Blog - The Rev. Donald A. Davidson- Anglican Priest

The Theology of Chasing Fireflies

Sometimes God’s most beautiful sermons arrive quietly… flickering across an ordinary summer evening. Alleluia.

There are few things more capable of transporting an adult human being directly back into childhood than the sudden appearance of fireflies on a summer evening.

Now, I realize that scientifically speaking they are “lightning bugs.”

But I have always preferred the term fireflies because it sounds considerably more magical and significantly less like something requiring pest control.

And magical is precisely what they seem.

One moment the yard is settling quietly into dusk.

Then suddenly:

Tiny lights.

Drifting through the darkness like little floating sparks of wonder.

Now, I should confess that I have never entirely outgrown my affection for them.

There remains something deeply joyful about standing outside on a warm June evening watching tiny lights flicker over the grass while the air smells faintly of cut lawns and summer itself.

And somewhere deep inside, the soul remembers what wonder feels like.

Now, children generally respond to fireflies with tremendous enthusiasm and highly questionable coordination.

They run across the lawn attempting capture operations that involve equal parts excitement, optimism, and absolutely no strategic planning whatsoever.

I remember those evenings well.

Jars with holes punched in the lids.
Bare feet in the grass.
Entirely unrealistic confidence regarding one’s ability to catch things that can fly.

Grace abounds.

But what fascinates me now is how rarely adults stop to notice them at all.

We become busy.

Distracted.

Concerned with practical matters and entirely sensible responsibilities.

And gradually, without meaning to, we lose the habit of standing still long enough to marvel at small beautiful things.

Which is unfortunate.

Because creation remains full of tiny sermons.

And fireflies preach one of the loveliest of them all:

Light matters most when darkness begins to fall.

Now, Ordinary Time may actually be the perfect season for rediscovering this.

The Church’s long green season teaches us to notice grace not only in dramatic mountaintop moments, but in ordinary evenings and quiet beauty.

The little things.

Birdsong.
Summer breezes.
Fireflies drifting through twilight.

And perhaps this matters spiritually because much of life is lived precisely there—in ordinary moments we are tempted to rush past.

Jesus Himself seemed remarkably attentive to small things.

Seeds.
Birds.
Lilies.

Tiny living reminders that God’s presence saturates creation far more thoroughly than we usually notice.

And perhaps fireflies belong somewhere on that list as well.

Because every flicker of light against the darkening sky feels strangely hopeful.

Quietly defiant.

A tiny proclamation that beauty still exists.

Now, I realize this may seem an excessive amount of theology to attach to insects.

But honestly, the Gospel itself repeatedly insists that small things matter enormously.

Small kindnesses.
Small acts of faithfulness.
Small lights shining steadily in difficult times.

The Kingdom of God, after all, often arrives quietly.

Not always through spectacle.

Sometimes through flickering grace scattered gently across an ordinary summer evening.

And perhaps the soul needs such moments now more than ever.

Moments of wonder.
Moments of beauty without agenda or productivity.

Moments when we stop long enough simply to delight in creation again.

So perhaps this Saturday evening, if darkness falls softly and the weather is warm enough…

Step outside.

Watch the yard carefully.
Wait for the first tiny flicker of light.

And remember that God continues filling the world with beauty meant not merely to be analyzed…

…but enjoyed.

Even if somewhere nearby an enthusiastic child is still attempting highly unsuccessful firefly capture operations.

Alleluia.

Companion Prayer

Creator God,
Thank you for the quiet beauty of summer evenings.

Open our eyes to wonder again.
Teach us to notice the small gifts
that fill creation with light and joy.

In moments of darkness,
help us remember that even tiny lights matter.

And through all the beauty of this ordinary world,
draw our hearts toward gratitude, peace, and delight.

Amen.

The Deep Spirituality of Sitting on the Dock

The world invites us to hurry. The dock invites us to sit still. Somewhere between the water, the wind, and the evening sky, the soul remembers how to rest. Alleluia.

There are certain places in life where the soul naturally exhales.

For many Canadians, the dock is one of them.

Now, I realize that not everyone possesses access to a cottage, lakefront property, or even what real estate agents optimistically describe as “water adjacency.”

But there is something almost universally recognizable about the image itself:

A wooden dock stretching quietly out over still water.
A lawn chair positioned with deep intentionality.
The soft rhythmic sound of waves against weathered boards.

And somewhere nearby, inevitably, a loon calling with the sort of haunting beauty that makes one immediately feel both peaceful and slightly more Canadian.

Now, I should confess that I have always loved docks.

Not because anything particularly productive happens there.

Quite the opposite.

Docks exist largely for the sacred purpose of not accomplishing very much at all.

One sits.
One watches the water.
One contemplates whether one should perhaps eventually move slightly farther into the shade.

And honestly, this may be one of the healthiest spiritual practices available to modern humanity.

Because the world trains us relentlessly toward productivity.

Everything must achieve something.
Optimize something.
Improve something.

Even recreation now occasionally arrives with goals, performance metrics, and suspiciously athletic equipment.

But the dock quietly resists all of this.

The dock simply invites presence.

Now, I suspect this is why places near water have always carried spiritual significance.

Throughout Scripture, water repeatedly becomes a place of encounter.

Rivers.
Seas.
Lakeshores.

Again and again, people meet God near water because water slows human beings down enough to notice things.

The movement of light.
The stillness between sounds.
The astonishing beauty of creation carrying on quite peacefully without our supervision.

And perhaps that realization itself is healing.

Now, I should also admit that docks possess their own entirely unique theology of balance and humility.

No one has ever walked confidently onto a dock without at least some awareness that one poorly considered step could result in a deeply memorable and extremely public aquatic event.

This keeps a person grounded spiritually.

Grace abounds.

But perhaps that too is part of the beauty.

Creation reminds us that we are not in control of everything.

And oddly enough, that can become tremendously freeing.

Because once one stops trying to master every moment of life, one becomes far more capable of simply receiving life gratefully.

Now, summer Saturdays in Ordinary Time are particularly suited to this sort of spiritual rediscovery.

The Church’s long green season quietly invites us to notice growth, beauty, and rest again.

Not dramatic mountaintop experiences.

Just ordinary wonder.

The dragonfly hovering over the lake.
The warmth of sun on weathered wood.
The smell of pine trees drifting through the evening air.

And somewhere in all of this, God remains wonderfully present.

Not hidden away from creation.

