There are days when I’m convinced that Anglicans invented the first group fitness class. Long before Pilates became trendy and well before you could attend a Spin class at 6 a.m. with people who look much too cheerful for that hour, the Church had already perfected a full-body liturgical workout.

I’ve often thought that if St. Paul had foreseen the stand–sit–kneel sequence of Anglican worship, he might’ve added a line in 1 Corinthians along the lines of: “Do you not know that your pew is a temple of the Holy Spirit? Therefore glorify God in your posture.” And if Stephen Leacock had written a commentary on the Prayer Book, we’d surely have a chapter entitled “In Which the Faithful Do Unexpected Calisthenics.”

The Sacred Warm-Up: Finding the Right Pew

The workout always begins with the delicate art of pew selection. One must calculate carefully: close enough to the front to appear devout, but far enough back to avoid accidentally becoming the lay reader. This requires both strategy and subtle neck movements, not unlike a pigeon assessing whether the birdbath is safe. The warm-up continues as you slide into the pew and realize—too late—that you’ve chosen the one where the kneeler has the structural integrity of a wet noodle.

Stand, Sit, Kneel… Repeat

And then the real aerobics begin.

Stand! (With enthusiasm, but not too much. You don’t want to appear threatening.)

Sit! (Quietly. No pew-creaking fanfare, please.)

Kneel! (If able. If not able, assume the posture of Holy Intent.)

Then back up again, sometimes with the elegance of a swan, sometimes more like an arthritic giraffe attempting yoga.

Every congregation develops its own rhythm. You can almost hear the spiritual heartbeat of the parish in the synchronized thump of two dozen kneelers hitting the floor in unison—plus one kneeler that clatters a full two seconds late, testifying that sanctification is a process.

Liturgy as God’s Personal Trainer

Some say liturgy forms us. I say it also tones us.

It engages the quads, strengthens the core, and tests the balance of those who attempt to cross themselves without wobbling into the next pew. Generations of Anglicans have been kept limber not through gym memberships but through the faithful practice of standing for the Gospel and kneeling for the Confession.

And let’s be honest: nothing builds upper body strength like trying to wrestle a medievally heavy Book of Common Prayer from the rack without dropping it on your neighbour’s foot—especially during a quiet moment of prayer.

Preventing Liturgical Quad Strain

As your friendly neighbourhood priest—and apparently your liturgical physiotherapist—I offer a few pastoral tips:
    1.    Hydrate before worship. Not too much, mind you. Anglican services run long and the bathrooms are never close by.
    2.    Know your limits. If your knees sound like a floor full of popcorn during the Eucharistic Prayer, feel free to remain seated. God hears you just as clearly.
    3.    Use the pew for support. That is its spiritual gift.
    4.    Avoid sudden movements during incense. Trust me on this one.
    5.    When in doubt, follow the choir. They usually know when to move—unless it’s a new anthem, in which case all bets are off.

A Holy Exercise in Community

What makes our sacred aerobics truly transformative isn’t the posture changes, but the way we do them together. These shared movements remind us that faith is embodied, communal, and occasionally humorous. They’re small acts of unity that shape us into a people attentive to God and one another—even when someone stands too soon and the rest of us pretend we didn’t notice.

The miracle is that in all this movement—creaking pews, dodgy kneelers, slowly protesting joints—we meet the God who knelt to wash feet, who stood to bless, who sat at tables with the least likely guests. Our motions mirror His own.

So the next time you find yourself rising, sitting, kneeling, and rising again, take heart: you’re participating in the oldest fitness class in Christian history. And in the end, we’re not earning spiritual muscle—we’re being lovingly formed, one posture at a time

A Companion Prayer

Holy and gracious God,
You meet us in every posture—
when we stand in praise,
sit in wonder,
and kneel in humility.

Bless our creaky joints, our wobbly balance,
and our sometimes overconfident attempts
to follow the liturgical choreography.
Grant us joy in the movements we share,
patience with ourselves and one another,
and grace enough to laugh kindly
when our pews groan louder than we do.

