Every so often, a book comes along that refuses to let you put it neatly on the shelf and move on. The rev. Canon Maggie Helwig’s Encampment: Resistance, Grace, and an Unhomed Community is one of those books. It is not a “read and file” book. It is a “read and wrestle” book. And, if we are faithful, it is also a “read and act” book.

Helwig writes not from a safe distance but from lived proximity—with the community of those who have been pushed to the margins, who pitch tents under bridges, in city parks, on church lawns. She gives voice to lives our society too often tries to render invisible. Her storytelling is both sharp and tender: sharp in its truth-telling about systemic injustice, and tender in its attention to the humanity, resilience, and faith of those our world would rather not see.

Now, you might think this is the sort of book that will make you feel guilty. And yes, it probably will. But here’s the grace: guilt is not the final word. Helwig shows us that even amid precarious lives and fragile shelters, the God of Israel—the God who “tabernacles” among the people—continues to pitch the divine tent right in the midst of those encampments. This is not simply a book about housing policy; it is a book about incarnation. About the scandal of a God who does not set up shop in marble halls, but rather, as the Gospel tells us, makes a dwelling among the poor.

Reading this, I found myself uncomfortably reminded of how much of my own life is lived behind locked doors and well-insulated walls. And yet, as Helwig makes clear, the church is called not to barricade itself in comfort, but to open itself in solidarity. The Body of Christ is most visible when it risks proximity, when it chooses presence.

Helwig’s prose is luminous, but her message is relentless: this is not about “them”; this is about “us.” Because, in the end, an “unhomed” community is simply the family we have forgotten we belong to.

So let me encourage you: buy this book, borrow it, pass it around. Read it in your parish book group, your Bible study, your vestry. Let it make you uncomfortable, let it make you laugh, let it make you weep. Most of all, let it bring you nearer to the God who is already waiting for us in the tent city down the street.

Because holiness, as Helwig reminds us, may be closer to a sleeping bag on the ground than to a gilded altar. And if you have eyes to see, you might just discover that grace looks a lot like a tarpaulin stretched out against the rain.

There is a lovely invention in the game of golf that I am convinced was inspired by the Holy Spirit, even if it isn’t recognized by the Rules of Golf: the mulligan.

For the non-golfer, let me explain. A mulligan is the blessed reprieve after your first drive slices so spectacularly that it lands three fairways over, frightening small animals and possibly invalidating your insurance coverage. In the spirit of Christian charity, your playing partners look at you, sigh deeply, and say: “Take another shot.”

I have to tell you though that in my usual golf group, there was one guy who was known to take a huge number of mulligans. Every shot he took that wasn’t good was quickly written off the score sheet. He would come in after hacking up the course, and proudly announce that he shot a 76, and we would all shake our heads. We instituted a new rule. Every mulligan cost a dollar toward the annual end of season banquet. It didn’t slow down his use of mulligans, but it saved us all a lot on the admission to the dinner.

Now, purists will tell you that a mulligan doesn’t exist in the official rulebook, that it’s cheating, that the honour of golf demands you play the ball where it lies—even if where it lies is in a pond that is now home to both your golf ball and your dignity. But I maintain that the mulligan is nothing less than a sacramental sign of grace.

Because let’s be honest: life is full of bad swings. We say the wrong word at the wrong time. We make decisions that land us in rougher patches than the groundskeepers at St. Andrews have ever seen. And when we survey the result, we want to stand there, head in hands, crying out like the Psalmist, “How long, O Lord?”

But then, comes grace. God, in infinite mercy, leans over like a kindly golf partner and says, “Take another shot.” That’s the heart of the Gospel: in Christ we are given a fresh start, not because we deserve it, but because God loves to give second chances. And God isn’t going to add a $1 rule for those fresh starts.

Now, the apostle Paul never wrote about mulligans (though I secretly believe he might have been quite handy with a seven-iron). But he did say, “If anyone is in Christ, there is a new creation; the old has passed away; see, everything has become new” (2 Corinthians 5:17). Which is essentially a theological way of saying: “That first swing doesn’t define you. Pick up another ball. Try again.”

