The Spiritual Discipline of Folding Laundry

Sometimes holiness looks remarkably like folding laundry… and learning to live graciously with imperfect towels. Alleluia.

There are certain tasks in life that possess very little glamour.

Folding laundry is one of them.

Now, washing laundry at least gives the appearance of accomplishment. One loads the machine, presses buttons with confidence, and listens to the reassuring sound of progress occurring somewhere behind a closed lid.

But folding laundry?

That is entirely different.

Folding laundry requires perseverance.

It asks difficult spiritual questions like:

“How can there possibly be this many socks?”
And:
“Didn’t I just do this yesterday?”

There is also the mystery of the fitted sheet, which remains one of the great unresolved theological problems of the modern age.

People claim to know how to fold them properly.
Books have been written.
Demonstrations have been attempted.

I remain unconvinced.

Now, I should confess that, fitted sheets aside, I am extremely fussy about how laundry gets folded.

It is probably a good thing that I am usually the one responsible for doing it.

Because in my mind there are proper ways — indeed, almost liturgically appropriate ways — that every item must be folded.

Towels have their order.
Shirts have their system.
And heaven itself, I suspect, runs on some form of organized linen cupboard theology.

On those rare occasions when someone else has kindly taken on the task for me, I smile warmly and offer sincere gratitude.

Which is entirely genuine.

But then — once safely out of sight of the kind and generous soul — I quietly go through the pile and refold the items that do not quite meet the established standard.

Now, I realize this reveals something troubling about my personality.

Grace continues its work.

But I mention it because ordinary life has a remarkable ability to expose the small peculiarities of our hearts.

Laundry becomes less about laundry and more about patience.
Control.
Expectations.
And occasionally the difficult spiritual discipline of accepting that towels folded “incorrectly” still remain perfectly functional towels.

Which, if we are honest, may be one of the quieter lessons God keeps trying to teach many of us.

Now, none of this sounds especially holy.

And yet I suspect Ordinary Time exists precisely to teach us that much of the Christian life unfolds in moments exactly like this.

Not in dramatic acts of heroism.

Not in constant mountaintop revelations.

But in ordinary faithfulness.

The steady, repetitive tasks that quietly shape the rhythm of our lives.

Because most discipleship is not spectacular.

It is practiced in kitchens.
In grocery stores.
In commutes.
In laundry rooms where one discovers, once again, that a red sock has made decisions affecting the entire load.

And here is the important thing:

God is present there too.

Not waiting for us only in moments we label “spiritual,” but accompanying us through the ordinary work of living.

This, I think, is one of the quiet revelations of the Incarnation.

Jesus did not merely appear among humanity for dramatic public moments.

For most of His earthly life, He lived ordinary days.

Meals.
Work.
Conversations.
Simple routines repeated over time.

Which means that ordinary life itself becomes a place where grace can dwell.

Even folding laundry.

Now, I realize this may not immediately fill anyone with mystical enthusiasm.

There are very few people who hold up a freshly folded basket of towels and whisper, “Surely the Kingdom of God is near.”

And yet there is something deeply grounding about these small acts of care.

Laundry, after all, is an act of stewardship.

It is the quiet work of tending life.

Caring for ourselves.
Caring for those we love.
Preparing for another ordinary day of living.

And perhaps that is what Mondays in Ordinary Time are meant to teach us.

Faithfulness is rarely dramatic.

It is woven together through small choices repeated patiently over time.

Showing kindness when tired.
Praying even briefly before the day begins.
Doing necessary things with love instead of resentment.

This is the texture of Christian life.

Not glamorous.

But holy nonetheless.

So if this Monday finds you standing before a basket of unfolded laundry, a sink of dishes, or a list of tasks that seem entirely unremarkable…

Take heart.

The life of faith is not happening somewhere else.

It is happening here.

In these ordinary moments.

In these simple acts of care.

In the quiet decision to love God and neighbour through the work that today has placed before you.

Even if the fitted sheet still refuses to cooperate.

Alleluia.

Follow along on Instagram @renewablespiritual

Companion Prayer

Faithful God,
You meet us in the ordinary rhythms of life.

In the tasks that feel repetitive,
give us patience.
In the small responsibilities of each day,
give us grace.

Help us to see holiness
in simple acts of care and service,
and to live faithfully in the work before us.

And in all things,
remind us that no moment lived in love
is ever wasted.

Amen.

The Sacred Mystery of the Summer Sunday Pew

Every step became a prayer. Every pause became thanksgiving. The journey itself became worship. Alleluia.

There is something different about church in the summer.

One notices it immediately.

The sunlight arrives earlier.
The doors stand open a little longer.
And somewhere in the distance, a bird sings enthusiastically through the opening hymn with a level of confidence usually reserved for cathedral choirs.