May these simple gestures form our hearts
as surely as they stretch our bodies,
reminding us that worship is lived with our whole selves.
And in every rise and bow,
draw us closer to the One who stooped to serve,
stood to bless,
and walked beside us on the way.

In Christ’s name we pray. Amen.

There are few artifacts of Anglican life as enduring, adaptable, and mysteriously indispensable as the humble church bulletin. Yes, the 1549 Book of Common Prayer set our liturgical rhythm, but it was the accompanying leaflet—copied on the parish’s one reliable machine (the Holy Spirit, obviously)—that truly carried the weight of the faithful.

The bulletin has always been the Swiss Army Knife of parish life: part guide, part shield, part distraction, part family newsletter. If the chalice veil is “a covering for a mystery,” the bulletin is “a covering for everything else.”

Let’s start with its first historic function: preventing ecclesiastical embarrassment. The Reformation gave us many gifts—scripture in English, a robust sacramental theology—but it also introduced a level of congregational participation that required knowing what was happening. Imagine the first time a Tudor parishioner was expected to say “Amen” at the right moment without a leaflet: chaos. The bulletin became the Anglican’s trusty cue card, sparing generations from the dreaded liturgical solo—that moment when one well-meaning soul says the creed a full line ahead of everyone else.

Then there’s the bulletin-as-fan, a ministry in its own right. By July, every Canadian parish—no matter how modern—suddenly remembers that air conditioning is aspirational. And so, in the heat of Ordinary Time, the faithful do what they’ve always done: fold the bulletin in half and engage in the ancient rite of Personal Temperature Regulation. It’s not in the BAS, but it’s in the hearts of the people.

There is also the art of bulletin origami, a spiritual practice perfected by bored but imaginative children (and, truthfully, a number of adults). My father was a great sermon listener. He was always prepared to enter into converstaion after the service about what the preacher had said, but in order to keep his mind on the homily, he had to keep his hands busy. Week by week, He would fashion his bulletin into an origami creation of some sort. Some might have thought that he wasn’t paying attention, but as I said, he followed every word, and listened attentively. While clergy wax eloquent on Paul’s theology of grace, some parishioners quietly craft paper cranes, boats, or aerodynamic pew-darts that—if thrown accurately—can hit a sibling three pews ahead during the Offertory Hymn. This is, of course, why bulletins are collected after the service: not for recycling, but for evidence.

We must not forget the bulletin’s role as emergency greeting-avoidance equipment. Few items have given such courage to the introverted Anglican as the well-timed “Oh—just reading the announcements” maneuver. With a raised bulletin held like a diplomatic shield, one can avoid small talk with surprising pastoral effectiveness. Truly, the Spirit moves in mysterious ways.

And finally, the bulletin’s most underrated ministry: the emergency note-taking device. How many grocery lists, sudden inspirations, pastoral concerns, and brilliant sermon points (sadly not the ones being preached) have been scribbled on the back of a Sunday leaflet? I have seen parishioners exit church with bulletins covered in so much ink they resembled early drafts of the Dead Sea Scrolls. If only we had an archaeological record of what has been written on the backs of bulletins over the centuries—what a spiritual treasure that would be.

Yet for all its whimsy, the bulletin is also a quiet companion in worship. It steadies the scattered, guides the newcomer, anchors the distracted, and gives the fidgety something to hold. It is the great leveller: choir member, bishop, toddler, and visitor all cling to the same folded bit of paper like a lifeline through the liturgy.

So let us treasure this simple sacramental-adjacent artifact. For long after our screens go dark, the printer jams, or the livestream freezes at the exact moment the priest is making an unflattering face, the church bulletin will remain—faithful, multipurpose, and forever there when needed.

Even if only to fan yourself during the Gradual Hymn.

Companion Prayer

Holy One,
who meets us in pews and papers, in silence and in smiles,
we give you thanks for the simple gifts that guide us through worship.
Bless the humble church bulletin—
its pages that steady our voices,
its folds that cool our brows,
its blank spaces that catch our wandering thoughts.

As we gather in community,
use even the smallest things to draw us closer to you
and to one another.
Teach us to see grace in the ordinary,
joy in the whimsical,
and your presence in every folded corner of our common life.

Through Christ,
who sanctifies even our scraps and scribbles.
Amen.

