifying cry – more light. Sunlight, torchlight, candlelight, neon, incandescant, light to banish the darkness from our caves… Light is more than watts and foot candles. Light is metaphor... Light is knowledge, light is life. Light is light.” (Click here to see the video)
Our struggle against darkness comes not only from outside, but also from within. At Hogwarts Camp I teach a class called “Defense Against the Dark Arts.” For any of you familiar with the Harry Potter books or movies, it’s a very important class. I teach that the very real dark arts in our world can come from different sources. Some of the darkness comes from outside, from other people or circumstances outside of our control. But the most dangerous dark arts are the ones that attack from within.
In a Tibetan Buddhist text about fear, the shadow or darkness is called the “demon of doubt.” Whenever things don’t go as we expect, doubt creeps in. Have I done something to cause my current negative circumstances? Am I just not good enough? Doubt can lead to depression, which for some completely paralyzes the mind as if it is frozen in a glacier. How can we thaw these doubts? The Buddhist antidote for the demon of doubt is the pure light of awareness. The tantra teaches that each person has within all of the qualities of an enlightened being. Our suffering hides us from our true nature. When we are truly aware of our own value, this awareness breaks through the ice that has surrounded us, giving us hope and freedom from the demon of doubt.
Even in the darkest and coldest winter, you hold within you the light of your own uniqueness and wonder. You can break free from your demon of doubt.
But is there a place to honor the cold, the dark, the winter? All things have value, including the darkness. What would happen if we look for beauty in the winter rather than hibernating and hiding from it. The cold is a time to rest, a time to reflect, a time to prepare for what is to come. The snowflakes themselves remind us of our inherent worth and value. Each of the snowflakes at the front of the sanctuary was made a child in our Faith Development program. Each one unique. We teach the first principle of Unitarian Universalism, the inherent worth and dignity of all people, at the core of all of our classes. Just like the snowflakes in our story (see below) – each snowflake different, each snowflake beautiful, each snowflake counting for something, in its own way. We can choose to be like the cardinal, shaking off the cold in discomfort and ignoring the winter. Or we can choose to be like the chickadee, paying attention to the beauty of the winter, honoring the uniqueness of each person, each circumstance, each moment – the magic and wonder of the snow.
I invite you now to contemplate your own experiences of winter. Think about the times you played in the snow as a child – building snow men, snowball fights, ice skating, sledding – whatever joyful things you can remember. Think about gathering around a fire with family or friends, drinking hot chocolate or warm cider, as the feeling returns to your fingers. Contemplate your own inherent light within. Children, I invite you to come forward to make your own “magic snow” which you can take home . Think, honor, remember, and take joy in this journey through the cold, dark winter. This journey from darkness to light.
“The Weight of a Snowflake”
by Janeen K. Grohsmeyer
This story takes place in the woods in winter time.
On a winter afternoon filled with fresh, white snow falling from above, a chickadee perched on a thin branch of a maple tree and watched the snowflakes fall.
A bright red cardinal flew over and landed near by.
"What-cha doin??" chirped the cardinal.
"Watching snowflakes," said the chickadee.
The cardinal cocked his head to one side. "What for?"
"They’re pretty. And each one is different! I haven’t seen two that look the same."
"A snowflake is a snowflake is a snowflake, that’s what I say," said the cardinal. "And they’re cold. Me, I can’t wait for spring. This winter stuff is for the mammals…most of them have fur on their toes!"
The chickadee nodded, so that the little black cap on her head bobbed up and down, but she didn’t say yes and she didn’t say no.
White snowflakes fell all around them.
The cardinal put his foot down and hopped sideways on the branch to get a little closer to her. "What-cha doing now?" he said.
"Counting snowflakes," said the chickadee.
The cardinal cocked his head to the other side. "What on sky for?"
"I was wondering how many snowflakes this branch will hold."
"Don’t worry about it, that’s what I say," said the cardinal. "Snowflakes don’t weigh anything."
"Not anything?"
"Well.... almost not anything. Snowflakes weigh next to nothing. They don’t count for anything, and they’re all the same." He clacked his strong beak once, twice, and then again. "You know what, little chickadee? You should find something else to do, that’s what I say."
The little chickadee nodded, so that the little black cap on the head bobbed up and down, but she didn’t say yes and she didn’t say no. After a minute, the cardinal clacked his beak once more, then flapped his strong red wings and flew away.
The chickadee stayed where she was, perched on the thin branch of the maple tree and counting the snowflakes as they fell. White snowflakes fell all around her. More snowflakes fell, each one different, each one beautiful. Some of them landed on the branch…snowflake after snowflake each one weighing almost nothing, but each one counting for something.
Because as the chickadee counted snowflake number ten thousand three hundred and three, that branch broke from the weight of the snow.
The chickadee fell with the branch, but only for a moment, for she flapped her wings and flew up into the snowflakes that fell from the sky, each snowflake different, each snowflake beautiful, each snowflake counting for something, in it’s own way.
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