[Note: This is in no way biblical exegesis or meant to be
authoritative. It is simply a way I have come to experience the world.]
It is winter in Michigan. By winter, I don’t mean we just
had our first snow or that we’re looking forward to Christmas. No, this is the
winter in the north when all the trivial notions of crackling fires and
roasting chestnuts are long past. This is March, the time when the skeleton
limbs of trees have grown tiring to look at and the sky is in a persistent
state of gray.
This is (not coincidentally) the time of year when you begin
to hear conversations in which people long for the summer’s warm embrace or
question their willingness to suffer through another round of northern seasons.
The snowbirds have long gone and are likely clogging the shuffleboard courts or
tiki bars somewhere down in Florida.
As a hiker, this is also the time of year when I begin to get
asked why I am still hiking even when the mercury sinks ever lower and the only
fauna are hidden deep beneath blankets of snow or nestled among lonely boughs.
I’ve struggled to find an answer to these questions of my perseverance. I’d
like to say it was unyielding dedication but the rest of my life unveils the
lie of my devotion.
Recently, I stumbled on a thought that has been percolating
on the periphery of my consciousness for a few years now. I have come to see
similarities between the seasons we experience here in this climate and the life
of Christ.
We begin in the joyful heat of summer where are dreams are
realized. We yearn for it. We plan vacations during the darkest nights of
winter. Our calendars anticipate its arrival. It reminds me of the years of
Christ’s active ministry when we he walked, taught, and performed miracles
while his disciples struggled to comprehend even the most basic of his
teachings. I wonder how often the apostles, as they faced martyrdom or old age,
thought back to those days, back to when their Savior walked before them and
taught the crowds as they grew ever more amazed at this strange and commanding
man. How they must have longed for those days when they could share a meal or
laughter with their Savior.
As sweet as those days were; as much as the disciples (and
we, ourselves) learn from the parables and teachings, the divine plan of
reconciliation was far deeper than “the good times”. Just as Jesus was
delivered to his accusers, tried, mocked, and crucified the verdant throes of
summer fade into the cold embrace of autumn which disperses the migratory birds
and strips the trees of their gaudy dressings. Jesus, Himself, is hung up on a
lonely tree, His disciples having fled like the falling leaves. We experience
the haunting loneliness as the world is stripped away until only the bones
remain, a hollow memory of this transitory world and our own faltering
obedience.
Darkness falls after that grim day. Just as the sun
disappeared from the day, the hours of daylight now grow fleeting and the clouds
begin to occupy the place that summer’s blue once held sway. We feel the loneliness
and despair that Jesus’ followers felt as they ruminated upon their loss, their
disappointment, and their own weakness they demonstrated in their flight. They
met together indoors, in doubt, and fear, and shame. We, too, are driven inside
by the chill winds of our own dark time. It is in these days and nights that we
long for the return of the sun and all the joyful plans we will experience in
the year to come.
Into that darkness; into our long suffering, the resurrection
comes. On Easter we again experience the rebirth of our Savior physically, and
of our own lives spiritually. The time of suffering has passed. The time of
rejoicing has come. So too, note how the budding of trees brings joy to our
hearts, how the return of the birds long departed puts a spring in our step.
Seasons are reborn. Speckled fawns lie softly on freshly sprouted grass. Flowers
poke their heads above the soft loam.
As a Northerner, I may be in the minority in saying this,
but we need our seasons. As much as we may prefer one to another; as much as the
chill or bleakness might dull us with monotony, they provide a type of calendar
for our lives. In that way they are a gift. I understand that it is only a very
small sliver of the planet that can experience the seasons in this way. I would
imagine that each climate has its own peculiarities which make them unique. We
do have an infinitely creative God, after all. I have come to feel such
spiritual rhythms as I walk the trails and traverse the roads. Though my
conscious mind may never grasp it fully, I will often find myself filled with
longing, joy, or despair without ever knowing precisely why. As in all things,
in turning my eyes toward Christ I am able to see the world fully, for what it
is. These moments, are admittedly far too few. My resolve is deplorable at
best. My eyes so rarely turn toward him but every so often when spring’s
promise breaks winter’s clutch and I feel the warming of redemption and
salvation, I witness the glimmers of Christ inviting me again to turn to him.
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