There’s a curious truth in parish life — the people who think they are running the place seldom are, and the people who think they have nothing to offer often carry the quiet wisdom that keeps the whole thing from toppling over like a badly stacked tower of hymnbooks.

St. Paul, in one of his more pastoral flourishes, lays it out beautifully in 1 Corinthians 12. The Body of Christ, he says, is not a well-oiled spiritual machine with interchangeable parts. It is an organism, prone to aches, occasional inflammation, and moments when the left hand does something so baffling the right hand wants to file a formal complaint. And yet — and here’s the marvel — the parts we are tempted to call “weaker” or “less honourable” are the very ones God clothes in glory.

Paul insists the broken become indispensable.

It’s almost as though the Holy Spirit has a soft spot for people who don’t fit the mould — the ones who arrive late, speak plainly, ask awkward questions at Bible study, or sit in the back pew because they’re not sure if they even belong. They’re not the church’s “problems.” They’re often its prophets.

I’ve seen it again and again.
The man living with addiction who knows more about daily grace than many a tidy theologian.
The survivor of trauma who teaches the rest of us what patient courage looks like.
The elder with shaking hands whose prayers still shake the heavens.
The teen who doesn’t say much but sees everything.

These are the spiritual ligaments — often strained, sometimes overlooked — that hold the Body together. They remind us that ministry isn’t a performance for the polished but a shared pilgrimage of the needy. The church’s true vitality isn’t found in our efficiency, our programs, or even our carefully colour-coded diocesan charts (which, let’s be honest, only three people ever read). It’s found in our interdependence.

Paul’s point is not that the strong must gently accommodate the weak, like a potluck where we grudgingly include a gluten-free casserole. No — he flips the whole thing on its head. The so-called “weaker” members reveal what the gospel actually looks like lived out: grace received, grace shared, grace needed again tomorrow.

Perhaps the most countercultural thing the church can do today is admit that we need one another — all of us, in our tattered beauty and our inconvenient complications. The broken do not burden the Body; they reveal its heart.

And maybe that’s why, on any given Sunday, the Spirit seems happiest sitting beside the one who limped into the nave wondering if God still sees them. Because if Paul is right — and he usually is — the Body becomes most itself when the parts that tremble are honoured, included, and loved without hesitation.

In other words: if your faith life feels a bit wobbly, congratulations. You might just be holding the rest of us up.

A Companion Prayer

Holy One,
You gather us not because we are strong,
but because we are Yours.
You knit together the broken pieces of our lives
until they shine with a beauty we could never make alone.

Teach us to honour the members of Your Body
whom the world overlooks.
Give us eyes to see wisdom in wounded places,
courage in trembling hands,
and Your grace alive in those who walk with a limp.

Where we are tempted to prize polish over perseverance,
correct us gently.
Where we imagine we can manage on our own,
remind us that You made us for dependence —
on You, and on one another.

Gather the discouraged, the weary, the uncertain,
and let them know they belong.
Make our parish a place where every member
— struggling or steady —
is held in love, honoured in dignity,
and welcomed without condition.

Shape us, broken as we are,
into the Body of Christ
for the healing of the world.

Amen.

There are Sundays when the pew feels less like a seat and more like a lifeboat — weathered by time, creaky in places, but afloat on a sea of sorrow, doubt, and grace. It’s not always the grand, Titanic-sized disasters that bring people through the church doors. Sometimes it’s the quieter storms — the ones that rage inside.

I’ve often thought that if we could see the cargo people bring with them to church, we’d never worry about the attendance numbers again. Depression disguised as fatigue. Grief wrapped in polite smiles. Trauma tucked between the pages of the bulletin. Addiction hidden behind “I’m fine, thank you.” A congregation is rarely what it seems — it’s not a club of the spiritually accomplished, but a fellowship of the almost-drowned.

Jesus seemed to understand this instinctively. He was never much for clean boundaries or social comfort zones. He touched the leper when everyone else reached for hand sanitizer. He laid hands on the dead when decorum called for distance. He dined with tax collectors and sinners, which in his day was roughly equivalent to announcing a potluck with the local gang and the CRA auditors. Over and over, he sought out the untouchable, the unwell, and the uninvited — not to fix them as a project, but to love them as people.