Alive within it.

Speaking gently through beauty, stillness, and the quiet invitation to stop hurrying for a little while.

Now, I realize many of us struggle with this.

We sit down physically while remaining mentally engaged in seventeen unfinished tasks and at least three entirely hypothetical future problems.

I know this experience well.

But eventually, if we stay on the dock long enough, creation itself begins softening the noise inside us.

The water keeps moving quietly.
The wind continues through the trees.
The sky slowly changes colour toward evening.

And little by little, the soul remembers how to rest again.

So perhaps this Saturday, if the opportunity presents itself, find your way outdoors for a while.

Sit by the water.
Listen carefully.
Let creation preach its gentle sermon.

And remember that God often meets us not only in great cathedrals…

…but also on weathered docks beneath summer skies.

Alleluia.

Companion Prayer

Creator God,
Thank you for the beauty of water, sky, and summer stillness.

Teach us to slow down,
to rest deeply,
and to notice your presence in creation.

Quiet the noise within us.
Restore weary hearts through beauty and peace.

And in these green and growing days of Ordinary Time,
help us encounter you again
in the simple wonder of the world you have made.

Amen.

The Sacred Joy of Not Setting an Alarm

Sometimes the soul simply needs the grace of an unhurried evening, a quiet cup of tea, and the glorious knowledge that no alarm has been set. Alleluia.

There are few sounds more beautiful on a Friday night than realizing you do not need to set an alarm for the next morning.

Now, I understand that this experience may vary depending on one’s stage of life.

Some people have children.
Others have dogs.
Still others possess internal body clocks so deeply ingrained that they continue waking at 5:43 a.m. regardless of all conscious intentions.

Grace abounds.

But even then, there remains something deeply comforting about the simple knowledge that tomorrow morning does not immediately belong to schedules and obligations.

Now, I should confess that I remain very much an early morning person.

Farm life trained that into me long ago, and apparently the soul never entirely forgets such rhythms.

Even now, if left entirely undisturbed, I tend to wake early enough to make the sunrise feel slightly unprepared.

But there is a tremendous spiritual difference between waking up early…

…and waking up because one must.

Saturday mornings possess a completely different atmosphere.

The urgency disappears.

Coffee becomes less functional and more celebratory.

One sits longer.
Reads more slowly.
Looks out the window without immediately calculating how quickly the day must begin moving.

And perhaps this is one of the hidden gifts of Friday evenings.

They gently return us to ourselves.

Because during the week, life can begin to feel remarkably transactional.

Tasks completed.
Appointments kept.
Responsibilities managed.

One moves steadily from obligation to obligation until eventually the soul itself begins quietly longing for rest.

Not laziness.

Rest.

There is a difference.

Now, modern culture has become remarkably suspicious of rest.

We admire busyness.
Celebrate exhaustion.
And occasionally treat overwork as though it were evidence of moral superiority.

But the Gospel consistently points in another direction.

Jesus Himself regularly withdrew from crowds and demands.

He rested.
Prayed.
Shared meals leisurely enough that they repeatedly became theological events.

Honestly, much of the New Testament appears to unfold around tables.

And perhaps that is because God never intended human beings to exist as permanently accelerated creatures.

We were made for rhythm.

Work and rest.
Prayer and laughter.
Responsibility and delight.

Which may be why Friday evenings feel so restorative.

They remind us that life is not merely something to survive efficiently.

It is something to inhabit gratefully.

Now, I should admit there is also a particular Friday-evening optimism that arrives regarding weekend plans.

One imagines all sorts of ambitious possibilities.

Projects.
Errands.
Perhaps even personal organization of previously unimaginable sophistication.

Then Saturday actually arrives.

And suddenly sitting quietly with coffee while contemplating whether one truly needs to move at all becomes spiritually persuasive.

This too may be grace.

Because perhaps the soul occasionally needs permission simply to breathe again.

To stop measuring worth through productivity.

To remember that we are beloved by God even while wearing old golf shirts and accomplishing absolutely nothing of measurable significance for several consecutive hours.

Honestly, there is tremendous freedom in this realization.

So perhaps this Friday evening, before rushing immediately into the next obligation or filling every available moment with activity…

Pause.

Put the kettle on.
Sit outside for a while.
Watch the light soften toward dusk.

And give thanks for the holy gift of rest.

Because sometimes the most faithful thing we can do is simply stop striving long enough to remember that the world continues turning quite beautifully without our constant supervision.

Alleluia.

Follow along on Instagram @renewablespiritual

Companion Prayer

God of Sabbath rest,
Thank you for the gift of slowing down.

Teach us to rest without guilt,
to receive quiet moments with gratitude,
and to trust that your grace sustains the world even when we pause.

Refresh our weary hearts,
restore our spirits,
and help us delight once more in ordinary joys.

And as this week comes to a close,
draw us gently into your peace.

Amen.

The Gospel According to the Borrowed Tomato

*Sometimes the Kingdom of God arrives quietly at the front door carrying tomatoes from the garden. Alleluia.*

There is a particular kind of conversation that occurs regularly in neighbourhoods during the summer.

It usually begins with someone standing at the front door holding vegetables.

Now, this is already one of the great signs that Ordinary Time has fully arrived.

Because in winter, people appear at your door carrying things like snow shovels or casseroles.

But in summer?

It is tomatoes.

Or cucumbers.
Or beans.
Or zucchini of deeply concerning proportions.

And the exchange is always conducted with a kind of humble casualness.

“Oh, we just had extra.”

Now, everyone involved understands this is not entirely true.

No one accidentally grows twenty-seven tomatoes more than required.

What is actually happening is something much deeper and far more beautiful:

People are sharing abundance.

And perhaps that is one of the simplest and most profound expressions of loving our neighbour.

Now, I should confess that I have always loved these little summer exchanges.

There is something wonderfully human about them.

A knock at the door.
A conversation over the garden fence.
The offering of vegetables wrapped in absolutely no ceremony whatsoever.

No invoices.
No negotiations.

Just generosity.

Now, this sort of thing may seem small.

But Christian love has always been built largely out of small things.

Meals shared.
Doors held open.
Gardens tended.
People caring for one another in practical and deeply ordinary ways.

And perhaps the beauty of summer is that creation itself begins reminding us how naturally generosity belongs within life.

Because gardens are never truly private things.

Even when fenced.

