Winter Seasons

​Read: John 16-17
 
Despite sturdy 
winter boots, 
my toes curl, 
banding together 
as I shuffle 
through this cold 
December.
 
I’m stiff, but
I can see
the lone ray 
of Sunlight 
and the snow 
flakes refracting.
 
Winters in Michigan can seem never ending. 
 
As I sit here, under a blanket near the fireplace a few weeks post-Christmas, I know it’s time to take down the tree and box up the ornaments and the nativity scene, but the idea of cold temperatures and snowy weather lingering for two more months (at least!) without the twinkling lights feels depressing. Sunny days are rare here between November and March, and these short days and long nights with cloudy skies cast a gloomy pallor over everything, especially after the initial excitement of the first snow fades and the Christmas season ends. I feel a sense of loss. I carry, in the chill in my toes, the awareness that the road ahead is long.
 
I’ve had similar feelings recently about the state of my denomination, the Reformed Church in America. Shortly after my ordination in 2020, many leaders from my classis in West Michigan formed a group that broke away, fracturing the classis. We experienced staggering loss as, over two years, we shrunk from twenty-eight churches to five. This loss was reflected in the denomination, which grieves the separation of about a quarter of its churches, representing nearly half of the total membership.
 
Despite the loss, we who remained carried a sense of hope. It was like the falling of leaves, those first crisp days of autumn; we knew we were entering a hard season, but the romance of change and the promise of fresh growth after loss compelled us.
 
Loss is still loss, though, and as we continue to discuss denomination-wide restructuring, we face the harsh reality that the coming change will likely mean even more loss, not just of falling leaves and splintered branches, but of resources and relationships we hold very dear. There is hope ahead, but we’ve got lots of winter still to come.
 
Where do we look when the sky seems too gray, the winter too long?
 
Jesus’s prayer for the disciples in John 17 comes as the culmination of a series of warnings of what the disciples have yet to endure. “The hour is coming; indeed it has come, when you will be scattered,” our Lord says (16:32). Very soon, as Jesus had already told them many times, he would be taken back to the Father. The disciples would lose their bodily connection to their Lord and Savior, their daily fellowship with Jesus and with each other; in some cases, they would even lose their lives. “I still have many things to say to you, but you cannot bear to hear them now,” Jesus says in 16:12. Hard things are coming, and Jesus knows it will feel too hard to bear.
 
In the midst of these ominous warnings, Jesus turns his gaze heavenward. He asks his Father to protect his friends, and that plea is linked to a vision: “Holy Father, protect them in your name that you have given me, so that they may be one, as we are one” (17:11).
 
When the road is long, the disciples are invited to remember that they are not alone. And it’s not just about remembrance; Jesus’s prayer provides a promise: God will protect them and bring them to union with Godself.
 
When we feel scattered and the weight of loss seems too much to bear, we remember that we are connected, through Christ, to all who believe. We look to partnerships, global and ecumenical, recognizing our need to come together to endure the long winter. As we learn from each other and support one another, we participate in God’s promise, which is bigger than our own efforts—God will draw us nearer to God’s presence. We will be one, through Christ.
 
I’m relatively new to leadership in the RCA. My ordination in 2020 coincided with the first days of the COVID-19 pandemic, followed shortly by the fissures in the denomination. I, like many, felt shocked, confused, and scattered in spirit. Then, in 2022, I attended my first RCA General Synod. There, I experienced the reality that the loss I felt, shared by folks across the denomination, was not the full story. Beauty was also present—and a diversity of expression in life and worship that reached far beyond my experience in West Michigan. In the midst of lament, the space created by the losses we’ve suffered was actually bringing opportunities to elevate voices of women and people of color, voices that have not always been heard.
 
Though loss will continue and will be hard to bear, we are truly not alone. In the midst of grief, there is hope.
 
Question for Reflection: What winter seasons have you experienced in your own life and ministry? As our Lord turned his eyes heavenward, lift your concerns before the throne of God in prayer. Receive the assurance that in Christ you are not alone.
 
—Katlyn DeVries, Western Theological Seminary