There comes a point every summer when the lawn chair reappears.
Not dramatically.
Not ceremoniously.
It simply emerges from the garage or the shed with the quiet dignity of something that knows its season has arrived.
Now, the lawn chair is not an especially impressive piece of furniture.
It is rarely elegant.
It unfolds with a sound suggesting mild structural uncertainty.
And at least one of them always leans slightly to one side in a manner that invites both caution and prayer.
And yet, for all that, the lawn chair possesses one remarkable spiritual quality:
It encourages lingering.
Which, I think, is something we have almost forgotten how to do.
Because most of life now seems designed around movement.
Schedules.
Notifications.
Tasks waiting impatiently for our attention.
Even rest has become strangely goal-oriented.
We do not simply relax anymore.
We “maximize downtime.”
Which sounds less like Sabbath and more like a corporate seminar.
But summer — and particularly the ordinary Saturdays of summer — quietly resists this.
The air softens.
The evenings stretch longer.
The garden grows whether we supervise it or not.
And somewhere in the midst of it all, a lawn chair invites us to sit down and notice that creation has been carrying on quite beautifully without our constant management.
As I took out the lawn chair this year, memories came flooding back.
Wonderful memories.
Almost immediately I found myself thinking of those old Parish Council barbecues at the Gardiners’ home out on the Speed River.
Now those evenings were not merely “church functions.” No one would have dared call them that. That language would have been entirely too formal for the occasion.
These were gatherings of friends.
The lawn would already be dotted with chairs by the time people arrived — each person unfolding their own particular contribution to Anglican outdoor furniture theology. Some chairs sat low to the ground in a manner that made standing up afterward a fairly significant act of faith. Others leaned slightly to one side with years of faithful service behind them.
And there we sat together.
Not as people discussing budgets or committee reports or the ever-mysterious workings of parish photocopiers.
But simply as friends.
The periwinkle spread across the lawn like a quiet summer blessing while Fr. Kent stood faithfully at the barbecue tending burgers with the seriousness of a man carrying out sacred liturgical duty.
Meanwhile Helen Gardiner and Hazel Gosse and Jean Rees laid out an astonishing assortment of salads on the buffet table — the sort of parish spread that seemed capable of feeding not only the assembled council, but perhaps several neighbouring dioceses as well.
And laughter filled the evening air. Colin Harrington’s Big infectionus laugh carried through the air all the way to Wellington county.
Real laughter.
The kind that comes when people are entirely at ease with one another.
For a few precious hours, we laid down the mantle of “doing the work of the church.”
And in its place, we received one of the greatest gifts God gives the Church:
Community.
Friendship.
The simple joy of belonging to one another in faith.
Looking back now, I suspect those evenings may have done as much for the life of the parish as many formal meetings ever did.
Because the Church is not only built in sanctuaries or boardrooms.
It is built in backyards.
Around barbecue smoke and lawn chairs and long summer conversations while the evening light slowly fades across the grass.
It is built whenever people stop managing church life long enough to simply share life together.
And perhaps that, too, is holy.
Now, this is deeply theological.
Because one of the first truths Scripture teaches us about creation is that it is good.
Not efficient.
Not productive.
Good.
The trees clap their hands.
The fields rejoice.
The heavens declare the glory of God without once submitting a strategic plan.
Creation simply exists in joyful praise.
And perhaps part of our calling in Ordinary Time is to relearn how to join it.
Not by doing more.
But by paying attention.
The breeze moving through the trees.
The absurd confidence of a robin defending territory vastly larger than itself.
The smell of cut grass that somehow convinces us we have accomplished something important merely by smelling it.
Now, I realize this may not sound particularly profound.
But that is precisely the point.
The Kingdom of God often arrives quietly.
Not only in cathedrals and great moments of revelation…
…but in backyards.
On porches.
In lawn chairs angled toward the evening light.
There is a holiness in simply being present to creation.
To receive the world not as a problem to solve, but as a gift to enjoy.
And I suspect this is one of the reasons Jesus spent so much time outdoors.
Fields.
Mountains.
Lakeshores.
He seemed entirely unconcerned with separating spiritual life from ordinary life.
For Jesus, creation itself was constantly speaking.
Lilies.
Birds.
Seeds scattered almost recklessly into the earth.
The whole world shimmering with grace.
So perhaps this Saturday, the most faithful thing you could do is not to hurry quite so much.
Perhaps it is enough to sit for a while.
To notice.
To breathe.
To let creation remind you that God’s world is still beautiful, still alive, and still singing quietly all around you.
Even if the lawn chair creaks slightly every time you move.
Especially then.
Alleluia.
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Companion Prayer
Creator God,
You fill the world with beauty,
life, and quiet wonder.
Slow us down enough to notice
the goodness around us.
Teach us to rest in your creation,
to delight in simple things,
and to receive each day as a gift.
In the warmth of summer,
the song of birds,
and the stillness of evening,
draw us closer to you.
And let all creation remind us
of your joy and love.
Amen.