After yesterday’s blog went live, I received a phone call from another former parishioner — one of those wonderful souls who seemed to have served in every possible capacity in parish including the Altar Guild but short of the Junior Choir. (And truth be told, if she’d had a good soprano voice, I suspect she’d have done that too.)

She said, “I read your blog, and when you talked about setting people free to do what they were called to do, I thought — that’s exactly what you did with Committees in the Church! That always really impressed me.”

I confess I was momentarily taken aback. To be praised for one’s work with committees is a rare and curious compliment — something like being congratulated for surviving an encounter with a bear. Still, I knew what she meant, and she was right: there was a principle at work there.

The principle was simple — and yet, in the Church, almost revolutionary: pick good people, and then get out of their way.

When a job needs to be done in the parish, we are often tempted to fill the space with whoever’s handy. The reasoning goes something like this: “We need someone to chair the Finance Committee. Fred owns a calculator. Fred will do.”

But that’s not discernment — that’s desperation.

Ministry, in its healthiest form, isn’t about plugging holes in a leaky ship. It’s about calling. It’s about prayerfully asking, “Who has God prepared for this?” — not simply, “Who’s available Tuesday nights?”

And that’s not just for clergy or those with titles before their names. Every single baptized person has a calling. Some are called to lead; others to bake, to teach, to count, to garden, to visit, to encourage, to repair, to sing (even if they really shouldn’t).

The Holy Spirit does not hand out identical job descriptions. But the Spirit does equip each and every one of us to build up the Body of Christ in our own way.

When I think about leadership, I always try to take time — sometimes too much time — to discern who might best lead a ministry. And when that person is found, and they take up that work, I make a point of retreating (as graciously as possible) into a support role.

The real joy comes later, when an executive summary of a committee meeting crosses my desk, and I realize — with quiet delight — that the meeting happened entirely without me.

There it is: a paragraph or two reporting decisions made, ministries expanded, and plans laid for the future. I read it with the same satisfaction one imagines a parent feels watching a child take their first solo bicycle ride. There’s that mix of pride and relief — and the pure joy that nobody got hurt.

For me, that’s the essence of parish leadership. It’s not about controlling everything. It’s about cultivating the confidence and faith to let others thrive.

If you’ve chosen good leaders, if you’ve discerned wisely, then your best contribution might just be to stand aside, cheer them on, and say a prayer of thanks that God has once again provided exactly who was needed, at exactly the right time.

And if you’re ever in doubt, remember the first rule of holy committee work:

“Where two or three are gathered together in Christ’s name… someone should take minutes — and the rector doesn’t have to be there.”

A Prayer for Letting Others Lead

Gracious and ever-faithful God,
you call each of us to serve you in the ways you have equipped us —
some to lead, some to support,
all to build up your Church in love.

Give us the grace to recognize the gifts in others,
the wisdom to call forth those gifts,
and the humility to step aside
so that your Spirit may move freely through your people.

Bless those who lead in quiet faithfulness,
who organize, encourage, and inspire,
often without notice or fanfare.
Let their joy be in your service
and their strength be in your presence.

And teach us all, Lord,
that the work of your kingdom is not ours alone to manage,
but yours to complete —
through the many hearts and hands you have called together in Christ.

Amen.

I had a lovely conversation yesterday with a parishioner from one of my former parishes. She said, “I read your recent blog post, and it got me thinking about the incredible fellowship we had back then — there was so much fun and laughter during those years.”

And she was right. Those were good years. Joy-filled, faithful, noisy years. The kind of years where you could almost hear the laughter echoing in the hall long after everyone had gone home.

Her words got me thinking too. I began to reflect on why that time was so rich with community life and grace. And I realized something that may sound strange for a priest to say: the best thing I did back then was get out of the way.

Now, before anyone rushes to assume that means I was lazy, let me assure you, I did my fair share of sermon writing, visiting, and keeping the church boiler from bursting into flame. But I learned early on that ministry isn’t about being the busiest person in the building—it’s about creating the kind of space where others can shine.

