Hallway Ministry

There are some afternoons that remind you why priests are never really off duty.

Yesterday was one of them.

I spent the afternoon making my usual rounds through the nursing homes, celebrating the Holy Eucharist with residents who have become, over the years, one of my favourite congregations. They are people of remarkable faith. Their bodies often no longer cooperate with them. Their hearing is not always what it once was. Memories sometimes come and go without warning. Arthritis has stiffened hands that once held children, baked bread, built houses, planted gardens, and changed the world in a thousand quiet ways.

And yet every time I gather with them, they come to offer thanks.

That, after all, is what Eucharist means.

They come not because life is easy, but because God is faithful.

Yesterday, my usual congregation was there. I had prepared the proper number of hosts, carefully estimating attendance as clergy have done for centuries. (Estimating attendance, I should add, is one of the spiritual gifts that none of us has actually received.)

As the service unfolded, however, several residents who would normally receive Communion were unable to do so because swallowing had become difficult. Their caregivers quite rightly asked them not to receive.

When the service ended, I discovered I had a surprising number of consecrated hosts remaining.

Now Anglican clergy are not especially fond of “leftovers” when it comes to the Blessed Sacrament. We consume what we reasonably can, but this presented a problem. I am coeliac. These hosts contained gluten and so I could not consume them myself. So I reverently placed the remaining hosts into my pyx, tucked it into my pocket, packed up my things, and headed toward the elevator.

Or at least I thought I was heading toward the elevator.

God, apparently, had other plans.

The moment I stepped into the hallway, a woman noticed my black clerical shirt. She came quickly out of a nearby room.

“Father,” she asked quietly, “would you come pray with my dad? He’s dying.”

Of course.

I entered the room where family members surrounded his bed. We prayed together. I anointed him with holy oil.

Then he looked at me and asked, “Would it be possible to receive Communion?”

I smiled.

“As it happens,” I said, “yes.”

There, in my pocket, was exactly what was needed.

Not only for him, but for the gathered family who wished to receive as well.

The pyx was a little lighter as I stepped back into the hallway.

I hadn’t gone twenty metres before another encounter found me.

A relatively young resident came rolling toward me in his wheelchair.

“I was in physiotherapy while your service was happening,” he said. “Could I receive Communion before you leave?”

Once again, there in the hallway, we prayed together.

Once again, Christ came to meet someone exactly where he was.

Once again, the pyx became a little lighter.

Surely now I was finished.

I rode the elevator downstairs to the lower level, where I had celebrated another Eucharist earlier in the afternoon.

The doors opened.

Before I had even fully stepped into the hallway, another resident approached.

“I missed Communion earlier,” they said. “Would it be possible…?”

Yes.

It was possible.

The final host that I had mistakenly consecrated was placed into waiting hands.

The pyx was empty.

Only then did it dawn on me.

There had been no mistake.

Only abundance.

When I first noticed the extra hosts after the scheduled service, I assumed I had simply miscalculated.

Instead, God had calculated far better than I had.

Those hosts had never belonged only to the people sitting in the recreation room where the “official” service was taking place. They were already destined for hospital rooms, family vigils, physiotherapy schedules, elevators, and hallways.

They simply hadn’t reached their congregation yet.

We often hear the phrase hallway medicine, and rightly so, as a lament. It speaks of overcrowded hospitals and patients receiving care on stretchers because there are no rooms available.

Yesterday I discovered something rather different.

Hallway ministry.

And what a beautiful thing it is.

Grace spilling beyond the carefully prepared liturgy.

Sacrament refusing to stay inside the planned programme.

Christ wandering the corridors looking for those who thought they had missed their chance.

It strikes me that Jesus had a habit of doing exactly that.

People were forever interrupting his plans.

Blind beggars called out from roadsides.

Women reached through crowds.

Children climbed into his lap.

A Roman centurion intercepted him.

A tax collector invited him home.

A thief found him on a cross.

The Kingdom rarely unfolds according to the published schedule.

Perhaps that is still true for the Church.

We work hard preparing worship. We print bulletins. We arrange flowers. We rehearse music. We count attendance. We estimate how much bread we might need.

All good things.

But perhaps the true measure of our worship is not only what happens inside our sanctuaries.

Perhaps it is whether God’s grace keeps spilling out into the hallways.

Into conversations after church.

Into hospital corridors.

Into grocery stores.

Into neighbourhood sidewalks.

Into coffee shops.

Into ordinary Tuesday afternoons when someone quietly asks, “Could you pray with me?”

The Church is never at its best when it keeps Christ safely contained inside the room where everyone expected him to be.