And that’s where the church is meant to follow. Sanctuary is not just a pretty architectural term or a zoning designation for “that part with the good acoustics.” It’s the heartbeat of the Gospel made visible — a place where the hurting don’t have to pretend. A true sanctuary is one where no one is too broken, too complicated, or too late to the service.

Of course, our version of hospitality often stops at the percolator. We’re good at coffee hour: the smile, the “How are you?” (to which the only socially acceptable response is “Fine”), and perhaps the strategic positioning near the banana bread. But Gospel hospitality begins when we risk a longer conversation — when we dare to hear the honest answer instead of the polite one.

True refuge happens when a pew becomes a place where tears are not awkward, where prayer feels like breathing, and where silence is not judged as absence but honoured as survival. Sometimes, the most sacred ministry we offer is simply sitting beside someone in their storm without trying to fix the weather.

Every so often, someone will say to me, “Father, I didn’t think I could come to church feeling like this.” And I tell them, “That’s exactly when you should.” The church was never meant to be a museum for the virtuous. It’s a lifeboat for the weary, the wounded, and the wondering. We are all passengers, some bailing faster than others, but all kept afloat by grace.

And perhaps that’s the quiet miracle of Sunday our faith: not that we sing in tune or remember all the words of the Creed, but that we show up at all — each of us, carrying our invisible cargo, finding in the company of Christ and one another a fragile but real hope.

So, when the pew feels like a lifeboat, give thanks. Because that’s exactly what it is.

A Prayer for Those Seeking Refuge

Merciful Lord,
You who stilled the storm and touched the untouchable,
draw near to all who come carrying hidden pain.
When the weight of sorrow or shame feels too great to bear,
may your church be a shelter of gentleness and grace —
a place where truth can be spoken, and tears can be holy.

Teach us to welcome as you welcomed:
with compassion deeper than fear,
with love stronger than judgment,
and with hope that reaches into the shadows.

Hold us together in this fragile lifeboat of faith,
and remind us that even in the darkest seas,
your presence is our calm,
your mercy our anchor,
and your risen life our shore.

Amen.

Our parish sign has fallen into disrepair, and the discussions about fixing or replacing it have inspired me to think about how that sign, and the whole front lawn form a part of our proclamation — an important outreach into the community that we are called to serve

There are few things as revealing about a parish as its front lawn.  Before a word is spoken, a sermon preached, or a hymn sung, the front lawn has already had its say.  It’s the Church’s first handshake — or, in some cases, its first warning sign.

Every parish has one.  A patch of holy sod between the street and the sanctuary, that sacred strip of Canada where theology meets dandelions.  It may host the church sign, a modest flower bed, perhaps a Nativity scene at christmas that leans ever so slightly to the left by Epiphany.  It’s the open-air foyer of our ecclesial lives — and whether we realize it or not, it’s one of our most visible ministries.

Now, the parish noticeboard is the star of this grassy stage.  Sometimes it’s a noble, hand-carved wooden affair with gilded lettering.  Sometimes it’s the kind that requires a hex key and a prayer to change the letters.  But either way, it preaches.  What’s on that board says a lot about who we are — and who we think God might be.

“God is still speaking,” some proclaim.
“Service 10:30 AM, Coffee to Follow,” say others (a liturgical promise not to be taken lightly).
And then there are the truly brave souls who attempt humour: “CH_ _CH: What’s Missing? U R!” — an evangelistic pun that has endured longer than most of our curates.

I remember once when my sign guy in Kitchener posted one that turned out to be very effective. The sign read: “Short Summer Sermons. Our Priest Golfs.” For several weeks, people were dropping in because they were attracted by a church that could laugh at themselves. Someone took a picture of that sign and it trended online.

Yet behind every witty quip or carefully arranged date tile is a profound theology of presence.  That board is not just an information kiosk; it’s a declaration that we’re here.  That someone within those brick walls believes enough in the Resurrection to change the letters week by week and to brave the mosquitoes while doing it.

