I was trying to think of a way to theologize what I wanted to share with you, and the Lord brought to mind Ecclesiastes 3, where the Preacher — maybe, probably Solomon — ponders the passing seasons of life. “For everything there is a season,” he muses, “and a time for every matter under heaven” (Eccl. 3:1). He then proceeds to ruminate on the kaleidoscope of appointed times that make up life, from birth to death to weeping to laughing to loving to hating (Eccl. 3:2–8). I’ve always found this particular section of the Preacher’s meditations especially affecting, not merely for its literary quality but also for its existential resonance. If there’s one thing this passage conveys, it might be summed up in the oft-quoted aphorism, “This too shall pass.”
Notwithstanding what your current season looks like, whether it be a time of planting or plucking up, or mourning or dancing, wisdom tells us that what is won’t be forever. Times will change and roll into new ones, a fact that’s simultaneously encouraging and sobering. The former serves as a buoyant reminder that seasons of pain and heartache, when it seems as though the fabric of your life is tearing at the seams, aren’t perpetual. The intensity of the storm subsides as the thunderhead moves into another valley or dissipates as the mountainsides break it apart. The latter reality, though, instills in us the prudence to know that times of prosperity are fleeting, too.
An on-the-nose example of this might be the prophet Elijah in 1 Kings 18 and 19, who quite literally goes from a mountaintop experience to a valley of despair and back again. From besting several hundred prophets of Baal in a battle of wits to running for his life from the clutches of Queen Jezebel to wishing he’d just die because life has gotten too heavy for him, Elijah experiences the full gamut of emotions in a short amount of time. The point isn’t to hasten about seeking out newer and fresher mountaintop experiences at all costs, but we can cherish them by understanding who’s with us in life’s high and low seasons.
To put this in modern parlance, I have to cite the age-old counsel of Dunder Mifflin’s Andy Bernard: “I wish there was a way to know you’re in the good old days, before you’ve actually left them.” If there are words to encapsulate the gist of the Preacher’s words and Elijah’s exploits, I think it’s those. More pointedly, though, if there are words that epitomize the ache of my generation, you can do none better than Ed Helms’s proverb.
My algorithms have recently become inundated with those A.I. reels that seemingly depict “How Christmas Looked in the 90s” or “POV: It’s a 90s Christmas,” complete with yellow-tinted incandescent lighting and garish holiday accoutrements that feel intensely familiar, despite being spat out by a data center somewhere. I won’t lie, I’ve been stopped in my tracks a time or two, or seven, when these little clips pop up, especially the ones that portray youngsters gleefully booting up a video game console to play a few rounds of Halo or Star Wars: Battlefront, with little worries about anything else. They remind me of a season that isn’t anymore, of a time that felt simpler, more innocent, even if it wasn’t.
I think what makes these silly reels so evocative is the fact that they manifest a time more than a few Internet users distinctly remember. For whatever you might say about Millennials, it’s remarkable to think about what those in that generation, of which I am a member, encountered. I can pinpoint memories before the omnipresent inundation of the World Wide Web. Heck, I have a vivid memory of when my family got its first computer back in the day. One PC for an entire household seems both foreign and ancient. It was one of those white behemoths, situated in my dad’s downstairs study, and the only things I knew how to do on it were create crude drawings in Microsoft Paint and play Solitaire.
And now that I think about it, I can even recall the thrill I received when my dad got a new laptop for work that came with Microsoft 3D Pinball: Space Cadet, still one of the best games known to man. The point is that this same generation that remembered a time before notifications and perpetual connectivity and location-based suggestions and algorithmic newsfeeds also had to learn how to adjust to all of the above. This isn’t a “woe is me, feel bad for Millennials” lament. This is just a confession that deep within the Millennial consciousness are real memories of a time those in younger generations can only dream about.
I don’t want to retread old ground, since I wrote about this last March — “Relief for an Algorithmic Age” — as did Gen Z essayist Freya India, but there’s a growing phenomenon where folks in younger generations yearn for a time they never knew, which Freya calls “anemoia.” The phonelessness of it all was both alien and appealing, triggering a particularly sensitive nostalgic corner of the human psyche that, I think, recognizes that pixelated connection isn’t what we were made for. But I don’t have to imagine what that must’ve been like. I was there. I remember those times. And as I’ve gotten older, it makes more and more sense to me why nostalgia is so intoxicating, even if I know — and I’ve preached about this — that nostalgia isn’t really true to life or all that life-giving.
Perhaps I’m layering on the melancholy a little too thick in this rather innocuous update. Or, perhaps I’m just in my feelings, and this is what’s emerging. I don’t really know which is which, if I’m honest with you. The objective of this stream of consciousness is really only to tell you two things. (1) This season of life has been kicking my butt. And (2) that means I’m going to be adjusting my publishing schedule for the foreseeable future.
From family schedules and personal priorities to pastoral responsibilities and writing obligations, this has been one of the most hectic seasons I can ever remember. I don’t say that to garner sympathy. I say that just so it makes sense when I tell you that I’m going to be reducing my Substack output considerably for a season. The Monday-Wednesday-Friday routine of post-sermon-post (or podcast) is going to switch to a Tuesday-Thursday post-sermon or podcast-sermon schedule for an indefinite amount of time. This, Lord willing, will alleviate some of my self-imposed pressure to publish “content,” allowing me to focus on local and family needs and writing deadlines.
If you didn’t already know, I have two books coming out in 2028, if the schedules stay as they are right now. One through 1517 Publishing and another through B&H Academic, both of which I am enormously excited about. Rest assured, I’ll be sharing more details about each project over the next several months. Until then, I’m learning, like we all are, for the most part, to live in the present and enjoy whatever season God has for me. I don’t say that as someone who’s figured it all out. I say that as a guy who’s definitely still learning — who’s desperate for the daily bread of Jesus and his grace, which abides and sustains every season.
See you Tuesday. Grace and peace.