Summer Sundays possess their own atmosphere.

And so, for that matter, do summer congregations.

People arrive carrying sunglasses, iced coffees, and occasionally entire weather systems with them after walking across a parking lot in June heat.

Children become slightly more energetic.
Bulletins behave unpredictably in ceiling fans.
And at least one person every week attempts to maintain dignity while quietly peeling themselves off a wooden pew after an extended period of warm-weather devotion.

Now, all of this may sound mildly chaotic.

But in truth, there is something deeply beautiful about it.

Because summer Sundays remind us that worship is not an escape from ordinary life.

It is life gathered before God.

Not polished life.
Not perfectly organized life.

Real life.

The kind that arrives a little sunburned.
Slightly tired from the week.
Perhaps carrying the peaceful exhaustion that comes from gardening, travelling, visiting grandchildren, or simply sitting outside too long the evening before because the air was soft and no one felt inclined to go indoors.

And somehow all of this comes into church with us.

Which is precisely as it should be.

Now, there was a time when I imagined worship primarily as obligation.

A duty.
An important one, certainly — but still something to be fulfilled properly and faithfully.

But the older I become, the more I think Sunday worship may actually be one of God’s greatest gifts to tired humanity.

Not because God needs reminding that we exist.

But because we need reminding that we are more than the endless movement of our days.

Worship interrupts us.

It calls us to stop.

To sing.
To pray.
To sit still for a moment in the presence of God while sunlight filters through stained glass and the familiar rhythms of liturgy settle gently around us like an old and beloved summer sweater that should probably have been retired several seasons ago but remains too comfortable to discard.

And perhaps this is especially important in Ordinary Time.

Because Ordinary Time has a way of quietly wearing people down.

Not dramatically.

Just steadily.

Schedules.
Responsibilities.
The endless stream of ordinary concerns that slowly fill the soul with noise.

Which is why Sunday matters.

Not as performance.

Not as religious productivity.

But as refreshment.

The disciples themselves discovered this repeatedly. Jesus continually drew them away from the crowds and the demands and simply said:

“Come away… and rest awhile.”

Now, I realize that not every Sunday morning feels deeply restful.

There are mornings involving lost car keys, late starts, mysteriously vanished shoes, and urgent discussions in the parking lot about whether the coffee was left on at home.

Grace abounds.

But even then, something holy happens.

We gather.
We breathe.
We remember who we are.

And perhaps that is why worship, at its heart, is larger than we sometimes imagine.

Many of you will remember that last summer my friend David and I walked the Camino Portugués.

Now, every day of that pilgrimage was entirely focused on walking.

One simply got up each morning, laced up the boots, adjusted muscles that had become increasingly opinionated overnight, and started down the road again.

We visited churches and shrines along the way, of course. Beautiful ones. Tiny ones. Ancient ones that seemed to carry centuries of whispered prayers in their walls.

But most days there was not actually time to stop for a formal service of worship.

Except at the very end.

When the pilgrimage was complete and we finally arrived at the great cathedral in Santiago.

And yet, looking back now, I realize that for me the entire journey had already become worship.

Every step along the road.
Every conversation with a stranger who somehow became a friend before the day was done.
Every cool breeze arriving at precisely the right moment on a hot afternoon.
Every beautiful place to stop and rest.
Even every glorious café con leche along the way.

All of it became almost sacramental.

Each moment quietly conveying the presence of Jesus in the midst of the journey.

And I think that is important for us to remember in Ordinary Time.

Worship does not always need to be contained within the walls of a church.

It does not always need to be expressed in the formal words of liturgy.

Sometimes worship looks like gratitude.
Attention.
Wonder.

Sometimes it is found in walking quietly through creation with an open heart.

But — and this matters deeply — we still need moments where we intentionally stop.

Moments where we return with thanksgiving.

Moments where we remember that all which surrounds us is gift.

Which is why Sunday worship remains so important.

Not because God disappears during the week and reappears at 10 o’clock on Sunday morning.

But because we need sacred pauses that help us recognize the grace that has been accompanying us all along.

So perhaps this summer, Sunday worship can become less about obligation…

…and more about refreshment.

A place to rest.
A place to laugh.
A place to sing slightly off-key with confidence and conviction.

A place where weary souls are renewed by grace.

Even if the pew is slightly warmer than anyone would ideally prefer.

Alleluia.

Follow along on Instagram @renewablespiritual

Companion Prayer

Gracious God,
In the rhythm of worship
you give rest to weary hearts.

Refresh us in this holy time.
Quiet the noise within us.
Renew us through prayer, song, Scripture, and silence.

As we gather in the warmth of summer,
remind us that your presence meets us
in every ordinary moment of life.