Of course, as with mulligans, grace doesn’t mean we should make a habit of aiming for the water hazards of life. St. Paul also asked: “Should we continue in sin so that grace may abound? By no means!” In other words: don’t keep swinging wildly into the woods just because you’ve got a bag full of golf balls and a generous God. Grace is meant to transform us, not enable our recklessness.

And yet, I find comfort in knowing that the God we worship is not keeping score like a stern golf marshal with a clipboard. Instead, God delights in our learning, our growing, our fumbling swings. God is not tallying double bogeys but whispering encouragement: “Get up. Try again. You are loved.”

So perhaps the most Christian thing you can do on the golf course is not sink a long putt or land on the green in regulation, but to offer someone else a mulligan — to extend to them the grace that you yourself have received. Because that’s the real Kingdom game: not perfection, but forgiveness; not competition, but compassion; not final scores, but fresh starts.

And if, on some Saturday morning, you happen to find yourself with a driver in hand, squinting into the rising sun, may you hear not just the birdsong and the sound of sprinklers, but also the quiet, steady voice of God, saying to you what He has said to generations before: “Take another shot.”

Amen.

A Prayer for Mulligans and the God of Second Chances

Gracious God,
You are the Lord of fresh beginnings,
the Giver of second chances,
and the One who sees us not for our worst swings,
but for the children You call us to be.

When we drive our words and deeds
into the rough of selfishness,
or slice our intentions so far astray
that even the angels shake their heads,
You are there—
leaning over in mercy,
placing another ball before us,
and saying gently: “Try again.”

Teach us, O God,
not to fear our mistakes,
but to learn from them;
not to keep score against ourselves or others,
but to rejoice in grace freely given.

And give us courage, Lord,
to offer mulligans to those around us:
forgiveness where there has been failure,
patience where there has been frustration,
and compassion where there has been conflict.

For in Your Kingdom,
love is stronger than any out-of-bounds,
mercy runs deeper than any water hazard,
and Your grace is the true fairway home.

Through Jesus Christ,
our Saviour and Redeemer,
the Eternal Lord of the Second Chance.

Amen.

With a big out-of-town wedding yesterday, I must admit that it ended up being a rather late day for me, and that when the alarm clock screeched out the message that it was now time to get up and get moving, it was not the most welcome sound in the world.

I confess, dear reader, that my alarm clock and I have a complicated relationship. I seldom need an alarm. I wake naturally very early in the morning. But on days such as today…? It promises to rouse me in the gentlest way possible, yet its shrill voice suggests otherwise. In my more charitable moments, I think of it as a faithful little prophet, crying out in the wilderness of my bedroom, “Prepare the way of the day!” In less charitable moments, I consider the theology of throwing it against the wall.

Alarm clocks, of course, are not biblical inventions. Nowhere in the Gospels do we read, “And lo, at the cock’s third snooze button, Peter arose reluctantly.” Yet the theme of waking and watchfulness is woven throughout Scripture. Paul tells the Romans: “You know what time it is, how it is now the moment for you to wake from sleep” (Romans 13:11). Jesus warns his disciples to keep awake, for we do not know the hour when the Lord will come (Mark 13:35-37).

In other words, alarm clocks are deeply theological objects. They remind us that time is not infinite, that our days are numbered, and that each new morning is both gift and calling. They summon us not simply to consciousness, but to faithfulness.

But let’s be honest — sometimes, when the alarm rings, faithfulness looks a lot like fumbling for the snooze button. And here lies another little parable: how often do we, spiritually speaking, hit “snooze” on God’s call? We sense the nudge to prayer, the invitation to forgiveness, the tug toward justice — and we think, “just a few more minutes, Lord.”

And yet, by God’s mercy, the alarm sounds again. Grace persists, even when we are groggy and grumpy. The morning comes, even after the darkest night. And every sunrise is, in its way, a resurrection — an invitation to rise and walk again in newness of life.

So perhaps tomorrow morning, when the alarm shatters your dreams and insists you face the day, you might pause before the muttered complaints. Instead, you could whisper a prayer: “Thank you, Lord, for the gift of waking. Help me to rise not only from my bed, but into the life you call me to live.”

And if you still hit the snooze button? Well, remember: even disciples dozed off in Gethsemane. The miracle is that Christ woke them — and us — up again.

