There is a peculiar holiness that settles over a Sunday afternoon in September.
The urgency of Labour Day has passed. School routines are beginning to find their rhythm. Church has finished. The roast is in the oven—or perhaps, if you’re like me, you’re quietly hoping someone else has taken responsibility for the roast while you perform the sacred ministry of “staying out of the kitchen.”
The air is different now. Summer no longer struts about like an overconfident tourist. Instead, it lingers politely near the door, aware that autumn has already begun trying on sweaters and making lists.
I have always thought Sunday afternoons deserve more theological attention than they receive.
We celebrate Easter mornings. We speak reverently of Christmas Eve. We cherish Good Friday and Pentecost. Yet very few sermons have ever been preached about the profound spiritual significance of sitting in a comfortable chair after lunch while seriously contemplating whether one ought to mow the lawn—or whether the Kingdom of God might survive another week without such heroics.
This, I believe, is one of God’s quieter gifts.
Modern life constantly whispers that every empty moment must be filled with productivity. If there is an hour available, surely there is a project waiting to be completed, a cupboard to reorganize, an email to answer, or an online video prepared to explain why we have been folding towels incorrectly our entire lives.
Human beings have become remarkably efficient at exhausting themselves.
Scripture offers another rhythm altogether.
After six days of creation, God rested—not because God was tired, but because creation itself needed space simply to be enjoyed.
The Sabbath was never designed merely as a day without work. It was created as a day filled with delight.
That distinction matters.
There is a world of difference between collapsing from exhaustion and resting with gratitude.
One is survival.
The other is worship.
Jesus seemed remarkably comfortable inhabiting these slower moments. Some of his deepest conversations happened while walking dusty roads. Others took place around dinner tables. He noticed lilies. He watched birds. He attended weddings. He accepted invitations. He lingered long enough for interruptions to become miracles.
We, on the other hand, often rush so quickly toward the next obligation that we accidentally sprint past grace as though it were standing on the sidewalk waving politely.
September Sundays invite us to recover something we’ve nearly forgotten.
Not every hour has to accomplish something measurable.
Sometimes the holiest thing you can do is read a chapter of a good book while sunlight filters through the window.
Sometimes holiness sounds like grandchildren laughing in another room.
Sometimes it smells like fresh coffee and apple crisp.
Sometimes it is simply sitting on the porch watching the leaves begin their annual sermon about letting go.
Growing up on our family farm in southern Ontario, Sunday afternoons had their own unmistakable rhythm. Chores still had to be done — the dogs in our kennel , unlike clergy, have never been persuaded to postpone supper until Monday — but there was nevertheless a gentleness about the day. The machinery rested. The frantic pace eased. After church and dinner there was often time simply to sit outside, listen to the breeze moving through the maples, and watch the fields that had occupied our hands all week now simply exist without requiring our immediate attention.
As a boy, I probably thought I was doing absolutely nothing.
Looking back, I suspect God was teaching me Sabbath.
Perhaps that is one of the quiet miracles of September.
The world begins preparing for another busy season, while God gently invites us to slow down before we forget how.
There is deep wisdom in accepting that not every problem must be solved today.
Not every email deserves an immediate answer.
Not every weed requires instant removal.
Some things improve simply because we stop fussing over them long enough to let grace breathe.
Humour often appears whenever human beings begin taking themselves much too seriously. I somtimes smile knowingly at our frantic determination to optimize every waking minute. The Almighty, meanwhile, continues creating sunsets that stubbornly refuse to increase anyone’s productivity statistics.
Thank heaven for that.
This Sunday afternoon, perhaps leave one thing unfinished.
Sit outside if the weather permits.
Take a slower walk than usual.
Phone someone you’ve been meaning to call.
Watch the birds argue over absolutely nothing important.
Smile at children playing.
Thank God for ordinary time.
Because eternity has an interesting habit of hiding inside ordinary afternoons.
And those who learn to receive them often discover they have been entertaining grace all along.
Follow along on Instagram @renewablespiritual for more daily reflections on faith, life, and the surprising places where God still loves to meet us.
Companion Prayer
Gracious God,
Thank you for the gift of holy rest and for the quiet moments that remind us we are loved long before we are productive. Teach us to receive this day with grateful hearts, to notice your presence in ordinary afternoons, and to trust that your grace is still at work even when we slow down.
Give us peace to leave some things unfinished, wisdom to cherish the people around us, and joy in the simple gifts you place before us. May our Sabbath rest renew our bodies, refresh our souls, and draw us ever closer to Christ, in whose gentle presence we find our true home.
Amen.