And send us from worship renewed,
joyful, and ready to live in your peace.

Amen.

The Gospel According to the Lawn Chair

There comes a point every summer when the lawn chair reappears.

Not dramatically.
Not ceremoniously.

It simply emerges from the garage or the shed with the quiet dignity of something that knows its season has arrived.

Now, the lawn chair is not an especially impressive piece of furniture.

It is rarely elegant.
It unfolds with a sound suggesting mild structural uncertainty.
And at least one of them always leans slightly to one side in a manner that invites both caution and prayer.

And yet, for all that, the lawn chair possesses one remarkable spiritual quality:

It encourages lingering.

Which, I think, is something we have almost forgotten how to do.

Because most of life now seems designed around movement.

Schedules.
Notifications.
Tasks waiting impatiently for our attention.

Even rest has become strangely goal-oriented.

We do not simply relax anymore.
We “maximize downtime.”

Which sounds less like Sabbath and more like a corporate seminar.

But summer — and particularly the ordinary Saturdays of summer — quietly resists this.

The air softens.
The evenings stretch longer.
The garden grows whether we supervise it or not.

And somewhere in the midst of it all, a lawn chair invites us to sit down and notice that creation has been carrying on quite beautifully without our constant management.

As I took out the lawn chair this year, memories came flooding back.

Wonderful memories.

Almost immediately I found myself thinking of those old Parish Council barbecues at the Gardiners’ home out on the Speed River.

Now those evenings were not merely “church functions.” No one would have dared call them that. That language would have been entirely too formal for the occasion.

These were gatherings of friends.

The lawn would already be dotted with chairs by the time people arrived — each person unfolding their own particular contribution to Anglican outdoor furniture theology. Some chairs sat low to the ground in a manner that made standing up afterward a fairly significant act of faith. Others leaned slightly to one side with years of faithful service behind them.

And there we sat together.

Not as people discussing budgets or committee reports or the ever-mysterious workings of parish photocopiers.

But simply as friends.

The periwinkle spread across the lawn like a quiet summer blessing while Fr. Kent stood faithfully at the barbecue tending burgers with the seriousness of a man carrying out sacred liturgical duty.

Meanwhile Helen Gardiner and Hazel Gosse and Jean Rees laid out an astonishing assortment of salads on the buffet table — the sort of parish spread that seemed capable of feeding not only the assembled council, but perhaps several neighbouring dioceses as well.

And laughter filled the evening air.  Colin Harrington’s Big infectionus laugh carried through the air all the way to Wellington county.

Real laughter.

The kind that comes when people are entirely at ease with one another.

For a few precious hours, we laid down the mantle of “doing the work of the church.”

And in its place, we received one of the greatest gifts God gives the Church:

Community.

Friendship.

The simple joy of belonging to one another in faith.

Looking back now, I suspect those evenings may have done as much for the life of the parish as many formal meetings ever did.

Because the Church is not only built in sanctuaries or boardrooms.

It is built in backyards.

Around barbecue smoke and lawn chairs and long summer conversations while the evening light slowly fades across the grass.

It is built whenever people stop managing church life long enough to simply share life together.

And perhaps that, too, is holy.

Now, this is deeply theological.

Because one of the first truths Scripture teaches us about creation is that it is good.

Not efficient.
Not productive.

Good.

The trees clap their hands.
The fields rejoice.
The heavens declare the glory of God without once submitting a strategic plan.

Creation simply exists in joyful praise.

And perhaps part of our calling in Ordinary Time is to relearn how to join it.

Not by doing more.

But by paying attention.

The breeze moving through the trees.
The absurd confidence of a robin defending territory vastly larger than itself.
The smell of cut grass that somehow convinces us we have accomplished something important merely by smelling it.

Now, I realize this may not sound particularly profound.

But that is precisely the point.

The Kingdom of God often arrives quietly.

Not only in cathedrals and great moments of revelation…

…but in backyards.

On porches.
In lawn chairs angled toward the evening light.

There is a holiness in simply being present to creation.

To receive the world not as a problem to solve, but as a gift to enjoy.

And I suspect this is one of the reasons Jesus spent so much time outdoors.

Fields.
Mountains.
Lakeshores.

He seemed entirely unconcerned with separating spiritual life from ordinary life.

For Jesus, creation itself was constantly speaking.

Lilies.
Birds.
Seeds scattered almost recklessly into the earth.

The whole world shimmering with grace.

So perhaps this Saturday, the most faithful thing you could do is not to hurry quite so much.

Perhaps it is enough to sit for a while.

To notice.

To breathe.

To let creation remind you that God’s world is still beautiful, still alive, and still singing quietly all around you.

Even if the lawn chair creaks slightly every time you move.

