I thought that for the next couple of days I might reflect on the ordinary, everyday realities of parish ministry — the kind of things that never make it into the seminary prospectus, but which, in their way, are just as sacramental as anything that happens at the altar.
Take this past Tuesday, for example.
Tuesdays are always busy in our parish office. The doors open for the first time after Sunday, and it seems that every parishioner, committee, and well-meaning soul decides it is the ideal moment to descend with their bit of urgent business. If I ever need a test case for the doctrine of original sin, Tuesdays will do nicely.
But this particular Tuesday had an added wrinkle: it was also the day of our Community Supper. That means one hundred or so neighbours arriving hungry and, God willing, leaving full—not only of food but of fellowship. And, as if that weren’t enough, I had promised to provide the gluten-free French bread. Now, promising bread is easy; baking gluten-free French bread is another matter altogether. Especially when you’ve never done it before and suddenly discover your kitchen lacks several crucial implements. My kitchen, it turns out, was equipped to make toast but not bread of such ambition. So, new pans, flour blends, and thermometers were acquired, and the oven stood ready like a soldier on the eve of battle.
But then came the wasps.
It seems that a particularly industrious colony of yellow-jackets had decided to build a summer residence inside the church wall, with a convenient vent serving as their front door. They were pouring in and out as though attending their own kind of community supper, albeit with considerably more buzzing. Someone pointed out that a hundred folks arriving for a supper and an equal number of angry wasps made for a less-than-ideal dinner party. I imagined the headlines: “Community Supper Ends in Stinging Defeat.”
And so I remembered the words from my ordination service. They are noble words, full of grandeur: preaching the Word, administering the Sacraments, caring for the flock of Christ. And then comes that little line at the end — easy to miss unless you’re paying attention: “…and other duties as may from time to time be given you.”
Other duties.
Which is how I found myself, in full clerical dignity, armed with a can of insecticide in the church parking lot, waging a war of extermination against a buzzing enemy. My black clerical suit was not designed for this kind of combat, nor do I think St. Paul had wasps in mind when he spoke of “principalities and powers.” But there I was, engaged in wholesale slaughter, wondering how it all squared with the vows of love, care, and the sanctity of creation.
Ministry is like that. One moment you’re preparing bread for the hungry, the next you’re dispatching wasps for their safety. Servanthood is seldom neat, and holiness rarely comes wrapped in a tidy package. Sometimes it comes with flour on your hands, sometimes with wasp spray.
And perhaps that’s the deeper lesson. The Kingdom of God is not built on the grand gestures alone but on the small, strange, and sometimes absurd acts of service that keep people safe, fed, and cared for. If Jesus washed feet, then surely there is room in the holy work of the Church for the occasional battle against wasps.
Besides, if heaven does hand out second chances—as I firmly believe it does—I trust the wasps are now in a better place, buzzing happily, far from my parish hall.
Amen.
Prayer
Gracious and patient God,
you call us to serve you not only in the pulpit and at the altar,
but also in the kitchen, the office, and even the parking lot with a can of insect spray.
Grant us joy in the ordinary, courage in the unexpected,
and faithfulness in the tasks that never make it into the ordination vows.
As bread rises and wasps swarm,
remind us that your grace holds us steady,
that no labour done in love is ever wasted,
and that you are present even in the busiest Tuesday.
Bless the meals we share,
the people we welcome,
and the quiet, unnoticed duties that build your Kingdom.
Through Jesus Christ our Servant Lord. Amen.