The Gospel has always preferred wandering the corridors.

Yesterday reminded me that God’s grace is never measured merely by careful planning.

It overflows.

Sometimes right into the hallway.

And thanks be to God for that.

Follow along on Instagram @renewablespiritual.

Companion Prayer

Gracious God,
thank you for the countless moments when your grace surprises us beyond our careful plans. Open our eyes to the people waiting in the hallways of life—those who long for hope, prayer, kindness, or simply the assurance that they are not alone. Make us willing to pause, to listen, and to carry Christ wherever we go. May our worship never remain within the walls of our churches, but overflow into the ordinary places where your love is most needed. Through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.

The Gospel According to the Instruction Manual

There are few moments in life more dangerous than opening a large cardboard box and discovering that it contains both 247 pieces and an instruction manual.

Particularly if the words, “Some assembly required” appear anywhere on the packaging.

Now, those three words are among the great understatements of the modern age.

“Some assembly required” may mean attaching two pieces with a screwdriver.

Or it may mean devoting an entire Saturday to a project that eventually causes you to question your engineering abilities, your eyesight, and possibly your vocation.

There is often no way to know.

Grace abounds.

Now, summer seems especially rich in these opportunities.

A new barbecue arrives.

A lawn chair needs replacing.

A bicycle requires adjustment.

A gazebo appears in the driveway in a box approximately the size of a small refrigerator.

And before long, an otherwise sensible adult is sitting cross-legged on the grass surrounded by bolts, washers, brackets, and instructions that appear to have been drawn by someone who firmly opposed the use of words.

I have always admired those diagrams.

A smiling stick figure points confidently toward Part A.

Part A bears no resemblance whatsoever to any item actually contained in the box.

Yet somehow we persevere.

Now, I should confess that I approach such projects with tremendous optimism.

At the beginning.

The first five minutes are magnificent.

I am confident.

Hopeful.

Certain of success.

Then comes the moment when I discover three identical-looking pieces that are apparently not identical at all.

This is usually followed by careful study of the instructions.

Then re-reading the instructions.

Then turning the instructions upside down.

Then seeking divine guidance.

Now, what fascinates me is that very few things in life arrive fully assembled.

Furniture does not.

Relationships do not.

Communities do not.

Faith certainly does not.

Much of life involves becoming.

Growing.

Learning.

Adjusting.

Being shaped over time.

Yet many of us secretly wish for an instruction manual.

We would like clear diagrams.

Step-by-step directions.

A guarantee that if we follow the proper sequence everything will work perfectly.

Instead, life tends to unfold somewhat differently.

We learn as we go.

We make mistakes.

We backtrack.

We occasionally discover that Part B should have been attached before Step 4.

And then we begin again.

The Christian life is remarkably similar.

God does not call finished people.

God calls ordinary people.

People who are still growing.

Still learning.

Still becoming the people God created them to be.

The disciples themselves were hardly fully assembled when Jesus called them.

Peter was impulsive.

Thomas was skeptical.

James and John seemed remarkably comfortable with conflict.

Yet God worked through them all.

Not because they were finished.

But because they were willing.

Now, I think one of the great gifts of grace is that God seems remarkably patient with unfinished people.

Which is fortunate.

Because every one of us is unfinished.

We are all works in progress.

Still learning how to love.

Still learning how to forgive.

Still learning how to trust.

Still learning how to follow.

God, thankfully, does not wait until the assembly is complete before claiming us.

Instead, God loves us while the pieces are still scattered across the lawn.

And perhaps that is good news worth remembering.

Especially on a Friday.

Because by the end of the week many of us become acutely aware of our imperfections.

The things we intended to accomplish.

The conversations we wish had gone better.

The goals we have not yet reached.

The ways we still fall short.

Yet grace reminds us that God has never required perfection before offering love.

The work continues.

The growth continues.

The assembly continues.

But God’s love is already present.

Now, if this weekend finds you staring at an instruction manual, surrounded by mysterious hardware and wondering why there are apparently six screws left over after completion, take heart.

The project may not be perfect.

You may not be perfect.

But God has always done remarkable things with unfinished people.

Alleluia.

Companion Prayer

Gracious God,

Thank you for loving us exactly where we are.

When we become discouraged by our imperfections,
remind us that you are still at work within us.

Give us patience with ourselves,
grace toward others,
and trust in your guiding hand.

Help us to remember that growth takes time,
wisdom is learned gradually,
and faith is formed day by day.

And when life feels confusing,
remind us that you remain the Master Builder.

Through Christ our Lord.

Amen.

The Gospel According to the Ice Cream Cone

There are certain things in life that come with an expiration date.

