There’s a letter that I’ve been waiting for in the mail for a few months now. Every day, I glance in the church mailbox to see if it’s arrived. It will eventually tell me whether a grant that I applied for has been awarded. But the letter hasn’t come yet. Waiting for something can easily become an obsession. I usually don’t like waiting. On many Wednesdays, I’ve sat in the Lady Chapel, ready for the 12:05 p.m. Mass, and I’ve waited for people to show up. Usually, after five minutes or so and no one has arrived, I return items to the sacristy and move on with my day—I can’t offer Mass without a congregation. Waiting is never easy. I’ve waited for medical test results before. I’ve waited for academic exam results. I’ve waited for college admission letters. I’ve waited for phone calls from loved ones to assure me that they’ve made it safely on a road trip or that they’re doing okay. Waiting is usually not enjoyable. I’ve waited for the answer to prayer. I’ve waited for some kind of divine affirmation that I’m on the right path. Waiting is, at times, frustrating.
But I wonder if waiting could be more pleasant than it usually is. Does waiting always have to be an anxiety-ridden endeavor? Does everything have to be centered on what’s been waited for? What if waiting were more focused on the present rather than the future? Perhaps that’s really what waiting is from a theological perspective. Spiritual waiting usually involves some measure of hope in the future, but it also doesn’t neglect the present. It may be that the purpose of waiting is to redirect our gaze to the present.
If one waits long enough, one may be conditioned to accept the present, with all its uncertainty. One may cease to idolize the future of knowing something for sure and, instead, embrace the gift of the present moment with whatever it brings, which often surprises. Over the past few years, as we have added liturgical services to our daily round at Good Shepherd, I’ve shown up and waited. I’ve said the Daily Office alone, and I’ve waited for people to show up. And with time, they have. I’ve sat in the Lady Chapel, hoping people might show up for Mass, and I’ve waited, and on some days, just when I think no one will, someone does. I’ve waited for the right gifts to come with the right people to address a need in our parish, and I’ve waited, and then they’ve appeared. Waiting can be a rich time because in the act of waiting, we learn to depend solely on God.
One of the reasons I’ve felt more and more drawn to silent, contemplative prayer with time is that it encourages me to be more comfortable with waiting. If I’m not using words to ask God for something, then I’m less likely to be expecting a direct answer. Instead, I sit in silence or even gaze at an icon, and I wait. I wait for the Spirit to show me something in that time of doing very little.
Anyone who preaches or who writes or who creates art knows that waiting is essential. It’s very difficult to sit down and write something that’s inspired. It’s impossible to preach a good sermon without waiting for some word of inspiration from God. A work of art is trite at best unless it springs from a divinely-given creative impulse. It’s all about waiting.
The waiting of this season of Advent is too often focused on the future, on Christmas and then on the Second Coming. Yes, Christmas will come on December 25 (it always does!), and yes, Christ will come again to judge both the living and the dead. Both of those comings can elicit anxiety. Will I be able to deal with the stress of family this year at Christmas? Will I be able to stand before Christ’s judgment throne and not be swallowed up in fiery wrath? So much perceived condemnation accompanies the awaiting of these comings.
But waiting in the present moment is different. It judges us, for sure, but as a gift. It’s not about what could happen or what I will do if something happens in the future. It’s about how I respond to Christ’s glorious coming into the present moment of my life. As I wait for test results or a letter in the mail or people to show up for Mass or for Christ to come again in glory, the present moment happens. And in the present moment, the risen Christ comes to me and to you, in all his glory, to bless us and surprise us. In the present moment, Christ teaches us, and the Holy Spirit reveals new understandings to us. In the present moment, Christ simply is, and we are invited to be with him just as he is, as Mary sat patiently at his feet while Martha busied herself in the kitchen.
Advent is a time of year in which we’re tempted to go the route of Martha—not that it’s bad or wrong. We’re tempted to be always on the go, always shopping, always wrapping gifts, always going to another holiday party, always filling every minute with more and more activity. But what if we embraced this Advent as a season of Mary, who sat at the feet of her friend Jesus’s feet and simply was with him? This is a season of hope. It’s a season of waiting. It’s a time to rejoice that as we await the celebration of the coming of God-with-us, Emmanuel, in this present moment—especially as we wait—God-with-us is already here. We’re waiting with him. And in that present waiting, we are indeed blessed.
Yours in Christ,
Father Kyle