The Theology of the Seventh-Inning Stretch

There are few places in Canada where complete strangers become close friends quite so quickly as at a summer baseball game.

It begins innocently enough.

You find your seat.

The fellow behind you immediately informs everyone within three postal codes that the umpire requires corrective eyewear.

The lady beside you has brought enough peanuts to feed a small wildlife sanctuary.

Someone two rows over has kept score in the same little notebook since the Mulroney government.

And before the second inning is over, you’ve somehow become part of a community.

Nobody planned it.

It simply happened.

Now I have never claimed to be an expert on baseball.

There are people who can explain infield fly rules with remarkable confidence. I have listened to these explanations several times over the years and have concluded that they are either brilliant or making the whole thing up.

Fortunately, you don’t need to understand every rule to enjoy the game.

In fact, that’s one of the things I love most about baseball.

It isn’t always exciting.

Most innings are wonderfully… ordinary.

A ground ball.

A routine catch.

A walk.

A foul tip.

Another pitch.

Then another.

The scoreboard hardly changes at all.

And yet every little play matters.

By the ninth inning, you suddenly realize those ordinary moments have quietly become the story.

That strikes me as deeply Christian.

We often imagine that the Kingdom of God arrives with fireworks and marching bands. We pray for dramatic miracles, life-changing moments, and spectacular answers.

Sometimes those happen.

But much more often, God works like a baseball season.

One faithful day after another.

One kind word.

One forgiven mistake.

One visit to a friend.

One prayer before bed.

One meal shared around a table.

One act of generosity no one else ever notices.

On their own they seem almost insignificant.

Together, they change lives.

Jesus understood this perfectly.

He compared the Kingdom to seeds that grow while no one is paying attention.

To yeast quietly working through dough.

To fields slowly ripening for harvest.

His stories rarely rushed.

Neither does grace.

Perhaps that is why I have always enjoyed the seventh-inning stretch.

The whole game pauses.

Everyone stands.

Legs that have been sitting too long suddenly remember they belong to actual human beings.

People laugh.

They sing.

They smile at one another.

Then they sit back down for the final innings.

It’s a reminder that even in the middle of life’s responsibilities, we need moments simply to breathe.

Ordinary Time invites us into exactly that rhythm.

Not every season has to be Easter morning.

Not every week needs to change the world.

Sometimes God simply asks us to show up.

To encourage one another.

To celebrate small victories.

To remain faithful through all the ordinary innings of life.

Stephen Leacock once observed that Canadians have an extraordinary ability to enjoy life’s quieter pleasures. I think he was onto something.

Perhaps holiness often looks less like hitting a grand slam and more like faithfully taking your place in the lineup every single day.

Some days you’ll strike out.

Some days you’ll surprise yourself.

Most days you’ll simply keep playing.

And all the while, God is cheering from the stands with the patient delight of a loving parent, far less interested in your batting average than in your willingness to stay in the game.

So if you find yourself at a ballpark this summer, take a moment to look around.

Watch the grandparents teaching grandchildren how to keep score.

Listen to the laughter after a mascot’s latest antics.

Notice the neighbours sharing popcorn as though they’ve known each other forever.

You may discover that the game isn’t really about baseball at all.

It’s about belonging.

And that has always been one of God’s favourite games.

Grace, after all, is the finest teammate you’ll ever have.

Follow along on Instagram @renewablespiritual.

Companion Prayer

Gracious God,

Thank you for the simple joys of summer—for laughter shared with friends, evenings spent outdoors, and moments that remind us life is a gift.

Teach us to treasure the ordinary days, trusting that your Kingdom grows one small act of kindness at a time. Help us to encourage one another, to celebrate together, and to remain faithful through every season of life.

As we cheer for one another, may we remember that you are always cheering for us with patient love and endless grace.

In Jesus’ name we pray.

Amen.

The Neighbourhood Ministry of Lemonade Stands

There are few sights in a Canadian summer more encouraging than a child sitting behind a folding card table with a handwritten sign that reads, LEMONADE — 50¢, although inflation has lately persuaded many young entrepreneurs that one dollar is not, in fact, unreasonable.

The stand itself is usually a masterpiece of optimism. There is construction paper. There are balloons that have already surrendered to the heat. There is one folding lawn chair for the proprietor and another for moral support. Somewhere nearby a Labrador is supervising the operation with the seriousness usually reserved for airport security.

And every sensible adult who passes suddenly develops an overwhelming thirst.

Now, let us be honest. We are not purchasing lemonade because we have conducted a rigorous comparison of local beverage vendors. We are participating in something far more important.

We are investing in hope.

Summer has a remarkable way of reminding us that communities are built less by grand projects than by small acts of cheerful kindness. A wave from across the street. Helping someone carry groceries. Watering a neighbour’s flowers while they’re away. Stopping long enough to ask, “How are you doing?” without secretly hoping the answer fits into twelve seconds.

These tiny moments are the social equivalent of sunshine. No one notices them individually, but together they make everything grow.

Jesus seemed remarkably fond of this approach.

He spoke about mustard seeds instead of mighty forests. Cups of cold water instead of extravagant banquets. Lost sheep, shared bread, simple hospitality, ordinary people quietly changing the world without ever appearing on the evening news.

