Even after more than five years of living and teaching in Rochester, this time of year always reminds me that I’m a displaced Southerner. Prior to my family’s move to New York, I’d never truly experienced this thing the northerners call “winter.” Sure, I’ve always cycled through the months of late December through late March along with everyone else. Yet, I had never before experienced enough snow accumulation (what the locals call “a dusting”) to demand the backbreaking work of shoveling it, single-digit temperatures with bone-chilling winds, or, perhaps the worst part, the darkness. There are at least two things that non-northerners may never realize. First, in the winter, those in the North often do significant amounts of work just to get into their vehicle and back it down the driveway. Second, we can go long periods of time without seeing the sun, and even on days when it does make an appearance, it gets dark much earlier in the afternoon than it does in the South. The winter season brings cold weather. It sometimes brings harsh weather. It always brings darkness.
In class Zoom meetings during the winter, I commonly joke that our students joining from Southern California aren’t allowed to tell us what the weather is like that day. (They usually violate that prohibition and respond with something like, “It’s dropped all the way to 63 degrees today!”) Yet, as I type, parts of Southern California are either on fire or have been scorched to the point of being unrecognizable. Thousands of structures have been destroyed, and people have lost not only their homes but also treasured items that have worth beyond any monetary value to their owners. Sunny Southern California has been darkened by layers of smoke by day, and at night, the sense of darkness overwhelms even the bright orange glow that illuminates the skyline.
I know as well that many of our students are experiencing forms of darkness right now. Here in the early parts of the semester, I’m mindful that some in our community face health problems and complications, financial hardships, relational challenges, mental health struggles, grief from the loss of loved ones, and more. When added to the fatigue we may already feel from our labors (even labors of love) involved in our jobs, churches, families, and academic studies, such difficulties can add emotional and spiritual darkness to our winter days.
Yet, as I peer out the window at leafless trees, I remember that in this season, each day has a little more daylight than the one before it. Each turn of the calendar page brings us a bit closer to springtime, to the season when death gives way to new life. I’m reminded of Zechariah’s words, influenced by Old Testament prophets: “By the tender mercy of our God, the dawn from on high will break upon us, to give light to those who sit in darkness and in the shadow of death, to guide our feet to the way of peace” (Luke 1:78–79). Those words bear witness to God who mercifully shines light into dark places. They’re words of hope that our dark winter seasons will eventually give way to the light of spring. Even if one’s entire life feels like endless winter darkness, our experiences of God’s mercy offer foretastes of a longed-for resurrection from death in all its forms. So as we toil through the month of February, I pray that even our darkest of days will experience the light of our merciful God shining into our lives. No season—not even winter—will last forever.
About the author
David Carr, PhD
David Carr is a New Testament scholar who teaches and researches in biblical studies and related fields. His interests are in selfhood, identity, moral agency, and disability in the New Testament and its ancient milieu. He is also interested in how insights into these topics inform contemporary discourse and practice.