It may not come as much of a surprise to anyone, but we have had a fall seaason with untld troubles with the office phone system. Some will have noticed that for some reason our voicemail even defaults back to a pre-recorded message — in french — that is singularly unhelpful. For this reason, I thought I would take some time to reflect on the parish office phone.
There are certain sounds in parish life that can raise the blood pressure of even the most seasoned cleric. The thump of a hymn book falling during silent prayer. The unmistakable metallic clang of the thurible lid coming loose mid-procession. And, of course, the parish office phone ringing at precisely the moment you’ve settled in with a cup of tea and a moment’s peace.
Ah yes — the parish office phone. That humble black and grey rectangle (or in some parishes, a rotary relic older than the rector) perched on the desk like a silent guardian of the Church’s mysteries. It is, in many ways, a portal: a ringing gateway through which all manner of pastoral surprises arrive.
One moment, it’s someone asking for the time of the Christmas bazaar — a date which, despite the posters, website, bulletin, and sandwich board outside, remains a tightly guarded parish secret. The next moment, it’s someone who “used to attend back in 1973” and remembers “a sermon about sheep” and wonders if you’d mind repeating it.
And then, of course, the deeply holy calls: the person seeking prayer in a time of crisis, the young parent wondering how to get their newborn baptized, the neighbour who needs a food voucher, the grieving widow asking gently if you might come. These calls arrive without warning — without any liturgical “The phone be with you” — and yet they carry the weight of ministry in ways nothing else does.
But let us not forget the classics. My personal favourites include:
• The person who wants to know who shovels the walkway, and whether the rector can come take a look “just to make sure they’re doing it properly.”
• The caller who begins with, “I don’t want to bother you, but…” thereby ensuring they already have.
• And the inevitable telemarketer who mispronounces the parish name so creatively that it becomes a sort of spiritual charism: “Hello, may I speak to the pastor of Saint Androo’s Anglican and Fishery?”
In all these things — between the laughter, the sighs, the pastoral pivots — the parish office phone remains a sacramental object of sorts. Not in any official church doctrine sense (though I’m sure we could footnote our way there), but in the lived sense: it becomes a meeting place between God and God’s people, mediated through a surprising number of voicemails that begin with, “I’m not sure if this is the right number…”
Every time that phone rings, something is being asked of us — sometimes patience, sometimes clarity, sometimes pastoral imagination. And beneath it all, always, the gentle truth that ministry is rarely scheduled and never tidy. Grace, like phone calls, tends to arrive unexpectedly, at inopportune hours, and with great persistence.
Companion Prayer
Holy One,
Thank you for every voice that reaches out in need, in hope, in curiosity, and even in mild confusion.
Bless the calls that interrupt our plans and open our hearts.
Give us patience for the strange ones, tenderness for the heavy ones, and joy for the surprising ones.
May every ring be an invitation to serve you with grace, humour, and love. Amen.