The Theology of the Shared Zucchini

Some blessings arrive in perfectly manageable portions. Others arrive as a zucchini large enough to test both theology and cookware. Alleluia.

There comes a point every summer when zucchini ceases to be merely a vegetable and becomes instead a test of Christian character.

Now, those who do not garden may not fully appreciate the seriousness of this situation.

At planting time, zucchini appears entirely innocent.

One purchases a small seedling with optimism and modest expectations.

“How lovely,” one thinks.
“A few fresh vegetables through the summer.”

And then, sometime in July, the thing awakens.

Suddenly there are zucchinis everywhere.

Large ones.
Small ones.
Zucchinis appearing overnight with the unsettling speed of biblical multiplication miracles.

One begins giving them away with increasing urgency.

Neighbours are approached carefully.

“Would you happen to like zucchini?”

This question is rarely answered with the enthusiasm one hopes for.

Because experienced gardeners already know what is happening.

They themselves are currently attempting to distribute seventeen zucchinis to unsuspecting friends and relatives.

Now, I realize this may sound like an unusual doorway into theology.

But stay with me.

Because somewhere beneath all this vegetable-related confusion lies something deeply beautiful about ordinary life, neighbourliness, and gratitude.

Gardens, after all, teach us that abundance is meant to be shared.

No one grows zucchini solely for personal achievement.

At a certain point, generosity becomes unavoidable.

And I learned this very clearly when I lived in Camden East.

We had a neighbour there named Audrey who maintained a particularly magnificent vegetable garden.

Now, when I say “garden,” I do not mean a few polite tomato plants arranged with modest suburban optimism.

I mean a serious garden.

The sort of garden that suggested the woman could likely have fed several nearby townships if circumstances required it.

She planted everything imaginable and was wonderfully generous with the abundance it produced.

This worked out very well for me because my own gardens were entirely devoted to flowers.

Beauty, yes.

Food security, less so.

And so throughout the summer, Audrey regularly shared the bounty of her garden with those of us in the neighbourhood.

And I was always grateful.

Well… almost always.

Because one afternoon she arrived carrying what remains, to this day, the largest zucchini I have ever encountered.

It was less a vegetable and more a theological challenge.

Honestly, I believe it could probably have fed the entirety of Camden East with leftovers remaining for neighbouring villages.

Now, not being someone who likes to waste food, I immediately set about researching ways to use a vegetable that, truthfully, I did not regularly cook or eat.

As a celiac, the obvious solution appeared to be zucchini pizza crust.

So I set to work.

Before long there was an impressive pizza baking in the oven, and I stood back feeling rather pleased with both my culinary resourcefulness and my commitment to neighbourly gratitude.

Then I looked over at the counter.

The vast majority of the zucchini was still there.

Apparently one does not significantly diminish a vegetable of that magnitude through pizza alone.

Well then came gluten-free zucchini bread.

And several other increasingly creative recipes developed under mounting pressure.

But in the end—and I say this with honesty—a rather substantial portion of Audrey’s zucchini eventually found its way into the composter.

Which, truthfully, felt entirely appropriate.

Because even there, the gift continued.

The leftover abundance would return to nourish the flowers in years to come.

And perhaps that is part of the quiet wisdom creation keeps teaching us.

Nothing is meant to be hoarded.

Blessings circulate.
Life feeds life.
Generosity keeps moving outward in ways we often do not even notice.

And perhaps that is true of much of life.

Love multiplies when shared.
Kindness grows through giving.
Communities flourish when people stop treating blessings as private possessions and begin seeing them as gifts meant to circulate outward.

Now, I have long suspected that some of the strongest neighbourhood relationships in Canadian history have been built quietly over backyard fences during conversations involving tomatoes, rhubarb, and slightly excessive quantities of zucchini.

Because gardens naturally lead people toward thankfulness.

You cannot spend time watching things grow without becoming aware that much of life remains gift.

Rain arrives.
Sunlight appears.
Tiny seeds become astonishingly alive.

And slowly, if we are paying attention, gratitude begins reshaping the way we see the world.

Not entitlement.

Thankfulness.

Now, this does not mean gardens are always peaceful spiritual experiences.

There are weeds.
And rabbits.
And mysterious plant conditions that prompt otherwise reasonable adults to stand staring thoughtfully at leaves while offering entirely speculative diagnoses.

Grace abounds.

But even there, creation teaches patience.

And humility.

And perhaps most importantly, it reminds us that growth itself is usually slow and shared.

No garden thrives alone.

Neighbours exchange advice.
Tools are borrowed.
Extra vegetables migrate mysteriously across property lines.

People care for one another in wonderfully ordinary ways.

And perhaps that is one of the quiet invitations of Ordinary Time.

To stop rushing long enough to notice abundance.

To receive life gratefully.
To share generously.
To approach even ordinary days with the awareness that grace is already growing quietly around us.

Possibly in the form of zucchini.

So perhaps this week, if someone appears at your door carrying vegetables with slightly desperate enthusiasm…

Receive them kindly.

You may be participating in something deeply theological.

Because the Kingdom of God often grows in ordinary places.

Gardens.
Neighbourhoods.
Backyards filled with gratitude and generosity and the occasional oversized squash.

Alleluia.

Follow along on Instagram @renewablespiritual

Companion Prayer

Generous God,
You fill creation with abundance
and teach us to live thankfully.

Open our eyes to the gifts around us,
our hearts to the needs of our neighbours,
and our hands to joyful generosity.

Help us to share freely,
to live gratefully,
and to delight in the beauty of ordinary life.

And in all the small acts of kindness
that nourish community,
may your love continue to grow.

Amen.

The Spirituality of the Morning Coffee

Many people know that I am an early morning person.

Though I have now lived more years away from the farm than I ever lived on it, those rhythms of rising early remain deeply ingrained within me.

There is something about the quiet of early morning that still feels entirely natural.

Now, with that said, I should probably clarify something.

Being an early riser does not necessarily mean being immediately productive.

I may be awake before six o’clock…

…but I have also developed a deeply established pattern of dawdling over coffee.

I take my time with it.

Very seriously.