In those days, Charlotte organized regular soup lunches to support a feeding program she’d learned about in Africa. The Women’s Guild cooked up potato lunches that could make a dietician weep with joy (or possibly despair). Once a month, we held Bagel Sunday—an event that brought together the 8:00 and 10:00 congregations, reminding everyone that the early birds and the late risers were indeed part of the same flock.

The wardens, not to be outdone, put on an annual dinner and auction that could have given Sotheby’s a run for their money — if Sotheby’s ever featured a slightly used lawnmower and a homemade cheesecake as its top lots. And then there was John, who spent the summer months organizing volunteers to collect donations for ice cream at St. John’s Soup Kitchen. Because, as he rightly said, “Everyone deserves dessert once in a while.”

These weren’t “programs” in the churchy sense. They were living expressions of love, creativity, and faith. People weren’t waiting for permission — they were responding to the Spirit’s nudge and doing it together, with joy.

My greatest contribution? Learning the fine art of holy restraint — what I like to call “getting the heck out of the way.”

That, I’ve come to believe, is the essence of ministry. It’s not a solo act. It’s not about standing in the spotlight or being the one who makes everything happen. True ministry is about creating a space where the people of God can do what they were made to do — love God, love one another, and love the world with abandon.

When that happens, something beautiful takes root. The laughter grows louder, the joy becomes contagious, and even the hard work feels light. I look back on those years not because I did anything remarkable, but because the community did. They became the church in the truest sense — not a building or a hierarchy, but a living, breathing fellowship of faith.

And that, I think, is what the Kingdom of God looks like when it breaks through our potluck dinners and soup luncheons. It looks like God’s people shining in their own ways, working together, and maybe — just maybe — letting their priest step aside so they can show the world what grace looks like with sleeves rolled up and laughter in the air.

Prayer: Learning to Step Aside

Lord Jesus,
You send us out to share your peace and your good news,
not to draw attention to ourselves, but to you.
When our pride gets in the way,
when our plans take centre stage,
help us to step aside —
so that your light can shine through us.
Teach us to trust your Spirit working in others,
to serve with humility,
and to rejoice that your kingdom is near.

In your holy name we pray. Amen.

On rummage sales, pancake suppers, and the quiet holiness of community service

It has often been said that if you really want to know the heart of a parish, don’t start in the sanctuary — go straight to the basement. There, amid the aroma of coffee that has been brewing since the Trudeau era (the first Trudeau, mind you), you’ll find the living, breathing Gospel enacted with aprons, folding chairs, and a tin cash box that never quite balances at the end of the day.

Some people imagine that the “holy work of the Church” is found only in lofty prayers or grand sermons. But in truth, the real theological wrestling happens when two parishioners argue, with the passion of Aquinas and Luther combined, about whether the pancake batter should be thick or runny. (I once saw a disagreement escalate to the point where someone threatened to bring in a crepe pan—an act considered practically heretical in our context.)

The Rummage Sale as Eschatology

Take the rummage sale, for instance. On the surface, it appears to be the simple redistribution of household clutter — lamps missing shades, half-sets of china, and enough fondue pots to fuel the entire disco decade once again. But hidden in this chaos is an echo of the Gospel: nothing is wasted, everything has potential, and what one person discards, another receives with gratitude. It is a kind of eschatology in miniature: the last shall be first, and the broken vacuum cleaner shall be raised in glory — though only if someone has the right replacement bag.

Pancakes, Pews, and Perseverance

Then there are the pancake suppers. Ah yes, Shrove Tuesday, when the faithful gather to fortify themselves with carbohydrates and syrup before the lean season of Lent. To the outsider, it might look like mere flapjacks on paper plates. But to those who know, it is nothing less than a Eucharist of community. Children run sticky-fingered between tables, seniors balance cups of orange drink with stoic courage, and someone in the kitchen flips pancakes at a rate that would impress a Michelin-starred chef — though he or she will never be canonized, unless it’s by the Altar Guild.

I once heard a parishioner say, “This isn’t just about pancakes. This is about fellowship.” To which another added, “And sausage.” Both were right.