The Kingdom of God has always had a weakness for small beginnings.

I sometimes think churches underestimate this.

We imagine that changing the community requires elaborate strategic plans, complicated committees, and enough meetings to convince people eternity has already begun.

Those things occasionally have their place.

But often the greatest ministry happens when someone quietly says, “I’ve baked too much pie,” which, as every Anglican knows, is one of the least believable sentences ever spoken.

Or someone cuts an elderly neighbour’s grass.

Or invites the new family down the street over for a barbecue.

Or remembers the cashier’s name.

Or writes a note.

Or smiles at the lonely fellow eating lunch by himself.

None of these actions seems particularly dramatic.

Neither does planting a tomato.

Yet somehow by August there are enough tomatoes to supply half the county.

Grace seems to work that way.

Summer gives us countless opportunities to become little pockets of encouragement wherever we happen to be. The campground. The golf course. The farmers’ market. The beach. The coffee shop. Even the grocery store, where Canadians continue our ancient spiritual discipline of apologizing to shopping carts after bumping into them.

“Sorry.”

The cart, I should add, is usually very forgiving.

Perhaps that’s part of our calling during these green weeks of Ordinary Time.

Not to perform spectacular acts of holiness.

Simply to become people whose presence makes a place brighter.

To leave conversations more hopeful than we found them.

To encourage more than we criticize.

To laugh generously.

To notice those who are often overlooked.

To become the sort of people whose kindness spreads quietly through a neighbourhood like the scent of someone else’s barbecue drifting across the fence.

The funny thing about positive influence is that it rarely announces itself.

It simply keeps showing up.

Like sunshine.

Like lemonade.

Like grace.

And one day, someone else discovers they have become kinder simply because they spent time with you.

That may be one of God’s favourite miracles.

After all, the Kingdom has always grown much the same way as summer gardens—not with a great deal of noise, but with patient love, steady care, and ordinary people quietly helping one another flourish.

Enjoy these green days.

Someone nearby may need the encouragement only you can offer.

And if you happen to buy a cup of lemonade from an eight-year-old entrepreneur this week, don’t forget to tell them it’s the finest lemonade you’ve had all summer.

It probably isn’t.

But the hope certainly is.

Follow along on Instagram @renewablespiritual.

Companion Prayer

Gracious God,

Thank you for the simple joys of summer—for warm sunshine, friendly neighbours, laughter carried on the breeze, and the countless small moments that remind us your goodness is never far away.

Help us to become people who brighten the lives of others. Give us eyes to notice those who are lonely, hearts eager to encourage, and hands ready to serve. May our words bring hope, our kindness inspire kindness, and our presence leave every place a little more peaceful than we found it.

Teach us not to overlook the small opportunities to love. Like mustard seeds planted in good soil, may our ordinary acts of compassion grow into extraordinary blessings for our communities.

As we enjoy these green days of Ordinary Time, help us to reflect the joy of Christ wherever we go, trusting that even the smallest gesture offered in love can become part of your Kingdom.

Through Jesus Christ our Lord.

Amen.

Small Seeds, Long Journeys, and the Curious Ways God Changes the World

There is something wonderfully hopeful about summer gardens.

Every year we bury tiny little seeds in the ground with what can only be described as astonishing optimism. We place something no larger than a peppercorn into the soil, cover it with dirt, add a splash of water, and then somehow expect tomatoes large enough to require two hands and zucchini substantial enough to qualify as blunt instruments.

Gardeners are people of extraordinary faith.

Of course, this is also the season when every weed in creation hears the starting pistol before anything useful does. If dandelions could be converted into an Olympic sport, Southern Ontario would sweep the medals.

Still, gardens teach us something important. The biggest changes often begin with things so small they are easy to overlook.

That seems to be one of God’s favourite ways of working.

We often imagine that changing the world requires enormous resources, celebrity status, or at least a committee with matching polo shirts and an impressive logo. Yet the Gospel consistently points in another direction. Jesus speaks about mustard seeds, yeast, cups of cold water, ordinary people, and quiet acts of kindness. Heaven seems remarkably comfortable beginning with very little.

Perhaps that is why I love parish life.

Week after week I watch people quietly changing lives without attracting much attention. Someone prepares coffee. Someone sings in the choir. Someone visits a neighbour. Someone makes a casserole. Someone teaches children. Someone prays faithfully every morning before anyone else is awake. None of these things make the evening news, but they somehow help build the Kingdom of God.

This Sunday at Christ Church we welcome a special guest preacher who serves as the physician at the school in Haiti that our parish supports. It is always good to hear stories of lives being transformed in another part of God’s world.

Mission reminds us that the Church has always been bigger than our own neighbourhood.

Sometimes the Spirit invites us to serve just down the street. Sometimes that invitation stretches across oceans. Neither is more important than the other. Love simply goes wherever it is needed.

The remarkable thing is that the same Gospel is at work in both places.

A child receives an education because faithful people cared enough to help.

A lonely neighbour discovers friendship because someone knocked on the door.

A struggling family receives groceries.

A refugee finds welcome.