And what of the seasonal displays?  Oh, the joy of Advent wreaths encased in Plexiglas, or pumpkins forming a cheerful — if slightly decomposing — harvest tableau!  Every season tells its own story: the Lenten simplicity, the Easter explosion of flowers, the patriotic bunting of Canada Day, and the inevitable summer sign that simply reads, “See You in September.”

Even the open grass itself preaches.  When it’s mowed and tended, it whispers welcome — a green invitation for passersby to pause, rest, or ponder.  A picnic table or bench says, “Stay awhile.”  A Little Free Library says, “Take and read.”  A dog bowl by the door says, “We see you too, four-legged friend.”  These things are not incidental.  They are sacraments of hospitality.

Hospitality, after all, is evangelism in its most natural form.  We don’t have to corner strangers with tracts or compete with social media algorithms.  We can simply create spaces where people feel they belong before they believe.  The church lawn is one such space — a patch of kingdom soil open to the neighbourhood.

It’s been said that every sermon should be able to be preached from the pulpit, the parish hall, and the front lawn.  The first with words, the second with fellowship, and the third with presence.  Our noticeboard may never trend online, but it may cause a passerby to smile, wonder, or whisper, “Maybe I’ll come this Sunday.”  And in that moment, the Gospel has done its quiet work.

So, next time you walk past the church lawn, take a moment to look at it with fresh eyes.  The grass may be patchy, the geraniums uneven, the sign letters occasionally askew — but grace has never required perfect alignment.  God speaks even through the crooked “S” that refuses to stay straight.

And perhaps that’s the final sermon the parish front lawn preaches:
That even amid crabgrass, crooked signage, and seasonal clutter, Christ still shows up — right there on the corner of Grace and Nancy St. , where the kingdom keeps quietly blooming.

A Short Prayer:
Gracious God,
Bless our lawns and our noticeboards,
our flowerbeds and our crooked letters.
May all who pass by see in them
a glimpse of welcome,
a whisper of hope,
and a hint of Your humour.
Let our presence on the street
be a sign of Your presence in the world.
Through Jesus Christ our Lord.

Amen

There’s a curious paradox in the clergy wardrobe. On Sunday morning, I tie the rope — pardon me, the cincture — around my waist, adjust the folds of the alb, and smooth out the wrinkles as best as possible. (Though truth be told, some wrinkles in an alb seem divinely ordained.) Then, I step out before the congregation, looking — at least from a distance — neat, pressed, and vaguely angelic, like a misplaced choirboy who wandered into the sanctuary and forgot to leave.

But beneath all that linen lies something decidedly less celestial: a person. One with coffee breath, a stubborn cowlick, and the occasional creeping suspicion that the sermon sounded better in the study than it does in the pulpit. The alb, for all its liturgical elegance, doesn’t hide much from God, and only partly from the congregation.

The alb, you see, is meant to be a symbol of baptismal identity — a reminder that before we are clergy, we are simply the baptized people of God. Theoretically, it’s the great equalizer. Underneath, priest and parishioner are the same, clothed in grace, if not in linen. In practice, however, clergy vestments have a way of turning their wearer into a walking symbol. Step into an alb and suddenly you’re not “Don” anymore; you’re “the Reverend.” You’re not running to the grocery store for milk—you’re appearing in the dairy aisle as the Church Incarnate.

And that’s where vulnerability sneaks in. The alb might cover your shirt, but it doesn’t conceal your humanity. The truth is, the moment you step into those vestments, you step into public visibility — and with it, the delicate art of being authentic while representing something larger than yourself. It’s like walking around wrapped in a flag of faith: comforting, but also occasionally cumbersome when you’re trying to blend in at the coffee shop.

People often imagine clergy vestments as armour — something that gives us confidence, a sense of authority, maybe even a spiritual force field. But in reality, they’re more like mirrors. They reflect not just the role we play in worship, but the expectations others bring to it. Sometimes that reflection flatters; other times, it’s an awkward reminder that we’re still learning how to live into the grace we preach.

