There are many ways to tell the seasons of the Church year. Some consult the Book of Common Prayer. Others look to the colour of the altar frontal. A few especially devout souls follow the lectionary so closely they can tell you the Gospel reading by the angle of the sun.
But the truest, most reliable calendar of all — the one that never lies, never transfers feasts, and never needs explaining — is the church parking lot.
I have come to believe that if the early Church Fathers had spent more time in Canadian parking lots, much theology could have been settled sooner.
Advent, for instance, is clearly the season of ice and anticipation. The parking lot is dimly lit, cautiously navigated, and everyone walks with that peculiar posture of hope mixed with fear — hope that we will arrive safely, fear that we will not. Advent teaches us to slow down, watch our step, and trust that light will eventually appear. Preferably before we fall.
Christmas arrives suddenly, usually announced by the mysterious disappearance of ice and the equally mysterious appearance of puddles that are deeper than they look. This is the season of Incarnation, when water is everywhere and you cannot avoid it, no matter how carefully you step. Boots are damp, hems are soaked, and yet — somehow — joy persists. Emmanuel has come, and apparently brought slush.
Epiphany is marked not by stars in the sky, but by pylons in the parking lot. Orange, authoritative, and utterly immovable, they appear overnight without explanation. They reveal truths previously hidden: that the route you have taken for years is no longer available, and that God may be calling you to go another way. The wise still arrive, but not without circling twice and muttering quietly.
Lent is the season of potholes. They grow slowly, deepen daily, and test both suspension and sanctification. Lent reminds us that life is not smooth, that repentance requires attention, and that denial — especially of visible craters — is never wise. It is a season for careful navigation and honest self-examination, preferably at low speed.
Holy Week arrives when everything melts at once. Water rushes everywhere. Old cracks are exposed. You wonder if the lot will survive. It feels chaotic, fragile, and just a little alarming — which is exactly right.
Easter, of course, is the miraculous moment when the parking lot dries. Lines reappear. The surface holds. You step out of your car without fear. Resurrection has occurred, and you were not entirely sure it would.
And then there is Ordinary Time, the long green season when nothing dramatic happens at all. The parking lot simply is. No ice. No puddles. No pylons. Just space enough to park, walk, and enter the building where God is already waiting. Ordinary Time teaches us that grace does not always announce itself with hazard cones. Sometimes it looks like stability, predictability, and the quiet gift of things working as they should.
The parking lot, it turns out, is not just a prelude to worship. It is a catechism underfoot. It teaches patience, humility, vigilance, and the profound Christian virtue of walking carefully for the sake of others.
And perhaps that is the final lesson: before we sing a hymn, before we pray a prayer, before we hear a word of Scripture, we practice faith out there — navigating uncertain ground, trusting the journey, and helping one another arrive.
Which is, when you think about it, the Kingdom of God in asphalt form.
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A Prayer
Gracious God,
who meets us before we ever reach the door,
be with us in icy seasons and puddled days,
in times of caution and moments of clear ground.
Teach us to walk gently,
to watch out for one another,
and to trust that even uneven paths
can lead us to grace.
May all our comings and goings
be shaped by love, patience, and hope,
through Jesus Christ our Lord.
Amen.