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.

The Gospel According to the Water Balloon

There comes a point in every summer when an adult must make a decision.

The decision usually arrives unexpectedly.

One is standing in a backyard.

Children are present.

Perhaps grandchildren.

Perhaps nieces and nephews.

Perhaps simply the children of neighbours who seem to possess an endless supply of energy and absolutely no fear of consequences.

And then someone appears carrying water balloons.

At that moment, a choice must be made.

One may remain a dignified adult.

Or one may become a target.

Now, I should confess that I have always admired people who can maintain their dignity under such circumstances.

I am not one of those people.

If a water balloon appears, I am immediately transported back several decades.

All good judgment departs.

And before long, I find myself participating in activities that would almost certainly alarm my physician.

Grace abounds.

Now, July is a season that seems particularly designed for play.

The days are long.

The evenings linger.

Families gather.

Children run through sprinklers.

People sit around campfires telling stories that improve considerably with every retelling.

And for a few precious weeks, life becomes a little less serious.

Which is a gift.

Because many of us spend the rest of the year being responsible.

We pay bills.

Keep schedules.

Attend meetings.

Worry about things.

Some of us have become so proficient at being adults that we scarcely remember how to play.

And that is a pity.

Because play is not merely recreation.

It is restoration.

Now, I realize that “play” looks different when one has accumulated a few decades of life experience.

Few of us are climbing jungle gyms anymore.

At least not intentionally.

Most of us have reached an age where getting down onto the floor is less concerning than the question of whether we will successfully get back up again.

Yet the need for joy remains.

The need for laughter remains.

The need to delight in life remains.

And perhaps that is because these things are woven into us by God.

After all, creation itself seems filled with joy.

The Scriptures tell us that God looked upon creation and called it good.

Not merely useful.

Not merely efficient.

Good.

Beautiful.

Delightful.

One suspects that a God who created sunsets, puppies, loons, and baby goats may possess a fairly healthy appreciation for joy.

Now, somewhere along the way, many Christians became suspicious of fun.

One occasionally encounters the lingering notion that holiness should involve looking mildly uncomfortable at all times.

As though smiling too broadly might somehow undermine one’s spiritual credibility.

I have never found much evidence for that in the Gospels.

Jesus attended weddings.

Shared meals.

Gathered with friends.

His first miracle involved ensuring that a celebration could continue.

That hardly sounds like someone opposed to joy.

In fact, much of the Kingdom of God sounds remarkably festive.

Feasts.

Banquets.

Celebrations.

Reunions.

There is an awful lot of rejoicing going on.

And perhaps that is because joy itself is holy.

Now, I am not suggesting that every water balloon fight is a sacramental act.

Although I am not entirely ruling it out.

What I am suggesting is that laughter matters.

Play matters.

Time with family matters.

The ability to set aside our worries for a while and simply enjoy one another is one of God’s great gifts.

Because relationships are strengthened in such moments.

Memories are formed.

Stories are created that will be retold for years.

And somewhere in the midst of all that laughter, grace quietly goes about its work.

I think that may be one of the reasons summer feels so restorative.

It gives us permission to remember parts of ourselves that the rest of the year often buries beneath responsibility.

Wonder.

Playfulness.

Delight.

Simple enjoyment of the people we love.

Now, none of this means that life’s challenges disappear.

The bills will still be waiting on Monday.

The lawn will continue growing with missionary zeal.

The laundry basket will somehow refill itself.

But for a little while, we are invited to set those things aside.

To laugh.

To play.

To enjoy the gift of one another.

And perhaps that too is part of faithful living.

So if this July presents an opportunity to sit around a campfire, throw a water balloon, play a board game, paddle a canoe, chase grandchildren through the yard, or simply laugh until your sides hurt…

Take it.

Not because life is free of responsibility.

But because joy is one of God’s gifts.

And gifts are meant to be received.

Even by those of us who have become more than a little long in the tooth.

Alleluia.

Follow along on Instagram @renewablespiritual

Companion Prayer

Joyful God,

Thank you for laughter,
for family,
for friendship,
and for the gift of play.

Help us to receive joy without guilt,
to delight in the people we love,
and to treasure the memories we create together.

In these long summer days,
restore our hearts through wonder, laughter, and rest.