There is something profoundly beautiful about those early moments before the demands of the day begin arriving in earnest.

Before emails.
Before schedules.
Before the increasingly ambitious expectations of the to-do list begin introducing themselves.

The house is quiet.
The world itself still seems to be waking slowly.

And there, with coffee in hand, one is given a few precious moments simply to exist.

I love the morning.

But truthfully, I love it largely because of that quiet time where the coffee itself becomes the focus.

Now, I realize that from the outside this may appear remarkably unproductive.

And perhaps that is part of its holiness.

Because there are few moments in human experience more filled with hope than the first cup of coffee in the morning.

There are few moments in human experience more filled with hope than the first cup of coffee in the morning.

Now, I realize that theologians may debate this point.

But I remain convinced that somewhere in the history of Christian spirituality there should have been at least one monastic order devoted entirely to the contemplative appreciation of properly brewed coffee.

There is something deeply restorative about it.

The quiet of the kitchen.
The familiar sound of the kettle or coffee maker beginning its sacred morning labour.
The first warm cup held carefully in both hands while the rest of the house—and indeed much of one’s own personality—slowly comes awake.

Now, I should probably confess that before coffee, my spiritual gifts are somewhat limited.

I remain technically Christian, certainly.

But conversational clarity and advanced theological reflection may require approximately fifteen additional minutes.

Grace abounds.

And perhaps that is why I have increasingly come to value the quiet rhythm of morning prayer attached to that first cup of coffee.

Not because the prayers themselves are always profound.

Sometimes they are little more than:

“Lord, help me today.”

Which, truthfully, may already be enough.

Because prayer, at its heart, is not performance.

It is presence.

The simple decision to begin the day aware that we do not walk through life alone.

Now, Ordinary Time is particularly good for learning this.

The great festivals have passed.
There are no dramatic liturgical fireworks at the moment.

Instead, the Church gently teaches us how to live faithfully within ordinary rhythms.

And perhaps one of the holiest of those rhythms is simply beginning the day with stillness before it becomes noisy.

Not checking the news immediately.
Not rushing headlong into schedules and anxieties.

Just stopping.

Breathing.
Praying.
Listening quietly while sunlight begins to gather at the windows and coffee slowly performs its ministry of restoration.

Now, I realize that not everyone’s mornings unfold peacefully.

Some households begin the day with a level of activity usually associated with airport logistics.

Children.
Lost shoes.
Mysteriously vanished lunches.

There are seasons in life when silence itself becomes largely theoretical.

But even then, prayer does not need to be elaborate.

A brief pause.
A whispered thanksgiving.
A moment of remembering that God is already present before the day properly begins.

These small rhythms matter.

Because over time, prayer slowly reshapes the soul.

Not dramatically.

Gently.

Like water smoothing stone over many years.

We become a little more patient.
A little more attentive.
A little less convinced that we alone are responsible for holding the entire world together before breakfast.

And perhaps this is one of the quiet miracles of daily prayer.

It reminds us that grace arrives early.

Before the emails.
Before the worries.
Before the demands of the day begin assembling themselves with determination.

God is already there.

Waiting quietly beside the morning coffee.

So perhaps this Wednesday, before the world fully claims your attention…

Pause for a moment.

Sit quietly.
Pray simply.
Drink your coffee gratefully.

And remember that ordinary mornings may contain far more holiness than we often realize.

Even if coherent thought is still arriving gradually.

Alleluia.

Follow along on Instagram @renewablespiritual

Companion Prayer

Gracious God,
Meet us in the quiet beginnings of the day.

In the stillness of morning,
draw near to us with your peace.
Teach us to pause,
to pray simply,
and to rest for a moment in your presence.

Shape our hearts through small daily rhythms
of prayer, gratitude, and attentiveness.

And as each new day begins,
remind us that your grace arrives before all else.

Amen.

The Ministry of Holding the Door

Today was one of those days filled almost entirely with rushing.

Appointments.
Errands.
Meetings.

I seemed to spend the whole day racing from one thing to another, and looking back now, I am quite certain the stress of it all was written very plainly across my face.

By late afternoon, there was only one appointment remaining—the one I had been looking forward to all day:

Massage therapy.

Now, there are moments in life when one clings to hope rather desperately.

And at that stage of the day, I was fairly convinced that if I could simply arrive at that appointment, it might somehow erase the accumulated stress of the previous twelve hours and possibly restore me to basic human functionality.

So I parked the car and headed toward the door.

And just as I approached it, a young woman stopped and held the door open for me.

Now, under ordinary circumstances, my upbringing would have immediately compelled me to step back, take hold of the door myself, and insist that she pass through first.

There are deeply embedded reflexes involved in these matters.

But as I approached, I could see something on her face.

She simply wanted to offer a kindness to another human being.

Nothing dramatic.
Nothing performative.

Just kindness.

And so, for once, I swallowed my pride, smiled, and accepted the small gift she was offering.

And somehow, in that tiny moment, what she gave me felt strangely like grace.

Not because it solved the day.

But because it reminded me that human kindness still quietly exists in the world.

That experience got me thinking not only about holding doors…

…but about Christian servanthood more generally.

Because perhaps the life of service is built less upon grand gestures and more upon small acts of attentiveness offered faithfully in ordinary moments.

There are certain forms of Christian servanthood that rarely receive formal recognition.

No one is usually commissioned into them liturgically.

There is no parish banquet celebrating excellence in door-holding.

And yet, I remain convinced that some of the holiest people in the Church are those who instinctively pause, step back, and hold the door open for someone else.

Now, this may not sound especially profound.

But then, much of the Gospel does not sound especially dramatic at first either.

Until you realize what is actually happening.

Because holding the door is not really about doors.

It is about attentiveness.

The willingness to notice another person and quietly make room for them.

And in a world increasingly shaped by hurry and distraction, that small act begins to matter more than we realize.

Now, I should confess that I have always admired people who do this naturally.

They move through life with an almost sacramental awareness of others.

They notice the parent struggling with groceries.
The senior moving slowly toward the entrance.
The exhausted person carrying far too many things and pretending otherwise.

And without hesitation, they hold the door.

Not dramatically.
Not performatively.

Simply kindly.