Especially then.

Alleluia.

Follow along on Instagram @renewablespiritual

Companion Prayer

Creator God,
You fill the world with beauty,
life, and quiet wonder.

Slow us down enough to notice
the goodness around us.
Teach us to rest in your creation,
to delight in simple things,
and to receive each day as a gift.

In the warmth of summer,
the song of birds,
and the stillness of evening,
draw us closer to you.

And let all creation remind us
of your joy and love.

Amen.

The Holiness of Leaving Things Until Monday

Some things can wait until Monday. Rest, too, is holy. Alleluia.

There is a particular feeling that arrives sometime on Friday afternoon.

It begins quietly.

A glance at the clock.
A slight easing of the shoulders.
A growing awareness that perhaps — not immediately, but soon — the week may finally release its grip.

Now, this feeling is not entirely spiritual in nature.

At least not at first.

It is usually accompanied by thoughts such as:

“That email can probably wait.”
“I do not believe the lawn absolutely requires my attention this evening.”
“And surely no one expects major theological breakthroughs after 4:30 on a Friday.”

And in this moment, a phrase rises almost instinctively to the surface of the human soul:

“Thank God it’s Friday.”

Now, we often say this with humour.

But I think there is actually something deeply theological happening here.

Because buried inside that phrase is a quiet recognition of our limits.

We are not machines.
We are not designed for endless productivity.
We are creatures who require rest.

Which is a truth the Church has been trying to remind us of for quite some time.

There was a retired honorary assistant priest I once served with — Father Clayton McFadden — who possessed the unnerving spiritual gift of asking very simple questions that turned out to be impossible to escape.

One day, after observing my rather determined approach to parish ministry, he asked me, quite casually:

“Working forty hours a week, are you able to get all the work of this parish done?”

Now, I answered immediately, and with perhaps just a trace of exhaustion in my voice:

“Not even close.”

He nodded thoughtfully and continued.

“Well then… working sixty or more hours every week like you are now, are you able to get all the work of this parish done?”

At this point I began to suspect there might be a trap somewhere nearby.

And so, with a little less confidence and a growing sense of realization, I admitted:

“Well… no.”

Then Father Clayton delivered the final question.

And like most genuinely wise pastoral observations, it was both deeply compassionate and slightly devastating.

“Isn’t it a lot healthier,” he asked, “and frankly, nicer… to not get it done in forty?”

Now, I would love to tell you that I immediately embraced this wisdom with maturity and serenity.

I did not.

But over time, I began to understand what he meant.

Because ministry — and life itself — is never truly “finished.”

There will always be one more email.
One more phone call.
One more task quietly waiting in the corner with folded arms and considerable patience.

And if we measure our worth by whether everything is completed, we will spend our lives exhausted and slightly disappointed.

But Sabbath changes the question.

Instead of asking, “Did I finish everything?”

We begin asking, “Was I faithful with what was given today?”

That is a very different way of living.

A gentler one.
A healthier one.

And, as Father Clayton wisely observed…

Frankly, a much nicer one.

The biblical rhythm of life is not endless striving.

It is work… and Sabbath.

Effort… and release.

And yet, if we are honest, many of us are not especially good at the second half of that equation.

We know how to keep going.
We know how to push through.
We have, in many cases, elevated busyness into something approaching a spiritual discipline.

But resting?

That feels suspiciously unproductive.

And so we carry things longer than we need to.

Tasks.
Worries.
The lingering sense that perhaps we should just do one more thing before we stop.

Which is why Friday matters.

Not because all the work is finished.

(It never is.)

But because Friday reminds us that we are allowed to stop anyway.

Now, this is not laziness.

It is trust.

Trust that the world will continue turning without our constant supervision.
Trust that God remains at work even when we step back.
Trust that our worth is not measured solely by our output.

This, I think, is one of the quiet gifts of Ordinary Time.

It teaches us how to live faithfully in the ordinary rhythms of life.

Not every moment is dramatic.
Not every day changes the world.

Some days simply invite us to breathe.

To laugh a little.
To let the unfinished things remain unfinished for a time.

And perhaps even to sit outside on a Friday evening with a cup of something pleasant and a deep gratitude that, for this moment at least, nothing urgently requires our immediate attention.

Now, I realize that this vision may not hold for everyone.

There are, after all, parish events.
Unexpected phone calls.
And the mysterious phenomenon whereby small concerns somehow become “urgent” precisely at the beginning of the weekend.

But even then — the invitation remains.

To loosen our grip.

To remember that we are human.

To recognize that the God who created the world also rested from His work and called that rhythm good.

So if today finds you weary…

If the week has felt long…

If there are still unfinished things quietly waiting for Monday…

Take heart.

