There’s a phrase we use when we’re not sure about the outcome of something. We’ll see, we say. Would you like to join us for dinner this weekend? you ask a friend. We’ll see, they say. Read between the lines: I’m holding out for a better offer, and if that doesn’t work out, then maybe I’ll accept your invitation. We’ll see. It’s a frustrating response, which expresses neither hope for the future nor an unqualified no. It’s aggravating in its noncommittal status. Maybe that will happen, or maybe it won’t. We’ll see.
If any phrase can sum up the season of Advent, it’s we’ll see. Every year at this time, we’re told to wait. And I don’t mean waiting for Jesus to come at Christmas. We know that will happen, and we know when that will happen. I don’t mean the waiting for Christ’s Second Coming, either. We know that will happen even if we don’t know when. It’s the daily waiting that’s the most frustrating. We’ll see. We’ll see if that job is offered to us. We’ll see if the cancer will go into remission. We’ll see if the money holds out for another month. We’ll see if those nations will actually turn their swords into ploughshares. We’ll see.
The present is the most difficult time in which to live. And so, it often helps to look back. I recently had such an experience. I was waiting with impatience and frustration for the next move in my life. And the waiting was hard. It was hard for me to give up control. It was hard for me not to know what would happen in a few months’ time. In some sense, that experience felt like an exile, a time of loneliness and separation from the comfort of knowing. I was in a wilderness of insecurity and desperately longing for security. I was confronted with a large, exasperating we’ll see.
And then, amid the barren desert through which I traveled, I spied a crocus. If I understand crocuses correctly, their stems are largely underground, and the flowers grow close to the ground. So, when crocuses blossom, they’re a surprise. This is what it was like for me recently when in my wilderness wandering, searching for some sign of hope, a violet crocus sprang up before me in a monolithic wasteland devoid of color.
It wasn’t a literal crocus, of course. It was a word passed on to me by a loved one. “I had an overwhelming sense the other night,” she said, “that everything is going to be okay. God is going to take care of you. It’s hard to wait, but if you wait, you will not be disappointed.”
It’s not that I didn’t know this before those words were uttered. I knew this deep in my heart, but it was so difficult to trust my own heart. I needed a visible sign, a crocus in the desert, telling me, “Be strong, do not fear! God will come and save you.” Those encouraging words reassured me that my time of exile had a shelf life. At some point—and only God knows when—a straight, direct highway would be paved through the lonely desert, and I would return home.
Chapter 35 of the Book of Isaiah not only mentions that the desert shall rejoice and blossom like a crocus, as if on a whim and as a surprise. Isaiah 35 is a metaphorical crocus in this vast prophetic book. You don’t need to know that chapter 35 probably dates from the time of the Babylonian exile, but it helps to know this. A chapter from centuries later is plopped down into an earlier chapter to give hope. No sooner is chapter 35 finished than we’re told that the king of Assyria, in the eight century BC, came into the land of Judah to capture them. This is long before the Babylonian exile, but it’s a blow to God’s people. God’s people are about to move into a wild desert, with little comfort and with a lot of fear. Chapter 35 is a crocus in the desert, telling God’s people not to give up.
The author of chapter 35 knows something that the people in the eighth century BC didn’t know. The author is writing from a vantage point of exile, centuries later. But the author knows that the story is not over. Not we’ll see, but you’ll see, he says. God isn’t finished with you yet. God will not leave you in exile, fear, and distress. God will bring you home. You’ll see, not we’ll see. Just wait.
Isaiah 35 is like a crocus in the desert, reiterating the promise made throughout the generations to God’s people. You’ll see God’s loving hand. It’s the promise made to Noah and his family on the ark, a promise that God would never again destroy the beloved creatures made in his image. You’ll see. It’s the promise made to Abraham and Sarah, that they would indeed see the beginning of a long line of descendants who would be a blessing to the ends of the earth. You’ll see. It’s the promise made to the Israelites in Egypt, as they labored under Pharaoh’s cruel oppression. You’ll see. It’s the promise made to them in their wilderness wanderings as they journeyed to the Promised Land. When the food ran out, manna appeared, like crocuses in the vast desert. You’ll see. And finally, it’s the promise made to God’s people as they saw their Lord hanging on a cross. On the barren wood of that cross, a crocus would spring forth in new life, a new creation, as Jesus was raised from the dead. This isn’t we’ll see, but you’ll see. It’s a definite promise. We may not know the hour it will happen, but we know it will happen because God has always been faithful.
This crocus of hope springs up before John the Baptist in his imprisonment. “Are you the one who is to come, or are we to wait for another?” he asks Jesus. In reply, Jesus urges him to look for the crocuses. See that the blind receive their sight, that the lame walk, that those with skin diseases are cleansed, that the deaf hear, that the dead are raised, and that the poor have good news brought to them. Look for the crocuses. Not we’ll see or even you’ll see but behold, now among you, the visible signs of the kingdom of heaven are springing up.
It’s only natural that amid the desert, we might long for things to be different. I have certainly asked myself, why God couldn’t let me know exactly what the plan is for my future. Surely, we continue to ask why the weapons of war haven’t been put down or the shootings don’t stop, or why refugees still wander the earth looking for safety, or why those with plenty don’t have more concern for those who constantly go without. We’ll see, seems to be the implicit answer, and it might very well anger us.
But unlike God’s people looking for crocuses in the desert of the eighth and sixth centuries BC, we know something that can change our perspective. We know that on a barren cross, new life sprang up in glory. We know that the anticipated Messiah has come, and that his coming was both unexpected and misunderstood. We know that our salvation didn’t come through military might or a heavy-handed transformation of deserts into places of rejoicing. We know that our Messiah, the One who has come, is coming, and will come again, appears in our lives in a different way, bringing hope.
We know that we can’t truly meet him except in the deserts of our lives. We must find him in the thirsty places and in the parched lands, for there we will find him in those who suffer. We must find Christ in our own loneliness and despair because Jesus knew those very places himself, and a disciple isn’t greater than the master. We must search for Christ among the homeless, for Christ was once homeless, too. We must be brave enough to go into the deep darkness, for Christ is the Light of the world that came intentionally into the world’s darkness.
God’s message is not we’ll see but you’ll see. It will happen. Christ will come again. Christ will meet us in our worst moments and loneliest exiles. The way of the cross is one of self-denial, discipline, and self-sacrifice. But God doesn’t leave us comfortless. For the Holy Spirit comes, daily, strewing crocuses along the way, signs of hope and reassurance that the story isn’t yet finished. Not only us, but all of creation will come alive when this King comes to reign. The wilderness and the dry land shall be glad; the desert shall rejoice and blossom. We shall see the glory of the Lord, the majesty of our God. And so, on the way, through the desert, we go. But for now, we must be content to wait, trust, and always keep our eyes open, constantly looking for crocuses.
Sermon by Father Kyle Babin
The Third Sunday of Advent
December 14, 2025