I once heard that the average American will spend approximately six months of their life waiting at red lights. This fact annoys me. What a colossal waste of time! I do not like waiting. You might even describe me as chronically impatient. This is especially true when it comes to the rate of social change. I want the world to be different yesterday.
Several years ago I was on a silent retreat (to be gracious toward myself, I do seek to practice patience sometimes!) and my spiritual director lent me a copy of the late Buddhist teacher Thich Nhat Hanh’s book Present Moment, Wonderful Moment: Mindfulness Verses for Daily Living. One of the reflections in this book is about waiting at traffic lights and stop signs, and ever since that first reading, I have thought differently about driving:
“When we see a red light or a stop sign, we can smile at it and thank it, because it is a bodhisattva [that is, an invitation to enlightenment] helping us return to the present moment. The red light is a bell of mindfulness. We may have thought of it as an enemy, preventing us from achieving our goal. But now we know the red light is our friend, helping us resist rushing and calling us to return to the present moment where we can meet with life, joy and peace. Even if you are not the driver, you can help everyone in the car if you breathe and smile.”
Now, I don’t claim to be capable of smiling at red lights, yet. They still look a little angry to me. But I do often take them, at least sometimes, as an opportunity to breathe, and even to practice gratitude for being alive in the present moment. These pauses help me meet myself on the road, and to treat fellow drivers with respect, trusting that if I practice patience on the way, I am doing my part to help everyone arrive safely at their destination.
I think of Advent in a similar way. In the Christian tradition, Advent — from a Latin word that denotes “coming” — is that four-Sunday period before Christmas that is traditionally characterized by expectation of what is to come, but is not yet. It recalls the waiting period before the historical coming of Christ — both the anticipation of a Messiah over hundreds of years, as well as Mary’s anticipation of the birth of Jesus, the Christ Child. It also is oriented toward the future, when God in Christ will restore all things (“He will come again in glory to judge the living and the dead, and his kingdom will have no end” is the line in the Nicene Creed that speaks of this waiting).
Practically, Advent is characterized by quiet reflection. It is inconspicuous and devoid of many of the sights and sounds associated with Christmas celebrations, like lights and bells and nativity scenes (at least with Jesus in them!) The songs of Advent — most notably “O Come, O Come Emmanuel” — are suffuse with longing for the world as God would have it be for all of us. My favorite verse from the hymn says:
O come, Desire of nations, bind
in one the hearts of all mankind;
bid thou our sad divisions cease,
and be thyself our King of Peace.
I didn’t grow up in a church that marked Advent in any kind of intentional way. Rather, the period from Thanksgiving to Christmas was adorned with Christmas carols and trees and lights and goodies. As a kid I couldn’t wait for Christmas Day to come already! I wanted the wait to end so that I could open gifts, eat orange-glazed cinnamon rolls, and enjoy celebrating with family and friends. The wait was meaningful only insomuch as it produced anticipation of the most awaited day of the year, and once it was over, I was back to waiting for the next Christmas Day.
In Advent, the wait is the point.
It acts as a kind of liturgical (that is, worshipful, prayerful, ritualistic), red light. Advent says,
“Take a pause here to attend to what is happening inside of you, within your community, and within the world at this time. Breathe. Listen. Pray. God is here, in your ache for wholeness and healing. In the gap between the way things are and the way they will be. Can you learn to love these spaces, too?”
As an adult, I’ve learned to love Advent. In this waiting space, there is room to name the difficult feelings that come with being human. The grief, the sadness, the longing for reconciliation and peace. In Advent, I find myself in the company of so many others — historically and in the present moment — whose hearts cannot hold all that is happening, and must pour it out in prayer: “thy kingdom come, thy will be done, on earth as it is in heaven.”
Marking this waiting period feels especially poignant this year, as so many people in the world will not have a festive Christmas, particularly in the Holy Land where Jesus was born. Advent affords space to mourn. In that space of naming our heartache collectively, it becomes possible to find hope in the Love that draws us ever more deeply into solidarity with one another.
The waiting is the work. It is as holy and healing as it is hard. It happens in community when we recognize that we are, all of us, waiting at this red light for what will be, and that together, we can smooth each other’s journey home.
Questions for reflection: What do you find most challenging about waiting? What gifts have you received in times of waiting? What lessons might be in store for you in the waiting spaces you are currently inhabiting?