A teenager hears, perhaps for the very first time, that they are deeply loved by God.

A senior receives a phone call that turns an ordinary afternoon into one filled with hope.

One act rarely changes the entire world.

But it almost always changes someone’s world.

And that has always been how God works.

After thirty-three years of ordained ministry, I have learned that ministry is less like setting off fireworks and more like planting forests. You may never see every tree reach full height. Some of the people you encourage today will quietly bless others decades from now. Grace has a wonderfully long memory.

Stephen Leacock might have observed that if Anglicans ever attempted to measure mission by the number of committee meetings required, the Kingdom would certainly arrive behind schedule. Fortunately, God appears to have developed an alternative strategy involving generous people armed with casseroles, prayer books, coffee urns, and surprisingly persistent hope.

It is a splendid system.

Ordinary Time reminds us that the Christian life is mostly made up of ordinary days. We mow lawns, water gardens, barbecue hamburgers, wave to neighbours, and occasionally lose our reading glasses while they are sitting comfortably on top of our heads.

Yet even in these ordinary moments, God is quietly at work.

Every smile.

Every prayer.

Every act of generosity.

Every mission project.

Every encouraging word.

Every dollar shared.

Every hour volunteered.

Every child loved.

Every stranger welcomed.

None of it is wasted.

Summer has a way of slowing us down enough to notice that the world changes much the same way gardens grow—not all at once, but steadily, faithfully, almost invisibly, until one day we look around and realize something beautiful has appeared.

So plant a few seeds this week.

Some may grow in your own backyard.

Some may grow in another country.

Some may grow in a human heart.

All of them belong to God.

And that, I think, is the most joyful harvest of all.

Follow along on Instagram @renewablespiritual.

Companion Prayer

Loving God,

Thank you for the countless ways you invite us to join in your work of changing the world. Give us generous hearts to serve our neighbours, whether they live next door or on the other side of the globe. Bless those who dedicate their lives to healing, teaching, and sharing hope, especially those serving through the ministry we support in Haiti.

Help us never to underestimate the power of small acts of kindness. May every word we speak, every hand we offer, and every gift we share become seeds of your Kingdom, growing into a harvest of compassion, justice, and joy.

As we enjoy the gifts of this summer season, keep our hearts open to the people you place in our path, and remind us that no act of love is ever too small when it is offered in your name.

Through Jesus Christ our Lord.

Amen.

Saturday Night Theology: The Great Liturgical Scavenger Hunt

There is a very particular kind of excitement that comes over a parish priest on a Saturday afternoon.

To the untrained observer, it looks remarkably like a man wandering around the church muttering to himself.

“Where did I leave the sermon?”

“Did anyone refill the baptismal font?”

“Is the Gospel Book on the lectern or did I bring it home after Bible study?”

“Please tell me I remembered to charge the microphone.”

It is all very dignified.

Stephen Leacock would probably have observed that clergy possess a unique ability to spend an entire Saturday preparing for one hour on Sunday while somehow misplacing the very notes they spent all week writing. He would also have noted that no matter how carefully one plans, someone will inevitably ask, five minutes before the service begins, “Father… do you happen to have a stapler?”

Yes. We always have a stapler.

I sometimes think Saturday is the Church’s version of Holy Saturday. Everything is quiet. The building is still. The pews sit empty. Yet beneath the silence there is wonderful anticipation. Tomorrow these halls will fill with laughter, prayers, music, children, coffee, whispered greetings, familiar faces and perhaps one or two people walking through the doors for the very first time.

There is something deeply hopeful about preparing before anyone arrives.

It reminds me that faith is often built in unseen moments.

The altar is prepared before the congregation gathers.

The bread is baked before it is broken.

The musicians practise before anyone sings.

The gardeners water flowers long before anyone notices them.

God seems remarkably fond of quiet preparation.

Of course, preparation has its limits.

After thirty-three years of ordained ministry, I have discovered one unchanging law of parish life:

If absolutely everything goes according to plan, someone is visiting from out of town.

If something unexpected happens, everyone from the bishop to the smallest child will remember it forever.

I still remember one Sunday many years ago when everything was perfectly arranged. The sermon was polished. The vestments were laid out. Every bulletin was folded with military precision. I felt positively apostolic.

Then I discovered, just before the service, that I had carefully packed…the wrong stole.

The colour wasn’t even close.

There I stood looking rather like a liturgical traffic light wondering whether anyone would notice.

They did.

They always do.

Thankfully, congregations are wonderfully forgiving. Most have long since accepted that their priest is an ordinary human being doing his best with coffee, prayer, and occasionally insufficient sleep.

There is grace in that.

The older I become, the more I realize that preparing for Sunday is about far more than gathering papers or checking microphones.

It is about preparing my own heart.

Before I can invite others into worship, I need to remember that I am coming as a worshipper too.

Before I preach grace, I need to receive grace.

Before I proclaim hope, I need to remember why I have hope.

Perhaps that is true for all of us.

Saturday evenings invite us to pause before another busy week begins. We lay out clothes for tomorrow. We make lunches. We charge phones. We fill the car with gas. We check calendars.

Those are good things.

But perhaps we might also prepare our souls.

