“Let’s take the train,” they said. “It’ll be fun,” they said. The Cabinet is traveling to Epworth-By-The-Sea. It is fun! The Amtrak train hums beneath my feet as the landscape slips past the window—towns and trees, stations and crossings, images in the window moving in a steady rhythm. We have had a moment to enjoy conversations and fellowship. We’ve laughed, and we’ve processed together. It’s fun – and it’s a reminder, a quiet moment, to take notice of not just the day but the season. We are all going somewhere, but for a while, on this train, my only work really is to sit. As I sit here looking out the window, I come to know there is a preparation of the way ahead by the Spirit. Thanks be to God.
February often feels like this liminal space in the church year. We are still carrying the glow of Epiphany—the season of light—yet we can already see the shadowed hills of Lent approaching. We are between stations, not rushing past what has been, not yet arriving where we will soon be called to dwell.
In Epiphany, we give thanks for light that breaks into ordinary places: a child revealed to the nations, water turned to wine, fishermen called by name. We give thanks, too, for the gifts that God continues to reveal through the church’s life—especially the gifts carried by clergy who serve with faithfulness, creativity, and courage. Pastors, deacons, elders, local pastors, laity: you are bearers of light, often in ways that feel unseen or unremarkable to you, but that shine brightly in the lives of those you serve.
Thanks be to God for your presence at hospital bedsides and committee tables, in pulpits and parking lots, in moments of celebration and seasons of grief. Thanks be to God for the wisdom you offer, the questions you hold, and the prayers you carry when words fail. Epiphany reminds us that God delights in revealing divine glory through human vessels—through you.
As the calendar turns toward Lent, the invitation shifts. Lent does not ask us to manufacture holiness or prove our devotion. Instead, it calls us to honesty, to attention, to deeper connection—with God, with one another, and with our own souls. For clergy and lay leaders especially, Lent can become another season of output: sermons to plan, services to lead, disciplines to encourage in others, and many ways to participate in the season. Yet before Lent is something we offer, it is something we are invited to enter. The journey inward is not meant to be solitary.
What might it look like this Lent to engage practices that are relational rather than performative? To choose disciplines that reconnect you to people who nourish your soul rather than isolate you further? Perhaps it is a covenant group that tells the truth in love, a spiritual director who listens without agenda, a trusted colleague or friend with whom you can pray honestly. Perhaps it is shared meals, walking conversations, or intentional Sabbath time that reminds you that you are more than your role.
On this train, we are moving together toward a shared destination. Lent, too, is not meant to be traveled alone. John Wesley understood this well: there is no holiness but social holiness. Grace meets us in community, often in the simple act of showing up for one another. As we give thanks for the season of light behind us, may we resist the temptation to rush past it. Let its glow accompany us into the disciplines of Lent—not as a fading memory, but as a promise. The light still shines, even as we enter quieter, more searching days.
May this coming season find you connected rather than depleted, honest rather than heroic, accompanied rather than alone. And may God, who has set this journey before us, meet you between the stations with grace enough for the road ahead.
“The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness did not overcome it.” (John 1:5)
Amen.
photo credit – David Joyner