There is a curious feeling that settles over a Sunday morning when you are not going to church.
For clergy, it feels almost suspicious.
I have spent more than three decades knowing exactly where I would be on Sunday morning. If someone phoned the rectory at 10:15 and asked where I was, nobody ever had to guess. “He’s in church,” they would say, with the confidence of someone announcing that ducks are in ponds and golfers are in sand traps.
This Sunday, however, I am on vacation.
There will be no alb to iron. No sermon to preach. No microphone that refuses to cooperate until precisely the opening hymn. No discreet glance at the clock wondering whether the announcements have quietly become the Epistle lesson.
Instead, I shall probably be holding a cup of coffee somewhere outdoors, listening to birds who have absolutely no concern whatsoever for the Anglican liturgical calendar.
And yet…
I have a suspicion that God will still show up.
That may sound obvious, but we Christians have an odd habit of imagining that God works office hours. We know, of course, that God is everywhere. We say it with great theological confidence. Then we secretly behave as though the Almighty spends the week wandering about creation waiting for Sunday morning to unlock the church doors.
Fortunately, God appears to have never accepted those limitations.
Long before there were cathedrals, there were mountaintops.
Long before there were stained-glass windows, there were sunrises.
Long before anyone processed behind a cross, people walked beside rivers and discovered that the Creator had already arrived ahead of them.
This is not an argument against worship. Quite the opposite.
Corporate worship remains one of the greatest gifts God has given us. There is something holy about gathering with people who sing beside us—even when they cannot find the tune—and praying words that have carried generations before us. We need the Church. We need one another. We need the sacraments, the Scriptures, the laughter over coffee, and even that person who always chooses your favourite pew five minutes before you arrive.
But vacations have their own liturgy.
The opening hymn may be loons calling across a lake.
The confession might happen while sitting quietly on a dock, suddenly remembering someone who deserves a telephone call.
The sermon could arrive through a child chasing butterflies with complete confidence that joy is worth pursuing.
The prayers of the people may be whispered while watching the wind ripple through cornfields or maple trees.
And the dismissal?
“Go in peace to love and serve the Lord.”
Which, as it turns out, is excellent advice whether you are leaving church or simply finishing your second cup of coffee.
Stephen Leacock might have observed that Canadians possess a remarkable talent for believing they are “roughing it” while carrying enough folding chairs, coolers, portable barbecues, inflatable mattresses, mosquito repellents, and extension cords to establish a respectable municipality. We call it escaping to nature. Nature occasionally calls it being invaded.
Still, somewhere between the campfire and the coffee mug, something wonderful happens.
We slow down.
We notice.
We remember that creation has always been one of God’s favourite ways of preaching.
Jesus seemed rather fond of outdoor sermons himself. Lilies. Sparrows. Vineyards. Mustard shrubs. Fishing boats. Hillsides. Sheep. Wheat fields. He apparently believed that the Kingdom of God could be explained quite effectively without the aid of PowerPoint.
Perhaps we should have trusted him sooner.
So if you are not sitting in your usual pew this Sunday, do not imagine that you have somehow wandered beyond the reach of grace.
Offer thanks before breakfast.
Read a few verses of Scripture.
Take a slow walk.
Watch the clouds.
Laugh with the people you love.
Phone someone who may be lonely.
Notice beauty without rushing past it.
These, too, can become acts of worship.
Then next Sunday, come back to church.
Bring your suntan, your stories, your mosquito bites, your photographs, and your renewed heart.
The Church will still be here.
More importantly, you will discover that the God who met you beside the lake, beneath the trees, on the hiking trail, or on your back deck… is exactly the same God waiting to welcome you at the Communion table.
Because the Church is where we gather.
But the whole world has always been God’s sanctuary.
And thanks be to God, there are no walls around heaven.
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Companion Prayer
Gracious God,
Thank you for meeting us wherever we are—whether in a church pew, on a quiet dock, along a woodland trail, beneath a wide summer sky, or around a family table.
Open our eyes to the beauty of your creation and our hearts to the quiet ways you continue to speak. Slow our hurried pace, deepen our gratitude, and remind us that your love is never confined to buildings, schedules, or routines.
As we enjoy these summer days, help us to rest well, laugh freely, notice your goodness, and carry your peace wherever we go.
And when we gather again with your people, may we come with renewed hearts, ready to worship, to serve, and to share the joy we have found in your presence.
Through Christ, who walks with us wherever the journey leads.
Amen.