Offer forgiveness before bedtime.

Read a Psalm.

Say thank you.

Pray for someone who is struggling.

Remember that tomorrow is not simply another square on the calendar. It is another opportunity to meet the living Christ.

Most of us spend a great deal of time preparing for life.

God quietly spends every day preparing life for us.

And unlike priests, God never forgets where the sermon notes are.

Thanks be to God for that.

Follow along on Instagram @renewablespiritual.

Companion Prayer

Gracious God,

As we prepare for tomorrow, prepare us as well. While we make our plans, remind us to make room for your Spirit. While we gather what we need for the week ahead, help us also gather gratitude, patience, and hope.

Ready our hearts to worship, our minds to listen, and our hands to serve. May we remember that your grace has already gone ahead of us, preparing the way before we arrive.

And when our own careful plans go delightfully awry, teach us to laugh, trust you a little more, and discover your blessings in the unexpected.

Through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.

The Gospel According to Dragonflies

There are few creatures in God’s creation that seem quite so determined to ignore every known law of aerodynamics as the dragonfly.

Now, I realize that scientists assure us they understand perfectly well how dragonflies fly. They have equations. Charts. Wind tunnel experiments. I wish them every success.

But from where I stand, sitting beside a Southern Ontario pond with a cup of coffee in one hand and absolutely no intention of doing anything strenuous until at least lunchtime, it appears that dragonflies simply make it up as they go along.

They dart. They hover. They zip sideways for reasons known only to themselves and, presumably, to God.

And somehow… it all works.

Summer, of course, is dragonfly season. Around lakes, rivers, marshes, and quiet backyards, they appear almost like tiny living jewels. Blue. Green. Gold. Brilliant flashes of colour catching the sunlight before disappearing again as though they had an important meeting elsewhere.

They have always fascinated me.

When I was younger, I imagined they were tiny helicopters patrolling the neighbourhood. As an adult, I have come to realize that this theory is no less plausible than many of the explanations offered on the internet.

Now, one of the delightful things about dragonflies is that they are remarkably good neighbours. They feast on mosquitoes. Frankly, I believe this alone should qualify them for several civic awards and perhaps honorary membership in the Anglican Church.

Anything willing to reduce mosquito populations deserves at least a place on the parish council.

But beyond their practical usefulness, dragonflies invite us to notice something about the Creator.

God delights in beauty that serves no obvious purpose beyond delight itself.

Yes, dragonflies eat insects. But surely they did not have to be quite so beautiful while doing it.

Creation is filled with this sort of joyful extravagance.

Wildflowers blooming where no one may ever see them.

Sunsets that could have been perfectly functional without becoming masterpieces.

Birdsong beginning long before anyone is awake enough to applaud the performance.

The world is overflowing with little reminders that God is not merely efficient.

God is wonderfully, gloriously generous.

Which is perhaps why Jesus spent so much time pointing people toward creation.

“Consider the lilies.”

“Look at the birds.”

He knew that paying attention changes us.

Ordinary Time in the Church is rather like that.

After the fireworks of Easter and Pentecost, we are invited into the quieter work of noticing.

Noticing grace.

Noticing kindness.

Noticing beauty.

Noticing that God continues creating miracles without issuing press releases.

Now, I confess that I sometimes rush through summer just as I rush through the rest of the year.

There are lawns to mow.

Groceries to buy.

Emails that appear to multiply in much the same way as loaves and fishes, although with considerably less theological satisfaction.

And yet every so often a dragonfly lands nearby.

Everything stops.

For a brief moment, the world is simply beautiful.

No sermon.

No committee meeting.

No agenda.

Just a tiny shimmering creature resting on a cattail as though the entire afternoon had nowhere more important to be.

Perhaps that is the invitation.

To live a little more like dragonflies.

Not the darting about part—that already describes most clergy remarkably well.

Rather, the part where they remind us that beauty belongs in ordinary life.

That joy need not be earned.

That creation is still quietly preaching the goodness of God every single day.

So today, if you happen to notice a dragonfly hovering nearby, receive it as a tiny summer blessing.

Smile.

Pause for a moment.

Offer thanks.

Because sometimes the Gospel arrives not through dramatic miracles or thunderous voices from heaven…

…but on four transparent wings glistening in the July sunshine.

And that, I suspect, is exactly the sort of thing Jesus would have asked us to notice.

Alleluia.

Follow along on Instagram @renewablespiritual.

Companion Prayer

Gracious Creator,

Thank you for the beauty that surrounds us each day—the dragonflies that dance above the water, the birds that greet the morning, and the countless small wonders that remind us of your generous love.

Slow our hurried hearts. Open our eyes to notice the quiet miracles we so often pass by. Teach us to delight in your creation, to receive each day as a gift, and to find your presence in the ordinary moments of summer.

May our lives reflect the joy, beauty, and grace that you have woven into the world from the very beginning.

Through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.

The Gospel According to the Window Fan

There was a time when surviving summer required considerably more strategy than it does today.

Now, I realize that air conditioning has become so commonplace that younger readers may struggle to believe what I am about to say.

But there was once an era when entire households relied upon a box fan placed in a window.