Prayer

Lord of mornings and Master of time,
thank you for the gift of waking,
for each new day that calls us into life with you.
When we are tempted to “snooze” your call,
stir us by your Spirit to rise with courage,
to watch with faith,
and to walk in the light of your love.
Through Jesus Christ, who is our dawn and our day.
Amen.

This week has involved a lot of time spent sitting behind the wheel of my car. Between normal ministry stuff, a very sick aunt in Kitchener, and wedding and rehearsal in Brantford, I have spent more than the average amount of time in the car. It got me thinking about the holiness of some of those moments.

There are many places one might expect to meet the Holy Spirit. A quiet chapel. A mountaintop. Perhaps even a cathedral resounding with hymns. Few of us, however, would expect the third lane from the left on the 401 at 5:15 p.m. to be the site of divine encounter. Yet holiness has a stubborn habit of showing up in the most inconvenient places — often, it seems, precisely where we least want to be.

Take, for example, the humble red light.

There you are, late for a meeting (or, if you’re clergy, late for a meeting about a meeting), and the light turns red just as you approach. In that instant, holiness feels less like the serene glow of stained glass and more like the red glare of a cosmic joke at your expense.

But here is the thing: the red light is not an obstacle. It is an invitation.

The Red Light as Spiritual Director

Think of it. For 45 blessed seconds, you are freed from the tyranny of productivity. You cannot fix, you cannot hurry, you cannot persuade the light to change by sheer force of will (though I have tried). The red light looks you square in the eye and says: “Be still and know that I am God. Also, keep your hands at ten and two.”

This is holiness in a traffic jam: learning to see delay not as punishment but as prayer time.

The Temptations of the Jam

Of course, holiness is rarely the first thought. One is tempted instead to:

• Mutter imprecations about the driving ability of the person ahead (who clearly, by the speed of their reaction, is composing a sonnet before finding the gas pedal).
• Glance at the clock a dozen times, thereby bending the space-time continuum not one whit.
• Check one’s phone, which the local police will kindly remind us is neither holy nor legal.

These are the little wilderness temptations of modern discipleship.

The Discipline of Delay

What if, instead, we prayed? Not long, elaborate prayers—just the simple stuff. “Lord, keep me patient.” “Lord, bless the people in the car beside me.” “Lord, may I not honk like a goose possessed.” Even the Jesus Prayer fits neatly into one red light cycle, though admittedly it’s hard to pray “have mercy on me, a sinner” while also plotting exactly how you’d re-time the lights if the mayor gave you one week and a traffic manual.

The Theology of the Brake Pedal

Perhaps holiness in a traffic jam is simply this: remembering that I am not in control. The brake pedal teaches the same truth as the baptismal font: life is not my invention, and God’s timing is rarely my timing. Waiting at a light is practice for all the other waiting we must do — waiting for healing, waiting for clarity, waiting for the kingdom that Jesus promises.

So the next time the light turns red, don’t grit your teeth. Take a breath. Say a prayer. Wave charitably at the person who just cut you off. Who knows? That short delay may be less about getting to your appointment and more about God getting to you.

After all, holiness is not only found in the sanctuary. Sometimes it shows up between the brake and the accelerator, reminding us that God’s love—like GTA traffic—is patient, long-suffering, and quite often stuck at a standstill.

A Prayer for Holiness in Traffic

Patient God,
you are with us in chapels and cathedrals,
and also in the long line of brake lights before us.
When impatience rises, give us your calm.
When anger bubbles up, give us your mercy.
Teach us to see each red light as a chance to pause,
to breathe, to pray, and to remember that life is not ours to control.

Bless the strangers in cars beside us,
the hurried, the weary, the distracted,
and bless us, that we may drive not only with caution,
but with kindness.

Turn our traffic jams into sanctuaries,
our waiting into worship,
and our journeys into holy pilgrimages,
until we reach at last that city with streets of gold,
where every light shines green in your eternal presence.

Through Christ our Lord. Amen.

There are saints whose names are written in stained glass and history books. And then there are saints whose legacy is marked by the faint squeak of metal hinges and the stubborn pinch of fingers caught where the chair folds. These are the saints of the folding chairs.

You know them. They’re the folks who slip into the hall ten minutes before everyone else, setting up neat rows of chairs so the Bible study doesn’t become a game of musical chairs. Or they’re the ones who stay after the potluck, while the rest of us are locked in pitched theological debates over whose Jell-O salad had the most merit. These saints silently gather chairs, stack them in teetering towers, and roll them away with the reverence of a medieval procession—except with slightly more clanging.

