My favorite part of Advent is, without a doubt, ‘The Lord is Near’, a devotional guide based on the works of Henri Nouwen. It was the source of my favorite seasonal practice of my childhood; my mother invited me to read from the whimsically illustrated pages while she lit the Advent candles by our kitchen table. The memory was a haze in the back of my mind for decades until, a few years ago, I was sorting through a box of books willed to me by late colleague’s family, and there it was – crumbled and coffee stained, almost certainly an original printing of the 1993 edition. I’ve opened it with anticipating at the beginning of every Advent since.
Until this year. A bit scattered by a number of different goings-on, it took me a week and a half to find the booklet. So when I hurriedly sat down on a Wednesday afternoon with the remnants of last years’ candles, I wasn’t quite in the mood for Nouwen’s childlike simplicity.
Advent does not lead to nervous tension stemming from expectation of something spectacular about to happen.
I stopped reading the passage right there. What about those of us who are truly waiting? Who are hoping, praying for the spectacular? Like so many others, for weeks, my heart has been breaking for the people of Gaza, and for Palestinians around the world. What about those who are waiting for an end to war? Waiting for justice? Is there anything more spectacular than peace? Is there anything more specular than finally being able to return home?
I know others who are waiting, too. I am close to those who are waiting for grief to soften and for the clouds to lift. I am among those waiting for news – for miraculous prognoses and for dreams fulfilled. I live in nervous tension of this moment, so it took me until the next day to sit down with the devotional again. And because Nouwen has been faithful to me for more than thirty years, I gave him the benefit of the doubt, and read the passage in its entirety.
Advent does not lead to nervous tension stemming from expectation of something spectacular about to happen. On the contrary, it leads to a growing inner stillness and joy allowing me to realize that (the One) for whom I am waiting has already arrived and speaks to me in the silence of my heart.
That, of course, is the irony and mystery of this season of waiting. Those of us who follow Jesus espouse that Christ has already come, and in fact, that Christ is with us always. So, practically, what we are waiting for in this Advent season is ourselves, or more specially, our own becoming. While the rest of the world busies itself with the distractions of revelry, we are supposed to silence our hearts, to pay attention to things that matter, and to open ourselves to new revelation. We do this in order to become those who can better experience, celebrate, and share the God-with-us who has already arrived, and is arriving anew, each day.
Of course, some of us are looking for that which has still not arrived. And when the world hangs in the balance, it can be easy to imagine that we have no choice other than to wait, and hope for something spectacular, which may or may not come to be..
But we can always choose how we go about waiting. We can choose to silence our hearts, and in so doing, become those who are truly present in this moment. We can choose to pay attention, and in so doing, become those who stand in solidarity with those who wait for peace. We can choose to open ourselves to something new, and in so doing, become more fully alive
This work of becoming takes more than four weeks, and even more than a single Henri Nouwen devotional. It is the sum total of a life of faith, and it will take all the attention that we give it. But in our becoming is the most essential truth that we know in Christ: While we are waiting, for whatever we are waiting, God is with us.
Parish on Fire 