This past weekend I had the joy — and let’s be honest, the sheer terror — of performing a wedding. Now, I should clarify that the terror wasn’t about the couple. The bride, Erin, is someone I’ve known since she was about eight years old, when she arrived in Sunday School with her blond hair, determined expression, and an iron-clad certainty that she was not there to be taught. No, Erin had come to teach.
Her mother and I, in a moment of clerical improvisation that would make even St. Paul scratch his head, quickly devised a plan: Erin’s mother would “teach” the class, and Erin would be her “assistant teacher.” In truth, Erin ran the show. She prepared lessons, asked her mother theological questions over breakfast, and likely considered herself the youngest licensed catechist in the Anglican Communion. Frankly, I think the Church owes her back pay.
But ministry is never just about one Sunday morning. A few months later, the phone rang at the rectory. It was the hospital switchboard: they needed an Anglican chaplain immediately. I bolted to St. Mary’s at breakneck speed, imagining dire ecumenical emergencies — perhaps a bishop stuck in an elevator. But it was Erin’s grandfather, David, who had suffered a heart attack. He did not survive. Suddenly, the young “Sunday School assistant” and her family were walking through grief. And I walked with them.
Over the years, I prepared Erin for her First Communion, and then Confirmation, proudly presenting her before the bishop like a farmer showing off a prize sheep — though considerably more dignified. A few years later, after I had moved on to a new parish, I was called back to officiate the funeral of Erin’s grandmother. Once again, we walked through grief together.
And then came the call this year: Erin wanted me to perform her marriage. At that moment, St. Paul’s words from his letter to the Corinthians rang in my ears: “I planted, Apollos watered, but God gave the growth.” That is the work of ministry. We walk alongside people for a season, plant a few seeds, water a few more, and then entrust the rest to God. More often than not, we never get to see what blossoms.
This time, I did. On the day of her wedding, I stood there in my vestments, struck not just by the beauty of the day or the dress or the music, but by the grace of seeing that tiny, determined eight-year-old girl now a radiant, confident, loving woman.
Of course, all of this reflection happened in the car, on the long drive back through Toronto traffic. There’s nothing like a wedding followed by gridlock on the 401 to bring a priest to deep spiritual truths. Truly, nothing sanctifies the soul like sitting immobile on the highway long enough to learn all the lyrics to an insurance jingle.
But here’s what stayed with me: ministry is seldom glamorous, usually unpredictable, and always about trust. Trust that God takes the ordinary things we offer — our prayers, our teaching, our companionship in grief — and works them into something extraordinary. And every now and then, when we least expect it, God lets us glimpse the fruit of those seeds.
Thanks be to God for Erin, for her family, and for the privilege of these rare, grace-filled glimpses.
Prayer
Gracious God,
we thank you for the seeds of faith you plant in our lives,
for the chance to walk with one another through joy and sorrow,
and for the glimpses of grace you grant us along the way.
Bless Erin and Jeff in their new life together,
and bless all of us with patience to plant,
faith to trust,
and eyes to see the growth that comes from you alone.
Through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.