The Holy Work of November
There is something wonderfully unhurried about November.
October arrives wearing colour and making an entrance. December is already standing impatiently in the wings with lights, carols, shopping lists, and enough cinnamon to overwhelm a small nation. But November seems content simply to be November.
The leaves have mostly finished their great annual performance. The garden has given up pretending anything more is going to happen. The lawn mower has been put away with the solemnity normally reserved for the burial of a minor relative. And here in Ontario, we begin the annual theological debate about whether it is too early to put on the winter tires.
November does not seem particularly interested in impressing anybody.
And perhaps that is why I rather like it.
We have come through the great celebrations of All Saints and All Souls. We have remembered the faithful who walked before us. We have spoken their names, told their stories, lit candles, and reminded ourselves that the Church is considerably larger than the people presently occupying the pews.
And now we walk toward Christ the King.
But we are not there yet.
We are living in the space between remembrance and proclamation.
And the Church, in her wisdom, does not hurry us through it.
God Seems Surprisingly Unconcerned About Our Schedule
This may be one of the more difficult lessons of faith.
God is not in a hurry.
We are.
We have schedules, calendars, deadlines, notifications, appointments, reminders, and little electronic devices that chirp at us whenever we have failed to remember something that another electronic device told us to remember yesterday.
We have developed remarkable technology largely so that we can accomplish things more quickly and therefore have additional time in which to complain that we have no time.
God, meanwhile, appears entirely unimpressed.
Seeds still grow at approximately the speed of seeds.
Children become adults one day at a time.
Grief refuses to observe office hours.
Forgiveness cannot be downloaded.
Wisdom stubbornly declines to arrive by express delivery.
And the Kingdom of God continues to emerge in the world with all the alarming efficiency of yeast working its way through dough.
Jesus seemed perfectly comfortable with this.
Again and again, when he spoke about God’s Kingdom, he described things that required time.
Seeds.
Vines.
Fig trees.
Bread rising.
Crops growing.
Shepherds searching.
People waiting.
Apparently, Jesus never developed a parable about next-day shipping.
The Spiritual Life Has Seasons
Perhaps November reminds us that not every season of faith is meant to produce something visible.
There are seasons when faith blossoms.
There are seasons when faith bears fruit.
There are seasons when everything seems alive with possibility.
And then there are seasons when the spiritual landscape looks suspiciously like a November garden.
Bare.
Quiet.
Apparently doing nothing.
But gardeners know better.
The soil is not dead.
The tree is not finished.
The bulb beneath the ground has not abandoned hope.
Life has simply gone somewhere deeper.
And perhaps sometimes God invites us to do the same.
There are moments when the most faithful thing we can do is stop trying to manufacture spiritual excitement and allow our roots to deepen.
Prayer becomes quieter.
Faith becomes less dramatic.
The questions become more honest.
We stop trying to impress God.
Which, frankly, must come as something of a relief to God.
The Saints Knew Something About This
We have just spent days remembering saints.
It is tempting to imagine them as people who spent every waking moment ablaze with spiritual enthusiasm.
Most did not.
They waited.
They doubted.
They struggled.
They prayed when prayer felt fruitful and when prayer felt like speaking into an empty room.
They continued when nothing seemed to be happening.
Holiness is rarely dramatic.
Most holiness consists of showing up again tomorrow.
Making the meal.
Saying the prayer.
Visiting the lonely person.
Forgiving the difficult neighbour.
Keeping the promise.
Giving something away.
Beginning again.
The Kingdom of God has always depended rather heavily upon people doing ordinary things faithfully.
History remembers the cathedral.
God remembers the person who washed the dishes after the parish supper.
Christ the King Is Coming
Soon the Church year will reach its great conclusion.
We will stand before Christ the King and proclaim that the deepest authority in creation belongs not to emperors, presidents, armies, markets, corporations, or whatever person currently has the loudest microphone.
Christ reigns.
But the King toward whom we are walking is a peculiar king.
He has no palace.
His throne is a cross.
His crown is made of thorns.
His army consists largely of people carrying casseroles into church basements.
And his kingdom advances not through domination but through mercy.
Which means that these quiet November days are actually excellent preparation.
Because Christ’s Kingdom usually arrives quietly.
Someone forgives.
Someone shares.
Someone listens.
Someone refuses to hate.
Someone sits beside a hospital bed.
Someone welcomes a stranger.
Someone decides that another human being is worth loving.
No trumpets.
No banners.
No breaking news.
Just the Kingdom of God slipping quietly into the world again.
Perhaps Nothing Is Happening
There are moments in life when we look around and think nothing is happening.
The prayer has not been answered.
The situation has not changed.
The grief remains.
The future is unclear.
The Church does not suddenly become full.
The problem has not resolved itself.
We would very much like God to get on with things.
And perhaps November whispers:
Wait.
Not because nothing is happening.
But because some of God’s deepest work happens where we cannot yet see it.
Roots grow in darkness.
Seeds open underground.
Wounds heal slowly.
Hearts soften almost imperceptibly.
Grace works without announcing itself.
The Kingdom comes quietly.
The Grace of Going Slowly
So perhaps today we do not need another great spiritual achievement.
Perhaps we need simply to walk.
To pray.
To notice.
To trust.
To do the next faithful thing.
We do not have to arrive at Christ the King today.
The calendar will get us there soon enough.
For now, we are allowed to inhabit this strange and beautiful November space between the saints and the King.
The saints have reminded us where we come from.
Christ the King will remind us where everything is going.
And here, between them, we simply keep walking.
Slowly.
Faithfully.
Hopefully.
Because God is not finished.
The garden may look empty.
The trees may look bare.
The world may seem uncertain.
But somewhere beneath the surface, grace is already preparing spring.
And God, as usual, seems perfectly content to take God’s time.
Perhaps we might learn to do the same.
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Companion Prayer
A Prayer for the Slow Work of Grace
God of seed and soil,
of autumn fields and wintering trees,
teach us to trust what we cannot yet see.
When we become impatient for answers,
remind us that grace does not always hurry.
When we fear that nothing is happening,
give us faith to believe that roots are growing
beneath the surface.
When prayer seems quiet,
when the road seems long,
when the future remains uncertain,
keep us faithful in the small things:
in kindness offered,
in forgiveness attempted,
in meals shared,
in promises kept,
in neighbours loved,
and in prayers whispered when we have no better words.
As we journey from the company of the saints
toward the reign of Christ our King,
teach us to recognize your Kingdom
in all its quiet arrivals.
Give us patience for this season,
courage for this day,
and trust enough to take
the next faithful step.
For you are still at work,
even when the garden looks empty.
Through Jesus Christ,
whose Kingdom comes among us
in mercy, love, and grace.
Amen.