It
seems we spent an awful lot of our childhood waiting. Maybe it’s an
essential part of being a kid. We waited in line, we waited our turn, we were
told to wait until we were asked. We had to wait until someone bigger or older
got something for us. And sometimes it was really hard to be patient waiting for
Christmas or your birthday, but you had to.
Waiting
is part of powerlessness, poverty, littleness. Perhaps we thought that when we
grew up, with a car and some money, we’d be able to call the shots, we’d be big
and we wouldn’t have to wait anymore. But soon and much better, with friendship
and love, waiting became expectation, hope, attentiveness and sometimes a
fluttering heart. For when you’re waiting for someone you love, the waiting is
worth it, the waiting itself is delicious; desire trumps the tedium, desire
lets us embrace the powerlessness that’s always part of loving someone. That’s
when the waiting, the desire becomes itself possession.
It’s
always worth waiting for someone you can’t wait to see; it can make you high
for weeks, sustain you in difficulty, holding in dream and desire one whom you
love and hope to be reunited with. We think of soldiers at war gazing at photos.
As monks we’re made to live with that kind of high expectation. Somehow we wait
as we pray; our praying is our waiting. It’s what we came for. And with loving
expectation, the waiting, the desiring is itself the reward. We’re meant to
live in incessant desire and vigilance for a Someone supremely worth our
waiting. Desire is possession. “Be like servants who await their master’s return from
a wedding,” Jesus says to us this morning. And he seems to be depending
on our attention, desiring our desire for him.
Excerpts from this morning's homily.