The Quiet Holiness of It All

What I love most is that these seemingly ordinary events reveal the extraordinary holiness of service. They remind us that faith isn’t lived only in sermons and hymns, but also in the washing of dishes, the setting of tables, and the counting of nickels from the bake sale jar.

It’s easy to overlook these things as “small.” But when Jesus said, “Whatever you do for the least of these, you do for me,” I like to think he included pouring coffee for visitors, selling sweaters for fifty cents, and frying up pancakes by the hundreds.

Now, if I may confess: I do used sneak downstairs not for deep theological reflection, but for the sheer joy of a good butter tart. (when I could still have such things.) But perhaps that too is a form of grace — sweet, flaky, and entirely necessary for the journey of faith.

So the next time you find yourself at a rummage sale or a pancake supper, don’t just see a fundraiser. Look closely, and you may glimpse the Kingdom of God breaking in — right between the gently used toasters and the maple syrup jug.

Prayer

Gracious God,
we thank you for the simple holiness found in our church basements —
in rummage sales, pancake suppers, and quiet acts of kindness.
Bless the hands that serve, the hearts that welcome,
and the laughter that binds us together in fellowship.
Teach us to see your Kingdom in the ordinary,
and to recognize Christ in every cup of coffee poured,
every dish washed, and every neighbour welcomed.
Through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.

Every so often, someone corners me after church with the kind of expression usually reserved for discovering that the casserole at a potluck was, in fact, made from last year’s leftovers. “Why,” they ask, “do we still read the Old Testament in church? Couldn’t we just skip to the good stuff — the parables, the Beatitudes, the warm parts?”

It’s a fair question. The Old Testament has its share of difficult passages. Battles, genealogies, and laws about fabrics — sometimes it feels less like devotional reading and more like a cross between a history textbook and a Levitical edition of Better Homes and Gardens. There are moments when, as Stephen Leacock once said about another kind of reading, “I know the book is good for me, just like cod liver oil, but I wish it came with a spoonful of jam.”

Now I feel as though I need to come clean on one thing. I must confess to a very keen love of the Hebrew Scriptures. The study of Ancient Hebrew was what made all of Scripture come alive for me. I love to be able to make the connections between the ancient story of Israel and the life of the people of God in our own scriptures, and in our world today. That is the real bread and butter of preaching for me. But I still have to admit that there are days when I read the Hebrew Scripture passage and wonder how anyone could preach a message of grace connected with that.

And yet — we keep reading it. Week after week, the lector bravely steps up and proclaims another story of wandering Israelites, moody prophets, or bewildering visions. Why?

Because the Old Testament is not just a preface we’ve outgrown. It’s the long, sprawling, sometimes messy story of God’s love affair with humanity. It’s a record of people who tried, failed, stumbled, repented, and tried again — much like us. It’s full of complaints (“How long, O Lord?”), confessions (“Create in me a clean heart”), and occasional flashes of astonishing faith (“Here am I, send me”).

And yes, it has its tough bits. There are passages that make us wince, moments we’d rather avoid, and questions that don’t have easy answers. But wrestling with those texts is part of the Christian life. Jacob wrestled with an angel and came away limping, but blessed. We wrestle with scripture, and sometimes we limp too — but we also find blessing.

Besides, the Old Testament is rich. Where else do we get the poetry of the Psalms, the vision of justice rolling down like waters, or the promise of Emmanuel, God with us? Without those voices, the New Testament floats in a vacuum. Jesus didn’t arrive in a world that had been twiddling its thumbs for four thousand years, waiting for something interesting to happen. He came as the fulfilment of Israel’s story — the long story we rehearse every time we open those ancient pages.

Think of it this way: skipping the Old Testament would be like tuning in to a movie halfway through and wondering why everyone is so emotional in the final scene. You’d miss the build-up, the characters, the heartbreak, the longing. You’d miss the story that makes the ending make sense.

So yes, sometimes the Old Testament is bewildering. Sometimes it’s tough to hear. Sometimes it reads like a sermon preached in the desert without coffee. But it’s our story too. It’s the story of God’s people learning — slowly, painfully, beautifully — what it means to walk with God.

And the best part? That story is still unfolding. Which means that when we hear the old, old words on a Sunday morning, we’re not just listening to history. We’re listening to family.