Now, I wish I could say I always embody this level of gracious attentiveness myself.

But there have certainly been moments when I have walked confidently toward a door only to discover, a few steps later, that the person behind me was considerably closer than I had realized.

There is no recovery from this.

One immediately experiences the uniquely Canadian spiritual crisis of wondering whether one has now appeared irredeemably rude.

At this point the options are limited.

One may pretend not to notice and continue forward carrying the burden of social guilt indefinitely.

Or one may attempt the awkward half-turn combined with a deeply apologetic smile and an overly enthusiastic reopening of the door.

Grace abounds.

But perhaps these little moments matter precisely because they reveal something true about the Christian life.

Servanthood is often less about large heroic gestures…

…and more about cultivating habits of kindness.

Small choices repeated consistently over time.

A door held open.
A chair offered.
A conversation patiently listened to when one is already tired.

This is how Christlike love quietly enters ordinary life.

Jesus Himself seemed endlessly attentive to people.

Not only to crowds.

To individuals.

The overlooked.
The interrupted.
The person standing quietly at the edge of the room hoping not to be a burden.

And over and over again, He made space for them.

Perhaps that is what Christian servanthood really is.

Making space.

Not merely physically.

But emotionally.
Spiritually.

Creating moments where people feel seen, welcomed, and valued.

Now, the beautiful thing about this kind of servanthood is that almost anyone can practice it.

You do not need advanced theological training.

You simply need the willingness to notice another person and respond with gentleness.

Which means the Kingdom of God is probably carried forward every day by people doing remarkably ordinary things.

Holding doors.
Helping with groceries.
Letting someone speak without interruption.

Quiet acts of grace that rarely make headlines…

…but may very well change someone’s day.

So perhaps this Tuesday, the invitation is wonderfully simple.

Slow down a little.

Notice people.

Hold the door.

And remember that love often enters the world very quietly indeed.

Alleluia.

Follow along on Instagram @renewablespiritual

Companion Prayer

Servant Christ,
You always made room for others.

Teach us to notice people with compassion,
to serve with gentleness,
and to practice kindness in ordinary moments.

Give us attentive hearts,
patient spirits,
and generous hands.

And through all the small acts of care
that shape our daily lives,
help us reflect your love to the world.

Amen.

The Quiet Spirituality of Watering the Plants

Most gardens — and most souls — grow through steady care rather than perfection. Alleluia.

There is a particular moment in every summer when one notices that the plants have begun to look… expressive.

Not dead, certainly.

But dramatic.

Leaves droop with theatrical intensity.
Hanging baskets communicate disappointment without saying a word.
And somewhere near the garden, a tomato plant appears to be reconsidering all its life choices.

At this point, one realizes that watering must occur immediately.

Now, watering plants is not generally considered one of the more glamorous dimensions of Christian discipleship.

There are no major conferences devoted to advanced hose techniques.

No one says, “Tell us about your deeply transformative experience with petunias.”

And yet, I suspect there is something quietly holy about the whole thing.

Because watering plants requires attentiveness.

One must notice what is drying out.

What needs care.
What cannot simply be left indefinitely untended while we assume everything will somehow work itself out.

Which, now that I think about it, describes a surprisingly large portion of ordinary Christian living.

Now, I should confess that while I love having a backyard garden, I have never been especially blessed with what one might call a green thumb.

Apart from cacti — which thrive for me largely because they flourish under conditions most accurately described as “benign neglect” — my gardening efforts seldom produce the lush and glorious beauty that originally existed in my imagination at planting time.

In my head, the garden always resembles something from an English country estate.

In reality, it often develops into what might best be described as “hopeful with isolated successes.”

Nonetheless, every spring I head back out into the yard to try again.

There is something deeply hopeful about gardening.

One plants things with optimism entirely disproportionate to past evidence.

One stands in the garden centre holding tiny seedlings and somehow imagines that this year discipline, weather, wildlife, soil conditions, and human competency will all align harmoniously.

This has not always occurred.

Grace abounds.

But over the years I have learned something important from these annual attempts at gardening:

Living things require attention.

Not perfection.

Not brilliance.

Just care.

Steady, patient care over time.

And perhaps that is why gardening remains such a powerful spiritual metaphor.

Because the Christian life is not about producing immediate perfection.

It is about returning faithfully to the work of tending the soul.

Again and again.

Even after disappointing seasons.
Even after mistakes.
Even when the results do not quite resemble the picture we originally carried in our minds.

Because much of faith is not dramatic.

It is the steady work of tending.

Tending relationships.
Tending prayer.
Tending our own souls before they become spiritually dehydrated and mildly irritable.

Now, I should confess that I am not naturally gifted in the horticultural arts.

There are people who move through gardens with an almost mystical intuition.

They know names of plants.
They understand soil conditions.
They discuss perennials with the seriousness of medieval theologians debating the nature of grace.

I admire these people tremendously.

I myself operate largely on encouragement and hope.

And occasionally Google.

But even I have learned that healthy things require regular care.

You cannot water thoroughly once in May and assume the garden will simply persevere heroically until Thanksgiving.

Life does not work that way.

Neither do people.

Which may be why Ordinary Time matters so much spiritually.

This long green season teaches us that growth is usually quiet.

Slow.
Repeated.
Built through small acts of faithfulness that do not appear especially dramatic in the moment.

Prayer.
Rest.
Kindness.
Showing up again and again for the people and responsibilities entrusted to us.

It is watering the soul consistently rather than waiting for collapse and then attempting emergency intervention.

Now, modern life encourages precisely the opposite approach.

We hurry.
We postpone rest.
We neglect stillness until exhaustion finally forces negotiations.

And then we wonder why everything feels dry.

But Jesus consistently invited people into a different rhythm.

Abide.
Remain.
Stay connected to the source of life.

Not frantically.

Faithfully.

And perhaps that is why watering plants can feel strangely peaceful on a summer evening.

The hose moves gently across the garden.
The air cools slightly.
Birds settle into the trees.

And for a few quiet moments, we participate in the simple work of nurturing life.

No applause.
No urgency.

Just care.

Which may be one of the most deeply Christian things we ever do.

