“…and He prunes every branch that produces fruit so that it will produce more fruit… My Father is glorified by this: that you produce much fruit and prove to be my disciples.” John 15:2b, 8

We gather from far-off places — from distant cities, across months and years, from contrasting denominations, practices, and personalities — together in this small room of the church. We are like the soldiers from different regiments of the same army, weary and with busted-up hearts and injuries from the line of duty, having traveled over rough and hostile terrain to counsel together with the Commander. Sometimes there are a handful of us, sometimes only two, a remnant that hasn’t left off watching.

We’ve come to pray, and we’ve come to wait.

Often sitting in this little room, surrounded on the outside by the bustling youth ministries and choir practices, but internally the only other witnesses to each other’s hidden hearts alongside the King of heaven, can feel a bit confounding. Are we the only ones left? Are we the only ones who still care? Are the other troops off fighting more important battles? 

This is waiting; this is the pause in breath at the bottom of an exhale, the day between death and resurrection, the field left fallow for a season. This is stillness, characteristic of Yahweh throughout the whole of Scripture. He is the God who meets with a solitary man in the visage of a burning bush, the invisible passage on the wind, the still, small voice. He set the example through the Christ, who silently wrote unknown words in the sand, for a few eyes or for His Father’s only, who often retreated alone to pray, who stood before His accusers without commotion.

We have had grand visions, big ideas and glorious, kingdom-bringing plans. We have imagined ourselves as warrior-leaders at the helm of revivals. We have long considered the reason we were made, our purpose for being here, our passions and giftings.

Sometimes, God confounds us.

We end up in small rooms, in small groups, in quiet, still, small voices asking, “How long?” If we are being honest, this is not where we thought we would be by now. The remnant of God’s people have been wrestling with that question for ages.

God may use the same shears to cut down and cast off as He does to prune and pare back. It can feel hauntingly similar. As His children, His disciples, we can rest in His tender gardening. We may have been bearing fruit, and now it seems that everyone has left and there is nothing to show for it. But he prunes that which bears fruit so that it can bear more fruit.

And this is His promise: He is glorified when we bear much fruit.

We light another signal fire, we plant another seed, and we wait expectantly.

Still, small. Silent.