And remind us that your grace is present not only in solemn moments,
but also in smiles, campfires, games, and shared joy.

Through Christ our Lord.

Amen.

The Fellowship of the Oddballs

“God never seems particularly interested in perfect people. Instead, God gathers ordinary people—quirky people, imperfect people, oddballs of every conceivable description—and through them accomplishes extraordinary things.”
Sometimes the greatest miracle of the Church is that God continues to call ordinary people—and that some of us are still willing to listen.

Today is not an anniversary.

It is not the date of my ordination. It is not the anniversary of my graduation from seminary. It is not attached to any particular milestone that should have prompted a stroll down memory lane.

And yet, as I dawdled over a second cup of coffee this morning—a spiritual discipline at which I have become increasingly proficient—I found myself thinking about a day in late spring of 1993.

My classmates and I from Huron University College had been at an off-campus class somewhere in southwestern Ontario. When the class ended, the entire group migrated to a nearby restaurant for lunch.

Now, over the previous three years, the twelve of us had become remarkably close.

We had prayed together.

Studied together.

Argued theology together.

Supported one another through difficult times.

We had become something more than classmates. We had become friends.

As lunch arrived and the conversation grew increasingly animated, our thoughts naturally turned toward the future.

Graduation was only a few weeks away.

Ordination awaited many of us.

Soon we would scatter across the country and begin the work of parish ministry.

The future seemed exciting, terrifying, and entirely uncertain.

Then one of my classmates made an observation that remains etched in my memory more than thirty years later.

She said, “You know, before I came to Huron, I always thought that most of the clergy I knew were a pretty odd group of characters.”

Then she stopped.

The sentence simply hung there.

The rest of us waited.

Surely there was a second half coming.

Something reassuring.

Something like:

“…but now I realize they really aren’t.”

Instead, there was only silence.

And in that silence, I suspect every one of us did exactly what I did.

We looked around the table.

One by one.

Face by face.

Twelve future clergy.

Twelve unique personalities.

Twelve very different stories.

And suddenly the laughter began.

Because she was absolutely right.

We were a remarkably odd collection of human beings.

There was no denying it.

Looking back now, I realize that every parish I have served has contained a similarly delightful assortment of characters.

Indeed, one of the great strengths of the Church is that it attracts people who might never otherwise find themselves in the same room together.

The Church gathers farmers and accountants.

Teachers and mechanics.

Artists and engineers.

Extroverts and introverts.

People who know exactly where they left their keys and people who have never once experienced that sensation.

Grace abounds.

And somehow God brings all these wonderfully different people together and calls them family.

As I reflected on that lunch conversation, my thoughts drifted naturally toward another gathering of twelve.

The original twelve.

Now there was an unusual group.

A fisherman who routinely spoke before thinking.

A doubter.

A tax collector.

A political zealot.

Brothers who seemed to possess remarkably short fuses.

And eventually, even a betrayer.

Hardly the sort of leadership team one would assemble through a modern executive search process.

Yet these were the people Jesus chose.

Or perhaps more accurately, these were the people who chose to follow when Jesus called.

And that distinction matters.

Because one of our professors said something during our first days at Huron that has stayed with me ever since.

He looked at our incoming class and said:

“You may think that you’re here because God calls the best, and that you are the best.”

Then he paused.

“The truth is, God calls everyone. You are simply the ones who were willing to listen.”

At the time, I found that statement slightly unsettling.

I think I preferred the first explanation.

But over the years I have come to realize how profoundly true his words were.

God calls everyone.

Not just clergy.

Not just saints.

Not just people who seem especially holy.

God calls everyone.

God calls parents.

Teachers.

Nurses.

Retirees.

Students.

Grandparents.

Volunteers.

Neighbours.

Every ordinary person living an ordinary life.

The question is rarely whether God is calling.

The question is whether we are listening.

And perhaps that is one of the great misunderstandings of Christian vocation.

Many people imagine a calling as something dramatic.

A burning bush.

A booming voice from heaven.

A sudden revelation that changes everything.

But most callings arrive much more quietly than that.

They arrive through opportunities to serve.

Through nudges toward compassion.

Through invitations to love.

Through the gradual realization that God may be asking us to become more than we currently are.