So perhaps this Monday, as you move through the ordinary responsibilities of life, take a moment to ask:

What in my life needs watering?

What relationships need attention?
What part of my soul has been running dry?
Where is God quietly inviting me back into rhythms that give life rather than merely consume it?

Because grace rarely arrives only in dramatic moments.

More often, it comes quietly.

Like water soaking slowly into thirsty ground.

Alleluia.

Follow along on Instagram @renewablespiritual

Companion Prayer

Life-giving God,
You refresh weary souls
and nourish all creation.

Teach us to tend carefully
the lives you have entrusted to us.

Give us wisdom to notice what is drying out,
patience to care faithfully,
and grace to remain rooted in you.

Water our hearts with your peace,
renew our spirits,
and help us grow steadily in love.

Amen.

The Beautiful Familiarity of the Church Basement

The Church becomes home when love and belonging are woven through a lifetime of faith. Alleluia.

There are certain places in life that become holy not because they are impressive…

…but because they are familiar.

The Church basement is one of those places.

Now, I realize this may not immediately sound inspiring.

Church basements are rarely featured in architectural magazines.
They tend to smell faintly of coffee, hymn books, and thirty years of parish suppers.

The chairs are almost always stackable.
The lighting is optimistic rather than flattering.
And somewhere nearby there is invariably a cupboard containing mysterious cords no one feels brave enough to untangle.

And yet…

For many of us, these rooms feel strangely like home.

Not because they are elegant.

But because life has happened there.

Conversations.
Laughter.
Funerals.
Bible studies.
Children running joyfully in circles while exhausted adults pretend this level of energy is entirely manageable.

And after enough years, one realizes something important:

Home is not primarily about appearance.

It is about belonging.

And I certainly know that feeling of being at home in a worshipping community.

From very early in life, family and faith were so closely connected for me that going to church simply seemed to be an extension of home itself.

Sunday mornings, parish life, familiar prayers, familiar people—it all became woven into the fabric of what “belonging” meant.

But nowhere have I seen that connection more beautifully than in the life of Margaret.

Margaret was a parishioner at the Cathedral where I served as Dean.

She once told me about her very first Sunday there.

She had been four years old, carried across the muddy dirt road that was then King Street in Kingston so she could attend church with her family.

Now, when I met her, Margaret was already 105 years old.

And she was still attending the Cathedral faithfully every single week.

Think about that for a moment.

Entire nations had changed.
Wars had come and gone.
Automobiles, televisions, computers, and cell phones had all appeared during the course of her lifetime.

And through it all, week after week, she came home to her Cathedral.

Margaret eventually lived to be 110 years old.

Toward the end of her life, she was living in a nursing home, though her family still lovingly made certain she could attend worship at the Cathedral whenever possible.

I also celebrated regular Eucharists at the nursing home where she lived.

And one particular day remains one of my favourite memories in all of ministry.

Margaret was being wheeled toward the chapel by a very kind attendant.

The difficulty was that they were taking her to the Roman Catholic chapel.

Now, Margaret’s eyesight was very poor by this point, but her Anglican instincts remained absolutely razor sharp.

She was becoming increasingly upset with the poor attendant.

“I’m Anglican!” she kept insisting.

Seeing the situation unfold, I went over to reassure her.

I leaned in close so she could recognize me and said gently:

“It’s alright, Margaret. It’s me — the Dean.”

She looked directly at me and replied:

“I don’t care who the heck you are… I’m still gonna kiss you.”

And she did.

Now honestly, if that is not feeling at home in the family of faith, I do not know what is.

Because that is what the Church becomes at its best.

Not merely an institution.

Not merely a building.

But a place where relationships endure across generations.
A place where people belong deeply enough that love becomes instinctive.

And perhaps that is why Sunday worship matters so much.

We are not simply attending services.

We are coming home.

Now, summer Sundays in Ordinary Time have a particular way of reminding us of this.

The pace softens slightly.
People linger longer after worship.
Coffee conversations stretch comfortably into the afternoon because no one feels entirely rushed back indoors while the weather is beautiful.

And in those moments, church begins to feel less like an institution…

…and more like family.

Not perfect family, certainly.

The Church has always contained eccentric uncles, enthusiastic committee organizers, and at least one person deeply concerned about the thermostat in every season of the year.

Grace abounds.

But beneath all the ordinary peculiarities lies something deeply beautiful:

People who have chosen to belong to one another in Christ.

Now, I think this matters more than we sometimes realize.

Because the modern world is full of spaces where people gather…

…but very few places where people are truly known.

We live increasingly connected lives and yet often profoundly disconnected hearts.

And then Sunday arrives.

We enter familiar doors.
Hear familiar voices.
Sit in pews where generations before us have prayed and sung and quietly worried about whether they remembered to turn off the stove before leaving home.

And somehow, through all of this ordinary familiarity, God meets us.

Not only in the grandeur of liturgy.

Though certainly there.

But also in the deeply comforting rhythm of home.

The familiar creak of the floorboards.
The warmth of shared prayer.
The person who always saves you a seat at coffee hour without ever formally discussing it.

Now, I suspect this is part of why worship refreshes us so deeply.

Not because Sunday removes us from ordinary life…

…but because it reminds us we do not live that life alone.

We come home again.

To prayer.
To friendship.
To grace.

And perhaps this is one of the quiet miracles of the Church:

Week after week, imperfect people gather together and somehow become a community where weary souls can rest.

Not because everything is polished.

But because love lives there.

So this summer Sunday, as sunlight filters through stained glass and laughter echoes faintly downstairs over coffee and baked goods of uncertain nutritional classification…

Take a moment to give thanks.

For familiar places.
For familiar people.
For the astonishing gift of belonging.

And for the God who keeps welcoming us home again and again.

Even if the church basement still contains cords from 1987 that no one fully understands.

Alleluia.

Follow along on Instagram @renewablespiritual

Companion Prayer

Welcoming God,
You gather us into your household
and call us your people.

Thank you for the gift of community,
for familiar faces,
shared prayers,
and places where we feel at home.

Refresh us through worship,
renew us through friendship,
and help us to welcome others
with the same grace we have received.

