Simply waiting has become a waste of time, a space to be filled with quick plans, funny screen-shots or solitary games on some handy device. When I took the Metro down to the Festival Center for their annual “chocolate and caroling” singalong, I noticed that everyone on the train was glued to a cellphone, and nobody noticed the sunset, which was glorious! I wondered how they would react if I shouted “Look! Look!” But I didn’t.
This year, John the Baptist has invited me into the wilderness places of waiting, where time slows and space for wonder (or dread) expands. The text for Advent 3* is almost comical as the Pharisees try to put John into a category that they recognize, while he keeps side-stepping their questions, pointing toward one who is to come, one who will baptize with the Holy Spirit.
“It’s not about me,” John keeps saying, reminding me to do the same. He claims only to be “a voice crying out in the wilderness,” calling for repentance, for a change of heart. John is not waiting for baby Jesus’ birth, he is proclaiming the mystery of Jesus’ life and ministry. I need to hear that grown-up dimension of Christmas too.
For me in this Advent season, waiting has meant just that … waiting. Not filling wait-times with activity or entertainment. Noticing sunrise and sunset as a portal to mystery, to the universe story. Letting go of “me, my and mine.” As T.S. Eliot says, “wait without hope, for hope would be hope for the wrong thing.” It’s a spiritual practice that does bring a change of heart. John’s wilderness cry feels like a gift this year.
-Marjory Zoet Bankson, IO Editor
For Further Reflection
Wait Without Hope
I said to my soul, be still, and wait without hope
For hope would be hope for the wrong thing; wait without love,
For love would be love of the wrong thing; there is yet faith
But the faith and the love and the hope are all in the waiting.
Wait without thought, for you are not ready for thought:
So the darkness shall be the light, and the stillness the dancing.
Whisper of running streams, and winter lightning.
The wild thyme unseen and the wild strawberry,
The laughter in the garden, echoed ecstasy
Not lost, but requiring, pointing to the agony
Of death and birth.
T. S. Eliot, East Coker