So the next time you hear the lector trudging through a long list of names or recounting the 37th rebellion of Israel, take heart. Beneath the dust is treasure. Beneath the strangeness is wisdom. And beneath it all is the God who has been telling the story from the very beginning—and who hasn’t finished with us yet.

Prayer

God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob,
God of prophets, poets, and pilgrims,
we thank you for the gift of your Word,
both old and new,
ancient and ever fresh.

When the stories seem strange,
give us patience.
When the words seem hard,
give us wisdom.
When the passages challenge us,
teach us to wrestle faithfully,
and find your blessing even in the struggle.

Open our eyes to see your grace
woven through the long story of your people,
and open our hearts to know that we too
are part of that story today.

We ask this in the name of Jesus,
the Word made flesh,
who fulfils all your promises.
Amen.

If you’ve ever driven in a new city without GPS, you’ll know the feeling of being lost before you’ve even left the parking lot. The streets all look the same, the signs are confusing, and you soon discover that “Maple Street” appears in at least three different neighbourhoods. Then comes the inevitable U-turn, and perhaps a whispered prayer that no one you know is watching you circle the block for the third time.

The Christian life can sometimes feel like that too. Without some sort of guide, the days blur together, and it’s easy to forget that God’s story is unfolding right in the midst of our own. This is where the church calendar comes in—not as a quaint relic or an old-fashioned add-on, but as something like a spiritual GPS.

Advent quietly recalculates us when we’ve gone astray, reminding us that hope is not wishful thinking but a promise rooted in Christ. Christmas, of course, is the great announcement that God has shown up—in person—whether we were ready or not. Lent is that polite but firm voice that tells us: “At the next opportunity, make a U-turn.” Easter, glorious Easter, is the declaration that the destination has been reached, even as the journey continues. And then there’s Pentecost, the reminder that the GPS isn’t just external—it’s God’s Spirit dwelling in us, guiding us even when the road is rough.

Even so-called “Ordinary Time” isn’t just filler, any more than the backroads between towns are meaningless. It’s in the green, steady weeks that we learn to live the faith in the ordinary rhythms of work, rest, family, and community. Ordinary Time teaches us that holiness isn’t confined to feast days, but can be found in Tuesday mornings and grocery store checkouts.

The church calendar doesn’t eliminate every wrong turn, nor does it prevent us from occasionally taking the scenic route when we didn’t mean to. But it does give us a sense of direction, reminding us where we’ve been, where we are, and where God is leading us.

So perhaps the next time you hear the collect for the week or see the liturgical colour change on the altar frontal, think of it as your divine GPS quietly saying: “Continue straight. God is with you.”

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Prayer

Gracious God,
You guide our steps through the seasons of life and faith.
In Advent, you teach us to wait;
in Christmas, you teach us to wonder;
in Lent, you teach us to repent;
in Easter, you teach us to rejoice;
and in Ordinary Time, you teach us to live faithfully day by day.
Keep us walking in your way,
until at last we reach our journey’s end in your eternal presence.
Through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.

Today, across Canada, we mark the National Day for Truth and Reconciliation. It is a day to pause, to remember, to lament, and to commit ourselves again to the work of healing and justice with Indigenous peoples.

At the heart of this day is the truth of the Residential School system and its devastating legacy. Children were taken from their families, their languages silenced, their culture and spiritual traditions suppressed. Many never came home. The grief is not only historical; it is carried in the lives, families, and communities of Survivors today. To honour this day faithfully, we must listen to the truth with open hearts, and we must let that truth move us toward reconciliation—not as a distant ideal, but as a lived practice.

One powerful symbol of this journey is the Survivor’s Flag, created to honour those who endured Residential Schools and those who never returned. Every element of this flag carries meaning:

• The eagle feather speaks of spirituality and healing.
• The children in the circle remind us of the generations who were taken and of the sacredness of every child.
• The open door of the school signifies both the history of forced entry and the Survivors who walked out.
• The incomplete circle reflects lives cut short, families broken, communities wounded.
• And yet, the sun and the horizon point to the hope of renewal and the resilience of Indigenous peoples who continue to live, resist, and thrive.