And in all our gathering together,
may your love dwell richly among us.

Amen.

The Spiritual Wisdom of Sitting on the Dock

Sit quietly long enough, and creation itself begins to preach. Alleluia.

There are few places more conducive to theological reflection than a dock in June.

Now, I realize that seminaries rarely emphasize this.

There are entire libraries devoted to systematic theology, but remarkably little scholarly attention has been given to the spiritual significance of sitting quietly near water with absolutely no urgent plans whatsoever.

This is an oversight.

Because docks possess a kind of holy wisdom.

First of all, they slow people down.

No one rushes dramatically onto a dock.

One arrives differently there.

More slowly.
More thoughtfully.

And eventually one sits.

Preferably with a coffee.
Or a fishing rod.
Or simply the vague but entirely satisfying intention of “watching the lake for a while.”

Now, from a purely practical perspective, this accomplishes very little.

And perhaps that is precisely why it matters so much.

Because summer days in Ordinary Time invite us into a different rhythm.

Not productivity.
Presence.

The water moves gently against the shoreline.
The breeze stirs the trees.
Somewhere in the distance a loon calls with that haunting sound that immediately convinces Canadians they are participating in something deeply spiritual, even if they were previously discussing hotdog buns five minutes earlier.

Creation has a remarkable ability to gather scattered souls back together.

Now, I have long suspected that one of the great tragedies of modern life is that we have forgotten how to simply behold things.

We photograph sunsets instead of watching them.
We narrate experiences instead of inhabiting them.

Even rest now comes with subtle pressure to optimize the experience somehow.

But creation stubbornly resists efficiency.

The lake does not hurry.
The trees are in no rush whatsoever.
The clouds drift overhead without once consulting a schedule.

And slowly—if we remain there long enough—we begin to remember something important.

We are creatures.

Not machines.

We belong to the created world, not merely to calendars and obligations.

This, I think, is why Jesus spent so much time outdoors.

Mountains.
Boats.
Fields.

He taught people to notice things.

Birds.
Seeds.
Lilies.

He seemed entirely confident that creation itself could teach the human heart how to trust God again.

And perhaps it still can.

My sister’s family owns what I consider to be a little piece of paradise.

Years ago, they purchased a woodland property outside the city of Cambridge with a twelve-acre lake at its centre. They built their home there, tucked into the trees beside the water, and I have always loved visiting that place.

In every season there is something to watch there as life quietly unfolds around the lake and through the woods.

But summer may be my favourite.

Often the greatest joy is simply taking a chair down onto the dock—or sitting quietly on the deck beside the house — and observing.

Not accomplishing.
Not planning.
Simply noticing.

There are egrets moving gracefully through the shallows.
Ducks and geese crossing the lake with quiet determination.
And occasionally, if one is lucky, even a swan gliding across the water with the sort of effortless dignity that only swans seem able to achieve.

The woods themselves are alive.

Foxes and coyotes appear unexpectedly along the tree line.
Raccoons conduct their mysterious evening business with considerable seriousness.
White-tailed deer emerge silently from the forest as though stepping directly out of creation itself.

And overhead — if the timing is right — you may catch sight of the resident bald eagle circling above the lake.

There is never a moment there when, if you sit quietly long enough, you will not see something absolutely astonishing.

Something beautiful.

Something that reminds you that creation is still filled with wonder whether we are paying attention to it or not.

And on that dock — or on that deck — I have encountered God many times.

Not in dramatic visions or great revelations.

But in stillness.

In beauty.
In the quiet awareness that the world is overflowing with life and grace and goodness entirely apart from my own effort.

Creation has a way of preaching gently to the soul.

It reminds us that we are not separate from the goodness of the world God has made.

We are part of it.

And perhaps that is why places like this feel so holy.

Because when we finally become still enough to notice creation…

We also become still enough to notice God.

Now, I realize not everyone has access to a dock in June.

Some people must settle for patios.
Or porches.
Or sitting quietly beside an aggressively overachieving tomato plant.

Grace works there too.

The point is not the location.

The point is attentiveness.

The willingness to pause long enough for creation to remind us that the world is still full of beauty that does not depend upon our effort.

And perhaps that is one of the hidden gifts of Ordinary Time.

It teaches us that holiness is often found not in dramatic moments…

…but in quiet awareness.

The sunlight on the water.
The warmth of the air.
The astonishing peace that arrives when we stop trying to accomplish something every moment of the day.

So perhaps this Saturday, God’s invitation is wonderfully simple.

Sit for a while.

Watch the water.
Listen to the birds.
Let creation speak.

And remember that before you were ever productive, successful, efficient, or busy…

You were loved.

The lake already knows this.

The trees have apparently known it all along.

And if you stay long enough on the dock, breathing in the beauty of an ordinary summer day…

You may begin to remember it too.

Alleluia.

Follow along on Instagram @renewablespiritual

Companion Prayer

Creator God,
You speak through water, wind, trees, and sky.

Slow our hurried hearts
until we can hear your voice again
in the beauty of creation.

Teach us to rest,
to notice,
and to delight in the world you have made.

And in the quiet moments of summer,
draw us back to the simple truth
that we are deeply loved by you.

Amen.

The Gospel According to the Unfinished To-Do List

“Thank God it’s Friday.”
And thanks be to God for grace in unfinished things.

There is a particular moment that arrives late every Friday afternoon.

It usually begins with optimism.

One looks at the to-do list and thinks:

“Well now. I believe I may actually finish everything this week.”

Now, this is a deeply admirable thought.

It is also, in most cases, entirely fictional.

Because the moment this optimism appears, three emails arrive simultaneously, the phone rings, and someone says the words every parish priest both loves and fears:

“While I’ve got you here…”

And suddenly the list begins reproducing faster than it can be completed.

Tasks multiply.
Sticky notes migrate mysteriously across the desk.
And somewhere beneath a pile of papers lies the original plan for the week, quietly wondering how events took such a dramatic turn.

Now, I used to find this deeply frustrating.

And if I am being honest, part of me still does.

Because I am, by nature, a consummate list maker.

I love a good plan.

There are few earthly satisfactions greater for me than reaching the end of a week and looking down at a carefully prepared list covered with lines drawn triumphantly through completed tasks.

