"The Work of Waiting" - 12/02/2025

Last Sunday, the sanctuary of Vincent United Methodist Church was transformed. After worship, dozens of volunteers remained, their hands busy with garlands and ribbons, evergreen boughs and crimson fabric. Together, they adorned the space where we gather each week, preparing it for the season of Advent and Christmas. This labor of love was not merely decoration but an embodiment of the theme woven through Sunday's message: expectant waiting. As these faithful servants worked side by side, they enacted the very posture of Advent—preparing, anticipating, making ready a place for the One who comes.


Scripture
"Therefore keep watch, because you do not know on what day your Lord will come." — Matthew 24:42  NIV
"But if we hope for what we do not yet have, we wait for it patiently." — Romans 8:25  NIV


Reflection
There is a particular quality to the silence that follows a Sunday service when most have departed, and a faithful remnant remains. The sanctuary, moments ago filled with voices raised in song and prayer, now holds a different kind of sacred energy. Hands reach for boxes stored away since last January. Ladders are positioned. Greenery is unfurled. The work begins.

This work is not hurried. It cannot be. Each bough must be positioned just so. Each ribbon is tied with care. The volunteers move with purpose but without anxiety, knowing that beauty requires patience, that preparation is itself a kind of prayer. They are making the space ready, not because the space is insufficient as it is, but because readiness is a posture of hope.

Advent invites us into this same paradox. We wait for what has already come. We prepare for the arrival of One who never left. We watch for a dawn that broke two thousand years ago and yet breaks each morning anew. The waiting is not passive resignation but active expectation, hands busy with the work of preparing our hearts as altars, our lives as sanctuaries.

Consider the evergreen bough. In the depth of winter, when so much appears dead or dormant, the evergreen remains verdant, alive, faithful to its nature. It does not force spring to arrive early. It does not abandon hope because the cold persists. It simply remains what it is, green and growing, trusting the rhythm of seasons beyond its control. So too the people of God wait, not in despair at what is not yet, but in quiet confidence that what has been promised will surely come to pass.

The color red adorns the sanctuary now, a visual proclamation. Red for the blood that would be spilled in love. Red for the passion of divine self-giving. Red for the cost of incarnation. Even in our preparation for the gentle arrival of a baby in Bethlehem, we cannot escape the trajectory of the story. The manger points to the cross. The swaddling cloths prefigure burial linens. We wait for joy, yes, but also for the kind of love that transforms through sacrifice.

There is something profoundly communal about this waiting. The volunteers did not work in isolation. They handed each other supplies, steadied ladders, consulted on placement, shared laughter, and purpose. Advent reminds us that expectant waiting is not a solitary endeavor. We watch together. We hope in concert. We prepare as one body, each contributing what we can, trusting that our small offerings, woven together, create something beautiful.

What are we waiting for, really? Not merely a holiday or a season. Not simply the commemoration of an ancient birth. We wait for the fullness of God's kingdom to break into our weary world. We wait for justice to roll down like waters and righteousness like an ever-flowing stream. We wait for swords to be beaten into plowshares and for the wolf to dwell with the lamb. We wait for every tear to be wiped away and for death itself to be swallowed up in victory.

And while we wait, we work. We prepare. We adorn the ordinary spaces of our lives with signs and symbols of hope. We tie ribbons of kindness. We string garlands of generosity. We light candles of prayer. We do this not because our efforts will hasten the coming of God's kingdom, but because in the act of preparation, we align ourselves with God's purposes. We declare with our hands and hearts that we believe something is coming, Someone is coming, and we want to be ready.

The sanctuary now glows with anticipation. The greens and reds speak a language older than words. They say: we are a people who hope. We are a community that believes the best is yet to come. We are those who keep watch, even in the night, trusting that morning will surely arrive.

May we each become sanctuaries adorned with expectant hope, spaces made ready for the indwelling of divine love.


Prayer
God of Advent seasons and patient unfolding, we thank You for the gift of waiting. Teach us to prepare our hearts as those volunteers prepared our sanctuary with care, with hope, with hands willing to work and spirits willing to trust. As we move through these days of anticipation, help us to remain evergreen in faith, vibrant in hope, and alive to the possibility of Your coming.
May our lives be adorned with the beauty of expectant love. In the name of the One who came, who comes, and who will come again, we pray. Amen.