Be patient, therefore, beloved, until the coming of the Lord. The farmer waits for the precious crop from the earth, being patient with it until it receives the early and the late rains. You also must be patient. — James 5:7-8a.
Behold, the Biblical model of patience: the farmer, leaning contentedly on his hoe, simply waiting for the rain. Now, ask any child what “patience” means during Advent, and they will stare at you blankly before asking, for the 47th time this morning, “Is it time to decorate the tree? Or, does Santa know the specific model iPhone I need?”
For the rest of us, Advent is hardly a season of contemplative stillness. Shopping is less an act of patience and more a tactical battlefield where we fight another person for the last roll of wrapping paper or the sweater your wife told you to get last fall. There are a million other things one must do before that wonderful, chaotic day arrives.
When James tells us to be patient, he’s not advocating for us to channel our inner, perpetually-napping grandparent, passively whittling a stick on a porch until the heavens open. Ask a farmer if he just sits idle while he waits for his crops to emerge. He’s not napping; he’s actively fixing the irrigation system, rotating the tractor tires, and staring suspiciously at every cloud formation.
And ask a mother if she’s just quietly knitting on the front porch waiting on the coming of the Lord. Hardly. She is performing the Olympic sport of untangling 400 LED lights, calculating the precise moment the turkey must exit the freezer, and managing a household full of high-energy “enthusiasm.” Her patience is not passive resignation; it is a tense, highly caffeinated energy reserved for surviving the season.
The beautiful truth is that God’s patience is always active, purposeful, and directed toward a promised outcome. When James suggests we imitate the farmer, he isn’t suggesting we be idle; he’s suggesting the contrary. We are called to prepare the ground, sow the seeds of kindness, and actively cultivate our hearts—even if our hands are currently covered in glitter and cookie dough. True patience is the quiet, sustained work we do while waiting for the promise to fully emerge.
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