When the worship team was planning which series to place in this season, Amos Armbrust liked this one. He said something like, “January is the Monday of the year. The holidays are done. The weather is lousy. The sky is gray. I don’t like that time of year. I always feel down.”

If January had a temperament, it might as well be melancholy. That bittersweet post-holiday, back-to-work mood. Yeah. I get it.

Seasonal Affective Disorder is a real thing. And along with mental health diagnoses like anxiety and depression, it’s estimated that well over 40 million Americans live with anxiety or depression in a given year.[1]

In this series, we’ll explore how simple spiritual practices might help us move from the mid-winter blues toward the light of Epiphany. These practices are not replacements for medical care or professional support, but they may help us cultivate what the old hymn calls a “closer walk with Thee.”

The prophet Isaiah is a challenging book to approach, but it seems to have been Jesus’ favorite. He quotes Isaiah more than any other book of the Bible. Isaiah speaks to a people stuck in despair and hopelessness.

Scholars tell us this book has multiple authors and at least three distinct sections. It spans a long and painful history: siege by the Assyrians, exile in Babylon, and return to Jerusalem under the rule of Cyrus of Persia.

These were not joyful times.

And yet, here in chapter 60, we hear words of light, abundance, and new life:
“Arise, shine, for your light has come.”

Those are hard words to hear in a melancholy season. They would have sounded almost absurd during siege, exile, or foreign rule. And they can be hard to hear for those who live with depression.

A friend once said that mental health should be treated like any physical illness. If you had the flu and couldn’t get out of bed, no one would say, “Arise, shine! Your light has come!” So why would we say that to someone who can’t get out of bed because depression has made the world unbearably heavy?

Many of us have known seasons when getting out of bed felt impossible. Burnout. Grief. Illness. Depression can come from many places: biological, loss, trauma, exhaustion, and more.

And yet, daily rituals can help ground us. Just as we take daily pills or vitamins, it’s good to tend to our spiritual health, especially in seasons when life feels dire.

Francis de Sales is reported to have said, “Everyone needs half an hour of prayer each day, except when they are busy. Then they need an hour.” And Mother Teresa once told a busy bishop, “If you are too busy to pray, you are too busy.”

Beware the barrenness of a busy life. Beware the arid landscape your spirit becomes without nurture. If you have no spiritual practice at all, don’t start with an hour. Start with a minute. Something simple. Something gentle. Something real.

There is no wrong way to pray. It’s just like talking to a trusted friend. I ramble to God all day long. I usually begin my mornings with a devotional. Meghan gave me God Didn’t Make Us to Hate Us by Rev. Lizzie McManus-Dail, a forty-day practice of loosening fear and leaning into love and joy.

Begin your day with connection. When you get out of bed, maybe just hold today’s verse in your mind: “Arise, shine, for your light has come.”

The office printed stickers with this verse. Use them as bookmarks. Put one on your bathroom mirror. Or your favorite coffee mug.

I have learned to do spiritual disciplines. Start small and work your way up. When I sit down to write a sermon, I use a practice called lectio divina. You read a passage once. Sit with it. Read it again. Notice what rises up and why. Then close with prayer. It’s simple. And it works.

As I read scripture, I do not see a God who hates us, even at our worst or most forsaken. The Bible contains lament and anger and complexity, but beneath it all runs an undercurrent of God’s delight in God’s people.

God has given us the gift of life. We didn’t ask for it. It’s brief enough as it is. And gifts are meant to be used and enjoyed. The purpose of life is to live it. God’s glory breaks over us again and again, sunrise after sunrise.

And slowly, second by second, the sunlight is returning to the world. We may not feel it yet, but we know it to be true. The winter solstice has passed. The longest night is over.

“To believe is to see” flips the phrase “seeing is believing.” It suggests that belief can come first. If you begin your day believing that light is present, what might that do to your perspective? Could it flip a switch? Little by little, these things add up and we find that things are different than before.

I am a bittersweet person. Melancholy comes easily to me. I tend my spirit through these disciplines because I see so much brokenness, and it lingers. I need help flushing it from my system. I need help believing that goodness still exists. I must pay attention and train myself to see it.

And when I do believe it, I see it.
I see you feeding strangers, church.
I see you caring for one another.
I hear how grateful people are when freshly baked bread appears at just the right time.
I see your comments online when worship moves you or when someone asks where they should go to church.

These small things matter. This is light shining in the darkness.

And we need those moments. Here in the Monday of the year. Here in the valley of shadow of death. Here in the post-holiday weariness of it all.

May whatever practice you choose, even just for a minute each morning, help flip the switch. May it give you eyes of faith to see that the light is already in the world again, and growing stronger every day.

Thanks be to God. Amen.

Works Cited

[1] https://adaa.org/understanding-anxiety