The tomatoes grow too quickly.
The lettuce bolts unexpectedly.
The beans arrive all at once with startling enthusiasm.

And eventually abundance begins spilling outward toward neighbours whether we originally planned for this or not.

Creation itself seems wonderfully resistant to selfishness.

Now, I have often suspected that some of the strongest communities are built not through grand programs…

…but through repeated small acts of neighbourliness.

Borrowing tools.
Checking in after storms.
Quietly helping one another through ordinary life.

And over time, something sacred begins to emerge.

Trust.

Friendship.

Belonging.

A few weeks ago, one of my parishioners arrived at church carrying an enormous bundle of freshly cut rhubarb.

Now, this was already an act of extraordinary generosity because she knew two important things about me.

First, that I love rhubarb.

And second, that the rhubarb plants I had proudly planted the previous year had responded to my care with what can only be described as deep personal disappointment.

My gardening efforts had not exactly produced abundance.

In truth, for a man living alone, two healthy stalks of rhubarb already constitute a remarkable level of prosperity.

Particularly since, as a diabetic, I should probably not be enthusiastically consuming large quantities of rhubarb desserts in the first place.

But this parishioner arrived carrying enough rhubarb to sustain an entire small prairie settlement through difficult times.

It was magnificent.

Naturally, I went home and immediately stewed some rhubarb and served it over vanilla ice cream in celebration of this deeply theological moment.

Grace abounds.

But afterward, the whole experience reminded me of something Bishop Morse Robinson once said to me many years ago.

Morse and I had spent considerable time working together to restore catechumenal processes for preparing people for baptism, though our conversations regularly wandered into theology, ministry, parish life, and whatever else happened to arise along the way.

And I remember him once observing that modern society constantly teaches us there is never enough.

Not enough time.
Not enough money.
Not enough security.
Not enough resources.

As a result, he said, many people move through life with their hands tightly clenched, grasping and holding onto whatever they can for fear there may not be enough left tomorrow.

Then he paused and said:

“But when we go through life with our hands clenched, we are no longer able to receive the incredible abundance God wishes to give.”

I have never forgotten that.

Because the world so often teaches us a theology of scarcity.

Protect what is yours.
Hold tightly.
Trust no one.
There will never be enough.

But the Gospel tells a different story.

A story of abundance.

Loaves multiplied.
Tables shared.
Cups overflowing.
Gardens producing more tomatoes and zucchini than any reasonable household could possibly consume alone.

And perhaps that is why neighbourliness matters so deeply.

Because every small act of generosity quietly pushes back against the fear of scarcity.

A borrowed tomato.
A bag of cucumbers.
An overwhelming quantity of rhubarb.

Each one becomes a reminder that life is richer when shared.

And perhaps the Kingdom of God grows precisely there:
where human beings slowly learn to unclench their hands long enough both to give… and to receive.

The realization that we are not actually meant to live isolated lives.

Now, I realize modern culture often encourages the opposite.

Privacy.
Independence.
Self-sufficiency.

But the Gospel consistently points us back toward community.

Toward lives intertwined with kindness, generosity, and shared care.

And perhaps that is why Jesus spoke so often about seeds and vineyards and harvests.

Because creation itself teaches us that life grows best when it is shared.

Now, I should also admit there is a slightly humorous dimension to all this neighbourly generosity.

Because once someone gives you tomatoes, there emerges a subtle but very real internal pressure to eventually reciprocate somehow.

This creates challenges for those of us whose gardens primarily produce flowers and theological reflection.

There are limits to how many hydrangeas one can reasonably exchange for cucumbers.

Grace abounds.

But perhaps that too reveals something important.

Community is not transactional.

It is relational.

People care for one another not because balances must be maintained, but because love naturally overflows.

And in a world often shaped by loneliness and hurry, these ordinary acts of neighbourly kindness become deeply holy things.

A borrowed tomato.
A shared conversation.
A quiet reminder that someone nearby thought of you.

So perhaps this day, the invitation is beautifully simple.

Notice your neighbours.

Share something.
Offer kindness.
Receive generosity gratefully.

And remember that the Kingdom of God often grows very quietly indeed…

Somewhere between the garden gate and the front porch.

Alleluia.

Follow along on Instagram @renewablespiritual

Companion Prayer

Generous God,
Teach us to love our neighbours with open hearts.

Help us to share freely,
to receive gratefully,
and to build communities shaped by kindness and care.

Thank you for gardens, friendships,
and the ordinary moments
through which love quietly grows.

And in all the small acts of generosity
that fill our days,
may your grace continue to flourish.

Amen.

The Long Beautiful Work of Belonging

There are certain decisions in life that seem rather small at the beginning.

Joining a church is often one of them.

Now, at the time, it may feel like a fairly modest act.

One fills out a form.
Learns where the coffee is located.
Attempts to determine whether people sit in the same pews every week out of habit or ancient ecclesiastical law.

And gradually, without quite realizing it, something deeper begins to happen.

One starts to belong.

Now, this is no small thing in the modern world.

We live in a time when many relationships have become remarkably temporary.

People move frequently.
Communities shift.
Entire friendships now exist largely through devices small enough to lose between couch cushions.

And yet, beneath all the movement and noise, the human heart still longs for something steady.

A place where people know your name.
Where your absence is noticed.
Where joys and sorrows are quietly carried together over time.

Which, when the Church is healthy, is precisely what Christian community becomes.

Not perfect community, certainly.

The Church has always been gloriously human.

There are differing opinions.
Committee discussions of astonishing duration.
And somewhere in every congregation there is at least one person who remains deeply concerned about either:

the thermostat,
the bulletin font,
or the theological implications of changing the brand of coffee.

Grace abounds.

But beneath all the ordinary peculiarities lies something profoundly sacred.

People choosing, again and again, to belong to one another in Christ.

Now, I think one of the greatest misunderstandings about church membership is the idea that it is primarily administrative.

As though becoming part of a worshipping community were simply a matter of paperwork and committee approval.

But true belonging unfolds much more slowly than that.

It happens over casseroles and coffee hours.
Hospital visits and funerals.
Shared prayers and quiet conversations after difficult weeks.

It happens when people carry one another through seasons of grief, illness, joy, doubt, celebration, and ordinary life.

And eventually one realizes:

The Church has quietly become home.

I remember one family in a former parish whose story has stayed with me for many years.

Mike and Kathy first wandered into St. Thomas the Apostle one Sunday looking for a church that felt like a good fit for them.