For Christians, this day calls us to look deeply at our own complicity. The churches, including our Anglican Church of Canada, were not bystanders but active participants in the Residential School system. To remember truthfully is to confess honestly. Reconciliation is not an act of charity, but a Gospel demand: “All this is from God, who reconciled us to himself through Christ, and has given us the ministry of reconciliation” (2 Corinthians 5:18).

So today we do not wear orange or raise the Survivor’s Flag as mere symbols. We do so as commitments: to honour Survivors, to teach the next generations, to challenge racism and colonialism wherever they still wound, and to walk humbly with Indigenous partners in the work of healing.

Truth and reconciliation is not one day, but a lifelong journey. Yet it begins, always, with remembering—and with listening.

A Prayer for the National Day for Truth and Reconciliation

God of truth and God of mercy,
on this day we remember the children taken,
the Survivors who carry the weight of painful memories,
and the families and communities forever changed.

We grieve lives lost and cultures wounded.
We confess the sins of the church,
our part in a system that silenced languages,
denied traditions, and broke sacred bonds.

Open our ears to listen with humility,
our hearts to repent with honesty,
and our hands to work for healing with courage.

Bless the Survivors, their families, and their communities.
May the Survivor’s Flag wave not only as remembrance
but as a sign of hope and renewal.

Guide us, O Christ, into the hard work of reconciliation,
that together we may walk the path of justice,
restoring what has been broken,
and honouring the dignity of every child of God.

In your holy name we pray.
Amen.

Every Sunday, like clockwork, we stand and say one of the Creeds. For most of my career in ministry, Nicene Creed usually, sometimes the Apostles’, and on high occasions, we might even dust off the Athanasian — though I suspect if we tried that one, half the congregation would faint from lack of oxygen before the “not three eternals but one eternal” bit.

Now, why do I keep saying the Creeds? After all, I’ve known them by heart since I was a child. I’ve mouthed those words when I’ve believed them deeply, and I’ve muttered them when I wasn’t quite sure what I believed at all. I’ve stumbled over them with a dry throat, and I’ve proclaimed them at Easter as if heaven itself could hear.

I say them because, at their core, the Creeds are not just a laundry list of theological statements. They are a communal anchor. A kind of “we believe,” not “I believe alone in my corner.” When I stumble, the Church carries me. When I can’t find words, the ancient words find me.

There’s a kind of spiritual muscle memory in saying the Creeds. It’s like riding a bicycle, except with fewer bruised knees and slightly less wobbling (unless you’re kneeling and your leg falls asleep). The repetition plants truth in us, whether or not we feel particularly faithful on a given day.

And here’s the funny bit. In our age, we’re suspicious of repetition. We prefer the new, the novel, the shiny. Yet we repeat all sorts of things gladly: we watch reruns of our favourite shows, we order the same coffee every morning, we complain about the weather every February. (Some of us even still sing “Happy Birthday” though, if we’re honest, it may be the dullest melody ever written.) Repetition gives rhythm and shape to life.

The Creeds do the same for faith. They remind us that God’s story doesn’t change with the headlines. They place us, week after week, inside the unbroken company of believers stretching back centuries. Even when I mutter, or wonder, or wrestle, I am still joined to the saints in saying: “We believe…”

So why do I keep saying the Creeds? Because in their repetition, I find something stronger than my own doubts. I find a reminder that faith is not about inventing new truths every Sunday, but about being re-rooted in the eternal Truth that carries me when my own legs won’t.

And besides, if a comedian can make us laugh by retelling the same joke in slightly different ways, surely I can repeat the Creeds every week without complaint. At least the Creed never forgets the punchline.

Prayer:

Eternal God,
You have given us words of faith to steady our hearts,
and a community to carry us when we falter.
As we repeat the ancient Creeds,
remind us that we are not alone —
we stand with the saints of every age,
rooted in your unchanging truth.
Strengthen us when our belief feels weak,
and teach us that even in repetition,
your Spirit breathes fresh life.
Through Jesus Christ, who is the same yesterday, today, and forever.
Amen.