And somehow, despite the obvious technological limitations, we survived.

Mostly.

As I thought about the annual advent of the window fan, it immediately stirred a memory from 1995. I had just begun the course work for my Doctor of ministry degree at Ashland university in Ohio. The work was done through intensive courses on campus in Ohio back in those days, when internet was just beginning to be a thing. Our Canadian contingent arrived, and in the interests of saving money, most of us had booked rooms in the University residence for that first August intensive.

That August broke records for heat in that part of Ohio, and I found myself soon at the local Walmart to purchase a window fan. I installed it as soon as I got home, and then found that in that sort of oppressive heat, all it contributed was a feeling that some large creature was exhaling hot humid breath over you all night.

The following day, three of us from the Canadian contingent went together to rent a hotel room in an air-conditioned place up the road, forfeiting the money we had paid for residence rooms in favour of attending classes with some sleep under our belts.

But I digress, dear reader.

Now, the annual appearance of the faithful old window fan was itself a seasonal ritual.

Somewhere around the first truly hot day of July, someone would descend into the basement, retrieve the fan from winter storage, and carry it upstairs with all the solemnity of a sacred procession.

The fan would then be installed in the most strategic window in the house.

At which point the debate would begin.

Should the fan blow cool air in?

Or should it push hot air out?

I have witnessed intelligent adults spend astonishing amounts of time discussing this question.

Charts were imagined.

Theories were proposed.

Experimental trials were conducted.

And still no consensus emerged.

Grace abounds.

Now, I suspect the real purpose of these discussions was not actually cooling the house.

The real purpose was allowing people to feel as though they were exercising some degree of control over the weather.

Which, as it turns out, is not a responsibility God has delegated to us.

Still, we tried.

And if I am honest, I continue to try.

Perhaps not with window fans anymore.

But certainly in other areas of life.

Most of us spend a great deal of time attempting to control things.

We make plans.

We organize.

We prepare.

We create lists for our lists.

We would prefer life to proceed in a predictable and orderly fashion.

And then reality arrives.

A health concern.

A disappointment.

An unexpected change.

A prayer that remains unanswered.

Suddenly we discover that life is not nearly as manageable as we hoped.

Now, one of the curious things about summer is that it often creates space for reflection.

The pace changes.

The evenings grow longer.

There is time to sit on a porch, walk a trail, paddle a canoe, or simply stare thoughtfully into a cup of coffee.

And in those quieter moments, many of us begin asking deeper questions.

Where is God leading me?

What should I be doing differently?

What needs to change?

What needs to stay the same?

These are not always comfortable questions.

But they are important ones.

And this is where I find myself thinking once again about the window fan.

Because spiritual growth is not always about bringing something new into our lives.

Sometimes it is about letting something old go.

Before fresh air can enter, stale air often needs somewhere to go.

Old grudges.

Old disappointments.

Old fears.

Old assumptions.

Old habits that no longer serve us well.

Many of us spend years praying for God to add something wonderful to our lives while quietly ignoring the things God may be asking us to release.

Now, I am not suggesting that spiritual formation can be reduced to household ventilation.

The Desert Fathers would probably be disappointed.

Still, the image works surprisingly well.

A room cannot be refreshed while every window remains closed.

And a heart cannot easily grow while clinging tightly to everything it has ever carried.

The Christian life involves both receiving and releasing.

Both welcoming and surrendering.

Both opening ourselves to God’s future and letting go of things that belong in the past.

Now, I realize that none of this sounds particularly dramatic.

There are no fireworks involved.

No grand announcements.

Most spiritual growth happens quietly.

One prayer at a time.

One act of forgiveness at a time.

One small step of trust at a time.

Rather like opening a window and allowing a breeze to enter.

You may not notice the difference immediately.

But over time everything changes.

I think this is one of the hidden gifts of Ordinary Time.

The season reminds us that God often works through small things.

Daily habits.

Simple choices.

Quiet acts of faithfulness.

The sort of changes that seem insignificant in the moment but gradually transform a life.

So if this July finds you sitting beside an open window, listening to the hum of a fan somewhere in the house, perhaps take a moment to ask yourself a simple question.

What stale air might God be inviting me to release?

And what fresh breeze of grace might be waiting to enter?

Because sometimes the Spirit moves in mighty and dramatic ways.

And sometimes the Spirit arrives looking remarkably like a summer breeze through an open window.

Alleluia.

Follow along on Instagram @renewablespiritual

Companion Prayer

Gracious God,

Open the windows of our hearts.

Help us to release the fears,
resentments,
and burdens we no longer need to carry.

Make room within us for your peace,
your wisdom,
and your grace.

Refresh our spirits as surely as a cool breeze refreshes a summer day.

And teach us to trust that your Spirit is always at work,
bringing new life where it is needed most.

Through Christ our Lord.

Amen.

The Gospel According to the Fireflies

There are few things in life that reward patience quite like fireflies.

Now, I realize that younger readers may know them by their more scientifically respectable name: lightning bugs.

When I was growing up, however, they were always fireflies.

And to my mind, they shall remain fireflies until the end of time.

Certain truths simply do not require revision.