Now, clergy generally learn fairly quickly not to become overly confident after a single Sunday visit.

There are people who visit once, smile warmly, compliment the sermon, enthusiastically accept coffee… and are never seen again.

But in this case, it very quickly became clear that Mike and Kathy had found something more than a temporary spiritual stopping point.

They had found home.

In fact, more than thirty years have now passed since they first walked through those doors, and they remain faithful members of that parish community.

A few months after they began attending, Kathy invited her parents, Earl and Margaret, to come and see the parish as well.

Earl and Margaret started attending fairly regularly, and eventually Margaret — whose previous church background had been in the United Church of Canada — approached me one Sunday and announced:

“I have decided it is time to officially join this church.”

We had a lovely conversation, and afterward I went off to plan a proper Anglican celebration of the occasion.

Now, when the appointed Sunday arrived, I came out to the chancel steps and proudly announced to the congregation that Earl and Margaret were officially joining the parish.

I invited them both forward, presented them with a Bible, and welcomed them formally into the life of the Church while the congregation responded with tremendous enthusiasm and applause.

It was all deeply joyful.

Years later, however, I discovered a rather important detail.

Earl had never actually intended to officially join the church at all.

Margaret had made that decision.

But once I had publicly announced his name in front of the entire congregation, he apparently concluded that resistance was no longer a realistic option and simply came forward beside his wife.

During the years of Nazi occupation across parts of Europe, there were stories of forced conversions taking place under deeply tragic circumstances.

And there I was, quite unintentionally carrying out my own first forced denominational conversion at St. Thomas the Apostle.

Grace, as always, moves in mysterious ways.

But the truly beautiful part of the story came afterward.

Because Earl and Margaret did not merely attend.

They belonged.

They became woven into the life of the parish.

Earl served on Parish Council.
They participated in parish events.
Friendships formed.
Shared history accumulated.

And after Margaret died, the community of the Church carried Earl through the long and difficult season that followed.

He became part of a regular golfing group made up of parishioners.
People checked in on him.
Laughed with him.
Walked beside him.

The parish quietly became part of the structure of his daily life.

And a few years ago, when Earl died in his nineties, that same congregation gathered in great numbers to give thanks for his life.

And I remember standing there realizing that, in what began as a somewhat accidental church membership moment decades earlier, Earl had discovered something much deeper than denominational affiliation.

He had found his place within the family of God.

And perhaps that is how belonging often happens.

Slowly.
Unexpectedly.
Over years of shared prayers, coffee hours, griefs, laughter, committee meetings, casseroles, and ordinary faithfulness.

Until one day we realize that these people are no longer simply “the congregation.”

They are our people.

And we are theirs.

Now, Ordinary Time is particularly suited to reflecting on this.

Because these green summer Sundays remind us that spiritual growth usually happens gradually.

Relationship by relationship.
Prayer by prayer.
Year by year.

No dramatic fireworks required.

Just faithfulness.

Showing up.
Worshipping together.
Learning, imperfectly, how to love one another well.

Now, I should confess that one of the things I have always loved most about parish life is precisely this slow building of community over time.

At first, a parish is simply a gathering of people.

But after enough years together, something extraordinary happens.

The community develops memory.

Stories emerge.
Shared history accumulates.

People remember who taught Sunday School thirty years ago, who always burned the toast at parish breakfasts, and who somehow became permanently responsible for organizing things without ever formally volunteering.

And through all of it, love quietly deepens.

Because Christian community is not built through efficiency.

It is built through presence.

Through years of ordinary faithfulness woven together slowly enough that eventually people stop merely attending church…

…and begin belonging to one another.

And perhaps that is one of the quiet miracles of the Gospel.

That God takes ordinary people — with all our quirks and histories and wonderfully human imperfections — and patiently forms us into family.

A family gathered around Word and Sacrament.

A family learning grace together over time.

So perhaps this Ordinary Time season is a good moment to give thanks for the people beside whom you worship.

The familiar faces.
The shared prayers.
The long beautiful work of belonging.

Because in a restless world, communities shaped by love, faithfulness, and grace remain one of God’s most beautiful gifts.

Alleluia.

Follow along on Instagram @renewablespiritual

Companion Prayer

Faithful God,
Thank you for the gift of Christian community.

For the people who pray beside us,
care for us,
and walk with us through the seasons of life.

Teach us to belong to one another with grace,
patience, and love.

Strengthen your Church through friendship,
shared worship,
and faithful presence over time.

And in all our gathering together,
help us become more fully the family you call us to be.

Amen.

The Theology of Getting Out of the House

*Sometimes the holiest thing we can do is simply step outside long enough to notice that God is still speaking through creation. Alleluia.*

There comes a point every summer when the human soul begins quietly insisting that it was not designed to remain indoors indefinitely.

Now, this realization often arrives gradually.

One notices sunlight pouring through the window.
Birdsong drifts in from outside.
A warm breeze moves through the trees with the sort of gentle confidence that makes spreadsheets and laundry suddenly seem considerably less urgent.

And somewhere deep within, a voice whispers:

“You should probably go outside.”

Now, I realize this may not sound like a profound spiritual revelation.

But I am increasingly convinced that one of the great losses of modern life is how easily we forget that we ourselves are creatures.

We belong not only to schedules and screens and errands.

We belong to creation.

Which means there is something deeply restorative about stepping out into the world God has made and simply allowing ourselves to notice it again.

Now, I should confess that I have always loved the outdoors.

Not necessarily in the heroic wilderness-survival sense.

There are people who possess astonishing camping competence.
They can identify trees, navigate by stars, and produce functioning meals over fires built entirely from damp twigs and confidence.

I admire such people tremendously.

Personally, my own outdoor spirituality has historically involved a slightly greater appreciation for comfortable chairs and reliable coffee.

Grace abounds.

But even so, there is something profoundly holy about leaving behind the noise of ordinary life for a while and entering more deeply into creation.

Because creation itself has a way of reordering the soul.

I remember learning this rather dramatically during the early years of my first parish ministry.

One of the Scouters connected to our parish invited me and one of our parish deacons — Brother Mark — to join him and another friend for a week-long canoe trip.

Now, at the time, I was approaching my thirtieth birthday and considered myself to be in reasonably good condition.

After all, only a few years earlier I had competed in the annual Rivière Canard canoe race.

An eight-kilometre race, admittedly.
But still.

