There are many moments in the life of a priest that invite deep contemplation: the silence before Morning Prayer, the pause before the absolution, the breath taken just before announcing “The Lord be with you.”
And then there is the kettle.
The kettle, I have discovered, is a rigorous spiritual director. It does not respond to encouragement, stern looks, or passive-aggressive hovering. It does not boil faster because one has places to be, emails to answer, or a sermon half-written and already late for its own deadline. The kettle simply is. And it boils in God’s time, not mine.
I confess that I wait for the kettle with a degree of theological inconsistency. I believe in patience, preach about patience, commend patience to others with great enthusiasm — and then stand tapping my foot as though the laws of thermodynamics might be persuaded by clerical urgency.
Waiting for water to boil is a surprisingly honest mirror of the soul. It reveals how quickly I want grace to hurry up, prayer to be efficient, and God to get on with things. It exposes my quiet hope that holiness might arrive on a timetable, preferably one that fits neatly between meetings.
And yet, the kettle refuses to be rushed. It hums. It rattles slightly. It offers a small sermon in steam: “Be still. Pay attention. This will take as long as it takes.”
In that pause — mug ready, teabag patiently waiting its own turn — I am reminded that much of the spiritual life is kettle-shaped. Transformation does not happen instantly. Wisdom takes time to steep. Even resurrection waited three days.
Tea, after all, is not made by force. Boiling water must pour itself out over the leaves, linger, and then wait again. Too short a steep and it is weak. Too long and it is bitter. Timing matters. Attention matters. So does restraint.
Perhaps this is why so many holy conversations happen in kitchens. The kettle gives us permission to stop moving just long enough to notice that God is already present, leaning against the counter, unhurried, perfectly content to wait with us.
And when the kettle finally clicks off — triumphantly, as though it has accomplished something very important — I pour the water, breathe in the steam, and remember that impatience, too, can be offered to God. Even holy people fidget. Especially holy people.
So I wait. I fail at waiting. I learn to wait again. And somewhere between the click of the kettle and the first sip of tea, grace quietly boils over.
A Prayer
Gracious God,
you are not in a hurry,
and yet you never waste a moment.
Teach us to wait without resentment,
to pause without panic,
and to trust that your work in us
is unfolding at exactly the right pace.
Bless the small pauses of our days —
the kettles, the crossings, the quiet minutes —
and meet us there with your steady presence.
We ask this through Christ,
who waited, watched, and loved us into life.
Amen.