And then, somehow, God works through us.

Not because we are perfect.

Not because we are the best.

But because we are willing.

Looking back across more than three decades of ministry, I remain amazed by what God accomplishes through ordinary people.

I have watched quiet parishioners transform communities through kindness.

I have seen volunteers change lives.

I have watched people with no particular claim to greatness become instruments of extraordinary grace.

Again and again, God takes ordinary people and does remarkable things.

Which brings me back to that lunch table in 1993.

Today, I find myself deeply grateful to be part of a long succession of oddballs who have helped change the world.

Fishermen and tax collectors.

Saints and sinners.

Seminary students and parish priests.

People who doubted.

People who failed.

People who occasionally got things spectacularly wrong.

Yet all of them shared one thing in common.

When God called, they listened.

Perhaps that remains the true miracle of the Church.

Not that God finds perfect people.

God never seems particularly interested in that.

Instead, God gathers ordinary people — quirky people, imperfect people, oddballs of every conceivable description — and through them accomplishes extraordinary things.

Which is very good news indeed.

Because looking around the Church today, I still see a remarkable collection of oddballs.

And when I look in the mirror, I discover that I am still one of them.

Thanks be to God.

Alleluia.

Follow along on Instagram @renewablespiritual

Companion Prayer

Gracious God,

Thank you for calling ordinary people into your service.

Help us to listen when you call,
to trust when you lead,
and to serve where you send us.

Remind us that perfection is not required,
only faithfulness.

And through all our quirks, weaknesses, and imperfections,
continue your work of grace in the world.

Through Jesus Christ our Lord.

Amen.

The Gospel According to the Overpacked Car

There are few rituals more distinctly Canadian than preparing for a summer vacation.

Now, I realize that technically the vacation begins when one arrives at the cottage, campground, lakeside cabin, or scenic destination.

This is not true.

The vacation begins when someone attempts to fit an impossible quantity of belongings into a vehicle that has remained stubbornly the same size throughout the entire packing process.

This is where faith enters the picture.

Because every family eventually reaches the point where someone stands beside the car and says, “I don’t think it’s all going to fit.”

And then someone else says, “Let’s just try one more thing.”

Miraculously, it usually does fit.

Not comfortably.

Not safely in the sense envisioned by automotive engineers.

But it fits.

Grace abounds.

Now, July has a way of stirring the wanderlust in us.

The schools have emptied.

The days are long.

The weather, at least theoretically, is cooperating.

And suddenly Canadians begin migrating in all directions.

North to cottages.

East to the ocean.

West to the mountains.

Or simply down the road to visit family and friends.

It is as though an entire nation collectively decides that sitting beside water is a spiritual discipline.

And honestly, I am not entirely convinced we are wrong.

Because there is something deeply restorative about stepping away from ordinary routines.

Not escaping life.

Simply seeing it differently.

Now, one of the curious things about vacations is that they rarely proceed exactly according to plan.

The weather changes.

The fish refuse to cooperate.

The campground neighbour decides that midnight is the perfect time to test the volume capacity of both music and conversation.

The GPS develops theological objections to your chosen route.

And somehow, despite all this, wonderful memories are still made.

Perhaps because the best moments are usually not the ones we planned.

They arrive unexpectedly.

A sunset.

A conversation.

A loon calling across the lake.

A grandchild laughing from the end of the dock.

A campfire where stories become progressively better with each retelling.

Now, I suspect there is a spiritual lesson hidden somewhere in all of this.

Because much of the Christian life is spent making plans.

We prepare.

Organize.

Schedule.

Pack.

Then God gently reminds us that life is not primarily about our plans.

It is about our willingness to encounter grace wherever we happen to find ourselves.

And grace has a habit of appearing in unexpected places.

Beside lakes.

Along highways.

Around picnic tables.

In family gatherings.

In quiet moments when the distractions of ordinary life finally begin to fall away.

Now, Ordinary Time is the Church’s season of growth.

The green season.

The season that reminds us that much of life unfolds not through dramatic moments but through steady living.

And perhaps vacations contribute to that growth more than we realize.

Because they give us space to notice things again.

The beauty of creation.

The gift of friendship.

The blessing of family.

The simple joy of an unhurried morning with coffee and nowhere in particular to be.