Folding chairs are, in their own way, profoundly theological. They remind us that the Church is not built solely on sermons or hymns, but on the humble labour that makes space for community to happen. Every vestry meeting, every funeral tea, every youth group pizza night rests (quite literally) on someone’s willingness to haul out a chair. Without them, we’d be standing awkwardly, balancing our paper plates, trying not to spill coffee on the carpet.

I recall one church supper where the crowd was so large that we ran out of chairs altogether. We pressed into service the piano bench, a step stool, and what I am fairly sure was a flower stand that never quite recovered. It was a moment of creative community—but it also reminded us just how unnoticed the quiet ministry of the folding chair really is.

Theologically, folding chairs whisper to us about servanthood. Jesus washed feet; today, it might be setting out chairs in the parish hall. Nobody applauds, nobody takes pictures for the parish newsletter, and nobody writes a hymn about it (though I confess, I’d pay good money to hear “All Glory Be to Thee, O Chair Committee”). But there in the unnoticed work, Christ is present.

So the next time you walk into a perfectly arranged hall, or slide into a chair that someone else unfolded for you, give thanks for the ministry of the folding chairs—and for the quiet saints who keep our community from sitting on the floor. And for those who step up to do this holy servant ministry, it is indeed very scriptural. In 1 Peter it says for example, “Like good stewards of the manifold grace of God, serve one another with whatever gift each of you has received.”

Because when all is said and done, the kingdom of God is not only built on lofty theology and soaring hymns. Sometimes it is built one folding chair at a time, squeaking faithfully into place. And as Paul reminds us, “Whatever you do, work at it with all your heart, as working for the Lord, not for human masters” (Colossians 3:23). Even the quiet work of setting up chairs is holy when done in love, for it prepares a place where God’s people may gather, and where Christ himself is in the midst.

Prayer

Servant Lord,
we thank you for the quiet ministries that hold our communities together—
for the chairs unfolded, the tables set, the coffee poured,
and all the unnoticed work done in love.

Bless those whose hands serve quietly,
whose labour makes space for welcome and fellowship.
Teach us to see holiness in the humble tasks,
and to serve one another with joy,
that every chair, every gesture,
may become part of your kingdom work.

Through Jesus Christ,
who calls us not to be served but to serve.
Amen.

I sometimes suspect that God gave us seasons not only for the farmers and their crops, or for those who like to keep an orderly calendar, but also for the poets, the preachers, and perhaps even the comedians. Every shift in the weather is a new sermon, if we are only willing to listen. And if you’ve ever tried to rake leaves in a stiff October wind or shovel snow that the city plough pushed right back into your driveway, you know that creation has a remarkable way of keeping us humble.

Fall: The Gospel of Letting Go
There’s something profoundly theological about autumn. Trees, who spend all summer working so hard at dressing themselves in leafy splendour, suddenly throw the whole wardrobe onto the ground. It’s as if creation itself is reminding us that letting go is not defeat but preparation. Prayer in the fall becomes an act of release — placing in God’s hands what we cannot control, and trusting that new life will come. Of course, if you’ve ever bagged leaves only to have a neighbour’s tree blow the next batch into your yard, you also know that letting go takes practice.

Winter: The Psalm of Silence
Winter teaches us that sometimes the holiest prayer is simply stillness. The snow muffles the noise of the world, and the long nights invite us into reflection. Prayer in winter is often wordless — resting, waiting, longing. Now, silence may sound holy, but let me assure you it’s not always easy. A quiet evening by the fire sounds romantic until the pipes freeze and you find yourself praying with great fervour over a hairdryer and a wrench. Still, winter reminds us that God is at work in the hidden places, even when the ground looks barren.

Spring: The Prayer of Surprise
Spring comes along like the choir bursting into a hymn one verse too soon — loud, joyful, and impossible to ignore. Buds appear where you thought the branch was dead, tulips pop up in flowerbeds you forgot you planted, and suddenly the whole creation is humming the doxology. Prayer in spring is thanksgiving — spontaneous, surprising, and sometimes a little muddy, because joy has a way of splashing where it pleases.