You do not have to carry them all tonight.

Some things can wait.

And perhaps one of the holiest things you can do this Friday…

Is to let them.

Alleluia.

Follow along on Instagram @renewablespiritual

Companion Prayer

God of rest,
You know the weight we carry
and the weariness we sometimes hide.

Teach us to trust you enough to pause,
to release what we cannot finish,
and to receive the gift of rest with gratitude.

Give peace to our minds,
renewal to our spirits,
and joy in the simple rhythms of life.

And as this week comes to a close,
remind us that your grace continues
even when we stop striving.

Amen.

The Gospel According to the Slightly Overgrown Hedge

Growth isn’t always tidy… but it is where love takes root. Even here, God is at work. Alleluia.

There is a particular moment in early June when one looks at the garden and realizes that something has happened.

Not dramatically.
Not overnight.

But undeniably.

Things have… grown.

The hedge, which only a short time ago seemed entirely manageable, now leans forward with quiet confidence.
The grass has adopted a philosophy of expansion.
And certain plants—whose names we do not know but whose enthusiasm we cannot deny—have taken it upon themselves to explore new territory.

Now, at this point, there are two possible responses.

One may admire the growth.

Or one may reach for the hedge clippers with a sense of purpose that borders on liturgical.

But either way, one thing becomes clear:

Growth changes things.

Which is precisely what the Season after Trinity—this long, green, gloriously ordinary stretch of the Church year—is all about.

Growth.

Not the dramatic, fire-filled moments of Pentecost.

Not the dazzling clarity of Easter morning.

But the steady, persistent, occasionally untidy work of becoming.

And nowhere is this more evident than in the command we hear so often that we are tempted to think we have already mastered it:

“Love your neighbour.”

Now, this sounds quite straightforward.

Until, of course, we remember that neighbours are not theoretical.

They are actual people.

With habits.
With opinions.
With gardening practices that may or may not align with our own.

And in the season of growth, this becomes particularly interesting.

Because growth does not happen in isolation.

It happens in proximity.

Plants grow near one another.
Roots intertwine.
Boundaries blur.

And occasionally, quite without asking permission, something begins to grow where we had not intended it to.

Which is, I suspect, a fairly accurate description of life with neighbours.

We affect one another.

In small ways.
In unexpected ways.

Sometimes in ways that are deeply life-giving…

…and sometimes in ways that require a certain degree of patience and a very well-developed theology of grace.

Now, loving one’s neighbour in such a context is not always easy.

It is, however, where the life of faith becomes real.

Because love, in the Kingdom of God, is not primarily an idea.

It is a practice.

A willingness to engage.
To listen.
To care.

Even when things are not perfectly aligned.

Even when the hedge appears to be advancing with a determination that feels mildly personal.

Now, this does not mean that boundaries disappear.

Even the most enthusiastic gardener understands that some shaping is necessary.

But it does mean that our first response is not control.

It is attention.

We notice.
We respond.
We seek what is good — not only for ourselves, but for those around us.

And in that process, something begins to change.

Not all at once.

Not dramatically.

But steadily.

We grow.

Together.

Which may be the most hopeful thing of all.

Because the command to love our neighbour is not given in a vacuum.

It is given in a world where growth is already happening.

Where God is already at work.

Where the Spirit is quietly shaping a community that is, like any good garden, a little wild, a little unpredictable, and full of life.

So if today finds you looking at the spaces around you — the relationships, the interactions, the small, daily encounters that make up your life—and thinking, “This is not entirely tidy…”

Take heart.

You are in the right place.

Because this is where growth happens.

This is where love takes root.

And this is where, by grace, we begin to discover that even the slightly overgrown parts of life are not beyond God’s care.

In fact…

They may be exactly where He is at work.

Alleluia

Follow along on Instagram @renewablespiritual

Companion Prayer

God of growth,
You tend the garden of our lives
with patience and care.

Teach us to love our neighbours
in the midst of change,
to respond with grace,
and to grow together in your love.

Give us wisdom in shaping what needs tending,
and gentleness in all we do.

And in every part of our lives,
help us to trust that you are at work—
bringing life, even where things feel untidy.

Amen.

The Spiritual Discipline of Setting the Alarm (and Actually Getting Up)

The first step of prayer… is often just getting up. Grace meets us even there. Alleluia.

There are many ways one might begin to build a Rule of Life.

One could start with lofty intentions.
Carefully chosen prayers.
A beautifully structured plan that includes Scripture, silence, reflection, and perhaps a cup of tea arranged with liturgical precision.

And all of this is very good.

Until, of course, the alarm goes off.

Now, the alarm clock is not often discussed in spiritual literature, which I think is an oversight.