These are not small gifts.

They are holy gifts.

Now, I should confess that I have always loved travel, though I have also learned that there are two distinct stages to every vacation.

The first is the excitement of going away.

The second is the profound appreciation one feels upon returning to one’s own bed.

Both experiences deserve thanksgiving.

Because home itself is one of God’s great gifts.

Perhaps that is why vacations matter.

Not because they help us escape our lives.

But because they help us return to our lives with fresh eyes.

We see beauty again.

We notice blessings again.

We remember what truly matters.

So if you find yourself packing the car this July, heading toward a lake, a cottage, a campground, or some new adventure, go with gratitude.

Pay attention.

Notice the beauty around you.

Leave room for wonder.

And remember that the God who meets us in church pews also travels country roads, sits beside campfires, and walks quietly along lakeshores.

The vacation may begin with an overpacked car.

But with any luck, it will also become a pilgrimage of gratitude.

Alleluia.

Companion Prayer

Gracious God,

Thank you for the gift of summer.

For lakes and forests,
campfires and sunsets,
family and friendship.

As we travel and explore,
help us to notice your presence in creation and in one another.

Grant us safe journeys,
restful days,
and grateful hearts.

And wherever these summer adventures may take us,
draw us ever closer to you.

Through Christ our Lord.

Amen.

The Theology of the Red-and-White Lawn Chair: Canada Day Reflections for Ordinary Time

There are certain objects that immediately communicate that summer has truly arrived in Canada.

The barbecue is one.

The canoe resting beside a lake is another.

And somewhere near the top of the list sits the humble lawn chair.

Particularly if it is one of those red-and-white striped models that appears to have attended Canada Days continuously since Confederation.

Now, I should confess that I have a deep affection for lawn chairs.

Not because they are especially elegant.

No one has ever described a lawn chair as a masterpiece of engineering.

Most of them seem to have been designed with equal concern for comfort and the possibility of sudden collapse.

Grace abounds.

But there is something wonderfully Canadian about them.

They appear at family reunions.

Community picnics.

Church barbecues.

Fireworks displays.

They emerge from garages and sheds every summer like migratory birds returning from warmer climates.

And once unfolded, they invite us to do something that modern life often discourages:

Sit still.

Notice.

Give thanks.

Now, as Canada Day arrives once again, I find myself thinking about gratitude.

Not the shallow sort that pretends everything is perfect.

Canada, like every nation, has its struggles.

Its unfinished work.

Its failures and its hopes.

The road of reconciliation remains before us.

Justice remains a calling rather than an accomplishment.

And yet gratitude remains entirely appropriate.

Because gratitude is not the denial of imperfection.

It is the recognition of gift.

And we have been given many gifts indeed.

Now, I have been blessed to travel through much of this country over the years.

I have stood beside the Atlantic Ocean and watched the sun rise.

I have gazed across Prairie fields that seemed to stretch all the way to eternity.

I have paddled northern lakes where the water reflected the sky so perfectly that one could scarcely tell where one ended and the other began.

And before I am througI intend to watch mountains rise from the earth with a grandeur that leaves even clergy temporarily speechless.

Which, I assure you, is no small miracle.

And every time I encounter these places, I find myself returning to the same conclusion:

What an astonishing country God has entrusted to our care.

Now, the beauty of Canada is not found only in its landscapes.

It is found in people.

In neighbours who appear with snow shovels after storms.

In volunteers who quietly give their time.

In communities that gather around those who are grieving.

In friendships formed across differences.

In kindnesses offered without expectation of reward.

And perhaps this is one of the greatest blessings of all.

Because nations are not ultimately defined by geography.

They are defined by people learning how to live together.

Now, I realize that Canada Day occasionally inspires debates about national identity.

What does it mean to be Canadian?

What values matter most?

These are worthwhile questions.

But perhaps one answer lies in the ordinary virtues that have shaped so much of our common life:

Kindness.

Generosity.

Humility.

The willingness to help.

The ability to laugh at ourselves.

Particularly when mosquitoes are winning.

Again.

Now, from a Christian perspective, gratitude for country must always lead us back to gratitude for God.

Because every good gift ultimately comes from Him.

Life.

Health.

Freedom.

Friendship.