Summer: The Petition of Perseverance
And then comes summer — long days of heat where prayer takes the form of endurance. We pray for rain, for patience, for air conditioning that doesn’t break down. We pray with gratitude for ice cream and shade trees, and with lament for mosquitoes who seem to regard us as the Lord’s supper. Summer teaches us that prayer isn’t always lofty — it can be sweaty, persistent, and grateful for every breeze.

The Whole Year as Prayer
Taken together, the seasons remind us that prayer is not a one-size-fits-all activity. Sometimes it’s release, sometimes silence, sometimes joy, sometimes persistence. The world itself becomes our prayer book, turning its pages one season at a time.

So the next time you find yourself raking leaves, shovelling snow, planting flowers, or swatting mosquitoes, remember: you are already in the middle of a prayer. God is present in it all—inviting us, through the seasons, into the steady rhythm of grace.

Prayer

Creator God,
you are the Lord of every season.
Teach us to pray with the falling leaves,
to listen in the winter silence,
to rejoice with spring blossoms,
and to endure with gratitude in the summer heat.

In every rhythm of the year,
remind us that you are near,
guiding us, shaping us, and drawing us deeper into your love.
May our lives be prayers that follow your seasons of grace,
until all creation sings together in harmony.

Through Jesus Christ,
the Lord of time and eternity.
Amen.

Dear friends,
If you’ve turned on the news lately, you may have found yourself tempted to crawl under the bed with a thermos of tea and wait for the Second Coming. Wars, disasters, political squabbles that make kindergarten playgrounds look positively civil — sometimes it feels like the world has taken a wrong turn and is determined to drive the bus straight into a ditch.

And yet, here we are, Christians called not to despair, but to live faithfully in the thick of it. That’s no easy assignment. Frankly, there are days when I’d rather have the simpler biblical tasks—like naming the animals in Eden. At least “hippopotamus” sounds more cheerful than “climate crisis” or “market crash.”

But God has not given us the gift of selective news reception. We can’t only listen to the stories of weddings at Cana and fast-forward through Gethsemane. The hard headlines of our world demand our attention. They tell us that creation groans, that nations rage, and that people suffer. Yet Scripture reminds us of something deeper: “The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness did not overcome it” (John 1:5). That verse doesn’t say there was no darkness. It says the darkness did not get the last word.

Hope, you see, is not optimism with a smiley face stuck on it. Hope is that quiet, stubborn trust that God is still God, even when the news ticker says otherwise. It’s the conviction that Christ is risen, and therefore life — real life — will always have the final say.

Now, this doesn’t mean Christians float serenely above the mess with beatific grins. Most of us, when confronted with the daily onslaught, react with something closer to groans, sighs, or the occasional muttered word that probably shouldn’t be repeated at Morning Prayer. And yet — even there — hope takes root. Not because we deny the brokenness, but because we dare to believe that God is working redemption in and through it.

Living faithfully amid overwhelming challenges doesn’t necessarily mean solving them all. (Although if you’ve figured out world peace or how to keep church basements free of mysterious leftover casseroles, do let me know.) Sometimes faithfulness is simply showing up with love: checking on a neighbour, offering a prayer, writing a letter, supporting justice in small but steady ways. It’s remembering that while the world may look like chaos, Christ is still Lord of history — and His Kingdom is coming.

So, dear friends, when the news is hard and your spirit feels weary, don’t crawl under the bed just yet. Instead, look to the One who is Light in darkness, and keep walking, faithfully, hopefully, one small act of love at a time. Because while the headlines may scream otherwise, the deeper truth remains: God’s grace is alive, and it will not be overcome.

A Prayer for Hope in Hard Times

God of Light and Life,
the world’s headlines often leave us weary,
our hearts heavy with grief,
our minds clouded with worry.
We confess that sometimes the darkness feels too great,
and hope seems a fragile thing.

Yet you promise that your light shines in the darkness,
and the darkness cannot overcome it.
Teach us to cling to that promise.
Give us courage to live faithfully amid the storms,
to act with compassion in small ways,
and to trust that you are redeeming all things in Christ.

When fear rises, ground us in your peace.
When despair whispers, remind us of the resurrection.
And when the world feels overwhelming,
draw us back to the simple truth:
you are God, and you are with us.

