For many of us the start of the new year is a time of new beginnings and resolutions to change behaviors. Perhaps it is better described as a time of new intentions or the resumption of failed ones from previous years. I have kept a journal for 25 years and each year I write a recap of the old year and list my intentions for the new one. Unfortunately, the intentions list is virtually the same every year. I find it nearly impossible to change.
2020 was a challenging year and one I’m glad to see in the rearview mirror. Covid 19 caused us to continually adapt and balance the public safety concerns of our communities with the economic and emotional health of the individuals that make up those communities. It has been difficult to strike the balance between what’s best for us collectively with the fear of losing our individual freedoms. I feel safe in saying that we all felt, feared or sensed loss in 2020.
For my family, our loss was real and tangible. Coming in waves roughly 2-3 months apart we lost a brother-in-law to cancer, my brother was diagnosed with ALS, we cancelled a much anticipated family vacation to Yellowstone, my daughter and her family moved 7 ½ hours away, and my wife, Amy, died after contracting Covid. It was an inexplicably hard year for us.
As I was repeatedly knocked off my feet by those cascading tragedies, I began to feel further and further from God. I use the word “feel” intentionally. I embrace the promise that “I [God] will never leave nor forsake you (Hebrews 13:5).” But what I knew to be true and what I felt in those turbulent months were vastly different. This fueled the sensation of being untethered and free-floating with no sense of direction. So, for New Year’s Day I decided to forgo the traditional southern meal of black-eyed peas, pork and greens to instead fast to see if God had a word for me as I began 2021.
On the morning of January 1st in place of breakfast, I began reading the Gospel of John. Immediately I was struck with the words “In him [Jesus] was life, and the life was the light of men. The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it (John 1: 4-5).” I read on through the first five chapters before going on with my day. Throughout the day those words, “The light shines in the darkness and the darkness has not overcome it” rolled repeatedly around in my head.
I made it through most of the day without being especially hungry, but that evening there was a gnawing in my stomach. My head ached from a lack of caffeine. The sun set and evening news came on, both reminding me that it was time for supper. I turned back to the Gospel of John.
Leading up to the holidays, a missionary working with predominantly Muslim refugees spoke at our church. He shared that many Muslims are converting to Christianity. He said that he always asks, “What brought you to Jesus,” and they say, “We saw Him in the love shown to us by Christians.” Then, in the week after Christmas, Ben Gatton shared his thoughts on choosing love for the new year in a blog post for Hope Fellowship Church. Ben wrote:
“…love is often a choice isn't it? When we choose to live in God's love and center our lives around it, we can live in compassion for others and see them as God does. Love connects us to God's children and reminds us that we too are children of God. Love compels us to serve, to listen, to care, to grow.”
Finally, in late December I was serendipitously introduced to the writings of Canadian pastor/author/blogger Tim Challies while visiting my daughter. His son died suddenly in November at age 20. Challies has written frankly about his grief journey here and here. In a January 4th post (just days after I received the imperative to love one another) Challies quoted author J.R. Miller:
“Grief should always make us better and give us new skill and power. It should make our heart softer, our spirit kindlier, our touch more gentle; it should teach us its holy lessons, and we should learn them, and then go on, with sorrow’s sacred ordination upon us, to new love and better service.”
As I follow Ben’s example of “choosing love,” a love fueled by a grief that has given me “new skill and power,” I have two questions for you, my friends and family:
Will you hold me accountable when I don’t act in a loving manner? I give anyone who reads this license to challenge my actions or speech with the question – “Is this coming from a place of love?”
Second,
will you commit to love as well? Will you set aside political bickering,
debates about Covid restrictions, and rambling theological arguments to choose instead to love one another in spite of our differences? I’m not asking that you
compromise your beliefs or values. We can still be firm in our convictions
while showing love - a love that is improbable, unlikely and maybe impossible in
a worldly sense.
“By this all people will know you are my disciples...” The words of Jesus.
