I wait for the Lord, my whole being waits,
and in his word I put my hope.
I wait for the Lord
more than watchmen wait for the morning,
more than watchmen wait for the morning.
Psalm 130:5-6 

I’ve been trying to develop my meditation practice this year. The science is clear that meditation improves mood, decreases stress, increases attention span, even increases creativity. Contemplative practices have been a staple of Christian spirituality for thousands of years, as a way to encounter God and our deep self. There are a hundred good reasons to learn to meditate.

And yet, predictably, practicing meditation has not been going well. It is just too still for me.

Sitting still makes me uncomfortable. I’d rather be doing something. When I’m sitting still, I notice everything out of place — my ankle pushed against the wood floor, the too-dry air sucking into my nose, the so-loud music from my neighbor’s apartment. My mind whirls. When I stop moving, all I can think of is what needs to be done.

This is a hard inner voice to resist, because it seems so reasonable. There is always just so much to be done. Injustice is everywhere and the work is never-ending. When we look at the suffering of the world, being still feels like a sin. How can we justify stopping, resting, breathing, waiting?

Into this anxiety and restless busyness, the liturgical year invites us into the holy waiting of Advent.

Into a culture that prioritizes productivity over presence, Advent invites us to believe that we have value even when we are still. Into a culture that tells us if we don’t do it, it won’t get done, Advent asks us to stop working for a season. God is going to do a new thing, and all we have to do is wait.

There is a time for everything, Ecclesiastes reminds us, and the liturgical year leads us through this sacred time that runs alongside secular time — through a time to feast, a time to fast, a time to repent, a time to be forgiven. Yes, there is time to work alongside God bringing in the redemption of the world. And there is also a time to stop working, to sit and be still. It’s tempting to say that the “sitting still” is just a preparation for the work, but it would make just as much sense to say that the work is preparation for sitting still. Neither the steady work of Ordinary Time or the patient waiting of Advent is more important.

During Advent, the waiting is the work. 

The work that happens in stillness is echoed by the seasonal shift from fall to winter. When the earth rests in the winter, it’s not non-productive. In death, the earth is waiting for resurrection. In stillness, the earth is replenishing. In waiting, the earth works.  

It is an act of humility and trust to stop moving and fixing and tending and meddling. In Advent, we acknowledge that there are forces at work beyond our own heady dreams of fixing the world. We admit that even when we stop, God still works. We put down our tools and put down our pride, and wait for the morning that God always brings in.

***

As we wrestle with our anxiety and impatience and the difficulties of learning to be still, it’s important to be gentle with ourselves. Waiting is hard because our culture has worked tirelessly to disciple us into the myth that life’s meaning is tied to our productivity. The world has taught us to be unsatisfied and to always strive for more – to be more, have more, get more, do more, fix more. Unlearning that is hard work, and it takes practice. 

No one has taught us that the work goes on, even when we are still. No one has ever taught us that God can break into the world even when we have stopped working.

It's hard work to train ourselves to sit still and wait for the sunrise, instead of bustling around trying to make the sun do its thing. But practicing stillness is so important because it teaches us to decenter ourselves in the story of redemption. We remember how small we are. We remember that we do not run the world. We don’t control as much as we wish. The sun will rise in the morning whether we bustle or not.

And practicing stillness is so important because in this pandemic winter of 2020, everyone’s most important vocation is to be still and wait.

Whether we are essential workers, working from home, unemployed, corralling our kids’ education and mental health, or some combination of these – we are all being called to wait this winter. We are being asked to wait to hug the people we love. We are waiting to write in coffee shops, waiting to eat at our favorite tavern, waiting to fly to see the ocean we love, waiting to run races and go to book signings. We are waiting to be able to work safely outside of the home. We are waiting with aching hearts to visit our family. We are waiting with aching souls to worship together in our sacred spaces.  

It’s very hard to feel like it’s productive work to stay inside drinking tea, trying not to let seasonal depression clog up our souls. Does this stillness matter? Can we survive it? In the stillness, does God still work?  

But the stillness is exactly what will save our neighbors’ lives. This winter, the waiting is the work. This winter, the most important way that we can love our neighbor is to practice stillness.

This winter, we practice Advent as an act of love and an act of hope – hope that this too shall pass. 

Advent teaches us how to wait and be still, because in the rhythms of the church year, just like in the rhythms of the seasons and the rhythms of night and day – the darkness and cold is not forever. Winter always moves to spring. Night always shifts to day. The loneliness of Advent always gives way to the God with us, Immanuel, of Christmas.

In this dark night where we cannot force the sun up into the sky, where we cannot wish the night to end faster, where we have no control and no power and only this aching loneliness and fear and anger that makes it so hard to sit still – the Psalmist reminds us that the night will pass. “I wait for the Lord,” the anonymous poet sings, “more than watchmen wait for the morning, more than watchmen wait for the morning.” Like the watchman, there is nothing we can do to speed up time. And like the watchman, we know that no matter how long the night feels, there is always morning on the other side.

Advent helps us practice stillness. Advent teaches us to trust that the sun is always going to rise, that the night never goes on forever, that into dark long periods of history - God comes.

Every time.