When Watering, Watching, and Waiting Feel Far Too Slow
Crucial to discipleship to Jesus is remaining in Jesus. As he makes clear, our ability to bear fruit is contingent upon our remaining in him. Discipleship to Jesus begins by staying put with him, dwelling in his hospitable grace. The Christian life is a journey home to Christ. This is what discipleship looks like.
Yet, remaining in Jesus is one of the great challenges his followers face in the digital age, because remaining—dwelling, making Christ our home—feels unnatural and unnerving. In a culture that values immediate success and instant achievement, watering, watching, and waiting feel far too slow. But when Jesus tells us that he is the vine and we are the branches, what else could it mean but that we are to allow time to do its work?
We have an orange tree in our front yard. The branches bear fruit, but it takes a while. The buds begin to develop in early winter and grow slowly into the spring. By summer, the tree finally begins to bear some fruit worth eating. All told, oranges can take between six and twelve months to grow ripe. It’s a long process of remaining connected to the life-giving tree. Growth happens in seasons, not seconds (or minutes, hours, or days). So it is with the Christian life.
In his book A Hidden Wholeness, Parker Palmer explains the seasons of the Christian journey with great insight and skill, revealing the necessity of patience throughout. They are also echoed by certain seasons of the Christian church calendar, a reminder in time that the journey unfolds over time and time cannot be sped up (or slowed down).
First comes fall. Here, “the seeds of possibility planted with such hope . . . must eventually endure winter, when the potential to be carried at birth appears to be dead and gone.” As we follow Jesus, there are often moments of disappointment and letdown. This is when inspiration runs dry, motivation wanes, and we wonder if the work is worth it. It’s a season of questioning. On the Christian calendar, the Ordinary Time leading up to Advent feels a bit like fall. Waiting, wondering, questioning; all the while, the seeds of renewal are slowly growing beneath, in the darkness of the ground below.
Then comes winter. This is when it seems that much of “life has died, of course. But much of it has gone underground, into hibernation, awaiting a season of renewal and rebirth.” This is what St. John of the Cross called the dark night of the soul. In winter we experience the temptation to stop remaining, to no longer make Christ our home. But Palmer reminds us, “Winter invites us to name whatever feels dead in us, to wonder whether it might in fact be dormant—and to ask how we can help it, and ourselves, ‘winter through.’” On the Christian calendar, winter is represented by Lent, which begins with Ash Wednesday, when we embrace our expectation of death and commit to enduring, knowing that Resurrection is coming. It is dark here, but again, we winter-through.
Eventually, even the dead of winter gives way to spring. This is when “we realize once again that despite our perennial doubts, winter’s darkness yields to light and winter’s deaths give rise to new life.” When we remain with Christ long enough, dwelling in his hospitable and loving care, what feels like death always and eventually gives way to new life. Resurrection. This is Christ’s primary work, raising the dead. This is Easter, of course. Resurrection. The restoration and renewal of all things. The wondering and waiting of fall, along with the darkness and death of winter, are swallowed up in the radiance of God’s great rescue. In the digital age especially, our impatience often dissuades from ever arriving at spring.
After fall, winter, and spring, we arrive at summer. This is the “season of abundance and first harvest. . . We look at the abundance that has grown up within us and ask, ‘Whom is this meant to feed? Where am I called to give my gifts?’” The road to summer is long and slow but when we can be patient enough to finally arrive there, our impatience finally gives way to a settled steadiness and the satisfaction of meaningful growth. But not growth only for the sake of self; growth for the sake of others. We find ourselves ready to give ourselves away, to feed those who hunger, to lend our gifts for the sake of others. On the Christian calendar, Pentecost reminds me of summer. The Holy Spirit comes, indwelling every believer, calling us out to the world.
Ted was in his early fifties when I had the privilege of baptizing him. I met with him a week before his baptism, and he shared his story with me. He’d grown up in a Christian home, going to church every Sunday. But he always had doubts. He remained open throughout his life, even wanting Christianity to be true. But he’d never had a real encounter with the risen Christ until now. Near the end of our conversation, with great emotion in his voice, he said, “It took me half a century to get here. But now that I’m here, with Christ, I’m not going anywhere.”
I’m not going anywhere. Ted was committed to remaining. He’d found his way home to Christ. After a lifetime of searching, he’d finally found meaning, purpose, and identity in Jesus. He was here to stay. God had answered his Psalm 27 prayer: “One thing I ask from the LORD, this only do I seek: that I may dwell in the house of the LORD all the days of my life” (v. 4). Ted found what he was seeking, and he was committed now to dwelling in the house of the Lord all the days of his life. It took him fifty years of patient searching—watering, watching, waiting—to arrive. He wasn’t going anywhere. Neither should we.
But leaving has become more than just common in the digital age. Social media is littered with stories of well-known Christians doubting, deconstructing, then eventually denouncing faith altogether. While doubt and deconstruction can be good and necessary parts of the Christian journey, when coupled with our growing impatience, the results are often tragic.
The definition of patience, of longsuffering. This is what the long nose of God means. It was God’s choice to enter into pain, knowing how long he’d have to wait for obstinate, stubborn, and rebellious people like me, and like you. Patience is forgoing the getting and choosing to give.
In the digital age, getting is easy. Most anything you desire is but a scroll, swipe, and click away. An endless assortment of versions to choose from, while you’re at it. But note, I said most anything. The stuff of life that truly matters is never that accessible. And yet, paradoxically, it’s so much more accessible than we can imagine. But it’s found not in the easy and convenient comforts of online life. The things that truly matter—life-giving relationships, the sacrifices that infuse life with meaning, destiny-defining struggles and triumphs—these things and more require patience. They require a willingness to enter into pain and find on the other side a life truly worth living.
Adapted from Analog Christian by Jay Y. Kim Copyright (c) 2022 by Jay Y. Kim. Published by InterVarsity Press, Downers Grove, IL. www.ivpress.com.
Jay Y. Kim serves as the lead pastor at WestGate Church in the Silicon Valley and on the leadership team of the ReGeneration Project. His writing has been featured in Christianity Today, The Gospel Coalition, Missio Alliance, and Relevant Magazine. He lives in Silicon Valley with his wife and two children.