I therefore assured Geoff with complete confidence that I was entirely prepared for a week of canoeing.

This confidence, as events would soon reveal, was not especially well-informed.

There were, it turns out, certain important wilderness realities that never arise during a pleasant afternoon canoe race.

Most notably:
everything one brings must eventually be carried.

Repeatedly.

Over long distances.

Up hills.

In heat.

And since there are no portages on Rivière Canard, this particular spiritual lesson had somehow escaped me entirely.

So when Geoff arrived at the rectory to pick me up, I emerged with several extraordinarily full packs containing what can only be described as every conceivable survival necessity short of the kitchen sink itself.

To his credit, Geoff said nothing.

Though I remain convinced he quietly chuckled inwardly while helping load my mountain of equipment into the truck.

I did notice, however, that the others appeared to have packed remarkably lightly.

At the time I assumed this was simply because they possessed superior camping technology.

In retrospect, they possessed superior judgment.

We drove for several hours and stopped for lunch shortly before reaching our starting point.

Sensing that adventure required proper nourishment, I ordered an enormous cheeseburger with fries.

The others ordered small sandwiches.

Again, I failed to recognize this as meaningful information.

We launched onto the river and paddled for a while before arriving at a massive dam.

At this point Geoff calmly pointed toward a stairway running alongside the dam that appeared to extend upward directly into heaven itself.

There were hundreds of steps.

And every piece of equipment, all the food, and both canoes had to be carried up those stairs through multiple trips.

By the time I reached the top of the first ascent, I found myself reconsidering several major life decisions simultaneously.

Why had I eaten such a large lunch?

Why had I packed so much equipment?

Why had I done absolutely nothing in preparation for this adventure besides possessing enthusiasm?

And perhaps most urgently:

Why had I agreed to accompany these clearly unwell individuals into the wilderness in the first place?

But somehow I survived.

And strangely enough, after that first brutal portage, the remainder of the week unfolded with astonishing peace.

There were more portages, certainly.
But none that ever quite matched the apocalyptic grandeur of that first one.

We paddled quiet waters.
Cooked meals over the fire.
Hung our food in trees to discourage local wildlife from pursuing ministries of theft and redistribution.
And at night I slept with the deep contentment of someone who was completely and utterly exhausted.

Decades later, I still remember that first portage vividly.

I suspect I always will.

But what I remember most clearly is not the exhaustion.

It is the Sunday morning.

Brother Mark and I found a large flat stone near the water, and from somewhere deep within my absurdly overpacked supplies, I brought out the “holy hardware” I had insisted on carrying all week.

And there, surrounded by the quiet beauty of creation, the four of us gathered around that makeshift stone table and celebrated the Eucharist together.

No church building.
No organ.
No bulletin.
No parish hall coffee afterward.

Just prayer.
Creation.
Bread.
Wine.
And the unmistakable presence of God among us.

And interestingly enough, whenever the four of us speak about that trip all these years later, that is always the memory everyone returns to first.

Not the canoeing.

Not the portages.

Not even my spectacular overpacking.

But the Eucharist beside the river.

Which perhaps says something important.

Because sometimes it is only when we finally step outside the noise and hurry of ordinary life that we rediscover how deeply God has been present all along.

The mind slows down.
Breathing deepens.
Perspective quietly returns.

And suddenly one remembers that the world is still astonishingly beautiful apart from whatever anxieties happened to dominate Tuesday afternoon.

Now, Ordinary Time may be the Church’s annual invitation to rediscover exactly this.

After the great celebrations and liturgical intensity of Easter and Pentecost, the Church gently ushers us back into the ordinary rhythms of life.

But “ordinary” does not mean lifeless.

Far from it.

Ordinary Time arrives clothed in green for a reason.

Growth.
Life.
Abundance.

It is the season that teaches us how to encounter God not only in dramatic moments…

…but in the steady beauty of creation itself.

The sunlight on water.
The smell of pine trees warming in the afternoon sun.
The quiet stillness that arrives when one sits beside a lake long enough to stop checking the time every three minutes.

And perhaps that is part of why Jesus Himself spent so much time outdoors.

Mountains.
Fields.
Boats.
Gardens.

Again and again, He drew people back into the living world His Father had made.

He seemed entirely confident that creation could still teach people how to trust, wonder, and pray.

And perhaps it still can.

Now, I realize that many of us struggle to make space for this.

There are responsibilities.
Tasks.
Entire lists of things that appear very persuasive.

But every so often, the holiest decision we can make is simply this:

Go outside.

Take the walk.
Sit by the water.
Listen to the wind in the trees.

Not because productivity has finally been completed.

But because the soul itself needs beauty.

And because somewhere out there — in the woods, beside the lake, beneath the evening sky — God continues quietly inhabiting the creation He has made.

Waiting for us to notice.

Alleluia.

Follow along on Instagram @renewablespiritual

Companion Prayer

Creator God,
Thank you for the beauty of the world around us.

Teach us to slow down,
to step outside the noise of life,
and to encounter you again in creation.

Open our eyes to wonder,
our hearts to gratitude,
and our spirits to the quiet peace
that comes from resting in your presence.

And in these green and growing days of Ordinary Time,
draw us ever closer to you.

Amen.

Finding God Somewhere Around the Seventh Fairway

There are certain activities in life that reveal the full complexity of the human soul.

Golf is one of them.

Now, at first glance, golf appears wonderfully peaceful.

Green grass.
Blue sky.
Birdsong drifting gently through the trees.

One imagines a leisurely stroll through creation punctuated by occasional moments of athletic competence.

And sometimes, very occasionally, this even happens.

But golf also possesses a unique ability to humble a person with startling efficiency.

One can stand on the tee box feeling entirely confident and spiritually centred…

…and seconds later be searching for a golf ball somewhere deep in vegetation not previously known to exist on the course.

Grace abounds.

Now, I should confess that I genuinely love golf.

Not because I am especially good at it.

This has never been the primary attraction.

In fact, golf may be one of the few activities where people willingly pay money to become intermittently frustrated outdoors for four consecutive hours.

And yet we return with astonishing optimism.

Because somewhere beneath the occasional disastrous shot lies something deeply restorative.

Golf forces a person to slow down.

You walk.
You breathe.
You spend several uninterrupted hours moving through creation instead of merely hurrying past it.

And in a world increasingly shaped by screens and schedules and endless notifications, there is something almost holy about that.

