Friday of the 25th Week of Ordinary Time
For everything there is a season, and a time for every purpose under heaven: A time to be born, And a time to die; A time to plant, And a time to pluck up that which is planted; A time to kill, And a time to heal; A time to break down, And a time to build up; A time to weep, And a time to laugh; A time to mourn, And a time to dance; A time to cast away stones, And a time to gather stones together; A time to embrace, And a time to refrain from embracing; A time to seek, And a time to lose; A time to keep, And a time to cast away; A time to tear, And a time to sew; A time to keep silence, And a time to speak; A time to love, And a time to hate; A time for war, And a time for peace.
What profit has he who works in that in which he labors? I have seen the burden which God has given to the sons of men to be afflicted with. He has made everything beautiful in its time. He has also set eternity in their hearts, yet so that man can't find out the work that God has done from the beginning even to the end.
Lord, what is man, that you care for him? Or the son of man, that you think of him? Man is like a breath. His days are like a shadow that passes away.
As he was praying alone, the disciples were near him, and he asked them, "Who do the multitudes say that I am?"
They answered, "'John the Baptizer,' but others say, 'Elijah,' and others, that one of the old prophets has risen again."
He said to them, "But who do you say that I am?"
Peter answered, "The Christ of God."
But he warned them and commanded them to tell this to no one, Saying, "The Son of Man must suffer many things, and be rejected by the elders, chief priests, and scribes, and be killed, and the third day be raised up."
There's a kind of relief in the opening lines of Ecclesiastes. Not because life is easy, but because someone finally said out loud what we all feel — that everything has its moment, and we don't always get to choose which moment we're in. Grief arrives uninvited. Seasons of waiting stretch longer than we'd like. And sometimes the most honest thing we can do is simply acknowledge: this is where we are right now.
The Preacher isn't being cynical here. Notice how the passage ends not in resignation but in something almost luminous — "He has made everything beautiful in its time." The burden isn't meaningless. The seasons aren't random. Underneath all the turning and returning is a God who holds the whole pattern together, even when we can only see the thread we're standing on.
And then the Psalm brings us low in the best possible way: we are like breath, like a passing shadow. But the paradox is that this God who governs all of time and eternity *thinks of us*. That's the word the Psalm uses — thinks. Not merely tolerates. Thinks.
Which is exactly the moment Jesus turns to his disciples and asks the most personal question imaginable: *Who do you say that I am?* Not the crowds. Not the scholars. You. Here we encounter the invitation that cuts through all the noise of opinion and expectation. Peter answers from somewhere deep — "The Christ of God" — and immediately Jesus reframes what that means. Not triumph. Not conquest. Suffering, rejection, death, and then resurrection.
This is the shape of God's timing. It rarely looks the way we expect.
Consider what season you find yourself in right now — and whether you're resisting it or receiving it.
Where in your life are you waiting for God's timing to make sense?
And when Jesus asks *you* who he is, what does your answer cost you?