I sometimes think Jesus, who had a knack for upending expectations, might chuckle at our fussing over hems and stoles. He seemed more concerned with the heart beneath the robe than the robe itself. He didn’t wear vestments, but He carried His vocation in every gesture, every word, every moment of compassion. That’s what the alb is supposed to remind us of — not that we’re perfect, but that we’re participating in something holy despite our imperfections.

So when you see your priest, deacon, or bishop standing there in starched linen and carefully arranged stole, remember: beneath it all is a very human person trying to live out their calling with grace, humour, and a well-placed safety pin. And perhaps that’s the most honest vesture of all — vulnerability wrapped in linen, with a dash of divine dry-cleaning.

A Prayer for Vestments and Vulnerability

Gracious God,
You clothe us not in perfection, but in grace.
Beneath our robes and collars, our titles and tasks,
You see the hearts that tremble, hope, and trust in You.

Grant that, when we vest for Your service,
we may wear humility more deeply than linen,
and compassion more freely than any stole.
Let our public faces never hide our honest selves,
and may our humanity be the very place
where Your holiness chooses to dwell.

Through Jesus Christ,
who wore no robe but love itself.
Amen.

There is a peculiar sound that only clergy can hear. It’s the collective rustle of bulletins as the congregation discovers — at the same moment you do — that the order of service has gone rogue. One minute you’re confidently leading “The Gloria,” and the next you’re five hymns deep in a parallel universe where the Nicene Creed has migrated to the announcements and “All Things Bright and Beautiful” has been replaced with a solo from last Easter.

It happens innocently enough. A misplaced cut-and-paste, a printer jam, or a heroic volunteer typing away at midnight on a Saturday with holy intentions and slightly unholy caffeine levels. The next morning, chaos meets liturgy, and the saints of God — undaunted — soldier on.

I once recall a Sunday when the bulletin declared with bold confidence that our opening hymn was “The Day Thou Gavest, Lord, Is Ended.” A touching choice — except that it was 10:30 a.m. and the day had most decidedly not ended. The organist, ever the professional, whispered, “Shall I play it anyway?” I nodded gravely. “Let’s confuse them early,” I said.

And then there was the morning when a line from the Prayers of the People mysteriously merged with an old announcement. The congregation earnestly prayed for “the sick, the suffering, and anyone still looking for volunteers for the pancake supper.” (To be fair, both lists overlapped somewhat.)

But beneath the laughter — and it’s important to laugh — there’s something beautiful about those imperfect Sundays. They remind us that the Church is not a production but a people. The Spirit is not derailed by typos, nor is grace cancelled by an out-of-place hymn. Sometimes the holiest moments come when the priest loses their place, the readers improvise, and the congregation giggles through a page-turning adventure in liturgical flexibility.

In those moments, we rediscover that worship is not about flawless choreography but about showing up together — bulletin or no bulletin — to praise, pray, and perhaps hum the wrong tune for the right reasons. The Lord, I am certain, smiles at our efforts. After all, if God can work through fishermen, shepherds, and prophets with stage fright, surely He can handle a misprinted collect or an absent offertory hymn.

So the next time the bulletin doesn’t match the service, take heart. You’re not witnessing disaster — you’re witnessing the living Church at play. Laugh a little. Sing boldly, even on the wrong verse. And remember: the grace that holds us together is far stronger than the staples in any bulletin.

A Prayer for When the Bulletin Doesn’t Match the Service

Gracious and patient God,
You are never surprised when our plans go sideways —
even when the hymn numbers don’t.
Thank You for smiling upon our well-intentioned chaos,
for blessing our misprints, our missed cues,
and our moments of holy confusion.

Teach us to laugh kindly,
to forgive quickly,
and to worship freely —
even when nothing seems to match but Your mercy.
Remind us that every muddled Sunday still sings Your praise,
and that Your Spirit moves just fine
between the lines and beyond the margins.

In all things — planned and unplanned —
make us grateful, joyful, and ever open
to the grace that doesn’t need a bulletin.
Through Jesus Christ our Lord,
Amen.

There was a time when spiritual warfare was something waged in the wilderness. Now, it’s fought in the inbox.

