the silent sermon of the months. xii: december: the sermon of the snow

Irish Jesuit Province

The Silent Sermon of the Months. XII: December: The Sermon of the SnowAuthor(s): Joseph GuinanSource: The Irish Monthly, Vol. 45, No. 534 (Dec., 1917), pp. 749-753Published by: Irish Jesuit ProvinceStable URL: http://www.jstor.org/stable/20504943 .

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[ 749 1

THE IRISH AMONTHLY DECEMBER, 1917

THE SILENT SERMON OF THE MONTHS

XII.-DECEMBER-THE SERMON OF THE SNOW

c 6 P"flHERE'S a Stepmother's breath in the air; we'll

soon have snow," says the weatlher-wise old

peasant, whose barometer is bitter experience of the biting blasts of many winters. Yes, the raw, chill atmosphere the dead numnbing cold and the loweringf leaden sky are unmistakable forewarnings of the coming storm. And yet we sometimes notice that immediately before it, even while the huge vapoury wool-packs are rolling up the horizon, the cutting wind becomes mild and the air grows strangely geniial and motlher-like, as if to

incline us to give a kindly welcome to the beautiful, beau

tiful snow-Nature's most striking emblem of God's own inneffable purity. The cloud that wore a cold, stern frown in the distance softenis into a smile when it is nigh.

It is in like mnanner with impending misfortunes. Wlhen they do come, they are often less unendurable than we

anticipated, falling gently as a parent's half-playful cor

rection, ave, lightly as the stroke of the confirming bishop on your cheek. Indeed, they are generally so tempered with sweet mercy that in glad surprise we can say in the

words of the exquisite sentiment of Francis Thompson,

Is my gloom, after all,

Shade of IHis Hand outstretched caressingly?"

The old farmer's prediction is duly fulfilled, and the first snow-flakes, the shining couriers of the mighty host behind, come blundering along, at first slowly and aimlessly, as

if reluctant to quit their pure etherial element for the gross 116



750 THE IRISH MONTHLY

earth. With soft, silent tread the brilliant crystals at last alight, glisten gloriously for a fleeting instant, melt and are gon-e for ever. Presently, however, they come faster and faster, and thicker and thicker, flopping down every where like an infinite number of white bewildered butterflies drifting before the wind in crowded confusion. In a short time they raise for themselves by sheer numbers a means of subsistence on the graves of their myriad predecessors until they clothe the ground with a garment of downy, immaculate whiteness, dazzling the eve with its loveliness, hiding all unsightly things, levelling over all inequalities, making the rough, trampled track smooth as the tennis turf. But, when the thaw comes, mark how the snow on the miry land shows the leprous, dirty-white colour that proves its contact with a vile, sullying element, whereas that on the grass plot remains beautiful to the last.

There is a sermonet even in this trifling circumstance, for those, at least, who look on Nature with eves of vision.

The dazzling whiteness of the snow is manifestly a type of innocence as yet unstained by sin, the innocence, say, of the little child in the delightful Eden of dawning dis cretion. The soul of that briglht-haired angel-boy, or of that blue-eyed cherub-maiden, on their First Communion

morning, is something so ravishingly fair that we can fancy the heavenly host gazing at it in mute wonder, nay, in

exultant envy, so to speak, of a beauitv so near akin to

their own. When Jesus unites Himself in the Holy Com munion with that soul then indeed Holiness itself and innocence incarnate have kissed each other.

As the heavens delight our eyes with their countless shining stars, one differing from the other in glory, so the earth, notwithstanding its sinfulness, attracts angelic vision

with innumerable bright lights of another kind. Let us in a spirit of deep reverence endeavour to develop the com parison. There are corruscations of blinding splendour, which even Seraphs can no more gaze on steadfastly than

we on the noon-day sun. They are, of course, the rays

emanating fromi the Tabernacles of our churches, and pointing out the holy places of the world, in city, town, hamlet, or lonely hill-side, sanctified by Christ's Real



THE SILENT SERMON OF THE MONTHS 751

Presence in the' Blessed Sacrament. There are spots of mild eflulgence, indicating the adult just who are in God's friendship by grace, although they may have sullied their first purity sonmewhat by contact with the world's con tamina,ting influences. And there is, also, a Milky Way of shimmering brilliance beautiful to angels' ken as the

Galaxy is to oujrs. It is the light " that never was on sea,

or land," the reflection from the snowy whiteness of the little ones in their baptismal innocence. It is the sheen of their spotless robes scintillating throuah the darkness of the sin-clouded earth.

Alas, that we should have to ask ourselves the question -a sadly significant question, although a seemingly cynical one-how long will their innocence remain intarnished? Ah, God only knows! There are some, His special chosen ones, in the world as well as in the cloister, who go through life with the lily-bloom of their purity scarcely touched.