I have often wondered what would happen if Jesus were to turn up at one of our parish potluck suppers. Not dressed in flowing robes and sandals, but in the ordinary clothes of someone who had just gotten off the bus, carrying a Tupperware container of something unidentifiable. Would we rush forward with a warm welcome and a generous plate, or would we do what Canadians are so very skilled at — smiling politely while gently directing him to the “visitors’ table,” the one strategically located near the drafty exit door?

Hospitality is one of those words we in the church love to use. We put it in parish profiles, committee mandates, and on the front of our bulletins. It’s a lovely word, full of warm associations — cups of tea, casseroles, and the holy grail of Anglican hospitality: dainties. But true hospitality, the kind that Jesus demonstrates and calls us to, is far riskier than passing around a tray of Nanaimo bars. It’s hospitality at the edges — welcoming people who make us uncomfortable, people who may not play by our rules, people who may never say thank you or stack the chairs afterward.

Scripture is full of this kind of edge-hospitality. Abraham running to meet three strangers in the heat of the day and discovering he has entertained angels unawares. Jesus eating with tax collectors and sinners, causing the good religious folk to choke on their soup. The early church struggling with whether Gentiles really belonged at the table (spoiler: they did). Over and over again, God calls us to fling the doors wide and make room for people who don’t meet our criteria.

The truth is, we like our criteria. They make us feel safe, in control. “Welcome,” we say, “but please be on time, reasonably tidy, and preferably able to sing in the choir.” We like our edges neat, trimmed, and manageable. But God’s welcome spills over the edges, like a pot of soup left too long on the stove, bubbling down the sides and onto the burner. It makes a mess. But it smells wonderful.

Hospitality without conditions is not about being careless; it is about being Christ-like. It is about creating spaces where people can show up as they are, with all their complicated stories, without fear of judgment or rejection. It is about seeing in them not projects to be fixed, but beloved children of God. And yes, sometimes it will leave us with sticky fingers, awkward conversations, and the odd moment where we desperately wish we could sneak out the back door. But it will also leave us with glimpses of the Kingdom—where the hungry are fed, the lonely find friends, and the stranger becomes neighbour.

So the next time someone unexpected turns up — whether at our church, our dinner table, or even at the drafty end of the parish hall — perhaps our call is not to shuffle them politely out of the way, but to say, “Pull up a chair. There’s room for you here.” After all, isn’t that precisely what God has already said to us?

One of the most curious things about Anglican worship (and, truth be told, about most liturgical traditions) is the sheer number of times we say the same things over and over again. If you have ever sat through a service thinking, “Didn’t we just pray that a minute ago?” — the answer is almost certainly yes. And if you’re very Anglican, the answer is, “Yes, and we’ll be doing it again next week.”

I remember once a parishioner confided to me that she sometimes drifted off during the Prayers of the People. When I asked her why, she said, “Because Father, I already know what’s coming!” I had to resist the temptation to point out that, in fact, she had just described the whole genius of the liturgy. It is like a favourite hymn or a well-worn path: we know where it leads, and yet, it still carries us somewhere holy.

Repetition in worship is not accidental; it is spiritual medicine. We repeat prayers because the human heart is remarkably stubborn. God says, “I love you,” and we answer, “Yes, but…” God says, “Be still,” and we reply, “After I finish this.” God says, “Forgive,” and we retort, “Surely you don’t mean them.” It takes time — lots of time — for those words of grace to sink in. The Church, in her infinite pastoral patience, makes sure we hear them not once, not twice, but over and over, until at last the penny drops.

There is also a comfort in the repetition. Life is full of unpredictability — appliances break, politicians bicker, the Wi-Fi goes down at the precise moment you hit “send.” But in the liturgy, you know that after “The Lord be with you,” there comes the sturdy reply, “And also with you.” That familiar rhythm is like sitting in a chair that has been moulded to your shape.

I suppose it is rather like being in a long marriage. One might think that saying “I love you” every day could become tiresome. But it does not. It deepens, it steadies, it reminds. The repetition does not diminish the words; it sanctifies them.