It is deeply satisfying.

Almost liturgical.

A properly crossed-off list possesses a kind of sacramental beauty all its own.

Now, I suspect that will always be part of the person God created me to be.

And there is nothing wrong with that.

The world needs planners.
The Church certainly does.

But ministry has slowly taught me that God is also calling me to become more than merely a highly organized person with excellent stationery.

Because parish ministry has a remarkable way of interrupting plans.

You begin the week with a beautifully prepared agenda and entirely reasonable expectations.

And then someone walks into the office carrying grief.

Or fear.
Or loneliness.
Or a need far more important than whatever happened to be written in slot number four on Tuesday afternoon.

And suddenly the list matters a little less.

Not because the work itself is unimportant.

But because people always matter more.

Ministry has also taught me another lesson — and perhaps this one has been harder.

It has taught me to be gentler with myself.

To recognize that sometimes the plan created at the beginning of the week may have been just slightly… ambitious.

There are weeks when the wisest and holiest thing we can do is quietly allow some things to move onto next week’s list.

Without guilt.
Without self-reproach.

Simply acknowledging that we are human beings, not productivity machines disguised as clergy.

Now, this is not always easy for those of us who enjoy efficiency.

We secretly believe that if we just work slightly harder, organize slightly better, and perhaps acquire the correct notebook, we may finally achieve complete mastery over time itself.

This has not yet occurred.

Grace abounds.

But slowly, Ordinary Time teaches us a different wisdom.

Faithfulness is not the same thing as finishing everything.

Sometimes faithfulness looks like stopping to care for a person.

Sometimes it looks like resting.

And sometimes it looks like closing the notebook on Friday afternoon while several uncrossed items still remain on the page…

…and trusting that God’s grace will still be waiting there on Monday morning.

Because Ordinary Time teaches us something very important:

Life is not lived in finished form.

Most of our days are gloriously unfinished.

Laundry remains unfolded.
Gardens continue growing with startling enthusiasm.
Emails wait patiently for replies that may or may not arrive before Pentecost of the following year.

And somehow, grace continues to abound right in the middle of all that incompleteness.

Now, this does not mean responsibility disappears.

One should still attempt to answer emails before they become historical documents.

But it does mean we begin to understand that our worth is not measured by our productivity.

This is difficult for many of us.

Especially those of us who secretly believe that with enough determination, colour-coded organization, and possibly a better filing system, we could finally achieve Complete Competence.

But Friday arrives each week like a gentle pastoral intervention.

It reminds us that we are finite creatures.

There will always be more to do than can fully be done.

And perhaps one of the holiest things we can learn is how to stop anyway.

Now, this is not resignation.

It is trust.

Trust that God remains Lord of the universe even while our desk remains slightly alarming.

Trust that unfinished work is not the same thing as failure.

Trust that rest itself is part of faithful living.

After all, the Sabbath commandment was never given because God thought humanity needed more efficient scheduling techniques.

It was given because human beings forget they are not machines.

We push.
We hurry.
We carry too much.

And then Friday quietly whispers:

“You may stop now.”

What a profoundly gracious invitation.

So perhaps this evening, before immediately launching into the next project or worrying about the unfinished things waiting for Monday…

Pause.

Sit outside for a while.
Watch the light soften toward evening.
Have supper slowly.
Call a friend.
Pray.

And let the unfinished list remain unfinished for one blessed evening.

Because the world does not rest upon our shoulders.

Thanks be to God.

And that, I think, may be one of the best reasons of all to say:

“Thank God it’s Friday.”

Alleluia.

Follow along on Instagram @renewablespiritual

Companion Prayer

God of grace and rest,
You know the work we carry
and the burdens we place upon ourselves.

Teach us to trust you enough to pause,
to rest without guilt,
and to leave unfinished things in your hands.

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

And as this week comes to a close,
grant us peace, joy, and holy rest.

Amen.

The Theology of Borrowing a Ladder

There are certain moments in neighbourhood life that reveal the true state of human civilization.

Borrowing a ladder is one of them.

Now, ladders occupy a curious place in the social order.

Almost everyone owns one.
Almost no one knows exactly where it is at any given moment.

It may be in the garage.
Behind something in the shed.
Possibly loaned to someone else during a previous season of enthusiastic home maintenance and never formally returned.

And yet, despite this uncertainty, there comes a point every summer when one discovers the unavoidable truth:

A ladder is required.

Usually for something that seemed perfectly manageable while standing safely on the ground.

A light bulb.
A branch.
An eavestrough that has quietly become a botanical experiment.

And so begins one of the great rituals of neighbourly life.

You walk next door and ask:

“Any chance I could borrow your ladder?”

Now, this is an act requiring a certain humility.

Because asking to borrow something means acknowledging dependence.

It means admitting that one cannot accomplish everything entirely alone.

Which, when you think about it, is already moving us dangerously close to theology.

Because much of Christian life turns out to be exactly this:

Learning how to live interdependently.

Not as isolated individuals heroically managing existence from behind carefully maintained fences…

…but as neighbours.

People who occasionally need help.

And I have been blessed enough over the years to discover just how holy good neighbours can be.

I live in a truly wonderful neighbourhood.

Now, following my heart attack — and after one particularly determined winter storm — I found myself outside attempting to dig out the driveway.

At least, “attempting” is probably the correct word.

There comes a point in snow shovelling where one is no longer clearing snow so much as entering into a prolonged theological discussion with it.

And I was losing the argument.

Before long, one neighbour appeared with his shovel to help.

Then, quite naturally, his wife and children joined in as well.

Soon the whole thing had taken on the atmosphere of an ecumenical snow-removal initiative.

And then, from farther up the street, I heard the unmistakable sound of the neighbour with the truly enormous snowblower calling back to his wife:

“I’m just goin’ to go help the priest!”

Now, there are moments in life when grace arrives with great dignity and solemnity.

And there are moments when it arrives trailing a snowblower the size of a small agricultural project.

Both, I suspect, are equally holy.

But perhaps the finest neighbour story belongs to summertime.

