O come, o come, Emmanuel, and ransom captive Israel! That mourns in lonely exile here until the Son of God appear.
It is the first Sunday of Advent, and I’m sitting on my couch in front of the fire looking at the display on my mantel. Every year I use my nativity as liturgical action figures to remind me of the Great Story. Currently the angel of hope stands before an expectant Mary, flanked on each side by two quotes – one that says “Ponder anew what the Almighty can do” and the other that simply admonishes us to Wait.
We have done so much waiting this year. Waiting for election results, waiting for a vaccine, waiting for the other shoe to drop…
Not all waiting is involuntary, but much of it is. So much of waiting lies in something beyond our control. Everything about this year feels out of control. A lesson I am trying to learn is that there is no control. Control is illusory.
Waiting is perhaps the hardest work there is, because waiting implies that there is not much we can do. I am a doer. When one is a doer, it is easy to assume there is control. To sit and ponder is stressful and uneasy. All major religions admonish us to learn to be still. My religion encourages me to be still and know that God is God.
To be still means to wait. To do nothing but wait.
To be still and know that God is God means to wait with expectancy, just as Mary did.
The first candle of advent signifies Hope. In some traditions that translates as Faith. To wait with expectation of something not yet arrived. To relinquish control, but acknowledge something is coming.
In my nativity set, the angel of hope holds a small candle that she shelters with her hand. The flame is fragile and must be protected. Hope can be like that. Hope must be nurtured and protected and that happens in the waiting. Without waiting, there is no hope, only things already fulfilled. Without hope, there is no waiting, only despairing. We wait for what will come. As a Christian, I wait with hope for what will come.
O come, o come Emmanuel. And ransom captive Israel.