They emerge from the ordeal of the schoolroom still white, all white. They enter the danger-zone of young manhood, or womanhood, with its sunken rocks and treacherous shoals, and yet pass through it safely. They can taste of the pleasures of social intercourse with harmless zest, and are uniaffected by the Mephistophelian influences with which they are surrounded. They join in the mirth and gaiety of the festive hour, and enjoy the benefits of legitimate re laxation and amnusement with the healthy relish of the child. They lhave good cheer witlhout its oftimes resultant dissipation. They can goodhumouredly conform to the pettish humour of fashion while steering clear of the Charybdis of its follies. The triuinphs of stuecess leave them humble; the incense of admiration, of praise, does not spoil them. The passion of love is for them something holy, nay, sacrosanct, that elevates, ennobles and glorifies them with the aureole of its primal puritv.

But there are others-alas, only too many! whose white garments are all too soon besmirched, av, stain-ed as the snow fouled under foot, or as the petals of the lily blasted and withered by the killing frost. They are those who, lured by the siren songs of forbidden pleasure, suffer ship

wreck of their innocence, if not of their faith; who, ener



752 THE IRISH MONTHLY

-vated by the seductive music, and Capuan ease of sensual

enjoyment, fall easy victims to the enemies of their souls' peace, In some sin-polluted slum there may be little ones cruelly robbed of their innocence ere it can send forth its first glorious rays of merit, just as the snow-flake in May

melts before the tiny facets of its crystals can reflect even one little shining glint of light. We could wish that this

were an-impossible case; but is it? Let the weeping guar

dian angels answer, who mourn over the fate of the fair

white roses of innocency blighted in the opening bud. Oh, the pity of it, the pity of it !

Indeed, the snow, which is at once lovely in its white

ness and perishable in its nature, may be fairly regarded as, at the same time, typical of the beauty and frailty of

virtue. We sometimes see it exemplified in our midst. There, for instance, is the peasant's child, the modest Irish maiden fresh and fair as the blossom in the morning dew,

her pure soul mirrored in her gentle blue eye, the holiness and dignity of her sex seated on her mild, Madonna-like

countenance. Nurtured in the wholesome air of poverty, she is free from the dangers that attend on luxury; bred in an atmosphere of simple faith and piety she is ignorant of evil as a child, even with the tender, winning grace of opening womanhood dawning full upon her.

But she grows dissatisfied with the humble cabin and her work-a-day drudgery and longs to see the gav world and the strange and wondrous things of which vague rumours have reached her. At length her wish is gratified, and she tastes of the new and intoxicating delights of life in the great citY-Dead Sea fruit which is fair to the eye but turns to ashes on the lips. And while the soft hues of her na-tive hills fade from her cheek the tender bloom of her native modesty fades from her heart. The bashful reserve, the open, child-like expression, the happy, ringing laugh, the winning, infantile grace, the pure, sweet smile, all the simplicities of the old, far-off rustic life gradually disappear, and with them the melody of the heart and the joy of soul, of which they were but the outward manifestation. Her vision of worldly grandeur, like that of Maud Muller in

Whittier's poem, ends at last in the sad words, " It might



THE SILENT SERMON OF THE MONTHS 753

have been." She was once like the white driven snow on the mountain top; she is now like the dirty-yellow snow trodden into the mire.

Let imagination, if it will, complete the picture of her easy descent to lower things; or, rather, let the charity of silence veil it. A white-haired sorrowful mother in a lonely cabin mourns her little cailin as dead, for she has

not heard from her for years. If she only knew all she

might well say, "Ah, would it were death and death onlv 1"

But so much for the moral of the sullied snow, the tvpe of

innocence defiled. In this respect, however, the compari son fails, that, whereas the snow in the mud will retain

its' unsightliness until it perishes, the soul stained by sin can be washed by repentance and rendered white as wool.

To vary the metaphor, it requires no great stretch of fancy to liken the gently descending snow-flakes to white pinioned messengers from heaven bringing tidings of joy to ea,rth, or, if you will, scattering leaflets innumerable that all may read their evangel. Who are thev who best fulfil this ideal, or, at least, try to. Surely, the writers of the good Press, who never touch paper save to instruct, to edify, to enlighten. Their pen is a quill plucked from an angel's wing, and dipped in the light of impartial truth, chaste and beautiful poesy, or wholesome fiction. The good book, the good magazine, the good journal, the good newspaper are the doves of the Press, the white-winged Press. They are the latter-day missionaries with all lands for the field of their labour; the great preachers of modern times with a world for their audience; the watchmen on the walls of Sion; the heralds coming with beautiful feet on the mountains to proclaim peace and good-will to men.

JOSEPH GUINAN.

BE SIMPLE.

Be simple! If the greatest art Is that which art conceals,

Simplicity may pass for art Thocgh it no art reveals.

LOUIS H. VICTORY.



the silent sermon of the months. xii: december: the sermon of the snow

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