There is something wonderfully Canadian about Labour Day weekend.
It is the one holiday where everyone insists they are taking a break while secretly making lists of everything that must happen after the break.
The barbecue is still warm. The camping gear is drying in the garage. The children are calculating how much homework can reasonably be postponed until Monday evening. Church choirs are remembering where they left the music folders back in June. Clergy are discovering that September somehow requires three months’ worth of planning to fit into four weeks.
Meanwhile, someone is standing in the grocery store wondering why they suddenly need twenty-three items that have not crossed their mind since the middle of June.
September has arrived.
Labour Day weekend occupies a curious little corner of the calendar. It is still technically summer, but everyone has emotionally wandered into autumn. The weather has not entirely received the memo, but our calendars certainly have. Nature is saying, “Take another afternoon by the lake,” while our inbox is quietly clearing its throat.
It reminds me that life is often lived in these in-between places.
Scripture is full of people standing between one season and another.
Israel stands on the edge of the Promised Land.
The disciples stand between Good Friday and Easter morning.
The early Church stands between fear and boldness.
Again and again, God seems remarkably comfortable meeting people during transitions rather than after everything has settled down.
That is encouraging, because very little of life ever feels settled for long.
Perhaps that is why I have always appreciated Labour Day.
Its name is wonderfully theological.
We usually imagine “labour” as work—jobs, careers, responsibilities, meetings, deadlines, and the annual mystery of where all the paper clips disappear. Yet from the opening pages of Genesis, work itself is never presented as a punishment. Human beings are created with purpose before sin ever enters the story. Adam is invited to tend the garden long before he is ever told that thorns exist.
Meaningful work is part of God’s original blessing.
The problem has never been work.
The problem is forgetting why we work.
We work to serve.
We work to create.
We work to love our neighbours.
We work to provide.
We work because every ordinary act done with love becomes an act of worship.
Of course, by Wednesday afternoon many of us have entirely forgotten this and are already wondering whether retirement can begin slightly ahead of schedule.
I suspect God smiles at that.
One of Stephen Leacock’s greatest gifts was noticing that human beings are gloriously inconsistent. We make elaborate plans for balanced lives while drinking coffee from travel mugs the size of flower pots. We purchase planners to organize ourselves and then forget where we left them. We vow to simplify our schedules by attending three different committee meetings about simplifying our schedules.
He understood that laughter is often another way of telling the truth.
The Gospel does something similar.
Jesus rarely scolds people for being busy.
Instead, he keeps reminding them not to forget what matters while they are busy.
He tells Martha that there is more to life than anxious activity.
He notices lilies while everyone else notices deadlines.
He blesses children while adults are busy calculating importance.
He feeds crowds before holding committee meetings.
Actually, now that I think about it, perhaps every parish meeting ought to begin with fresh bread and fish. Attendance would certainly improve.
September asks us an important question.
Not, “How much will you accomplish?”
Not, “How full will your calendar become?”
But rather, “Who will you become while all those ordinary days unfold?”
Those are very different questions.
The first measures productivity.
The second measures discipleship.
And discipleship has always been God’s favourite project.
This first Sunday of September, many of us will return to familiar pews after summer travels. Choirs will sing again. Sunday school rooms will begin filling with children’s laughter. Coffee hours will become wonderfully noisy. Friends will ask each other, “How was your summer?” before quickly realizing there isn’t enough coffee in the urn to answer properly.
It will feel delightfully ordinary.
Which is precisely where Christ loves to appear.
Not only on mountaintops.
Not only during dramatic conversions.
Not only in moments of dazzling certainty.
But in calendars being filled.
Lunches being packed.
Bulletins being folded.
Neighbours being welcomed.
Hands being shaken.
Prayers quietly offered.
Ordinary Sundays have always been holy ground.
Perhaps Labour Day weekend is not really about squeezing one last adventure out of summer.
Perhaps it is God’s gentle invitation to remember that every season—including the busy ones—belongs to him.
Tomorrow, many of us will return to work.
Or school.
Or volunteering.
Or caregiving.
Or retirement, which often turns out to be busier than employment ever was.
Whatever waits for us, Christ is already there.
He has gone ahead into Monday long before we arrive.
And if we remember that, then even an ordinary September calendar can become something surprisingly sacred.
Because the Gospel has never been opposed to ordinary work.
It has simply insisted that ordinary work, offered in love, becomes extraordinary grace.
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Companion Prayer
Faithful God,
As we step into the rhythms of another September, help us to remember that every ordinary day belongs to you. Bless the work of our hands, the conversations we share, the people we serve, and the quiet moments when you meet us in unexpected places.
Keep us from becoming so busy that we forget your presence. Instead, teach us to see your grace in the familiar routines of work, worship, home, and community.
May this new season be filled not only with productive days, but with hearts that grow more deeply in love with you and with our neighbours.
Through Jesus Christ our Lord.
Amen.