Because if we are honest, the first and greatest test of any Rule of Life is not theological depth…

…it is whether we actually get out of bed.

The alarm sounds.
There is a moment of awareness.
A brief internal negotiation begins.

“Five more minutes,” we say.

Which, as it turns out, is one of the most theologically optimistic phrases in the English language.

Five minutes becomes ten.
Ten becomes… a reconsideration of the entire morning.

And somewhere along the way, the carefully constructed Rule of Life begins to feel more like a suggestion than a commitment.

Now, this is not a failure.

It is the beginning.

Because Ordinary Time is precisely the season in which we learn that the life of prayer is not built on grand gestures.

It is built on small, repeated decisions.

The decision to begin.
The decision to return.
The decision to try again, even when yesterday’s intentions did not quite translate into today’s reality.

A Rule of Life, after all, is not a rigid system designed to produce flawless spiritual performance.

It is a framework that helps us remain attentive to God in the midst of ordinary life.

And ordinary life, as we know, includes alarm clocks.

And distractions.
And mornings when everything feels just slightly more complicated than it did the night before.

Which is why a good Rule of Life begins not with perfection, but with grace.

Start simply.

A short prayer.
A psalm.
A moment of stillness before the day fully asserts itself.

Not because it is impressive…

…but because it is faithful.

Now, I will admit that there is a certain temptation to make things more elaborate.

To add layers.
To expand the plan.
To create something so comprehensive that it would impress even the most disciplined of monks.

But the danger, of course, is that we end up with a Rule of Life that is admirable…

…and entirely unsustainable.

Better, I think, to begin where we are.

To build slowly.
To allow the rhythm of prayer to grow naturally over time.

Because the goal is not to master the system.

The goal is to be present to God.

And that presence is found not only in extended periods of devotion, but in the quiet, consistent practice of showing up.

Even when we are a little tired.
Even when we are not entirely sure what to say.

Even when the alarm clock feels like an obstacle rather than an invitation.

So if you are beginning — or beginning again — to shape a Rule of Life…

Take a breath.

Keep it simple.

Be patient with yourself.

And remember:

The life of prayer is not measured by how perfectly it is executed…

…but by how faithfully it is lived.

One morning at a time.

Even the ones that begin with a slightly delayed response to the alarm.

Alleluia.

Follow along on Instagram @renewablespiritual

Companion Prayer

Faithful God,
You meet us in the quiet beginnings of each day.

Give us the grace to return to you,
the patience to build a rhythm of prayer,
and the courage to begin again.

In the small moments of stillness,
draw us into your presence.

And as we shape our lives around you,
make us faithful in what is simple,
that we may grow in what is lasting.

Amen.

The Spiritual Gift of Taking Out the Trash

Not glamorous. Not noticed. Still sacred. Love often looks like taking out the trash. Alleluia.

There are many ways to serve in the life of the Church.

Some are visible.
Some are celebrated.
Some involve vestments, microphones, or at the very least a certain degree of public acknowledgment.

And then there is… taking out the trash.

Now, this is not, in most parish settings, considered a particularly glamorous ministry.

There is no commissioning liturgy.
No formal recognition in the bulletin.
No one has ever said, with great solemnity, “We now invite those gifted in waste management to come forward.”

And yet…

If the trash is not taken out, everyone notices.

Immediately.

Now, I mention this because Ordinary Time has a way of drawing our attention to precisely these kinds of moments.

The small acts.
The unnoticed tasks.
The quiet forms of service that do not attract applause but without which everything else begins to falter rather quickly.

And if we are going to talk about servanthood — and I think we should, especially on a Tuesday when enthusiasm may be slightly lower than it was on Sunday — this is exactly where we begin.

Because Jesus, as it turns out, had a great deal to say about service.

And almost none of it involved prestige.

He speaks of the greatest being the one who serves.
He kneels to wash feet.
He consistently redirects attention away from recognition and toward faithfulness.

Which suggests that the life of servanthood is not primarily about doing impressive things.

It is about doing necessary things.

Faithfully.

Consistently.

And often without anyone noticing.

Now, this is not always the form of service we are naturally drawn to.

We like to be helpful in ways that are, if possible, at least slightly visible.

There is something reassuring about knowing that one’s efforts have been observed and, ideally, appreciated.

But the Kingdom of God seems to operate on a different scale.

A quiet kindness offered without announcement.
A task completed simply because it needed to be done.
A willingness to take responsibility for something that no one else is particularly eager to claim.

This is the texture of servanthood.

Now, I will admit that this does not always feel particularly inspiring.

There is very little poetry in a garbage bag.

And yet — even here — grace is present.

Because when we serve in these small, ordinary ways, we begin to reflect something true about the life of Christ.

Not in grand gestures…

…but in faithful ones.