Because while I do own a perfectly good ladder, that does not exempt me from occasionally needing help elsewhere.

One year, after receiving what can only be described as a heroic quantity of mulch for the large hilly garden beside the house, I confidently set out to spread it myself.

My equipment consisted of:

one shovel,

one five-gallon bucket,

and a deeply unrealistic sense of optimism.

At the pace I was working, I estimated the project would likely be completed sometime near the Feast of All Saints.

Then the same neighbour who had first appeared with the snow shovel quietly arrived again.

This time with a wheelbarrow.

Now, a wheelbarrow may not immediately strike us as an instrument of divine grace.

But after carrying mulch uphill in a bucket for several hours, one begins to develop a much deeper sacramental appreciation for these things.

He helped spread mulch that day.

And then simply left the wheelbarrow for me to use until the whole job was finished.

No fuss.
No great speech.

Just kindness.

And perhaps that is precisely what makes good neighbours such a gift from God.

Because they quietly remind us that life was never meant to be carried alone.

Now, this sounds lovely in theory.

In practice, neighbours can be wonderfully complicated.

They mow lawns at unexpected hours.
They possess differing interpretations of acceptable gardening standards.
And somewhere on every street there is always one person who approaches bird feeding with the strategic intensity of an international wildlife preservation effort.

Grace abounds.

And yet, despite all this, neighbourhoods remain places where extraordinary kindness quietly happens every day.

Someone brings in a parcel.
Someone checks in after an illness.
Someone lends a ladder without requiring proof of competency in ladder-related decision-making.

And perhaps this is precisely where the command to “love your neighbour” becomes real.

Not in dramatic gestures.

But in ordinary attentiveness.

Because loving our neighbour rarely begins with changing the world.

Usually it begins with noticing.

Who needs help?
Who might be lonely?
Who could use a small kindness that says, “You are not alone here”?

Now, I will admit that these moments can feel unimpressive.

There are no awards for lending extension cords.
No cathedral plaques commemorating successful hedge-trimming assistance.

But the Kingdom of God seems remarkably comfortable working through small acts of generosity.

A borrowed ladder.
A shared conversation.
A simple willingness to interrupt our own plans long enough to care for someone else.

And perhaps that is one of the hidden gifts of Ordinary Time.

It teaches us that holiness grows slowly.

Like gardens.
Like friendships.
Like communities where people learn, over time, to care for one another in practical and deeply human ways.

Not perfectly.

But faithfully.

So if this Thursday finds you engaged in some ordinary interaction with the people around you…

Take heart.

The life of faith may be unfolding more fully there than you realize.

Perhaps the Kingdom of God is arriving quietly at the front door.

Possibly carrying a ladder.

Alleluia.

Follow along on Instagram @renewablespiritual

Companion Prayer

God of community,
You place us among neighbours
so that we may learn to love and be loved.

Teach us to notice one another’s needs,
to offer help generously,
and to receive kindness humbly.

Grow within us hearts of compassion,
patience, and grace.

And in all the ordinary exchanges of daily life,
help us to reflect your goodness
through simple acts of love.

Amen.

The Theology of the Half-Finished Prayer List

Names. Stories. Worries. Hopes. Gathered together and quietly carried into the presence of God. Alleluia.

Of all the things that have nourished my spiritual life in parish ministry over the years, few have been as quietly powerful as the parish prayer chain group.

Almost every parish I have served has had one.

Once a month, we gather together.

And there is something deeply holy about those gatherings.

We sit around tables with notebooks and papers and cups of coffee that somehow always threaten the integrity of the documents before us.

We update one another on the concerns we have already been carrying together in prayer.

“How is Mary recovering?”
“Did John’s surgery go well?”
“Has there been any news from the family yet?”

Some concerns are joyful.
Some heartbreaking.

And then new names are added.

People from the parish.
Neighbours.
Friends.
Those who have quietly asked if we might remember them before God.

Slowly, over the course of the evening, we build what has become affectionately known as “the dreaded prayer list” for the coming month.

Now, the phrase itself sounds mildly ominous.

One imagines a document of such spiritual significance that it requires a committee and perhaps several backup photocopies.

But in truth, what we are building together is something very simple:

A record of love.

A gathering of human need carried prayerfully by a community that has chosen not to look away from the burdens of the world.

And then, after all the lists are assembled and updated, we gather around the altar for a very simple Eucharist.

And there, all those names and worries and hopes are quietly brought into the presence of our loving God.

No dramatic fanfare.
No grand speeches.

Just prayer.

Faithful.
Ordinary.
Holy.

And perhaps that is why prayer lists matter so much.

Because there are few documents in the Christian life more revealing than a personal prayer list.

Not because of what is on it.

But because of what happens to it over time.

Now, every prayer list begins with admirable intentions.

One sits down purposefully.
Perhaps with a notebook.
Perhaps with coloured pens, which always suggest a level of spiritual organization that one hopes eventually to attain.

Names are carefully written down.
Concerns are thoughtfully arranged.
There may even be categories.

Family.
Friends.
The Church.
The world.

At this stage, the entire enterprise appears deeply impressive.

And then life intervenes.

The list gets folded into a book somewhere.
A coffee ring appears mysteriously over part of the intercessions.
One page begins to curl in a way suggesting that it has accompanied its owner through several emotionally complex mornings.

And eventually, the prayer list becomes slightly… uneven.

Some names are underlined repeatedly.
Some intentions remain there for years.
And every so often one discovers an item so old that it now raises historical questions.

“Pray for safe travel home from Ottawa.”

One sincerely hopes they arrived.

Now, none of this sounds particularly disciplined.

But I think it may actually reveal something important about the Rule of Life and daily prayer.

Because prayer is not about maintaining a flawless spiritual system.

It is about remaining in relationship with God through the actual texture of ordinary life.

And ordinary life, as it turns out, is rarely neat.

Which means our prayer lives are often less like polished liturgical performances and more like ongoing conversations that continue over time.

Interrupted.
Resumed.
Occasionally accompanied by coffee.

Now, this does not mean structure is unimportant.

A Rule of Life matters precisely because life becomes busy and distracted.

Without some gentle rhythm of prayer, we drift.