The beauty of creation.

The opportunity to live, work, worship, and serve in this place and time.

These are not things we have earned.

They are gifts.

And gifts are best received with thanksgiving.

So perhaps this Canada Day, whether you find yourself beside a lake, at a barbecue, watching fireworks, or simply sitting quietly in a well-worn lawn chair…

Pause for a moment.

Take in the beauty around you.

Offer a prayer of gratitude.

And remember that the God who made this vast and beautiful land continues to bless us beyond measure.

Not because we are perfect.

But because God is generous.

And for that, on this Canada Day, we give thanks.

Alleluia.

Companion Prayer

Gracious God,

We thank you for this land we call home.

For its lakes and forests,
its mountains and Prairies,
its cities and small towns.

We thank you for the gift of life,
for health, freedom, friendship, and community.

Help us to be faithful stewards of all that you have entrusted to us.

Guide us in the work of justice, reconciliation, and peace.

And on this Canada Day, fill our hearts with gratitude for your many blessings.

Through Jesus Christ our Lord.

Amen.

The Gospel According to the Walking Trail

The trail does not ask us to hurry. It simply invites us to notice. In the birdsong, the breeze, and the beauty of creation, God is still meeting people along the way. Alleluia.

There is a curious thing that happens when a person sets out for a walk.

The original intention is often quite practical.

A little exercise.
Some fresh air.
Perhaps an earnest commitment to healthier living after a regrettable encounter with pie.

And then something entirely unexpected happens.

The walk itself begins to work upon the soul.

Now, I should confess that I have always enjoyed walking.

Not in the competitive sense.

I have never once looked at a woodland trail and thought, “I wonder if I could complete this in record time.”

That sort of thinking strikes me as contrary to the entire purpose of the exercise.

The point of a walk is not to arrive.

It is to notice.

And creation rewards those who notice.

A cardinal flashes through the trees like a flying piece of stained glass.

A chipmunk emerges from nowhere, regards you with deep suspicion, and then disappears again before any meaningful diplomatic relationship can be established.

The breeze shifts.

The scent of pine needles rises from the forest floor.

And suddenly one realizes that God has been busy creating beauty all around us whether we happened to be paying attention or not.

Now, I suspect this is one reason Jesus spent so much time walking.

The Gospels are full of journeys.

Roads.
Hillsides.
Paths beside lakes.

Jesus seems almost constantly on the move.

And it is while walking that conversations happen.

Lessons are taught.

Lives are changed.

One begins to suspect that God is quite fond of meeting people on the road.

Now, in our own day, we spend a remarkable amount of time indoors.

We move from house to car.

Car to office.

Office back to car.

All while carefully avoiding direct exposure to the natural world except through strategically placed windows.

Grace abounds.

But perhaps Ordinary Time invites us to something different.

The green season of the Church is a season of growth.

And growth requires us to reconnect with the living world God has made.

Not merely to admire it.

To inhabit it.

To walk through it.

To allow creation to preach its quiet sermon once again.

Because creation is endlessly patient.

It never rushes.

Trees do not spend their mornings worrying about quarterly performance reviews.

The robin does not appear burdened by the need to answer email.

The clouds drift overhead with a calm confidence that most human beings can only admire from a distance.

And somewhere in all of this, creation gently reminds us that life is more gift than achievement.

Now, I realize there are people who approach walking with considerable seriousness.

They track distances.

Monitor heart rates.

Possess footwear engineered with the sophistication of modern spacecraft.

I admire such people.

Personally, I have increasingly come to see walking as a form of prayer.

A chance to slow down.

To notice.

To give thanks.

To remember that God is present not only in churches and cathedrals but also in forests, fields, trails, and quiet country roads.

And perhaps that is the invitation for these summer days.

Not simply to look at creation.

But to enter it.

To walk slowly enough that wonder has time to catch up with us.

So perhaps sometime this week, put down the phone.

Step outside.

Find a trail, a park, a country road, or even a quiet neighbourhood sidewalk.

Walk without urgency.

Pay attention.

And allow yourself to encounter once again the beauty of the world God has made and continues to inhabit.

Because sometimes the most profound sermons are preached not from pulpits…

…but from the walking trail.

Alleluia.

