I have long suspected that the crock pot is one of the great theological inventions of the modern age.
Not because it appears anywhere in the Book of Common Prayer, although I confess there are mornings when I would happily add a petition that reads, “Grant, O Lord, that the beef stew be tender by six o’clock.”
Nor because the Apostle Paul ever instructed the early Christians to “set it on Low for eight hours.” He did not. Had crock pots existed in first-century Palestine, however, I suspect at least one of Lydia’s hospitality stories would have included one.
No, I believe God has a particular affection for crock pots because they stubbornly refuse to participate in our culture’s obsession with speed.
Everything else in life seems to promise instant results.
Instant coffee.
Instant messaging.
Instant opinions.
Instant outrage.
Instant experts who watched a three-minute video and are now prepared to solve every economic, political, and ecclesiastical problem known to humanity before lunchtime.
The crock pot quietly ignores all of this.
It simply says, “See you in eight hours.”
There is something deeply satisfying about preparing a meal first thing in the morning. You chop a few vegetables. Brown the meat if you’re feeling especially ambitious. Sprinkle in herbs with the confidence of someone who has no measurable idea whether a teaspoon or a tablespoon was intended. Place the lid on top.
Then…
You leave it alone.
This last step is perhaps the most difficult.
We modern people are not especially gifted at leaving things alone.
We poke.
We check.
We refresh the screen.
We ask whether anything has happened in the last forty-three seconds.
We wonder whether perhaps the recipe would finish faster if we lifted the lid every fifteen minutes to inspect its progress.
Of course, every experienced cook knows that lifting the lid only slows the cooking down.
There is probably a sermon in that.
Actually, there are several.
The Kingdom of God has always worked more like a crock pot than a microwave.
Jesus seemed remarkably comfortable with slow growth.
He compared the Kingdom to seeds buried in soil, yeast hidden in dough, vineyards requiring seasons of care, and grain ripening almost imperceptibly before the harvest. None of those images would impress a modern marketing consultant. They lack urgency. They unfold quietly. They ask for patience.
Yet those were precisely the images our Lord chose.
We, on the other hand, often expect spiritual maturity to arrive by express delivery.
We pray once and wonder why anxiety has not entirely disappeared by Tuesday afternoon.
We attend worship for a month and expect decades of old wounds to evaporate.
We read one chapter of Scripture and hope wisdom will descend upon us like a surprise parcel from heaven.
God smiles kindly.
Then he turns the dial back to Low.
The saints have always known what we are forever forgetting: grace does its deepest work over time.
Character is slow-cooked.
Faith is slow-cooked.
Forgiveness is slow-cooked.
Hope is slow-cooked.
Even love, the greatest gift of all, is rarely manufactured in dramatic moments. More often it develops through thousands of ordinary acts of kindness that seem almost insignificant until one day we discover that our hearts have become wonderfully different.
I think of the disciples.
Jesus did not transform them during a weekend leadership conference.
He walked with them.
Ate with them.
Laughed with them.
Corrected them.
Waited for them.
Repeated lessons they should have understood months earlier.
If I had been responsible for the curriculum, I would almost certainly have declared the entire project behind schedule.
Jesus never seemed concerned.
He knew what patient love could accomplish.
That is reassuring for people like us.
Most of us are still works in progress.
We still lose our tempers over remarkably trivial matters. We still worry more than we pray. We still imagine we are indispensable until the family dog calmly reminds us that supper appears every evening regardless of our personal importance.
The Holy Spirit, however, does not become discouraged.
God has never looked at one of his children and said, “Well, this one clearly isn’t cooking properly.”
Instead, he keeps adding grace.
Keeps stirring mercy.
Keeps seasoning our lives with unexpected joy.
Keeps transforming what would otherwise remain tough and unyielding into something nourishing and life-giving.
Stephen Leacock might have observed that the greatest miracle of the crock pot is not the meal itself but the extraordinary confidence with which every owner insists theirs produces the finest stew in Canada, despite having borrowed the recipe from a neighbour who borrowed it from her aunt, who claimed it had once impressed a bishop. Canadians have always possessed a touching faith that recipes improve simply by being discussed at sufficient length.
Perhaps there is another lesson hidden there.
The finest meals are rarely rushed.
The finest friendships are rarely rushed.
The finest congregations are rarely rushed.
And the finest souls are never rushed.
God is far less interested in making us impressive than in making us holy.
That takes time.
So if your prayers seem unanswered, your growth feels painfully slow, or your life appears to be simmering without much excitement, do not lose heart.
The lid is still on.
The Master Cook has not forgotten you.
Indeed, some of God’s most beautiful work happens quietly, patiently, and out of sight, until one ordinary evening we discover that, somewhere along the journey, grace has transformed us into something far richer than we ever imagined possible.
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Companion Prayer
Gracious God, when I grow impatient with the pace of life, remind me that Your grace is never hurried. Teach me to trust the quiet work of Your Spirit, even when I cannot yet see the results. Season my heart with patience, deepen my faith, and shape me into the person You are calling me to become. For You are always at work, even in the slow simmer of ordinary days. Through Jesus Christ our Lord.
Amen.