Sometimes the greatest miracle of the Church is that God continues to call ordinary people—and that some of us are still willing to listen.
Today is not an anniversary.
It is not the date of my ordination. It is not the anniversary of my graduation from seminary. It is not attached to any particular milestone that should have prompted a stroll down memory lane.
And yet, as I dawdled over a second cup of coffee this morning—a spiritual discipline at which I have become increasingly proficient—I found myself thinking about a day in late spring of 1993.
My classmates and I from Huron University College had been at an off-campus class somewhere in southwestern Ontario. When the class ended, the entire group migrated to a nearby restaurant for lunch.
Now, over the previous three years, the twelve of us had become remarkably close.
We had prayed together.
Studied together.
Argued theology together.
Supported one another through difficult times.
We had become something more than classmates. We had become friends.
As lunch arrived and the conversation grew increasingly animated, our thoughts naturally turned toward the future.
Graduation was only a few weeks away.
Ordination awaited many of us.
Soon we would scatter across the country and begin the work of parish ministry.
The future seemed exciting, terrifying, and entirely uncertain.
Then one of my classmates made an observation that remains etched in my memory more than thirty years later.
She said, “You know, before I came to Huron, I always thought that most of the clergy I knew were a pretty odd group of characters.”
Then she stopped.
The sentence simply hung there.
The rest of us waited.
Surely there was a second half coming.
Something reassuring.
Something like:
“…but now I realize they really aren’t.”
Instead, there was only silence.
And in that silence, I suspect every one of us did exactly what I did.
We looked around the table.
One by one.
Face by face.
Twelve future clergy.
Twelve unique personalities.
Twelve very different stories.
And suddenly the laughter began.
Because she was absolutely right.
We were a remarkably odd collection of human beings.
There was no denying it.
Looking back now, I realize that every parish I have served has contained a similarly delightful assortment of characters.
Indeed, one of the great strengths of the Church is that it attracts people who might never otherwise find themselves in the same room together.
The Church gathers farmers and accountants.
Teachers and mechanics.
Artists and engineers.
Extroverts and introverts.
People who know exactly where they left their keys and people who have never once experienced that sensation.
Grace abounds.
And somehow God brings all these wonderfully different people together and calls them family.
As I reflected on that lunch conversation, my thoughts drifted naturally toward another gathering of twelve.
The original twelve.
Now there was an unusual group.
A fisherman who routinely spoke before thinking.
A doubter.
A tax collector.
A political zealot.
Brothers who seemed to possess remarkably short fuses.
And eventually, even a betrayer.
Hardly the sort of leadership team one would assemble through a modern executive search process.
Yet these were the people Jesus chose.
Or perhaps more accurately, these were the people who chose to follow when Jesus called.
And that distinction matters.
Because one of our professors said something during our first days at Huron that has stayed with me ever since.
He looked at our incoming class and said:
“You may think that you’re here because God calls the best, and that you are the best.”
Then he paused.
“The truth is, God calls everyone. You are simply the ones who were willing to listen.”
At the time, I found that statement slightly unsettling.
I think I preferred the first explanation.
But over the years I have come to realize how profoundly true his words were.
God calls everyone.
Not just clergy.
Not just saints.
Not just people who seem especially holy.
God calls everyone.
God calls parents.
Teachers.
Nurses.
Retirees.
Students.
Grandparents.
Volunteers.
Neighbours.
Every ordinary person living an ordinary life.
The question is rarely whether God is calling.
The question is whether we are listening.
And perhaps that is one of the great misunderstandings of Christian vocation.
Many people imagine a calling as something dramatic.
A burning bush.
A booming voice from heaven.
A sudden revelation that changes everything.
But most callings arrive much more quietly than that.
They arrive through opportunities to serve.
Through nudges toward compassion.
Through invitations to love.
Through the gradual realization that God may be asking us to become more than we currently are.
And then, somehow, God works through us.
Not because we are perfect.
Not because we are the best.
But because we are willing.
Looking back across more than three decades of ministry, I remain amazed by what God accomplishes through ordinary people.
I have watched quiet parishioners transform communities through kindness.
I have seen volunteers change lives.
I have watched people with no particular claim to greatness become instruments of extraordinary grace.
Again and again, God takes ordinary people and does remarkable things.
Which brings me back to that lunch table in 1993.
Today, I find myself deeply grateful to be part of a long succession of oddballs who have helped change the world.
Fishermen and tax collectors.
Saints and sinners.
Seminary students and parish priests.
People who doubted.
People who failed.
People who occasionally got things spectacularly wrong.
Yet all of them shared one thing in common.
When God called, they listened.
Perhaps that remains the true miracle of the Church.
Not that God finds perfect people.
God never seems particularly interested in that.
Instead, God gathers ordinary people — quirky people, imperfect people, oddballs of every conceivable description — and through them accomplishes extraordinary things.
Which is very good news indeed.
Because looking around the Church today, I still see a remarkable collection of oddballs.
And when I look in the mirror, I discover that I am still one of them.
Thanks be to God.
Alleluia.
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Companion Prayer
Gracious God,
Thank you for calling ordinary people into your service.
Help us to listen when you call,
to trust when you lead,
and to serve where you send us.
Remind us that perfection is not required,
only faithfulness.
And through all our quirks, weaknesses, and imperfections,
continue your work of grace in the world.
Through Jesus Christ our Lord.
Amen.