The language of quarantine is drawn from the word four, or forty. To quarantine, or to be in quarantine, is to be set apart for a time for the sake of others. In the face of something that threatens us, we endure separation, enclosure, long days and too-short nights. We are removed from some, and share unexpected intimacy with others. We wait through a season of unknown length, looking toward an unknown conclusion.
As sickness threatens the lives and livelihood of many, you may find yourself in a quarantine of sorts – whether mandated by law, recommended by people who care for you, or perhaps manifest as a quiet but deeply felt sense of distance from those you love, from the normalcy you long to recover, or from the hope you claim to have. In this season of isolation, limitation, and loss, the Lord Jesus draws near. His Word speaks to us, and makes room for the different parts of ourselves – the lonely parts, the angry parts, the part that weeps and the part that hoards and even the part that has shut down and slowly edges away…perhaps we have seen this distance from our Lord grow, and not just in the last few days but over long seasons of suffering, crystallized in moments of desperate silence. Let us hear his unfailing welcome even in times like these.
With Noah, his wife and sons and daughters-in-law, we watch the rain fall for 40 gray days. Boarded up and looking out on a dull, tumultuous sea that constantly shifts and foams. Wind-tossed and unwieldy, our ship once seemed so sturdy and strong. We count night after night, day after day. We watch the rain continue to fall, and the tide rises. We feel the chaos sneaking back in, the life leaking away. Neighbor is torn from neighbor, nation from nation. We fill our days with the simple, dirty chores of feeding sheep, folding clothes, typing and calling and clicking, caring for children, preparing meal after meal after meal, waking and sleeping again. As we see stores running low, we reach to remember the voice that spoke 300 cubits, not 400; that ordained companionship and help on this journey; that marked our six hundredth and first year, on the first month, on the first day with a gloriously muddy footprint on gloriously solid ground; that dried up all the waters and whispered the dove’s way to an olive branch; that placed a bow in the clouds and promised to remember us with mercy.
With the Israelites, we wander in a howling wilderness. We may be newly-freed and yet faithless, stiff-necked and hopelessly afraid. We count ourselves among those who have grumbled, who have gazed upon our enemies with awe and with wonder. As we endure the discipline of the Lord, and our failure to trust you has been made plain, we cannot escape his mercy. He feeds us, with bread and with fish. He leads us, with fire and with smoke. He eases our affliction, with sturdy sandal and water from the rock. He looks upon us with love, when we sit down and when we rise up, when we go out and when we lie down. He sees us as the child he rescued and held, the inheritance he has secured for himself, the portion he has chosen. As we pitch our tent night after night, we remember that there is no other people who have a good so near to them as our God is to us; that he has already given us the land he calls us to take possession of; that he brought us out so that he might bring us in.
With Anna, the aging prophetess whose dreams left long ago, we sequester ourselves in the temple. We fast and we pray, we watch for the One who is to come, we lean into what we have seen and heard of this King who comes to proclaim good news to the poor, freedom to the captive, sight to the blind, and God’s good pleasure to those who deserve judgment. For as many as 40 years lived twice, this young widow has known the ache of one taken from her, this one death echoing through the death of countless dreams held dear – a child, a life together, a home to share. As we befriend our grief and dare to host our anger, we remember the root that springs from the stump, the light that shines in the darkness, the Lord who wept and rose again.
With Elijah, we feel our chest rasp and shudder as we flee in fear from the one that hunts us. We say, “It is enough” as we slump beneath the broom tree, sleeping for sorrow. For I am the only, and they are the many. As we faint with fatigue and long to be close, we remember the gentleness and safety of your touch; we taste the warmth and honey sweetness of the cake baked on hot stones, and the cool, clear water carried in a jar; we hear the sound of your still, soft voice that nourishes and makes us brave again.
With Job, we sit in ashes. Held captive by grief and by sickness, we scrape ourselves with bits of broken cisterns, seeking to dull the pain or find a fresh wound. As we lose child and wife, see riches lost and friends condemn us, we remember the 7 days of healing silence; the mercy of lies that are bare-faced and bold, and all the easier to discard; and the answer from the whirlwind: mighty storehouses of snow, the sea shut in and clothed with clouds, and the swirl of mercy spinning a fullness of days.
With Moses, we raise prayers for others who have become dear to us. For 40 days on a mountain, separated from the people of our community, we slowly drink in your name of compassion and favor, an abundance of love and fidelity, long-suffering and an assurance of justice. We ask that we might not depart from you, but that we might go with you, that you might go with us. We set aside luxuries, even necessities, and as we feel the pangs of hunger and even of fear, we painstakingly mark out the words of your promises, cut into stone, carved into flesh. We remember the stories of how you have drawn near.
With Jesus himself, we fight in the desert. We are driven into a time of testing, of temptation, of harassment and isolation. As we face the “if’s” and “what if’s” of the enemy, arm us with sturdy, savory truth. As we endure accusation, cover us with your wings and draw us a picture in the sand. As we count the days and peer into the gloom, murmur to us your words of shining delight, and whisper to us the day that is coming when we will see you face to face.
some questions to hold
- What parts of yourself have not yet been heard in this season of quarantine? What do they want to tell you or show you?
- How do you imagine the Lord Jesus responding to these parts? What do they need?
- Of these stories, which person (or community) might be a good friend to one of the parts that is asking for care? How do you think they might describe the God they encountered?
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– Amanda
connectinghope.art 