Companion Prayer

Creator God,

Thank you for the beauty that surrounds us.

Open our eyes to wonder,
our ears to birdsong,
and our hearts to your presence in creation.

Teach us to slow down,
to walk attentively,
and to receive each day as a gift.

And as we journey through these green and growing days of Ordinary Time,
help us to encounter you anew in every path we travel.

Amen.

The Gospel According to the Farmers’ Market

There are few places more filled with hope than a farmers’ market on a summer morning.

Now, I realize this may sound like a rather bold theological statement.

But I am prepared to defend it.

Because there is something deeply joyful about arriving at a market in late June and discovering that creation has once again decided to be extravagantly generous.

Tables overflow with colour.

Fresh lettuce.
Strawberries.
Peas.
Radishes.

And if one is fortunate enough to arrive at the correct moment, the first local sweet corn of the season begins making its annual appearance and causing widespread excitement among otherwise sensible adults.

Now, I should confess that I love this time of year.

Winter has its own beauty.

Spring carries its own promise.

But late June and early July possess a particular kind of abundance that is hard to resist.

The gardens are producing.

The fields are growing.

And every week seems to bring some new gift to the table.

Literally.

When I lived in Waterloo Region, one of the great joys of this time of year was gettring up really early and making my way to the St. Jacob’s Farmer’s Market. It was always buzzing with life no matter how early I arrived, and the produce was just beyond belief.

Now, one of the things that has always fascinated me about farmers is their remarkable optimism.

Every spring they put seeds into the ground with astonishing confidence.

Weather remains unpredictable.

Rain may cooperate.

Or not.

Yet year after year they plant.

And somehow, most years, abundance follows.

Now, perhaps that is why the Scriptures are filled with agricultural imagery.

Jesus constantly talked about seeds.

Harvests.

Fields.

Growth.

Because these things reveal something important about the nature of God’s Kingdom.

Growth usually happens quietly.

One does not hear the corn growing.

The tomatoes make no announcement.

The strawberries do not issue press releases.

They simply grow.

Steadily.

Patiently.

Day after day.

And perhaps much of the Christian life works exactly the same way.

Now, modern culture tends to prefer immediate results.

We like measurable progress.

Visible outcomes.

Instant transformation.

But the soul rarely develops that way.

Faith grows slowly.

Character grows slowly.

Wisdom grows slowly.

Usually through ordinary days filled with ordinary acts of faithfulness.

Prayer.

Kindness.

Patience.

Showing up.

And eventually, after enough seasons have passed, one discovers that growth has happened after all.

Now, I should also admit that farmers’ markets possess one additional spiritual lesson.

Humility.

Because there comes a point during every visit when one purchases far more produce than any rational household could reasonably consume.

The strawberries looked too good.

The peas seemed irresistible.

The lettuce appeared somehow essential.

And suddenly one returns home carrying enough vegetables to sustain a modest monastery.

Grace abounds.

But perhaps even that points toward something beautiful.

Creation is generous.

God is generous.

And summer reminds us of this every year.

The earth does not merely provide enough.

It often provides abundance.

Colour.

Flavour.

Beauty.

Joy.

And perhaps one of the invitations of Ordinary Time is simply to notice these gifts more intentionally.

To stop rushing long enough to savour them.

To bite into a fresh strawberry and remember that creation remains one of God’s ongoing love letters to humanity.

Now, I realize that a theological reflection built partly around sweet corn and strawberries may not be found in every seminary textbook.

But I remain convinced that God is quite present in these things.

In gardens.

In markets.

In meals shared with gratitude.

And in all those ordinary summer moments when we remember that life itself is gift.

So perhaps this Monday, find your way to a market stand, a roadside table, or a backyard garden.

Take in the colours.

Enjoy the abundance.

Give thanks.

And remember that the God who causes seeds to grow is still quietly at work in the world—and in us.

Alleluia.

Companion Prayer

Generous God,

Thank you for the abundance of summer.

For gardens and fields,
for strawberries and sweet corn,
for the beauty and nourishment of your creation.

Teach us to notice your gifts with gratitude,
to receive them with joy,
and to grow patiently in faith as all living things grow.

And in these green and fruitful days of Ordinary Time,
help us remember that all good things come from you.

Amen.