There are few events that reveal the true character of a neighbourhood quite like the electricity deciding it has worked hard enough for one day.
It usually happens on one of those impossibly warm July evenings.
The air has the consistency of warm oatmeal.
The fans stop with a sigh.
The air conditioner falls silent with all the dignity of a bishop concluding Evensong.
Someone, somewhere, says, “Well… that’s not good.”
Within five minutes, every respectable Canadian has performed the ancient ritual of opening the refrigerator door three separate times, apparently hoping electricity has returned during the previous forty-seven seconds.
It has not.
I have often suspected that power outages have a remarkable ability to expose just how dependent we have become upon things that hum quietly in the background.
We discover the Wi-Fi has disappeared.
The television has become an unusually expensive piece of furniture.
The microwave clock has resigned from public service.
The phone battery suddenly acquires the importance of the Crown Jewels.
For a few moments we wander the house pressing switches that have already proven they are no longer interested in participating.
Stephen Leacock himself might have observed that modern civilization is held together by extension cords and misplaced confidence.
And yet something rather wonderful often begins to happen.
People go outside.
Neighbours emerge from houses carrying lawn chairs as though responding to some mysterious civic summons.
Someone lights a candle.
Someone else produces flashlights large enough to guide ships safely into harbour.
Children begin chasing fireflies because, for once, nobody has suggested they come inside and watch something.
Across the street someone asks, “You folks all right?”
Another neighbour wanders over.
Someone shares a bottle of cold lemonade before it becomes room temperature.
Conversations begin.
Not hurried conversations.
Not the sort exchanged while one hand is already reaching for the car door.
Real conversations.
Stories are told.
Laughter drifts across backyards.
People remember names they had almost forgotten to use.
For an hour or two, the neighbourhood becomes something more than adjacent houses sharing municipal services.
It becomes a community.
I sometimes wonder whether our ancestors would find it amusing that we now require a complete electrical failure before discovering one another again.
Scripture has always known something about this.
The Psalmist reminds us, “Be still, and know that I am God.” (Psalm 46:10)
That is considerably more difficult than it sounds.
We are remarkably talented at keeping ourselves occupied.
We stream.
We scroll.
We answer emails that could almost certainly survive until tomorrow.
Silence makes many of us slightly uncomfortable.
But when the lights go out, stillness arrives whether we invited it or not.
It turns out that grace is often waiting there.
Ordinary Time in the Church is not the season of dramatic miracles or spectacular celebrations.
It is the season of paying attention.
The season of noticing that God has been quietly at work all along.
Sometimes it takes a little darkness for us to notice the light that already surrounds us.
A candle on the kitchen table.
A neighbour asking if we’re okay.
A child laughing in the twilight.
A conversation that would never have happened if the television had remained on.
Perhaps the Kingdom of God grows a little like that.
Not always in dazzling displays.
Sometimes it grows because the power goes out, the pace slows down, and people remember they belong to one another.
Of course, after about three hours someone inevitably begins calculating how much food is thawing in the freezer, and another neighbour develops an engineering proposal involving three generators, two extension cords, and what appears to be unreasonable optimism.
Civilization returns.
The lights flicker back to life.
The refrigerators hum.
The Wi-Fi reconnects with great ceremony.
Everyone cheers as though Canada has just won Olympic gold.
Then we wave goodnight and disappear indoors.
Still, for one warm July evening, we remembered something rather beautiful.
Community does not require electricity.
It simply requires people willing to notice one another.
And perhaps that has been God’s preferred power source all along.
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Companion Prayer
Loving God,
When our plans are interrupted and life slows down, help us to discover the gifts that have been waiting for us all along. Open our eyes to the neighbours around us, the conversations that matter, and the quiet ways your grace shines even in unexpected darkness. Teach us to be a people who bring light through kindness, hospitality, and love, wherever we are. Through Christ our Lord. Amen.