Dwelling in the Season (Seth Reid)
“I wish it need not have happened in my time,” Frodo said to Gandalf, his guide, in J.R.R. Tolkien’s The Lord of the Rings. Frodo had just received news of a rising darkness. Gandalf replied that he wished the same and “so do all who live to see such times. But that is not for them to decide. All we have to decide is what to do with the time that is given us.” Like Frodo, we do not decide the challenges and illnesses we face; we only decide how we will endure them.
In the spirit of Frodo, it is easy to wish that this virus had not happened in our time.
I certainly never expected to see such a season. Growing up in the 21st century, I have rested secure in modern medicine and viewed past pandemics as both terribly tragic and incredibly remote. Like many others, I never wrestled with what a global pandemic might mean, and I never prepared for the changes that one would bring.
I would like to skip this season. I miss sipping on coffee in a café and working around people at school. I miss the energy that I drew from a crowded room—a productive energy, a cheerful presence, an inhabited space. Video calls are poor substitutes for physical presence.
But it is not for me to decide. To desire to skip moments of pain and anxiety is to desire a sovereignty I am not given. I am a creation and, like all creations, I have limits. This season is teaching me that anew.
But the lessons are not all of loss. Trying to practice patience as I enter this unchosen and unwanted time, I have also begun to see what I otherwise might miss. This season, although filled with much lament, may also be a time for some to rest from the busyness of life. In this season, and maybe only for this season, my wife and I get to live both our personal and professional lives under the same roof. For now, I have been given slow and quiet mornings where I can pray and reflect unhurried.
In the book of Ecclesiastes, Solomon reminds us of the coming and going of seasons: “There is an occasion for everything, and a time for every activity under the sun” (3:1). Desiring that this season had never come is understandable, but it does not accomplish much. The real question is how to respond now that the season is here.
The imperatives for action will look different in every context. But two scriptural commands remain constant: first, we must continue to pray; second, we must focus on loving our neighbors. For most, loving our neighbors will mean radically minimized social contact. For some, it may mean picking up groceries for vulnerable neighbors (and maybe leaving them on their doorstep). For many, it will be comforting those who are anxious and afraid.
As Solomon frames it in Ecclesiastes, this season may be a time to weep. But the promise of God, speaking through the Teacher in Ecclesiastes, is that there will also be a time to laugh. There will also be a time to dance—in great crowds at weddings and festivals. Much will be torn down as this season descends. There is no doubt about that. But a season to build will come again.
I am hopeful for the end of this season and the return of others, but my ultimate hope is not simply the end of one season of suffering but the end of such seasons altogether, a time when all mourning will cease. That is the undying hope and promise of the Christian faith—and it is something to hold onto now. It is a hope rooted in the resurrection of Jesus Christ, who by His resurrection has already begun reclaiming the world and making all things new. Through this restoration project, God will bring the New Jerusalem promised in Revelation 21, where He will dwell with man, wipe away every tear, and destroy not just COVID-19 but death itself. In the meantime, I want this hope to spur me on, alongside others, to comfort the mourning, to feed the hungry, and to give rest to the weary.
We may all feel a bit like Frodo right now , wishing not to see such times in our lifetime. But the season is here. And as I dwell in this season, I hope I can use it to reflect on my own limited humanity and remember the hope that Jesus gave to the world when he left the grave.
Seth Reid is the student coordinator of The Carver Project’s mentoring program and a second-year law student at Washington University in St. Louis
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