Sunday, December 3: The Candle of Hope

I love slowly shifting the autumn decorations in my home—focused on gratitude and harvest—to candles and pine. The Advent wreath comes out first. The Advent wreath was not part of the spiritual tradition in which I was raised, but I have embraced it wholeheartedly.

The first candle, lit today, is the candle of hope.

I have learned that waiting, when accompanied by hope, transforms not only the experience, but also the self.

Usually waiting, at its best, is accompanied by optimism—but that optimism is focused on a specific outcome, and risks disappointment when the outcome does not materialize. Sometimes, waiting is accompanied by a guilt-ridden longing because the thing we’re waiting for is not something that will actually feed our souls.

Optimism and longing are not bad in and of themselves. If anything, they are our common humanity, part of the fabric on which we stitch our stories.

But if we can hold our optimism and longing in the light, we will be able to see them for what they are. Sometimes, what we want is something to fill a hole that can only be filled by Connection to the Larger Story. We can then see what it is we ought to hope—and wait—for, and how to be less attached to the outcome.

At its worst, waiting is accompanied by fear, hopelessness, and anger. There is much to fear in these times. We are surrounded by stories of unjust laws that deepen poverty, oppression, and violence. It came seem senseless to wait hopefully for justice when there is so much to do. And yet, when we do, do, do, and nothing changes fast enough, we find ourselves slumping into hopelessness.--What’s the point?—or an anger so all-consuming that we find ourselves fueled by what is wrong rather than by a deep hope that we can make it right. Again, these emotions are not "wrong"--it is what we do with them that matters.

My initial resistance to the word “wait,” when it came to me as my word of the year, was rooted in a cycle of over-doing, then crashing—a pattern I have experienced for much of my life. I am proud of the social justice work I’ve done, but I am also aware, looking back, that there were times when attending to my inner life would have ultimately made that work more effective.

Still, waiting sounds so passive, and how could I be passive in these times? But in time I learned to ask another question: how dare I overdo it in these times, and risk not being able to be present when I am most needed?

Waiting, when accompanied by hope, is about preparing for right action, action that is rooted in love and not fear, anger, and hopelessness. It is about sitting with fear, anger, and hopelessness and really listening to what they have to teach us. It is about replacing a longing for that which does not feed us, or an optimism that does not go deep enough, with a willingness to be empty and open, no matter what comes. If we make a spiritual practice of waiting—holding that empty manger, emptying our own heart-spaces—we feel everything, hold it all in love, and find our way through. And then, we are ready.