Now, one of the greatest spiritual gifts of golf is that it repeatedly places human beings into direct contact with beauty they did not create and cannot control.

The early morning mist rising off the fairway.
The sunlight breaking through trees.
The astonishing stillness of a pond before someone inevitably hits a golf ball into it.

Creation surrounds you constantly.

And if you are paying attention—even imperfectly—it becomes difficult not to feel grateful.

Now, I should also admit that golf teaches humility in ways few spiritual disciplines can rival.

There are moments when one strikes the ball beautifully and begins briefly entertaining visions of future athletic greatness.

Then comes the next hole.

The game restores balance rather quickly.

But perhaps that too contains spiritual wisdom.

Because Ordinary Time is not about perfection.

It is about attentiveness.

Learning to receive ordinary moments with gratitude rather than constantly striving for flawless performance.

And golf—perhaps surprisingly—is rather good at teaching this.

You cannot replay the last shot forever.

At some point, you simply walk forward and play the next one.

Honestly, there may be an entire theology of grace hidden somewhere in that reality alone.

Monday is generally my golfing day.

I usually gather with a group of longtime friends at Grand Valley Golf Club. There are often twelve of us altogether, which means that one is never golfing entirely in private.

There is always a gallery of friends on the tee behind you and another on the green ahead of you, all fully prepared to observe — and generously comment upon — whatever unfolds on the hole you are currently attempting to survive.

It is wonderfully good-natured.
Usually very funny.
And entirely rooted in friendship.

Now, last summer, after more than forty years of golfing, I accomplished something I had never previously managed.

I shot my first hole in one.

For those familiar with the course, it happened on the seventh hole, which is one of the more difficult par threes around.

I stepped onto the tee block and, for reasons known only to divine providence and perhaps temporary atmospheric alignment, struck the ball absolutely perfectly.

It sailed through the air with astonishing confidence.
Straight at the pin.

Now, this alone was already highly suspicious.

The ball landed on the green, rolled toward the hole… and then disappeared over a rise in the slope.

At which point I naturally assumed the shot had continued over the back of the green and disappeared into the rough somewhere behind it.

Because, historically speaking, that is the far more familiar pattern within my golfing ministry.

So when we arrived at the green, I did not even pause there.
I walked directly behind it and began searching through the taller grass looking for my golf ball.

Eventually one of my friends called out:

“Don… look in the hole.”

And there it was.

Now, I can only describe what followed by saying there was considerable rejoicing.

Cheers erupted from the tee behind us.
The group ahead began applauding.
Somewhere, I suspect, angels briefly considered taking up golf themselves.

It was glorious.

And naturally, after such a moment, I stepped confidently onto the next tee carrying all the quiet self-assurance of someone preparing for the Masters Tournament.

Whereupon I immediately topped the ball approximately thirty yards.

Fame, as it turns out, is a fleeting thing.

And honestly, there may be spiritual wisdom there too.

Because life has a remarkable way of keeping human beings grounded.

Moments of brilliance happen.
Moments of embarrassment happen immediately afterward.
And still the game continues.

You pick up your club.
You laugh at yourself.
You walk down the fairway with your friends.
And grace quietly follows along beside you.

Because much of life unfolds exactly this way.

Mistakes are made.
Plans go sideways.
Perfect outcomes remain elusive.

And still, God gently invites us onward.

Take the next step.
Swing again.
Keep walking.

Now, I realize there are people who approach golf with tremendous seriousness.

They track statistics.
Study mechanics.
Purchase equipment possessing the approximate technological sophistication of small spacecraft.

I admire these people.

But personally, I have increasingly come to value golf less as athletic achievement and more as a long walk through beauty interrupted occasionally by minor emotional crises.

And perhaps that is why I love it.

Because somewhere around the seventh fairway, after enough fresh air and enough quiet moments watching the wind move through the trees, the soul itself begins to loosen slightly.

Worries soften.
Perspective returns.
And gratitude quietly rises again.

Not because everything is perfect.

But because creation has a remarkable ability to remind us that grace still surrounds us.

Even if the ball is currently in the sand trap.

Again.

Alleluia.

Follow along on Instagram @renewablespiritual

Companion Prayer

Creator God,
Thank you for the beauty that surrounds us.

Teach us to slow down,
to walk attentively through your creation,
and to receive ordinary moments with gratitude.

When life humbles us,
give us grace to begin again.
When worries overwhelm us,
restore our perspective through beauty and stillness.

And in all the simple joys of life,
draw us closer to you.

Amen.

Learning to Sit Around the Fire Together

*Healing often begins not with speaking first… but with learning to sit, listen, and share stories around the fire together. Alleluia.*

There is something profoundly human about sitting around a fire.

Long before there were parish halls, committee meetings, or coffee hours featuring ambitious quantities of squares and muffins, human beings gathered around firelight.

Stories were shared there.
Wisdom was passed down there.
People learned how to belong to one another there.

And perhaps that is why campfires still feel strangely holy.

Now, I should admit that I have never entirely mastered the practical art of campfire management.

There are people who can light a fire with astonishing competence using little more than two twigs and what appears to be positive thinking.

I am not one of those people.

My own approach generally involves a certain amount of trial and error, mild embarrassment, and eventually seeking assistance from someone who “just happens to have done this before.”

Grace abounds.

But once the fire is finally going, something beautiful begins to happen.

People slow down.

Conversation deepens.
Silence becomes comfortable.
The endless hurry of ordinary life softens slightly around the edges.

And sitting there around the fire, listening and sharing stories together, one remembers something important:

Healing often begins not with speaking first…

…but with listening.

Now, as the Church continues walking the long and necessary road of healing and reconciliation with Indigenous peoples, I think this lesson matters enormously.

Because reconciliation is not something we accomplish quickly through statements alone.

It begins through relationship.

A few weeks ago, our parish was deeply blessed to welcome The Most Rev. Chris Harper, National Indigenous Archbishop, for a Sunday morning forum discussion.

Archbishop Chris shared many powerful insights that morning — so many, in fact, that weeks later I still find myself quietly unpacking things he said.

But one particular story has remained especially with me.

He spoke about visiting a congregation where someone asked a parishioner why he was coming.

When the person explained that Archbishop Chris would be speaking about healing and reconciliation, the response came quite casually:

“Oh. We did that in our church two weeks ago.”

And there was something deeply revealing in that response.

