One of the best-kept secrets of parish ministry is this: while priests spend their lives trying to teach people about God, it is very often the people themselves who are the better teachers. If you want to know something about grace, about mercy, about what it looks like to live faithfully in the middle of an ordinary Tuesday, don’t look to a dusty theological tome—come sit in a parish hall during coffee hour. There, between the questionable egg-salad sandwiches and the bottomless urn of coffee strong enough to power a locomotive, you will find real theology at work.
I have parishioners who pray with a quiet steadfastness that makes me blush at my own wandering attention span. Some pray as naturally as they breathe, while I, on certain days, seem to require a small theological crowbar to pry myself into the Daily Office. They have taught me that prayer isn’t about performance—it’s about presence. God does not grade us on eloquence, only on willingness.
I’ve learned about forgiveness from people who, by every worldly measure, had every right to hold a grudge. Yet they set it down, quietly, like putting away a heavy winter coat in spring. Watching them, I have realized that God’s mercy is not just a sermon theme—it is alive, embodied, and stubbornly resilient.
Parishioners have taught me patience too—though perhaps not in the way you think. You see, nothing tests one’s sanctification quite like a parish AGM. I have watched people of good will debate the colour of the new carpet with such fervour that I half-expected the Council of Nicaea to be recalled to settle the matter. And yet, in those moments of chaos, I learned something profound: God’s Spirit somehow weaves even our fussing and fuming into a community. Holiness can indeed survive Robert’s Rules of Order.
And then there is humour. Parish life is full of it, though often unintentionally. I once had a parishioner who told me, in deadly seriousness, that she would continue attending church “so long as it did not interfere with her golf game.” I suspect God chuckled at that one, and perhaps rearranged a tee time or two to remind her of Sunday’s true calling. Humour, I have discovered, is a holy thing. It keeps us humble, it keeps us human, and it reminds us that joy is not optional in the Kingdom of God.
Perhaps the greatest lesson I’ve learned from parishioners is this: God’s grace shows up most clearly in ordinary lives. In those who bring casseroles to grieving families. In those who arrive early to make the coffee, even when no one thanks them. In those who simply keep showing up, Sunday after Sunday, carrying their doubts, their hopes, and their faith as best they can.
So while I might be the one who wears the collar, it is often my parishioners who are the true preachers. They reveal God to me in ways that no seminary syllabus ever could. They remind me that the Christian life isn’t about perfection—it’s about persistence. And if along the way we laugh, we quarrel over carpet colours, and we sometimes mistake golf for a spiritual discipline—well, perhaps that too is part of the divine lesson plan.
Because, in the end, God is not found in grand pronouncements or thunderous revelations nearly so often as in the small, persistent acts of faith carried out by ordinary saints. And for that, I am endlessly grateful to the people who have taught me far more about God than I could ever hope to teach them.
A Companion Prayer
Gracious and Loving God,
we give you thanks for the quiet saints in our midst—
those who teach us to pray,
those who show us mercy,
those who embody patience, humour, and love.
Through casseroles, conversations, and even carpet debates,
you reveal your presence among your people.
Bless all who gather in your name,
that we may continue to learn from one another,
to grow in faith,
and to laugh often on the journey.
Through Christ our Lord. Amen.