Now, one of the curious things about fireflies is that they refuse to operate according to human schedules.

You cannot hurry them.

You cannot order them to appear.

You cannot send them a strongly worded email suggesting that 8:17 p.m. would be a more convenient time for their arrival.

They emerge when they emerge.

Which is to say, they behave very much like grace.

Now, summer evenings have their own peculiar rhythm.

The heat of the day begins to fade.

The shadows lengthen.

The birds gradually quiet.

And somewhere in that transition between day and night, the world seems to take a deep breath.

It is one of my favourite times of day.

Particularly when there is a comfortable chair involved.

Now, I should confess that I am not naturally gifted at waiting.

Like many people, I prefer progress.

I enjoy movement.

I appreciate results.

If something is worth doing, I generally want it done by approximately twenty minutes ago.

Grace continues its work.

Yet summer evenings have a way of teaching a different lesson.

You sit.

You wait.

You watch.

And eventually, if you are paying attention, a tiny flash appears in the darkness.

Then another.

Then another.

Before long the entire yard seems alive with light.

But only if you stayed long enough to notice.

Now, I think prayer often works much the same way.

Many of us approach prayer expecting immediate results.

We offer our concerns.

We present our requests.

And then we sit waiting for God to provide an answer on a timetable that would impress even the most efficient customer service department.

God, however, seldom seems interested in operating according to our preferred schedule.

Instead, prayer invites us into attentiveness.

Patience.

Presence.

The quiet confidence that God is already at work, even when we cannot yet see it.

And that can be difficult.

Because we live in a world that rewards speed.

Instant messages.

Instant purchases.

Instant information.

We have become remarkably skilled at obtaining things quickly.

Wonder, however, generally refuses to be rushed.

So does wisdom.

So does spiritual growth.

So does love.

Now, perhaps that is why summer evenings feel almost sacramental.

They invite us to slow down enough to notice things.

The sound of crickets.

The smell of fresh-cut grass.

The first stars appearing overhead.

The gentle flicker of fireflies dancing through the darkness.

None of these things accomplish anything particularly measurable.

Yet they nourish the soul.

And perhaps that is precisely the point.

Not everything valuable can be measured.

Not everything important can be hurried.

Some gifts must simply be received.

I think that is one of the lessons Ordinary Time keeps teaching us.

God often meets us not in dramatic moments but in quiet ones.

Not only in churches.

Not only in prayer books.

But in backyards.

On porches.

In lawn chairs.

And in the patient watching of summer evenings.

Now, I realize that sitting outside waiting for fireflies may not sound like a particularly ambitious spiritual practice.

There are probably seminars available offering more impressive techniques.

Nevertheless, I commend it to you.

Sit quietly.

Watch carefully.

Be patient.

And allow yourself to be surprised.

Because the God who created the stars also created the tiny lights flickering through the grass.

And that same God continues to fill ordinary life with moments of wonder.

If only we stay long enough to notice.

Alleluia.

Companion Prayer

Gracious God,

Teach us the patience to wait,
the wisdom to notice,
and the humility to receive your gifts.

Slow our hurried hearts.

Help us to find wonder in ordinary things,
and to trust that you are at work even when we cannot yet see the light.

And on these summer evenings,
draw us closer to your presence through the beauty of your creation.

Through Christ our Lord.

Amen.

The Gospel According to the Picnic Table

There are few activities that appear more idyllic in theory than eating outdoors.

The advertisements make it look effortless.

A family sits around a picturesque picnic table.

The sun shines gently.

A light breeze stirs the leaves.

Everyone smiles.

The food looks magnificent.

No insects are visible.

No drinks are spilled.

No one is chasing a paper plate across a field.

It is all very convincing.

Reality, however, is somewhat different.

Now, I should confess that I love eating outdoors.

A meal on a deck, beside a lake, under a tree, or around a picnic table somehow tastes better than the identical meal consumed indoors.

I cannot explain this scientifically.

I simply know it to be true.

Yet outdoor dining also introduces a variety of challenges.

The wind immediately develops an unhealthy interest in napkins.

Ants discover the location before half the guests have sat down.

Someone invariably says, “I think it’s starting to rain.”

And if hamburgers are involved, there is always the possibility that gravity will suddenly remind us of its continued existence.

Grace abounds.

Now, perhaps that is why I enjoy outdoor meals so much.

They are wonderfully imperfect.

Nobody expects perfection at a picnic table.

Things spill.

Children run about.

The conversation wanders.

People linger longer than planned.

And somehow those very imperfections become part of the joy.

The meal becomes less about the food and more about the people.

Less about efficiency and more about presence.

Less about presentation and more about relationship.

And I suspect there is something deeply holy about that.

After all, when we read the Gospels, Jesus seems remarkably fond of meals.

He taught around tables.

He gathered friends around tables.

He welcomed strangers around tables.

Again and again, important moments unfolded while people were eating together.

One begins to suspect that sharing a meal may be one of God’s preferred methods of building community.

Now, I realize that modern life has become remarkably busy.

Meals are often squeezed between appointments.

Sometimes they happen in cars.

Sometimes standing at kitchen counters.

Occasionally while staring at screens.

Yet summer offers a different possibility.