It carried the strange assumption that healing and reconciliation might somehow be completed in a single gathering.
A program attended.
A discussion held.
A box checked.
As though relationships wounded over generations could somehow be restored between coffee hour and lunch.

And as the day went on, I found myself thinking about a conversation I had only recently shared with my niece Alice.

She had gotten herself into rather significant trouble with her mother.

Words had been spoken.
Feelings had been hurt.
And, as so often happens in families, things had reached the point where no one could simply pretend nothing had happened.

Later, when I had some quiet time alone with her, we spoke honestly together.

And I remember saying to her:

“Alice, when relationships are damaged, no matter how much people love one another, rebuilding trust takes time. Healing takes work. It takes listening. It takes patience. Trust has to be rebuilt slowly, from the ground up.”

And afterward I realized how deeply that same truth applies to the work of reconciliation between Indigenous and non-Indigenous communities.

Because reconciliation is not a moment.

It is relationship.

And relationships wounded deeply over long periods of history are not restored quickly simply because we wish them to be.

Healing requires truth.
Humility.
Listening.
Presence.

It requires learning how to remain in conversation even when the work becomes uncomfortable or slow.

Which, perhaps, brings us once again back to the image of sitting around the fire.

Because healing rarely happens through hurried declarations.

More often, it begins slowly:
through stories shared,
silence honoured,
trust patiently rebuilt,
and people willing to remain together long enough for relationships to begin healing again.

Through humility.
Through learning.
Through the willingness to sit together long enough to truly hear one another’s stories.

And stories matter.

They carry pain.
Memory.
Identity.

They teach us where people have been wounded and where hope still remains alive.

Now, for many years, the Church has not always listened well.

That truth must be spoken honestly.

There have been deep harms inflicted upon Indigenous communities, particularly through the history of residential schools and the destructive assumption that one culture could somehow erase another in the name of God.

No amount of discomfort in acknowledging that truth changes the necessity of facing it faithfully.

And yet, alongside repentance, there must also be relationship.

Real relationship.

Not merely programs or statements, but friendships, shared conversations, and the patient work of learning how to walk together differently.

Which brings us back, perhaps unexpectedly, to the campfire.

Because around a fire, people do not usually shout over one another.

They listen.

They tell stories.
They laugh.
They grow quiet.

And somewhere in that shared space, community slowly begins to form.

Now, I have been deeply blessed over the years by Indigenous friends and colleagues whose wisdom, spirituality, humour, and generosity have shaped my own faith in ways I can scarcely measure.

One of the things I have learned most clearly from many Indigenous communities is the sacred importance of attentiveness.

To the land.
To elders.
To story.
To silence.

Modern culture often rushes past these things.

But reconciliation requires us to slow down enough to listen again.

And perhaps that is part of the Gospel work before the Church in this season.

Not simply speaking reconciliation…

…but practicing it.

Around tables.
In conversations.
In worship.
In friendships.

Learning again how to sit together with humility and grace.

Because the Kingdom of God has always been about restoring relationships.

Between humanity and God.
Between neighbours.
Between peoples long divided by fear, injustice, or misunderstanding.

And perhaps the Spirit is still teaching us how to gather around the fire together once more.

Listening.
Learning.
Healing.

One story at a time.

Alleluia.

Follow along on Instagram @renewablespiritual

Companion Prayer

God of truth and healing,
Teach us to listen with humility and compassion.

Give us courage to face painful histories honestly,
wisdom to seek reconciliation faithfully,
and hearts willing to walk together in peace.

Help your Church become a place
where healing, justice, and friendship may grow.

And as we share stories, silence, and sacred space together,
draw us closer to one another
and closer to you.

Amen.

The Gospel According to the Backyard Bird Feeder

*Creation has a remarkable way of slowing us down long enough to notice grace… even when the squirrel is clearly running the operation. Alleluia.*

There are few things more capable of turning otherwise rational adults into deeply invested observers of creation than a backyard bird feeder.

Now, at first glance, this may seem like a relatively modest pastime.

One fills the feeder.
Birds arrive.
Everyone continues peacefully with their lives.

But this is not what actually happens.

What actually happens is that one gradually becomes emotionally involved.

Very involved.

Soon you are standing at the kitchen window offering commentary with the seriousness of a wildlife documentary narrator.

“The cardinals are back.”

“Oh, that greedy blue jay again.”

“Well now… that squirrel has developed techniques.”

And speaking of the squirrel, I should confess that I happen to have the largest squirrel I have ever encountered living almost permanently in my backyard.

My nephew Owen becomes quite upset when I describe the squirrel this way.

He insists — repeatedly — that I should not “fat shame” the squirrel.

Which is probably fair.

Still, in all my years, I have rarely witnessed a squirrel of such astonishing physical presence.

And yet that corpulent little rascal continues to display remarkable agility in launching elaborate operations against the bird feeder in pursuit of the modest offerings intended for the birds.

His ingenuity is, if anything, even more impressive than his weight.

At this point I no longer regard our interactions as conflict so much as an ongoing theological discussion about stewardship, persistence, and organized wildlife crime.

Apparently certain birds prefer black oil sunflower seed.

Others enjoy nyjer.

And somewhere during all this, one suddenly realizes one has become the sort of person who discusses finches with startling intensity.

Grace abounds.

Now, I should confess that I understand this transformation completely.

Because there is something deeply peaceful about sitting quietly and watching creation simply carry on being itself.

The chickadees arrive with cheerful confidence.
Mourning doves wander beneath the feeder conducting what appears to be a highly organized cleanup operation.
Woodpeckers descend like determined contractors evaluating structural integrity.

And overhead, somewhere in the trees, a squirrel plots its next assault with strategic brilliance.

Creation is endlessly fascinating.

And perhaps that is because the natural world quietly invites us into attentiveness.

It slows us down.

You cannot truly watch birds while remaining entirely preoccupied with deadlines and anxieties.

Sooner or later, the rhythm of creation begins gently interrupting the frantic pace of the human mind.

And perhaps that interruption is holy.

Because Ordinary Time teaches us to notice things again.

The movement of light through trees.
The sound of wind before rain arrives.
The astonishing variety of life unfolding quietly around us every single day whether we pause to observe it or not.

Jesus Himself seemed remarkably attentive to creation.

Birds.
Seeds.
Fields.

He trusted that the natural world could teach human beings something about the character of God.

And perhaps it still can.

Now, bird feeders also teach humility.

Particularly when squirrels are involved.

