If you had told the newly ordained version of me — thirty-one years ago this St. Andrew’s Day — that ministry would include everything from baptizing babies who later became vestry members, to navigating church basements that defy the laws of physics, to discovering that “the copier is possessed” is not a theological statement but a weekly reality… I might have smiled nervously and asked for a transfer to quieter pastures. Somewhere like Iceland. Or a Trappist monastery with a vow of silence.
But here we are. Three decades and a year later, and I find myself overflowing with a very Anglican form of gratitude — measured, reflective, seasoned with tea, and occasionally interrupted by a rogue thurible swing.
This is a thanksgiving for the people.
The ones whose hands I’ve held at hospital bedsides, and the ones who have dragged me (cheerfully or otherwise) into new forms of ministry. The confirmands who asked impossible questions. The elders who told stories better than any textbook. The children who offered theology involving dinosaurs, rainbows, and cookies — sometimes all at once.
In every parish I’ve served — from small family-style churches held together by hope and duct tape, to suburban congregations with bulletins thick enough to stun a moose, to A Cathedral with one of the longest histories of any in Canada — I have found the same mysterious grace: people who genuinely want to follow Jesus, even if we don’t always walk in straight lines.
This is a thanksgiving for the parishes.
Each one has left fingerprints on my soul:
- Churches where the kettle was always on, and so were the lights, because someone forgot to turn them off.
- Communities where laughter in the parish hall carried the weight of resurrection joy.
- Places where the Gospel didn’t stay safely in the pulpit but wandered out the front door into neighbourhoods, food banks, shelters, and hospital corridors.
I’ve discovered that parish life is much like the loaves and fishes — God repeatedly takes what feels small, blesses it, breaks it open, and feeds far more people than seems remotely possible (especially when it comes to coffee hour).
And this is a thanksgiving for the calling itself.
To live a life serving God is to wake each day to the astonishing truth that the Creator of the universe is still in the business of using ordinary, flawed, sometimes-forgetful people to proclaim extraordinary love. That God keeps entrusting us with stories, sacraments, and holy mischief. That grace keeps appearing in unexpected places — like parking lots, council meetings, funerals where laughter sneaks in, and baptisms where the child enthusiastically splashes back.
Being a priest has never been dull. Holy, yes. Humbling, absolutely. Occasionally hilarious — without question.
But through every season, God has been faithful: nudging, steadying, forgiving, renewing. Calling again and again: “Follow me.” And somehow, miraculously, we do.
So this St. Andrew’s Day, I give thanks. For you. For every one of you who has shared the journey, the pew, the potluck casserole, the prayer, the grief, the joy, the hope. Ministry is never a solo act — it is a long pilgrimage of companions, saints, question-askers, grace-bearers, and tea-drinkers. And I am grateful beyond words to have walked with you.
Here’s to whatever God dreams next.
Companion Prayer
Gracious and loving God,
For all the years of ministry, for the people who have shaped my heart, for the parishes that have been home, and for the privilege of serving you — I give thanks.
Bless those I have walked with along the way: those who taught me, challenged me, laughed with me, and trusted me with their stories.
Continue to guide my steps that I may serve with joy, humility, and hope. Make my life a witness to your grace, and keep surprising me with your love. Through Jesus Christ, our Companion and our Lord.
Amen