Summer holidays.

Long weekends.

Sunsets.

Children being willing to hold your hand in public.

And ice cream cones.

Particularly ice cream cones.

Now, I have always admired the honesty of an ice cream cone.

It makes no promises about longevity.

A chocolate bar can sit patiently in a cupboard for weeks.

A bag of chips can linger indefinitely.

An ice cream cone, however, arrives with a sense of urgency.

It is perhaps the only food item that quietly whispers:

“You should probably deal with this immediately.”

Especially on a hot July afternoon.

Now, I should confess that I have never been particularly gifted at eating ice cream cones.

Some people possess remarkable skill.

They proceed with calm confidence and mathematical precision.

The scoop remains perfectly balanced.

The cone remains structurally sound.

The experience concludes with dignity intact.

I have never been one of those people.

My relationship with ice cream cones has always involved a certain amount of suspense.

There is planning.

There is strategy.

There is vigilance.

And then there is the inevitable moment when gravity reminds everyone that it remains fully operational.

Grace abounds.

Now, summer is filled with moments like this.

Moments that cannot be postponed.

Moments that cannot be stored away for later.

Moments that must simply be enjoyed while they are here.

A cool evening breeze.

A campfire conversation.

The laughter of friends around a picnic table.

A grandchild’s delight.

A walk beside the water.

A perfect July afternoon.

These things arrive.

And then they pass.

Which, if we are honest, is both their sadness and their beauty.

Now, most of us spend a great deal of life attempting to hold onto things.

We save.

We preserve.

We archive.

We photograph.

We document.

We create backups for our backups.

There is nothing wrong with that.

Memory is a gift.

Yet there is a subtle danger in becoming so focused on preserving a moment that we fail to fully live it.

I have occasionally observed entire groups of people standing before something breathtakingly beautiful while concentrating primarily on taking photographs of it.

The sunset remains magnificent.

The view remains spectacular.

But nobody is actually looking at it.

They are busy documenting it.

Now, before anyone writes to me, I should acknowledge that I too have taken photographs of sunsets.

Many photographs.

Far more photographs than any reasonable person requires.

The evidence is overwhelming.

Still, the point remains.

Life is not meant only to be recorded.

It is meant to be lived.

And perhaps nowhere is that more obvious than with an ice cream cone.

An ice cream cone cannot be admired indefinitely.

At some point you simply have to enjoy it.

And I suspect there is something profoundly spiritual about that.

Because one of the great temptations of modern life is postponement.

We tell ourselves that we will enjoy life later.

When the project is finished.

When the mortgage is paid.

When the schedule calms down.

When the circumstances improve.

When everything finally comes together.

The difficulty, of course, is that life keeps moving.

Summer passes.

Children grow.

Friends relocate.

Opportunities disappear.

And the ice cream melts.

Now, this does not mean we should become reckless.

Nor does it mean we abandon responsibility.

The Christian life is not an invitation to carelessness.

It is an invitation to attentiveness.

To gratitude.

To recognizing the gifts God places before us today.

Not someday.

Today.

Jesus seemed remarkably attentive to the present moment.

He noticed birds and flowers.

Children and fishermen.

Meals and celebrations.

Again and again He invited people to pay attention to the life unfolding right in front of them.

Not because tomorrow does not matter.

But because today is where God meets us.

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

God is not waiting only in extraordinary moments.

God is present in ordinary joys.

In family gatherings.

In summer evenings.

In conversations that linger.

In laughter shared with friends.

And perhaps even in an ice cream cone enjoyed on a warm July afternoon.

Now, I realize this may not sound like particularly advanced theology.

There are undoubtedly scholars somewhere discussing matters of far greater complexity.

Yet I suspect that gratitude is often far more important than complexity.

The ability to receive a simple gift with joy is itself a spiritual discipline.

To notice beauty.

To savour goodness.

To give thanks.

To be fully present.

These things shape the soul.

So if this July finds you standing in line at an ice cream stand, pondering whether one scoop is sufficient or whether two scoops represent a reasonable expression of Christian freedom, I encourage you to choose joy.

Sit in the sunshine.

Enjoy the moment.

Laugh when the ice cream begins its inevitable migration toward your elbow.

And give thanks.

Because life is a gift.

Summer is a gift.

The people we love are gifts.

And sometimes the Kingdom of God arrives looking remarkably like a slightly melting ice cream cone.

Alleluia.

Companion Prayer

Gracious God,

Thank you for the simple gifts that fill our days.

For laughter and friendship,
for summer sunshine and cool breezes,
for beauty that cannot be preserved forever,
and for moments that invite us simply to be present.

