There is a curious thing that happens when a person sets out for a walk.
The original intention is often quite practical.
A little exercise.
Some fresh air.
Perhaps an earnest commitment to healthier living after a regrettable encounter with pie.
And then something entirely unexpected happens.
The walk itself begins to work upon the soul.
Now, I should confess that I have always enjoyed walking.
Not in the competitive sense.
I have never once looked at a woodland trail and thought, “I wonder if I could complete this in record time.”
That sort of thinking strikes me as contrary to the entire purpose of the exercise.
The point of a walk is not to arrive.
It is to notice.
And creation rewards those who notice.
A cardinal flashes through the trees like a flying piece of stained glass.
A chipmunk emerges from nowhere, regards you with deep suspicion, and then disappears again before any meaningful diplomatic relationship can be established.
The breeze shifts.
The scent of pine needles rises from the forest floor.
And suddenly one realizes that God has been busy creating beauty all around us whether we happened to be paying attention or not.
Now, I suspect this is one reason Jesus spent so much time walking.
The Gospels are full of journeys.
Roads.
Hillsides.
Paths beside lakes.
Jesus seems almost constantly on the move.
And it is while walking that conversations happen.
Lessons are taught.
Lives are changed.
One begins to suspect that God is quite fond of meeting people on the road.
Now, in our own day, we spend a remarkable amount of time indoors.
We move from house to car.
Car to office.
Office back to car.
All while carefully avoiding direct exposure to the natural world except through strategically placed windows.
Grace abounds.
But perhaps Ordinary Time invites us to something different.
The green season of the Church is a season of growth.
And growth requires us to reconnect with the living world God has made.
Not merely to admire it.
To inhabit it.
To walk through it.
To allow creation to preach its quiet sermon once again.
Because creation is endlessly patient.
It never rushes.
Trees do not spend their mornings worrying about quarterly performance reviews.
The robin does not appear burdened by the need to answer email.
The clouds drift overhead with a calm confidence that most human beings can only admire from a distance.
And somewhere in all of this, creation gently reminds us that life is more gift than achievement.
Now, I realize there are people who approach walking with considerable seriousness.
They track distances.
Monitor heart rates.
Possess footwear engineered with the sophistication of modern spacecraft.
I admire such people.
Personally, I have increasingly come to see walking as a form of prayer.
A chance to slow down.
To notice.
To give thanks.
To remember that God is present not only in churches and cathedrals but also in forests, fields, trails, and quiet country roads.
And perhaps that is the invitation for these summer days.
Not simply to look at creation.
But to enter it.
To walk slowly enough that wonder has time to catch up with us.
So perhaps sometime this week, put down the phone.
Step outside.
Find a trail, a park, a country road, or even a quiet neighbourhood sidewalk.
Walk without urgency.
Pay attention.
And allow yourself to encounter once again the beauty of the world God has made and continues to inhabit.
Because sometimes the most profound sermons are preached not from pulpits…
…but from the walking trail.
Alleluia.
Companion Prayer
Creator God,
Thank you for the beauty that surrounds us.
Open our eyes to wonder,
our ears to birdsong,
and our hearts to your presence in creation.
Teach us to slow down,
to walk attentively,
and to receive each day as a gift.
And as we journey through these green and growing days of Ordinary Time,
help us to encounter you anew in every path we travel.
Amen.