We become people who notice what needs doing.
Who act without waiting for recognition.
Who understand that love often looks like taking care of the things that allow others to flourish.

And yes—occasionally — that includes taking out the trash.

So if today presents you with a task that seems entirely unremarkable…

If there is something that needs doing and no one is particularly lining up to do it…

If you find yourself quietly thinking, “Well, I suppose I could…”

Take heart.

You may be closer to the heart of servanthood than you realize.

Because in the Kingdom of God, greatness is not measured by visibility.

It is measured by love.

And love, more often than not, looks like showing up…

and doing the thing that needs to be done.

Even if no one writes it in the bulletin.

Alleluia.

Follow along on Instagram @renewablespiritual

Companion Prayer

Servant Lord,
You call us to love
in ways both seen and unseen.

Give us humility to serve quietly,
faithfulness in small tasks,
and joy in caring for others.

Help us to notice what is needed,
to act with generosity,
and to reflect your love in all we do.

And in every act of service,
remind us that we are following you.

Amen.

The Theology of the Slightly Overfilled Grocery Bag

We try to carry it all… and grace meets us anyway. Sometimes faith looks like making a second trip. Alleluia.

There are few moments in life more revealing than the walk from the car to the kitchen with groceries.

It begins, as so many things do, with confidence.

You survey the situation.
You assess the number of bags.
And you make a decision that is, at once, bold and entirely unnecessary:

“One trip.”

Now, this is not a practical decision.

It is a spiritual one.

It is rooted in hope.
In determination.
And in a quiet but persistent belief that, with sufficient effort, one can carry far more than is strictly advisable.

And so you begin.

One bag in each hand.
Two more looped carefully over the wrists.
Something balanced precariously against the hip.

The door is opened — somehow.
The steps are navigated — heroically.
And just as you reach the threshold, something shifts.

A bag begins to tear.
An item slides.
Gravity enters the conversation with considerable enthusiasm.

And in that moment, you are faced with a choice.

Do you attempt to recover everything with dignity?

Or do you simply accept that this was never going to end well and proceed with grace?

Now, this may not immediately strike us as a theological moment.

But I would suggest that it is precisely the sort of ordinary experience that Ordinary Time is made for.

Because now that the great feasts have passed — the fire of Pentecost, the mystery of the Trinity — we return to the steady rhythm of daily life.

And it is here, in the grocery bags and the small decisions and the slightly overambitious plans, that faith takes on its most practical form.

Because much of life is like this.

We carry more than we need to.
We take on more than we should.
We insist on doing it all in one trip — figuratively, if not literally.

And then, somewhere along the way, things begin to slip.

The weight becomes noticeable.
The balance less certain.
The quiet realization dawns that perhaps we were not meant to carry everything at once.

Now, this is not a failure.

It is an invitation.

An invitation to reconsider.

To set something down.
To take a second trip (a deeply humbling but profoundly wise spiritual discipline).
To recognize that life is not meant to be managed through sheer determination alone.

Because the life of faith is not about proving how much we can carry.

It is about learning how to live well with what we have been given.

And, occasionally, how to let go.

Now, I will admit that this is not always our preferred approach.

We like efficiency.
We admire capability.
We have a certain fondness for arriving at the kitchen door with everything intact and a quiet sense of accomplishment.

But grace has a way of appearing in less polished moments.

In the dropped bag.
In the second trip.
In the laughter that comes when we realize that perhaps we took ourselves just a little too seriously.

And in that laughter — gentle, forgiving, human — we find something important.

We are not meant to carry everything alone.

We are not meant to get it all right in one go.

We are, instead, invited to live with a certain lightness.

A willingness to adjust.
A readiness to try again.
A quiet trust that even when things do not go according to plan, nothing is beyond the reach of grace.

So if today finds you carrying just a little too much…

Take a breath.

Set something down.

And if necessary, make a second trip.

Because Ordinary Time is not about extraordinary performance.

It is about faithful living.

In the small things.
In the ordinary moments.
In the grocery bags that occasionally remind us that we are human.

And that, thanks be to God, is more than enough.

Alleluia.

Follow along on Instagram @renewablespiritual

Companion Prayer

Gracious Lord,
You meet us in the ordinary moments of our lives.

When we carry too much,
teach us to pause.
When we struggle to hold it all together,
give us grace.

Help us to live with humility,
to laugh with kindness,
and to trust that you are present
in every part of our day.

And in all we do,
remind us that your grace is enough.

Amen.

In the Name of the Father… and the Son… and the Holy Spirit… (and a Deep Breath)

One God in three Persons — mystery, relationship, and love. And from that life… we grow. Alleluia.

There are certain moments in the Church year when even the most seasoned among us approach the subject matter with a mixture of confidence… and caution.

