Isolation without Solitude: The Unique Sting of Social Distancing

As a writer, I think a lot about words. About the subtle connotations, the nuances that make one word forgettable and another evocative. Whenever I come across a word I don’t know, I write it down. Liminal. Quotidian. Palaver. I love words.

Lately I’ve been thinking about two words that are so similar, they could be sisters: “solitude” and “isolation.” Both mean “aloneness” – a state with which we’re well-acquainted – but oh, what different kinds of aloneness.

Solitude is reflective, wise, and biblical. The gospels record dozens of times when Jesus withdrew to lonely places to pray. Sometimes He slipped off in the mayhem of ministry, when crowds were pressing in (Luke 5:15-16). He sat alone on mountaintops for days at a time (Mark 6:46-47), and chose to walk from Galilee to Jerusalem alone, giving him 90 miles (or an estimated five days) of silence and solitude (John 7:10).

But the moment that strikes a nerve in my pandemic-weary soul, is a moment recorded in Matthew 14:13. “Now when Jesus heard [that John the Baptist had been beheaded], He withdrew from there in a boat to a desolate place by Himself.”

What a human thing to do. I can almost smell His sorrow on the salty air, alone in His boat. Alone in His grief. I wonder what Jesus thought about on that boat in the middle of nowhere. I wonder if He cried. If He prayed with words, or with groans too deep for words.

Jesus could have saved John the Baptist. In fact, while imprisoned, John sent word to Jesus, hinting of his suffering and wavering faith. But Jesus didn’t come. Instead, perfectly in tune with the will of the Father, Jesus exhorted John not to be stumbled by Him (Matthew 11:6).

As I picture a lone figure, rocking on the waves in the wake of His friend’s death, it strikes me that Jesus takes no delight in our suffering. He may not answer our prayers the way we want Him to, but that doesn’t mean He enjoys saying “no” to us. Jesus needed solitude to mourn, to reflect, to sit in the presence of the Father when life was painful.

So do we.

Herein lies the challenge intrinsic to social distancing. In these homes of ours—stuffed to the gills with children and furloughed college students, hastily improvised home offices and classrooms — many of us are living in a world of isolation without solitude.

We’re alone without ever actually being alone.

Isolation is solitude’s evil twin — so similar at first glance, but completely different below the surface. Isolation isn’t about self-awareness, growth, or reflection. It’s about consuming gummy bears and newsfeeds til you’re numb. It’s about hiding. Avoiding. Shutting down and shutting others out. Isolation is the place where sin blossoms and depression looms.

If we’re going to weather this COVID-induced storm, we must learn to recognize the difference between solitude and isolation, so we can welcome one and stave off the other. We must ask ourselves “why.” Why do I want to avoid another zoom gathering?

Do I need a moment to rest, or am I slipping into a dark place? Why don’t I want to text anyone, worship online, go for a walk, serve my family? Why am I watching another episode, and another, and another?

A couple weeks ago, during an online worship experience, I found it difficult to sing a certain song. I don’t even remember the song, just the feeling – this alarming realization that somewhere deep down, in a place I don’t even want to acknowledge, I’m upset with God. I’m stumbled by Him. Like John, I’m sitting in my prison cell, wondering why He hasn’t come.

But then today, as I carved out time for solitude, I turned my eyes to that lone figure, bobbing on a boat in a desolate place. I imagined gripping His hand, climbing aboard, letting our tears run together. And deep in my soul, I knew that He still sees us. He has not forgotten our suffering, nor does He regard it lightly. He loves us, and He will love us until the end of time (Psalm 136).

In this season of isolation, steal a moment to slip away. Even if you only slip into a closet. Leave your phone and the gummy bears on the other side of the door, and ask Jesus if you can climb into His boat. If you can sit for a moment in His arms, listen to the rhythm of His heart, rest in the refuge of His love.