The God of New Beginnings
January is a long, dark, cold month here in the north.
It is dark when I leave for work, and dark again when I return home. It is the coldest month in the northern hemisphere, but the warmest in the southern, just flip January and July. When the Portuguese first sailed into the coast of South America on January 1st, 1502, they named the location after the month: the River of January, Rio de Janeiro. I do not speak Portuguese, but I would rather be in Rio than Pennsylvania right now.
January was named by the same people who have provided much of our civilizational infrastructure: the Romans. It is named for the Roman deity Janus. He is the god of beginnings, of transitions, and of time. He has two faces, looking in opposite directions. This image of Janus confronts us with the two questions we tend not to think about.
Where did I come from?
Where am I going?
I spend a lot of time looking back. So much of life is regret. It makes up much of the architecture of my past. All the things I wish I had done and said, and all the things I wish I had not. All the decisions I wish I could take back so the outcome would be better; or so I assume. I would like to delete half of all the words I have ever spoken, because they have done more harm than good. When I look back, I see sin, and selfishness, misfortune, and mistakes. I know there is much more than that, but these are what catch my eye.
The past is a lesson, not a life sentence. It is not a prison.
The other face of Janus is looking forward to the new year, and to the future. What does it see there? Fear? Uncertainty? Perhaps. That is what many are saying about 2026. Will America, frayed as she is, finally begin to break apart? Will the four horsemen of the AI Apocalypse gallop through our economy and leave 30% unemployment in their wake?
We are never in control of events, regardless of how much we, or our political leaders, pretend we are.
We should always be working to mitigate or prevent these things, but they do not own the future. The future is owned by hope, not despair. It is the land of hope. It is ever toward the sunrise. But hope is not just a land, or a wish, it is a Person.
Winter is a battle. Cold always feels lonely, and darkness is a thief. With no warm sun, I wither. I have begun 2026 with the flu. Yuck. So, in the darkness of January, I am slowly reading the Gospel of John. Because it is the gospel of light; a word that appears in its pages more than twenty times. It is also the gospel of life; a word we see more than forty times. It is the gospel of love, which we hear fifty times; for God so loved the world…”
Every verse is layered with meaning. Every verse, every scene, every conversation, is worth prolonged meditation.
It is the gospel of turning boring religious water into joy-filled wine. It is the gospel of a God, standing in a cemetery, weeping. The gospel of the most ancient voice there is calling its friend, Lazarus, out of a cold, dark grave. It is the gospel of the man who was born blind, who had only ever known darkness, suddenly seeing. It is the gospel of a doubting Thomas, who refused to have hope, who saw no future, being completely undone by the reality of the resurrection.
“My Lord and my God!”
It is the gospel of that same God sitting on a beach, at sunrise, cooking fish for His friends.
“Come and have breakfast.”
I wish I had been there.
It is the gospel of all those great “I am” declarations:
I am the bread of life.
I am the light of the world.
I am the door.
I am the good shepherd.
I am the resurrection and the life.
I am the way the truth and the life.
I am the true vine.
In the cold death of January, I am reminded that Jesus is the God of new beginnings. He redeems all my past so I can face it and own it. And He turns my face toward the future to see the “sun of righteousness rise with healing in its wings.” – Malachi 4.
All my tomorrows are in the damaged, but strong, hands of the Carpenter from Galilee, the true God of time.
“The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it.” John 1:5