By a Weary but Still Hopeful Parish Priest
There is a special kind of holiness involved in waiting, and Advent — bless its blue-and-rose-tinged heart — invites us into that holiness with all the subtlety of a parishioner asking, “Father, is the sermon almost over?”
Advent, in its wisdom, gives us candles. Four of them. Five, if you’re in one of those parishes that bravely lights the Christ Candle without accidentally setting the wreath alight. Candles are the Church’s gentle reminder that time unfolds slowly, one flame at a time. They also serve as a visual aid for the impatient: “Look,” we seem to say, “we’re only at candle two. Christmas is not here yet. Please stop asking me when the pageant scripts will be ready.”
Waiting, of course, is deeply theological work. The prophets knew it, the apostles knew it, and even the shepherds probably had a few moments of, “Is anything happening out there, or should we get more coffee?” Advent reminds us that God does some of God’s best work in the slow unfolding — not in the instant download, not in the express lane, and certainly not in the Amazon Prime universe that has taught us that one-day delivery is practically a sacrament.
We wait because hope is not something microwaved. We wait because love takes time. And we wait because — let’s be honest — half the joy of Christmas morning is watching people finally open what you’ve had hidden away in your closet since August.
Every week we light another candle, each flame marking a step closer to Bethlehem. It’s the Church’s way of saying, “Steady now. Not too fast. We’ll get there.” Advent is the holy brake pedal on the liturgical calendar. Without it, we’d catapult ourselves straight from our American neighbours eating the last slice of pumpkin pie to singing Hark! The Herald Angels Sing with no room for breath or wonder.
And isn’t that the point? Waiting creates room. Room for reflection. Room for longing. Room for the quiet hope that life might yet surprise us with joy. The candles glow because God is not finished with us. The light grows because something beautiful is on the horizon.
So, dear friends, take heart. And if your Advent wreath leans slightly to the left, or the candles burn wonkily, or someone (I’m not naming names) lights the wrong candle on the wrong week — take that too as a sign of grace. After all, God works through the slightly crooked, the mismatched, and the ones who try their best. Advent isn’t about perfection. It’s about promise.
Just keep waiting — without losing your mind. Or at least, lose it only in small, acceptable, seasonally appropriate ways.
Companion Prayer
O God of quiet hope and growing light,
In this season of waiting, kindle in us the courage to slow down, the patience to breathe deeply, and the trust to believe that You are already at work in the shadows.
As each candle is lit, may our hearts burn with expectation, our minds rest in Your timing, and our lives reflect the gentle glow of your coming love.
Keep us steady, keep us hopeful, and keep us from setting the Advent wreath on fire.
Amen