I sometimes imagine Jesus sitting at a laptop — perhaps something modest and slightly outdated, donated by a well-meaning parishioner who “upgraded for the Kingdom.” There He is, sandals crossed, cursor blinking, staring at an inbox with 2,374 unread messages. Half of them are “Re: Re: Re: urgent prayer chain updates,” a quarter are spam (“Blessed sandals—walk closer to God! Click here!”), and the rest are from disciples wanting clarity on the meeting agenda for the Sermon on the Mount planning committee.

What would Jesus do with email?

First, I suspect He’d begin by unsubscribing. “Consider the lilies,” He once said — not the mailing lists. He’d prune His inbox the way a wise gardener trims the vine, cutting away what doesn’t bear fruit. I doubt He’d spend much time debating whether to archive or delete. The Son of God doesn’t need to flag things for “follow-up next week.”

Then, I imagine He’d respond to the truly important messages — the ones that carry real human need. No, not the “Reply All” to the diocesan announcement about updated photocopier protocols, but the quiet, personal cries that arrive at 2 a.m.: “Lord, are you there?” “Help.” “Can we talk?”

Jesus, after all, never ignored a soul because He was “too busy.” But He also never allowed the endless busyness of others to define His mission. He’d read the desperate ones first — and maybe, in His divine wisdom, let the chain emails die a natural death.

Of course, some of us are still learning this holy balance. Our inboxes, like our hearts, overflow with noise. Notifications, updates, newsletters, pings — each one promising connection, but often leaving us weary. And yet, grace hides even here. Each unread email is a tiny parable of modern discipleship: an invitation to discern what really matters, to choose presence over productivity, and to trust that not every “urgent” message is urgent in the Kingdom of God.

So perhaps the true spiritual practice isn’t Inbox Zero, but Inbox Peace. To open our laptops as we might open our Bibles — prayerfully, intentionally, without panic. To answer what we can with kindness, delete what distracts, and then log off knowing the world will keep spinning without our constant reply.

And if we fail — as we often do — we can remember that even divine patience might have its limits. After all, somewhere out there, someone probably tried to “Reply All” to the Beatitudes.

So today, before you click “Send,” pause. Ask: Is this necessary? Is it kind? Is it eternal?
Because if Jesus taught us anything, it’s that sometimes the holiest word is not “Reply,” but “Rest.”

A Companion Prayer

Lord of the Inbox,
You know the flood of messages that clutter our days
and the way our spirits grow weary beneath the weight of “unread.”
Teach us to see Your presence between the subject lines—
in the gentle note, the grateful word, the honest question.
Grant us wisdom to answer with grace,
and courage to delete what does not serve love.
When the pings and dings rise like a storm,
remind us to log off and look up,
for Your notifications come not by Wi-Fi but by Spirit.
Amen.

There are few places where Canadians experience purgatory quite so vividly as in the coffee queue at Tim Hortons. It is the crucible of modern sanctification — a place where patience is tested, tempers are tempted, and the faint aroma of double-double mingles with the faint odour of human frailty.

We line up, bleary-eyed and half-human, each morning in search of that sacramental cup that might make us kind again. Somewhere between the “Next!” barked by the cashier and the shuffling of boots on salt-stained tile, a quiet theology unfolds.

For in the coffee queue, everyone waits. There is no fast pass for the privileged, no express lane for the righteous. The CEO stands behind the construction worker; the priest (yes, guilty as charged) behind the nurse coming off a night shift. It is, in its own humble way, a parable of the Kingdom: the first and the last, all equally dependent on the mercy of the barista.

And oh, the conversations! It begins innocently enough — “Cold morning, eh?” — but before long, someone’s sharing that their mother’s in the hospital, or their daughter’s just had a baby, or they’re heading to a funeral. Between the clink of change and the hiss of the espresso machine, holy ground quietly appears. We may not recognize it, but the Kingdom has leaned in close, right there beside the donut rack.

I’ve seen grace in the coffee queue more than once. The stranger who pays for the car behind them. The weary server who still manages a smile at 6:45 a.m. The friend who listens without rushing. These are the small sacraments of daily life — the drip-brew grace of ordinary holiness.

And when I finally reach the counter, I am reminded of that old Anglican prayer: “Grant us grace, Lord, in all our waiting.” Because every line, no matter how slow, teaches us something about divine timing. God, it seems, does not operate on drive-thru speed.

