A Place of Waiting

This Second Sunday in Advent we find ourselves at the temple in Jerusalem with Zechariah and Elizabeth who remind us quite a bit of Abraham and Sarah, the founding family of Judaism who also had a miraculous pregnancy (long past childbearing years) announced to them by a heavenly visitor. Zechariah and Elizabeth will name their son John (the Baptist) who reminds us of Elijah and the prophet Malachi - a voice crying out in the wilderness.

These parallels are important because in the words of theologian Marcus Borg, “Luke’s purpose is to interpret Jesus in the light of the Hebrew scriptures, not to recreate him historically.” Everything that follows from this point is to be seen as an unfolding of God's plan.

Zechariah and Elizabeth should be sainted for waiting all those years, dealing with the disappointment, the derision and ridicule, the shame. Waiting is an integral part of the Advent journey.

What has been the hardest thing you’ve had to wait for? Perhaps it was test results, grades, a baby to be born, someone to die, getting a job, seeing loved ones you haven’t seen in a while, answers, life to get easier, healing, finding the right partner, getting married, the list goes on and on.

Sometimes the waiting is filled with excitement and anticipation. But often we feel uncomfortable, anxious, sad, wary, uncertain, doubtful, cautious, and fearful when we're stuck waiting. Personally, I think the biggest challenge is having any sort of inner peace while we wait.

There once was a King who offered a prize to the artist who would paint the best picture of peace. Many artists tried. The King looked at all the pictures, but there were only two he really liked and he had to choose between them.

One picture was of a calm lake. The lake was a perfect mirror for peaceful towering mountains that surrounded it. Overhead was a blue sky with fluffy white clouds. All who saw this picture thought that it was a perfect picture of peace.

The other picture had mountains too. But these were rugged and bare. Above was an angry sky from which rain fell, in which lightning played. Down the side of the mountain tumbled a foaming waterfall. This did not look peaceful at all.

But when the King looked, he saw behind the waterfall a tiny bush growing in a crack in the rock. In the bush a mother bird had built her nest. There, in the midst of the rush of angry water, sat the mother bird on her nest... perfect peace.

The King chose the second picture.

“Because,” explained the King, “peace does not mean to be in a place where there is no noise, trouble, or hard work. Peace means to be in the midst of all those things and still be calm in your heart. That is the real meaning of peace.” 

The trick to finding peace in the midst of waiting seems to be (a word most of us don’t like) “surrender.” Surrender doesn’t mean giving up and waving a white flag to your enemy (the object of your waiting). It means letting go of the need to control everything, to know everything, to fix everything immediately. It is acceptance of a situation or a process and a recognition that we are not alone on the path.

Zechariah wasn’t one to surrender to a new situation easily. You’d think the appearance of an angelic visitor would be enough for him to trust that whatever the angel said would come true. But he was a good rabbi and prone to arguing, so he wanted to know how this could be, given their advanced age. His prize for talking back to the angel was a nine-month time out from talking altogether. It’s possible that Elizabeth was secretly thrilled by this, but I doubt it made the waiting easier.

What does make waiting easier? Aside from surrender? A compassionate caring community or support network.

Rabbi Sharon Brous, in her wonderful book, The Amen Effect, talks about a Rabbinic teaching in a third century Jewish text that “speaks of an ancient pilgrimage ritual, when hundreds of thousands of people would ascend to the Temple Mount in Jerusalem, the focal point of Jewish religious and political life in the ancient world. The crowd would enter the Courtyard in a mass of humanity, turning to the right and circling – counterclockwise – around the enormous complex, exiting close to where they had entered.

But someone suffering, the text tells us, the grieving, the lonely, the sick – someone to whom something awful had happened – that person would walk through the same entrance and circle in the opposite direction. Just as we do when we’re hurting: every step, against the current. And every person who passed the brokenhearted would stop and ask, “What happened to you?” “I lost my mother,” the bereaved would answer. “I miss her so much.” Or perhaps, “My husband left.” Or, “I found a lump.” “Our son is sick.” “I just feel so lost.”

And those who walked from right to left – each one of them – would look into the eyes of the ill, the bereft, and the bereaved. “May God comfort you,” they would say, one by one. “May you be wrapped in the embrace of this community.” 

What a beautiful place of waiting, a safe place where it was okay not to be okay. Where you weren’t told to move on or buck up. You weren’t left out, or misunderstood, or told that everything would be ok. You could just BE while the community held space for you. And perhaps in being seen, in others acknowledging your struggle or pain, there might be a moment of peace felt underneath it all as you surrendered to the feeling, the care of the community, and the presence of the Divine.

I know that waiting for Christmas isn't always fun and excitement. I know it can bring up all kinds of anxiety and grief. My hope is that you will find a safe place to "be" while you wait, and that perhaps under all the struggle, you might find a deeper peace dwelling quietly within you.

Love & Light!

Kaye