Through Jesus Christ, our Living Hope, we pray.
Amen.

This past Sunday was the first Sunday in September. It was the beginning of a new Fall season in our parish, and — as we do to celebrate such momentous occasions in the life of many a parish, we began that season with a potluck lunch to bring people back together. I love potluck lunches, not only for the great variety of foods, or even because of the great fellowship. I love those lunches, because they are holy.

It may surprise you to learn that some of the holiest ground I have ever stood upon is not paved with marble, nor covered in stained glass, nor lined with pews polished by generations of faithful backsides. No, it is tiled linoleum, sticky in spots, with the faint aroma of coffee percolating since 1978. Yes, I speak of the church kitchen.

If you’ve ever tried to navigate a church kitchen, you will know that it is a spiritual test of faith. Forks are never where forks should be, tea towels breed like rabbits in mysterious cupboards, and there is always that one drawer that contains everything from twist ties to rubber bands to a spatula older than the Reformation. And yet—this is sacred space.

Why? Because here, in the clang of pots and the hum of dishwashers, community takes flesh. Here is where potluck casseroles (of varying degrees of digestibility) are set out in love. Here is where the mountain of dirty dishes at the end of a parish supper becomes a sacrament of service. I remember a wise priest I once knew who insisted that the most pastoral conversations he ever had weren’t in his office, but standing elbow to elbow with parishioners, hands in sudsy water, washing plates together. The sink became his confessional, and the dishcloth his pastoral stole.

Now, I will confess, potluck dinners are a theological adventure all on their own. You never quite know if that mystery casserole is tuna, turkey, or possibly a relic of last year’s Christmas potluck making a reappearance. And yet, no matter the offering, it is received with gratitude and joy—reminding us that God’s economy is not about gourmet presentation, but about abundance and sharing.

The Letter to the Hebrews reminds us, “Do not neglect to show hospitality to strangers, for by doing that some have entertained angels without knowing it.” (Hebrews 13:2). I am fairly certain that if angels ever do show up in disguise, they will be found carrying a dish to the church kitchen, and probably staying after supper to help with the dishes.

So let us reframe the church kitchen for what it truly is—not just a utilitarian space where food is prepared and cleaned up after, but a holy place where hospitality becomes ministry, where laughter echoes more loudly than the clatter of plates, and where the Kingdom of God quietly breaks in between the casserole and the coffee urn.

So the next time you find yourself on dish duty, remember: you are standing on sacred ground. Take off your rubber gloves, for the place where you scrub is holy.

A Prayer for the Sacred Kitchen

Gracious God,
You meet us not only in sanctuaries of wood and stone,
but in the hum of the dishwasher and the clatter of dishes.
Bless the kitchens of our churches,
where casseroles are offered in love,
where hands are plunged into soapy water,
and where laughter mingles with service.

May the work done there remind us
that hospitality is holy,
and that every shared meal is a glimpse of your Kingdom.
Teach us to see even the dishpan as an altar,
and the tea towel as a stole of service.

Through Christ, who broke bread and washed feet,
we pray.
Amen.

If there’s one thing most of us can agree on, it’s that forgiveness sounds lovely in theory and feels terribly awkward in practice. It’s like exercise: we all nod politely when someone recommends it, but when the time comes, we find about 93 reasons why today is not the day.

Forgiveness is hard because it asks us to let go of something we’d rather keep — our carefully polished grudges, our indignation that still feels fresh after all these years, our private sense that we were “in the right” and the other person deserves to squirm just a bit longer. To forgive is to set down that heavy backpack we’ve been lugging around — except we’ve grown so accustomed to the weight, we don’t quite know who we are without it.

Scripture does not soften the challenge. Jesus tells Peter that we are to forgive “seventy times seven” (Matthew 18:22), which is biblical shorthand for as many times as it takes. That’s not because God is trying to make us do spiritual push-ups until we collapse, but because forgiveness is the very air of the Kingdom. As Paul writes, “Be kind to one another, tenderhearted, forgiving one another, as God in Christ has forgiven you” (Ephesians 4:32). We forgive because we have been forgiven — not out of duty, but out of grace received and grace shared.