Teach us to receive your gifts with gratitude.

Help us not to rush through life
or postpone joy until some future day.

Open our eyes to your presence here and now,
in ordinary moments and simple pleasures.

And remind us that every good gift comes from you.

Through Christ our Lord.

Amen.

The Annual Battle with Mosquitoes

There are certain signs that summer has fully arrived.

The first tomato appears in the garden. Lawn mowers begin their weekly symphony. The ice cream truck somehow knows precisely when every child within three postal codes is awake.

And then, almost on cue, comes another ancient summer tradition.

The mosquitoes hold their annual convention.

Now, I have no scientific evidence for this whatsoever, but I remain convinced they hold committee meetings beforehand.

“Friends,” announces the Chair-Mosquito while adjusting his imaginary spectacles, “our first order of business is selecting this year’s primary target.”

At which point every tiny mosquito wing immediately points in my direction.

I have never understood why mosquitoes find me so appealing. I like to think it is because I possess unusually rich Anglican blood, aged carefully over thirty-three years of ordained ministry, with subtle notes of coffee, gluten-free baking, and occasional golf.

Whatever the reason, they seem deeply committed to making me feel personally welcomed outdoors.

One mosquito is merely an inconvenience.

Two mosquitoes are manageable.

Three hundred and forty-seven mosquitoes transform an evening stroll into what can only be described as an ecumenical prayer service, because suddenly one begins calling upon saints from every Christian tradition.

Grace abounds.

Of course, there are always those wonderfully cheerful people who insist mosquitoes serve an important ecological purpose.

I am quite prepared to believe this.

I simply question whether they require quite so much enthusiasm while fulfilling it.

Yet even in this annual battle, there is something quietly theological happening.

Mosquitoes have an extraordinary ability to pull us out of the present moment.

Instead of admiring the sunset, we begin scanning the horizon like nervous air-traffic controllers.

Instead of listening to birdsong, we become experts in detecting that faint, high-pitched whine somewhere just behind our left ear.

Instead of peacefully enjoying creation, we suddenly resemble people performing interpretive dance in the middle of the backyard.

It is not our most dignified look.

Perhaps that is part of the lesson.

Life is full of little irritations.

Not tragedies.

Not disasters.

Just the tiny, persistent annoyances that nibble away at our patience.

The slow driver.

The computer update that chooses exactly the wrong moment.

The grocery cart with one rebellious wheel.

The person who replies to every suggestion with, “Well actually…”

And, naturally, mosquitoes.

Most of life is not shaped by great crises.

It is shaped by how we respond to the little things.

St. Paul writes about the fruit of the Spirit, and I have noticed he includes patience long before he ever mentions mosquito repellent.

Perhaps for good reason.

Because patience is usually not learned during life’s mountaintop moments.

It is learned while scratching one more mosquito bite and deciding not to let it ruin an otherwise beautiful evening.

There is another curious thing about mosquitoes.

No matter how many there seem to be, they never succeed in cancelling summer.

We still gather around campfires.

We still sit on porches.

We still walk country roads.

We still laugh with neighbours.

We still watch grandchildren chase bubbles across the lawn.

The mosquitoes are present.

But they do not get the final word.

That feels remarkably close to the Gospel.

There will always be something trying to steal our joy.

Some worry.

Some disappointment.

Some inconvenience.

Some persistent buzzing around the edges of life.

Yet the love of God remains larger.

Joy remains possible.

Laughter still echoes around picnic tables.

Hope still blooms beside tomato plants.

And grace, as always, quietly refuses to surrender.

So the next time a mosquito interrupts your peaceful summer evening, smile if you can.

Wave your arms about with whatever dignity remains.

Apply another generous layer of bug spray.

Then return to watching the sunset.

Because the mosquitoes may be persistent…

…but so is God.

And in the end, I have every confidence about which one will win.

Alleluia.

Follow along on Instagram @renewablespiritual.

Companion Prayer

Gracious God,

Thank you for the gift of summer—the long evenings, warm breezes, singing birds, blooming gardens, and even the lessons hidden among the mosquitoes.

When life’s little irritations begin to buzz around us, grant us patience instead of frustration, laughter instead of complaint, and hearts that refuse to lose sight of your goodness.

Help us not to allow small inconveniences to steal the joy you have so generously given. Teach us to notice the beauty that surrounds us, to cherish the people beside us, and to remember that your grace is always greater than whatever distracts or annoys us.

May we carry your peace wherever we go, trusting that your love is more persistent than our worries and your hope stronger than our fears.

In the name of Jesus Christ, whose joy no circumstance could overcome, we pray.

Amen.

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.