So next time you find yourself fidgeting in line at Tim’s, clutching your travel mug like a relic, take a deep breath and look around. The Kingdom of God may not come with a trumpet blast — but it might arrive between “Roll up the Rim” and “Have a nice day.”

After all, grace often begins right where impatience ends

A Prayer for the Coffee Queue

Holy One,

You meet us in the ordinary — in the hiss of the espresso machine, the shuffle of boots, and the quiet mercy of small talk. Teach us patience while we wait, kindness when we’re rushed, and gratitude for the stranger who smiles.

May our daily queues become classrooms of grace, where we learn again that your Kingdom is brewed slowly, shared freely, and best enjoyed together.

In the name of Christ, who waits with us in every line.

Amen

There are days — sometimes weeks, months, or let’s be honest, years — when I wish God had a better communications department. I’m not talking about the whole “burning bush” special effects budget or the “angel choir” production team. I mean the simple, practical stuff: a memo. A note. An email, perhaps? “Dear Don, after prayerful consideration, I’d like you to take the following course of action…” Signed, The Almighty. Maybe a divine logo in the corner, a tasteful watermark, and a line that says “Please reply all.”

Instead, discernment — the spiritual art of figuring out what on earth (or in heaven) God wants — is rarely that tidy. It’s more like trying to tune an old radio between stations: a bit of static, a faint voice, and the occasional blast of country music you’re sure wasn’t meant for you.

We Anglicans, of course, are a discerning people. We form committees to discern the discernment process, then schedule a follow-up meeting to discern what we discerned. Somewhere along the way, we may even pray. But at its heart, discernment isn’t about producing a decision — it’s about cultivating trust. It’s about learning to live gracefully in the space between clarity and confusion, knowing that God is already at work even when we can’t see the whole picture.

When Scripture speaks of waiting upon the Lord, it isn’t referring to a kind of spiritual idleness — as though we’re sitting at a cosmic bus stop, hoping the “Next Steps” shuttle shows up. The Hebrew word qavah (to wait) carries a sense of tension, expectancy, and hope — like the taut string of a bow. Waiting, in other words, isn’t passive; it’s active faithfulness. It’s keeping your hands on the work God has already given you, even when the next assignment hasn’t yet arrived.

Some of the holiest people I know are those who have learned to live with holy indecision — to pray without panic, to pause without paralysis, to keep walking when the map has smudged. They don’t confuse delay with denial. They trust that silence can be sacred. They know that God’s will is often revealed not in the lightning flash but in the slow dawning of light through a fogged-up window.

And sometimes, when the fog doesn’t lift, they laugh. They laugh because they’ve learned that God’s sense of timing makes my sister look punctual. They laugh because grace has a way of sneaking in through the side door when the front one won’t open.

So, if you’re in that place right now — waiting, wondering, second-guessing — take heart. Holy indecision is not a failure of faith. It’s often the space where faith is formed. God may not send a memo, but He has a way of showing up when we least expect it — sometimes disguised as a neighbour, a hymn, or a cup of coffee with a friend who listens more than advises.

In the meantime, keep praying. Keep listening. And if all else fails, keep laughing. After all, faith is often less about having the right answers and more about trusting the right Companion on the road of uncertainty.

A Prayer for Holy Indecision

Gracious and patient God,

You who speak in whispers and wait in silences, teach us to rest in the spaces between knowing and not knowing. When our plans blur and our confidence wobbles, remind us that uncertainty is not absence, but often the canvas where Your wisdom slowly takes shape.

Grant us hearts that wait without worry, ears that listen beneath the noise, and courage enough to stand still when every impulse says “move.” Keep us faithful in small things while we await the larger call, and help us to find humour and humility in our fumbling discernment.

When You do not send a memo, send instead Your peace — the quiet assurance that we are held, guided, and loved even when the way ahead is hidden.

And when all else fails, Lord, gift us with holy laughter, that we might find joy in Your mysterious timing and grace in the long pause between question and answer.

In the name of the One who waited, who wandered, and who trusted — our Companion Christ. Amen.