Of course, some injuries cut deep. Forgiveness does not mean excusing harm or pretending it never happened. It doesn’t mean skipping over justice. What it means is refusing to let bitterness be the final word. When we forgive, we release ourselves as much as the other person. We allow God to write a different ending than the one resentment keeps rehearsing.

I once heard forgiveness described this way: “To forgive is to set a prisoner free — and then discover the prisoner was you.” It’s awkward, yes. It feels unnatural, yes. But it is also one of the most profoundly Christ-shaped things we can do.

And sometimes forgiveness is small and daily — in the kitchen, when someone forgets to refill the ice cube trays again, or when socks are once more abandoned in the hallway like small white flags of surrender. Sometimes forgiveness is in the monumental, the wounds that scar generations. In both, the invitation is the same: to trust that God’s mercy is big enough to carry what we cannot.

Forgiveness feels hard because it is hard. But it is also the road to freedom, to healing, and to life lived in the wide embrace of God’s love.

Amen.

Prayer

Merciful God,
you know how tightly we hold our hurts,
and how heavy the weight of unforgiveness can be.
Teach us to trust your grace more than our grudges.
Help us to release what binds us,
to forgive as we have been forgiven,
and to discover the freedom of your mercy.

Strengthen us where wounds run deep,
give us wisdom where justice is needed,
and surround us with your healing love.
Through Jesus Christ, who bore the cross
that we might be set free.

Amen.

All through the year, I have a visitor that is regularly in attendance on my back deck. It is a black squirrel that I have often described as the fattest squirrel I have ever seen. My nephew doesn’t like it when I say that though, and says, “You shouldn’t fat shame that poor squirrel.” Putting that aside though, this squirrel is absolutely huge. I saw him on the deck again this morning, and in his quiet squirrelly way, he preached me a sermon.

Now, squirrels are not everyone’s favourite creatures. They chatter at us from the trees, dig up the flowerbeds, and seem to have a particular fondness for anything we’d rather keep safe — birdseed, tulip bulbs, and in my case, the occasional tomato. One could say that if there’s an Olympic medal for persistence, the squirrels have already won the gold.

I watched my little squirrel friend the other day. He was clearly determined to break into the bird feeder I had so carefully “squirrel-proofed.” (A phrase that I now realize belongs in the same category as “jumbo shrimp” or “honest politician.”) For a full ten minutes he tried every possible angle   — leaping, hanging upside down, even attempting what looked suspiciously like a three-point landing on the feeder. At last, with an acrobatic twist that would make a gymnast proud, he secured a single seed, scampered away, and then promptly came back for another.

As I watched him, I began to realize: there’s definitely a sermon here.

Jesus tells us in Matthew’s Gospel to “look at the birds of the air” and see how God provides for them. I wonder if He might also have said, “pay attention to the squirrels too.” For here is a creature that embodies persistence. The squirrel doesn’t give up at the first obstacle. He doesn’t stop because the feeder is designed against him. He keeps at it, trusting (or perhaps just instinctively knowing) that there will be something to eat if he just continues the work.

There is something profoundly theological in that. Our faith journey is often filled with obstacles  —  closed doors, difficult seasons, unanswered prayers. It is tempting to give up, to say, “this is too hard,” or “God must not be listening.” But the squirrel, in all his whiskered determination, reminds us that perseverance matters.

And more than that, the squirrel also trusts in abundance. He gathers acorns and buries them  —  so many that he cannot possibly find them all again. And yet, creation does not waste what he forgets. Those lost acorns become oak trees, spreading their branches wide, providing shade, shelter, and more acorns for generations of squirrels to come. God’s provision is not only enough  —  it overflows.

So perhaps the next time we see a squirrel darting across the lawn, or swinging wildly from a feeder, we can hear a little sermon preached to us. A sermon of persistence, of trust in provision, and of abundance that spills into blessing.

It seems even the squirrels have something to teach us about the Kingdom of God.

Amen.

Companion Prayer

Gracious and abundant God,
you speak to us not only through prophets and preachers,
but through the small, persistent voices of your creation.
Teach us to see your lessons in unlikely teachers  —
in the chatter of squirrels, the patience of birds,
and the quiet rhythms of daily life.

Give us the perseverance to keep faith when the way is hard,
the trust to believe in your provision,
and the joy of knowing your abundance overflows
beyond what we can measure or imagine.

Through Christ our Lord,
Amen.