Days pass.
Weeks hurry by.

And before long, we begin to feel as though we have been living beside our souls rather than within them.

Which is why even a simple pattern matters.

Morning prayer before the day fully awakens.
Grace before meals.
A psalm read quietly in the evening while the house settles into silence.

Not elaborate.

Just faithful.

Now, I will admit there remains a certain temptation among clergy — and indeed among many earnest Christians — to imagine that a “proper” prayer life should resemble something from a monastic handbook produced in the twelfth century.

There is often an unspoken assumption that truly holy people rise joyfully at 4:30 every morning to chant psalms while illuminated manuscripts glow softly nearby.

Meanwhile, most of us are simply trying to locate our glasses before speaking coherently to anyone.

Grace abounds.

And perhaps that is the point.

God does not wait for perfectly ordered spirituality before drawing near to us.

God meets us in the middle of real life.

In the half-finished prayer list.
In the distracted morning prayer.
In the exhausted evening sigh that barely forms words but still somehow reaches heaven.

Because prayer is not performance.

It is relationship.

And relationships are built not through perfection…

…but through presence.

Returning again and again.

Showing up.
Listening.
Speaking honestly.

Even if the prayer list itself looks as though it has survived several minor liturgical emergencies.

So if your Rule of Life feels slightly imperfect…

Take heart.

You are not failing at prayer.

You are learning to live faithfully with God in the midst of ordinary life.

And that, in the end, may be far holier than we imagine.

Alleluia.

Follow along on Instagram @renewablespiritual

Companion Prayer

Faithful God,
You meet us in the unfinished places of life.

When our prayers feel distracted,
draw us gently back to you.
When our rhythms falter,
give us grace to begin again.

Teach us to seek you faithfully
in ordinary moments,
through simple prayers,
quiet pauses,
and honest hearts.

And in all our days,
help us to remain close to you.

Amen.

The Quiet Holiness of Bringing the Extra Chair

The Kingdom of God often grows very quietly… one extra chair at a time. Alleluia.

There are moments in parish life when one witnesses something so unexpected, so profoundly improbable, that only one explanation remains:

The hand of the Almighty has clearly intervened.

Recently, I experienced such a moment.

It was time for our usual pre-summer Parish Advisory Committee meeting.

Now, while we are blessed with many devoted and dedicated leaders in our parish, these particular meetings — arriving as they do in the winding-down days leading into summer — have not historically been known for spectacular attendance.

People are busy.
Gardens beckon.
The gravitational pull of summer evenings is very real.

And so, in an admirable expression of cautious optimism, those arriving early set up four connected tables and twelve chairs — a number that in most years would have been considered almost extravagantly ambitious.

But then something remarkable happened.

People kept arriving.

One by one.
Then several at once.

Soon every chair was filled.

There followed that uniquely Anglican moment of mild confusion in which everyone quietly realizes there is nowhere left to sit, but no one wishes to create unnecessary drama by mentioning it too loudly.

And then, without fanfare, somebody stood up and went to get another chair.

Then another person arrived.

And someone else quietly got another chair.

At one point, the tables themselves had to be rearranged because we had already closed the gaps between them beyond what could reasonably be described as “comfortable Christian fellowship.”

And once again, without discussion or complaint, a couple of people simply got up and brought another table.

Now, I realize this may not sound like headline-making material.

No tongues of fire appeared over the coffee station.
No heavenly choirs sang above the parish hall.

But sitting there watching all of this unfold, I found myself thinking:

This is the Church.

Not the reports.
Not the motions.

This.

People quietly making room for one another.

And perhaps that is one of the clearest signs of Christian servanthood we will ever witness.

Because the Kingdom of God so often advances not through dramatic gestures…

…but through ordinary acts of hospitality.

One extra chair at a time.

Now, the world tends to celebrate larger forms of leadership.

The visible roles.
The public contributions.
The people standing at the front of the room explaining things with confidence and, ideally, access to a microphone.

But Christian servanthood usually unfolds somewhere else entirely.

In the unnoticed moments.

The extra chair.
The coffee refilled before anyone asks.
The person who stays afterward to straighten the tables while everyone else is still discussing whether the dessert squares contained coconut.

And perhaps the reason these moments matter so much is because they reflect something profoundly true about Jesus.

He notices people.

Not abstractly.

Personally.

The overlooked person at the edge of the crowd.
The one left out.
The one who quietly wonders if there is room for them.

Jesus consistently makes room.

And so the Church, when it is at its best, does the same.

Now, I realize that bringing an extra chair may not feel especially heroic.

There are very few awards presented for excellence in practical hospitality.

And yet, if you have ever arrived somewhere uncertain, hesitant, or carrying the quiet fear that perhaps you do not belong…

You know exactly how holy that extra chair can become.

Because servanthood is not primarily about grand gestures.

It is about attentiveness.

The willingness to notice what others need before they ask.

Now, this takes practice.

Because most of us spend a considerable amount of energy managing our own concerns.

We arrive thinking about schedules, responsibilities, conversations, and the deeply mysterious question of whether we remembered to lock the car.

But servanthood gently turns our attention outward.

Who is standing alone?
Who needs encouragement?
Who might be quietly wondering whether there is space for them here?

And once we begin noticing these things, we discover something remarkable.

Small acts matter.

Deeply.

Not because they solve everything.

But because they communicate something essential about the Kingdom of God:

There is room for you here.

Now, I suspect many of the saints of the Church were not particularly dramatic people.

I suspect quite a few of them simply kept bringing extra chairs.

Showing up early.
Staying a little late.
Making room for others with a kindness so steady it almost disappeared into the ordinary rhythm of community life.

And perhaps that is precisely why it mattered.

Because the Gospel rarely arrives with great fanfare.

More often, it arrives quietly…

Carrying one more chair into the room.

Alleluia.

Follow along on Instagram @renewablespiritual

Companion Prayer

Servant Lord,
You always make room for us.

Teach us to notice the needs of others,
to serve quietly with joy,
and to offer welcome with generosity.

Give us attentive hearts,
gentle spirits,
and willing hands.

And in all the ordinary acts of care
that shape our lives together,
help us to reflect your love.

Amen.