The pace slows slightly.

The evenings lengthen.

The weather invites us outside.

And suddenly there is time to sit.

To talk.

To linger.

To enjoy one another.

These things matter.

Because relationships rarely grow through efficiency.

They grow through presence.

Friendships deepen through conversations that take longer than necessary.

Families are strengthened by meals that linger.

Communities are built one shared table at a time.

Now, perhaps that is why picnics feel so restorative.

Not because the sandwiches are better.

Though they may be.

Not because the mosquitoes are fewer.

They certainly are not.

But because picnics remind us of something we often forget.

People matter more than schedules.

Conversation matters more than productivity.

And joy grows best when we make room for one another.

I think this is one of the hidden gifts of Ordinary Time.

The season invites us to notice grace in ordinary places.

Not only in churches.

Not only in prayer books.

But around picnic tables.

On decks.

Beside barbecues.

At family reunions.

In all those moments when people gather simply because they enjoy being together.

Now, none of this means that every outdoor meal will proceed smoothly.

The rain may arrive.

The flies may outnumber the guests.

The potato salad may spend slightly too much time in the sun.

Such things happen.

But even imperfect meals can become beautiful memories.

In fact, they usually do.

So if this July presents an opportunity to gather around a picnic table, accept it.

Bring a lawn chair.

Bring a dessert.

Bring a story.

Stay a little longer than planned.

Laugh a little louder than necessary.

And give thanks.

Because some of life’s richest blessings arrive not through grand events, but through simple meals shared with people we love.

Even if the ants arrive first.

Alleluia.

Follow along on Instagram @renewablespiritual

Companion Prayer

Gracious God,

Thank you for the gift of shared meals.

For family and friends,
for conversation and laughter,
for picnics and barbecues,
for all the simple ways we gather together.

Help us to cherish one another,
to make room for joy,
and to recognize your presence in ordinary moments.

And when life becomes busy,
remind us to slow down long enough to share a table.

Through Christ our Lord.

Amen.

The Gospel According to the Alarm Clock

There are certain sounds in life that inspire immediate joy.

The laughter of a child.

The call of a loon across a northern lake.

The sound of a barbecue being opened on a summer evening.

And then there is the alarm clock on a Monday morning.

The alarm clock occupies a somewhat different category.

Now, I should confess that I am generally a morning person.

I have always been that way.

Farm life tends to leave a lasting impression upon one’s internal clock. Even now, many years removed from those early mornings feeding livestock and tending chores, I still find myself awake long before most sensible people.

But even for morning people, Monday has a certain personality.

Monday arrives carrying responsibility.

It appears at the bedside holding a clipboard.

Monday wants to discuss schedules.

Deadlines.

Meetings.

Phone calls.

And all those things that somehow accumulated while we were busy enjoying the weekend.

Grace abounds.

Now, perhaps because we are in the midst of summer, Monday can feel especially unfair.

After all, the sun is shining.

The gardens are growing.

The golf course is calling.

The lake is only a short drive away.

The lawn chair remains exactly where we left it Sunday evening and seems to be making a persuasive argument.

Yet Monday insists upon showing up anyway.

And there, I think, lies an important lesson.

Because much of the Christian life is built upon showing up.

Not dramatically.

Not heroically.

Simply faithfully.

Showing up for prayer.

Showing up for work.

Showing up for family.

Showing up for neighbours.

Showing up for the ordinary responsibilities that make up most of life.

Now, this is not a particularly glamorous spiritual discipline.

Nobody writes biographies about the person who faithfully answered emails with a cheerful attitude.

There are no statues commemorating those who consistently remembered to take out the recycling.

History books rarely celebrate individuals who showed up every Monday with kindness and patience.

And yet these ordinary acts of faithfulness quietly hold the world together.

The Kingdom of God often advances not through spectacular moments, but through steady people.

People who continue loving.

Continue serving.

Continue encouraging.

Continue showing up.

Now, I have often noticed that cheerfulness itself can become a gift to others.

Not artificial cheerfulness.

Not the sort that insists everything is wonderful when clearly it is not.

Rather, the quiet decision to approach life with gratitude and hope.

The choice to smile.

To encourage.

To bring a little light into ordinary places.

These things matter more than we realize.

Because every workplace contains someone carrying a burden we cannot see.

Every grocery store aisle contains someone fighting a private battle.

Every church pew contains people who arrived carrying joys and sorrows alike.

A cheerful spirit does not solve all those problems.

But it can make the journey a little lighter.

And that is no small thing.

Now, I suspect this is one reason Saint Paul spent so much time speaking about joy.

Not because life is always easy.

Certainly not.

But because Christian joy is rooted somewhere deeper than circumstances.

It springs from knowing that God remains present.

Present on glorious Saturdays.

Present on peaceful Sundays.

And yes, present on Monday mornings as well.

Even before the second cup of coffee.

Which may be one of the greater miracles of grace.

Now, perhaps the invitation for this Monday is beautifully simple.

Show up.

Show up for the day God has placed before you.

Show up with gratitude.

Show up with kindness.

Show up willing to serve.

And if possible, show up with at least a trace of good humour.