So, the next time you find yourself praying the Lord’s Prayer yet again, or saying the Creed for the thousandth time, take heart. Those words are chiselling away at the stone of your heart, shaping it slowly but surely into the likeness of Christ. And perhaps, with Stephen Leacock’s dry grin, we might admit that the repetition of liturgy is a bit like listening to Uncle George tell the same story every Christmas dinner: you know exactly where it’s going, but it wouldn’t be Christmas without it.

Companion Prayer

Gracious God,
You speak to us in words ancient and ever new.
Through the steady rhythm of prayer and praise,
you shape our hearts and guide our steps.
When life feels chaotic, anchor us in the familiar words of faith.
When our spirits grow weary, refresh us with the comfort of holy repetition.
Teach us to hear your voice not as an echo,
but as the living Word that renews us each day.
Through Christ our Lord,
Amen.

Theologians have written weighty tomes about God’s presence in the cosmos, about divine transcendence and immanence, and about mysteries so vast that the average parishioner might begin to wish they had just stayed home with a nice cup of tea. But I’ve discovered, over many years in ministry, that God is not nearly as elusive as we sometimes make God out to be. In fact, God is far more likely to show up on your very own street — sometimes even on garbage day, which is proof enough of grace.

When I speak of Neighbourhood Theology, I’m not referring to the kind of highfalutin treatise one might footnote to death, but rather to the way we discover God in the ordinary, often overlooked corners of our daily lives. God, it turns out, is not allergic to sidewalks, cracked driveways, or neighbours with particularly noisy lawnmowers.

Take, for instance, the lady who lives three houses down and insists on waving cheerfully every morning, rain or shine. I am convinced that her smile is more evangelistic than most sermons I have ever preached. (A sobering thought for a preacher, but one that keeps me humble.) Or consider the teenagers across the street, who gather now and then on the front porch with guitars, singing songs whose lyrics I cannot for the life of me understand. Yet even there, God is present — in the joy of music, in the mystery of youth, in the reminder that life always presses forward with hope.

There is something deeply theological about learning to see God’s hand in the common and the familiar. We often think of ministry as something that happens in stained-glass sanctuaries or under vaulted ceilings. But in truth, the neighbourhood is God’s cathedral, and the front porch can be an altar just as surely as the table in the chancel.

The Psalms remind us, “The earth is the Lord’s and all that is in it.” That includes your street. The cracked pavement, the aging trees, the local cat who has adopted every house as its own parish — these are, in their own way, sacraments of God’s nearness. And if you’ve ever tried to get your recycling bin out before the truck roars by at an unholy hour, you’ll know that prayer rises naturally from the depths of the soul.

And here’s the hopeful bit: when we begin to recognize God in our neighbourhoods, we realize that we are never truly alone. That argument we overheard between neighbours, the laughter of children playing tag, the smell of bread drifting from up the street — these are all reminders that God has stitched us together in community, calling us to love our neighbours as ourselves.

Stephen Leacock once quipped that a town was really just “a collection of houses built around a few people who know how to talk.” I think he was onto something. The church, too, is a neighbourhood. And God’s theology is not written only in books — it is lived out in backyards, in shared casseroles, and in the simple act of checking in on the elderly gentleman who still insists on shovelling his own driveway.

So, friends, perhaps the next time you step outside and see your street, you might take a moment to pray, “Lord, open my eyes to discover You here.” Because the truth is, you don’t have to go far to meet God. Sometimes, it’s as simple as opening the front door.

A Prayer for Discovering God on Our Street

Loving God,
You walk with us not only in sanctuaries of stone and stained glass,
but also on sidewalks, porches, and garden paths.
Open our eyes to see You in the faces of neighbours,
in the laughter of children,
in the kindness of strangers,
and even in the quiet corners where loneliness lingers.

Teach us to cherish the holiness of ordinary places
and to recognize that every street is part of Your kingdom.
May we bear Your light in simple acts of love—
a word of encouragement,
a wave across the fence,
a casserole left at the doorstep.

Bless our neighbourhoods, O God,
that they may be filled with peace,
and let our daily comings and goings
be offerings of gratitude to You.

Through Christ our Lord,
Amen.