There comes a point in every bird-feeding journey when one enters into direct competition with wildlife.

At first, solutions appear simple.

Then the squirrel adapts.

One purchases “squirrel-proof” equipment.

The squirrel interprets this merely as an interesting new engineering challenge.

Eventually an uneasy truce develops in which everyone acknowledges that the squirrel is probably winning.

And honestly, there may be spiritual wisdom even there.

Creation was never given to us merely for control.

It was given for relationship.

Wonder.
Delight.
Stewardship.

And perhaps one of the greatest losses in modern life is how rarely we stop long enough simply to behold the world around us with gratitude.

Because creation is not background scenery.

It is alive with the generosity of God.

And perhaps one of the greatest losses in modern life is how rarely we stop long enough simply to behold the world around us with gratitude.

Because creation is not background scenery.

It is alive with the generosity of God.

Most of creation accomplishes its work quietly.

Trees grow slowly.
Birds sing without urgency.
Seasons unfold patiently.

And perhaps souls heal the same way.

So perhaps this Saturday, the invitation is wonderfully simple.

Sit outside for a while.

Fill the feeder.
Watch the birds.
Listen to the wind moving through the trees.

And allow yourself the quiet joy of remembering that the world is still filled with beauty, surprise, and life beyond your schedules and worries.

Even if the squirrel continues behaving with criminal levels of confidence.

Alleluia.

Follow along on Instagram @renewablespiritual

Companion Prayer

Creator God,
Open our eyes to the beauty around us.

Teach us to slow down,
to notice creation with wonder,
and to receive the world as your gift.

Thank you for birdsong,
summer breezes,
and the quiet joy of ordinary days.

And in all the living beauty that surrounds us,
draw our hearts closer to you.

Amen.

The Spiritual Importance of Changing Into Comfortable Clothes

Sometimes grace looks remarkably like a comfortable sweater, a quiet evening, and permission to finally rest. Alleluia.

There is a particular moment on Friday evening that feels very close to sacramental grace.

It is the moment one changes out of “day clothes” and into something considerably less ambitious.

Now, I realize this may not sound especially theological.

But stay with me.

Because there is something deeply human — and perhaps deeply holy — about arriving at the end of a long week and finally admitting:

“I do not need to continue wearing hard pants.”

This realization alone has brought comfort to untold numbers of people.

Now, I should clarify that I am not speaking against dignity or proper attire.

The Church has survived many centuries partly because at least some people continued ironing things.

But Friday evening introduces a different spiritual atmosphere altogether.

The week begins to loosen its grip.

Shoes are abandoned near the door with varying degrees of accuracy.
The posture softens.
And somewhere in the house there appears the ancient and honoured garment known universally as “the comfortable golf shirt.”

Not the fashionable shirt.

The comfortable one.

The one that has remained loyal through countless summers and now carries enough history to qualify as a pastoral relationship.

Now, for me, there are actually several such garments in rotation.

Most notably, a collection of golf shirts dating back to when golf itself was still a relatively new and optimistic sport in my life.

These shirts are, by any objective standard, extremely well worn.

In fact, they have reached that stage where one says reassuring things like:

“Well, if I ruin this one while cutting the lawn or barbecuing something particularly messy, it really won’t matter.”

This is technically untrue.

The secret reality is that if something actually happened to one of those shirts, I would be utterly devastated.

I love those old things.

They are impossibly comfortable.

And while they likely already look rather terrible—even without assistance from lawnmowers or barbecue sauce—they have acquired the sort of emotional significance that entirely transcends fashion.

These shirts have walked through years of ordinary life with me.

Summer evenings.
Vacations.
Quiet Saturdays.
Countless barbecues and ordinary moments of rest.

At some point, they stopped being merely clothing and became trusted companions for the weekend.

Now, I realize this may sound slightly ridiculous.

And perhaps it is.

But I suspect most of us possess certain familiar things that quietly carry comfort because they have accompanied us faithfully through life.

A favourite chair.
An old sweater.
A well-used mug.

Objects that remind us, in their own humble way, that rest is not only necessary…

…it is deeply human.

Now, modern culture tends to treat rest as though it must be earned through sufficient productivity.

But the biblical vision of Sabbath is different.

Rest is not a reward for finally becoming efficient enough.

It is part of being human.

God Himself rests in the creation story — not because God is tired, but because creation is meant to include rhythms of delight and restoration.

And perhaps Friday evenings quietly remind us of this truth.

We are allowed to stop striving for a little while.

Now, I admit that this is not always easy for people like me.

There is always one more email.
One more project.
One more thing that could probably be organized slightly better if one applied enough determination and perhaps labelled folders correctly.

But over time, ministry has slowly taught me something important:

Exhaustion is not a spiritual gift.

There is no prize awarded at the Pearly Gates for “Most Completely Worn Out Clergy Person.”

Grace abounds.

And perhaps one of the reasons Friday evenings feel so restorative is because they invite us back into ordinary humanity.

Simple things.

Comfortable clothes.
A quiet meal.
A slower pace.

The deep satisfaction of sitting down without any immediate intention of standing up again unnecessarily.

Now, I realize that for some people Friday nights involve exciting social plans and energetic adventures.

I bless and admire such people tremendously.

Personally, I have increasingly discovered the spiritual beauty of very low expectations.

A peaceful evening.
A good cup of tea.
Possibly sitting outside while the light fades slowly toward dusk and the world itself seems to exhale after the week.

And perhaps this too is part of faithful living.

Not every moment must be productive.
Not every evening must accomplish something measurable.

Sometimes the soul simply needs rest.

Because Ordinary Time teaches us that holiness is not found only in great achievements.

It is also found in receiving ordinary life gratefully.

Even the quiet grace of becoming wonderfully comfortable at the end of a long week.

So perhaps this Friday evening, God’s invitation is beautifully simple:

Change into the comfortable sweater.

Put the week down for a little while.

Rest.

And remember that you are loved not because of what you accomplished this week…

…but simply because you belong to God.

Alleluia.

Follow along on Instagram @renewablespiritual

Companion Prayer

God of rest and renewal,
Thank you for the gift of slowing down.

Teach us to release the burdens of the week,
to rest without guilt,
and to receive ordinary joys with gratitude.

Refresh weary hearts,
quiet anxious minds,
and remind us that your love does not depend upon our productivity.

And in the quiet peace of this evening,
draw us gently into your rest.

Amen.