Because the people around you may need that gift more than you know.

The work may not always be exciting.

The responsibilities may not always be glamorous.

But faithfulness rarely concerns itself with glamour.

Faithfulness simply keeps showing up.

Again and again.

And over time, that steady presence becomes its own quiet witness to the grace of God.

So if this Monday finds you listening to the alarm clock and wondering whether it might be acceptable to negotiate for another hour of sleep…

Take heart.

God has already arrived ahead of you.

The day is waiting.

The opportunities for kindness are waiting.

And perhaps, somewhere along the way, a little unexpected joy is waiting too.

Alleluia.

Follow along on Instagram @renewablespiritual

Companion Prayer

Gracious God,

Thank you for the gift of a new week.

Help us to meet this day with gratitude,
to carry hope into ordinary places,
and to serve others with cheerful hearts.

When responsibilities feel heavy,
give us strength.

When challenges arise,
give us patience.

And in all things,
help us to show up faithfully,
trusting that you walk beside us.

Through Jesus Christ our Lord.

Amen.

The Gospel According to Sunday Evening

There is a particular moment that arrives every Sunday evening.

It generally occurs sometime after supper.

The barbecue has been cleaned.

The lawn chair has been returned to its customary position.

The dishes are done — or at least sufficiently ignored.

And suddenly a thought begins quietly creeping into the mind:

“Tomorrow is Monday.”

Now, I have observed over the years that people respond to this realization in different ways.

Some begin mentally constructing detailed plans for the week ahead.

Others become slightly melancholy.

Still others attempt to pretend Monday does not exist and continue enjoying Sunday until reality eventually catches up.

Grace abounds.

But I have often thought that Sunday evening occupies a rather unique place in life.

It stands at the intersection of rest and responsibility.

The weekend is not entirely over.

The week has not quite begun.

It is a threshold moment.

A pause between chapters.

And perhaps that is precisely why it matters.

Now, summer weekends seem especially precious.

The weather invites us outdoors.

Families gather.

Visitors arrive.

The pace slows.

Saturday brings adventures.

Sunday brings worship.

And somewhere between the two, we discover again the blessing of simply living.

Not merely accomplishing.

Living.

Now, modern culture has become remarkably skilled at squeezing every possible ounce of productivity from human beings.

Even leisure occasionally begins feeling suspiciously like work.

Vacations require planning.

Hobbies become competitive.

Relaxation develops performance metrics.

Somewhere along the way we seem to have forgotten how to simply enjoy ourselves.

Which may explain why God was wise enough to give us Sabbath.

The commandment to rest was never merely about stopping work.

It was about remembering who we are.

Human beings.

Not machines.

Children of God.

Not productivity projects.

People created not only to labour, but also to delight.

And nowhere is that more visible than in a well-lived summer weekend.

Now, I should confess that I have never entirely mastered the art of wasting time.

I come from farming stock.

My natural inclination is to look at a sunny Saturday and immediately identify seventeen projects that could be completed before lunch.

Most of those projects, if I am honest, have remained patiently waiting for years.

Yet the temptation persists.

There is always something that could be done.

A garden to weed.

A shelf to organize.

A list to shorten.

And yet some of the most meaningful moments of life arrive when we choose not to do those things.

A conversation lasts longer.

A meal lingers.

A walk extends beyond its original destination.

A grandchild wants to play one more game.

A friend drops by unexpectedly.

The sunset deserves another few minutes of attention.

And suddenly we discover that the very things that make life rich are often the things that never appeared on the to-do list at all.

Now, I think that is one of the hidden gifts of Sunday.

Sunday teaches us how to end well.

Not merely the weekend.

But all sorts of things.

A season.

A chapter.

A busy week.

Sunday reminds us to pause before rushing ahead.

To give thanks before moving on.

To reflect before planning.

To worship before working.

And perhaps that is why gathering for worship remains such an important part of the Christian life.

Not because God needs our attendance.

But because we need the reminder.

We need to remember that our worth does not depend on next week’s accomplishments.

We need to remember that grace precedes effort.

We need to remember that before we are workers, volunteers, parents, leaders, retirees, students, or clergy…

We are beloved.

And beloved people can rest.

Now, as this Sunday evening arrives, perhaps the invitation is beautifully simple.

Enjoy what remains of the weekend.

Watch the sunset.

Sit on the deck.

Call a friend.

Take a walk.

Have another cup of tea.

And before turning your attention toward Monday, take a moment simply to give thanks.

For worship.

For family.

For friendship.

For laughter.

For rest.

For all the ordinary blessings that have filled the weekend now drawing to a close.

Because a life lived gratefully is not measured by how much gets done.

It is measured by how fully we receive the gifts God has already given.

And that, it seems to me, is a very good way to spend a Sunday evening.

Alleluia.

Companion Prayer

Gracious God,

Thank you for the gift of this weekend.

For worship and rest,
for family and friends,
for laughter and quiet moments.

As one week ends and another begins,
help us to carry gratitude into all that lies ahead.

Teach us to rest well,
to work faithfully,
and to remember always that we are your beloved children.

And as the evening light fades,
fill our hearts with peace.

Through Christ our Lord.

Amen.