Mass shootings will outnumber snowstorms this year. That sentence hurts to write; may it haunt us.
The decision to cancel church for inclement weather involves the complex interaction of values — safety vs. commitment; feelings — fear of injury vs. desire for connection; and power — grumpy wealthy tither vs. soft-spoken custodian who will have to shovel and salt the walks.
Many church services — especially youth group events — happen on Wednesday nights. For ease, churches often follow their local school-closure decisions, even when the roads are hazardous at 6 a.m. but not at 6 p.m.
Brad Bull
My take on this has been influenced by experiences across decades of involvement in cancelation decisions and in providing ministry where the rubber hits the road.
During seminary, I worked at a rural church in Kentucky. A handful of church members seemed afraid God would zap them if they missed church, and they had a clear but unspoken desire to prove their hardiness. One Arctic-like night after a church service with fewer than 10 people in attendance, I knelt in the parking lot with an 80-year-old woman who had fallen on the ice and broken her hip. It took nearly an hour for the ambulance to arrive and extract her from the pile of blankets carried over from the parsonage.
At a similar church, due to one legalistic deacon, we held a service when the weather was so awful I had to get down on my hands and knees and crawl on ice.
Jesus Christ declared a message of liberation from legalism. However, he also rode in the boat and calmed the storm. “Setting free” and “being with” must be held in tension. In another paradox, Jesus brought the disciples to safety in the storm while leading them into dangerous risks of persecution. Additionally, he didn’t cancel “church” because there wasn’t enough food. He gave an attender the opportunity to share, and he multiplied that gift.
“Church needs to be a place where we facilitate people sharing.”
Church needs to be a place where we facilitate people sharing. Far too often, church becomes a place of preachers doing a dog-and-pony show.
A classic preacher story involves a snowstorm where only a farmer showed up for church. The minister asked the farmer if he wanted to hold the service, and the farmer said, “If only one of my cows comes when I call, I still feed it.” The pastor gave his sermon. Shaking hands afterward, the farmer said, “Parson, when only one cow comes, I feed it, but I don’t give it the whole bale of hay.”
We have to adapt to the situation.
Churches have been wondering how to address the trauma of ICE brutality. We currently are deluged with civil tumult that evokes deep pain.
After the tragic killing of Charlie Kirk, I heard of a church where a youth minister got deluged with calls from distraught young people. The emotion was so high, the minister called off youth group because of not knowing what to say.
Hearing about that incident made me give thanks for the hard-knuckle supervisor I had in my one-year internship in Clinical Pastoral Education. I admitted I didn’t like visiting waiting rooms because I didn’t know what to say that would be new to each person who already heard what I said to the person beside them.
He assigned me to spend the whole next day sitting in a waiting room. When my peer chaplains came to visit me, I learned it wasn’t what they said that mattered. What helped me was their being there, listening and praying with me. At funerals, the bereaved almost never say, “Thank you for what you said.” They say, “Thank you for being here.”
“We can’t be there for the congregation if we cancel church for fear of strong emotions.”
We can’t be there for the congregation if we cancel church for fear of strong emotions.
At the time of the 2007 Virginia Tech University massacre, I taught at a small Baptist college less than two hours away. Some of my students had connections to people killed or missing.
Our campus minister handled the crisis brilliantly and effectively. He announced a special evening service would be held in the church-sized chapel. What I remember about the event was the easels — and boxes of tissue — spread out around the sanctuary. Each easel presented a list of questions. We gathered in groups and discussed questions: What connections do you have to what happened? What feelings are you experiencing? What do you expect or fear is going to happen in the future?
The internet is awash with examples of general and spiritually focused guidelines for addressing crises.
The event got us talking and feeling together. One might say we were sharing loaves and fishes of togetherness. Since the time of living in caves, we humans have yearned to gather around the fire and connect with the stories of the day.
On another level, sharing provides what counselors call universality — the realization that I am not alone but part of a larger experience. This happens when we hear other people describe feelings and experiences similar to our own. That happens best in small groups.
As a youth minister at summer camp, I was proud when adults from other churches observed, in contrast to most other kids, youth from my church spoke up and shared their questions and experiences. The adults asked how we nurtured that.
I described two factors. First, we didn’t allow electronics on the bus. After a few hours of boredom, kids start talking. Second, every week, we had an unstructured hour called “Sharing Our Stories” or “SOS.” Another adult and I told our kids, “When the door closes, what goes on in here stays in here.” Our ground rules let them know when confidentiality must be broken, and I sometimes had to redirect conversations. But, in general, I let them share, and I listened and guided their processing of what they were experiencing.
Are there risks? Absolutely. Once, after several students shared anxiety about school, one student offered a “praise” for how well school was going. The room deflated, but it provided a chance for private tutoring on reading a room.
Such risks are offset by the extreme dangers of isolation and the shame of thinking “I’m the only one who feels this way.” Jesus once encountered a group who wanted to stone someone to death, but he navigated it for the health of all.
In the wake of local and national tragedies, we don’t close hospitals because blood is gross. Hospitals and churches must be available for both wellness care and healing from tragedy.
If doctors don’t know how to triage and heal, they need to revisit training. In seminary, I learned the tasks of ministers are to guide, sustain, heal and reconcile. Ministers not equipped to do this need to seek continuing education.
Brad Bull has served as a chaplain, pastor and university professor. He currently works as a private-practice therapist and freelance writer. He regularly participates in storytelling events. His speaking and retreat services can be reached at DrBradBull.com.
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