Trinity Sunday is one of them.

It arrives every year with impeccable timing — just as we are beginning to feel reasonably comfortable with Easter joy and Pentecost fire — and gently says:

“Now then… would you like to explain the nature of God?”

Which is, as it turns out, a slightly ambitious request for a Sunday morning.

The Trinity, we are told, is one God in three Persons.

Not three gods.
Not one Person wearing three different hats.
Not a mathematical problem to be solved with sufficient concentration and a well-sharpened pencil.

One God.
Father, Son, and Holy Spirit.

At which point, someone inevitably reaches for an analogy.

Water, perhaps — ice, liquid, steam.
Or the sun — star, light, warmth.
Or, in moments of particular desperation, something involving eggs.

And while all of these are offered with good intention, they tend to lead us gently but firmly into theological difficulties of their own.

Which is usually the point at which one steps back and says, with great dignity:

“It is, after all, a mystery.”

Now, this is not a way of avoiding the question.

It is a way of acknowledging that God is not something we can fully contain within our understanding.

The Trinity is not a puzzle to be solved.

It is a reality to be lived.

Because at its heart, the doctrine of the Trinity tells us something profoundly important:

That God is relationship.

Father loving the Son.
Son responding in love.
The Spirit moving between them—not as an abstract force, but as the living presence of that love.

And from that eternal relationship, everything else flows.

Creation.
Redemption.
The life of the Church.

Which means that when we speak of a “Spirit-filled community,” we are not inventing something new.

We are reflecting something ancient.

We are drawn into the very life of God.

Now, this may sound rather lofty.

But it becomes quite practical remarkably quickly.

Because if God’s very nature is relational, then the life of the Church cannot be anything less.

It cannot be merely a collection of individuals who happen to occupy the same space at the same time.

It must be a community.

A people shaped by love.
Sustained by grace.
Growing — slowly, sometimes unevenly — but genuinely into something that reflects the life of the One who calls us.

Which brings us, quite naturally, to the season ahead.

The great green season.

Ordinary Time, as it is often called — though there is very little that is truly ordinary about it.

It is the season of growth.

Not dramatic, overnight transformation.

But steady, faithful becoming.

The kind of growth that happens in relationships.

In conversations.
In shared life.
In the quiet, ongoing work of learning how to love one another well.

Now, this is not always the most glamorous part of the Church’s calling.

There are no tongues of fire.
No rushing wind.

There is, however, a great deal of patience required.

And forgiveness.
And the occasional willingness to say, “I may have been mistaken,” which, as we know, is one of the more advanced spiritual disciplines.

But this is the work.

This is what it means to live as a people shaped by the Trinity.

To grow into a community that reflects, however imperfectly, the life of God.

So as we stand at the beginning of this new season…

Take a breath.

Do not worry too much if you cannot fully explain the Trinity.

You are in very good company.

Instead, live it.

In your relationships.
In your conversations.
In the small, faithful acts of love that make up the life of the Church.

Because the God who is beyond our understanding…

Has invited us into His life.

And that life — mysterious, relational, and full of grace — is still growing among us.

Alleluia.

Follow along on Instagram @renewablespiritual

Companion Prayer

Holy Trinity,
Father, Son, and Holy Spirit,
you are one God,
living in perfect love.

Draw us into your life,
that we may grow as a community
shaped by grace and truth.

Teach us to love one another,
to walk in patience,
and to live in faithful relationship.

And as we enter this season of growth,
nurture us by your Spirit,
that we may become what you have called us to be.

Amen.

Changing the World… One Slightly Misplaced Folding Chair at a Time

Not glamorous. Not perfect. Still holy. The Spirit is at work — even among the folding chairs. Alleluia.

There are many ways one might imagine the Church changing the world.

Grand visions.
Bold proclamations.
Sweeping movements of transformation that alter the course of history in a single, decisive moment.

And then there is… Saturday in the parish hall.

Now, Saturday in the parish hall is not, at first glance, particularly world-changing.

There are chairs to be arranged.
Tables to be unfolded.
Someone is looking for the extension cord that was definitely here last week.
And someone else is holding a clipboard with a quiet authority that suggests things are under control, even if no one is entirely sure how.

It is, in many ways, the opposite of dramatic.

And yet…

If Pentecost teaches us anything, it is that the Spirit has a remarkable ability to take the ordinary and fill it with life.

The early Church did not begin with a global platform.

It began in rooms.

In conversations.
In gatherings that were, from the outside, entirely unremarkable.

People came together.
They shared what they had.
They listened.
They prayed.

And somehow — through these small, ordinary acts — the world began to change.

Which suggests that perhaps we have been slightly misreading the assignment.

“Go into all the world” does not necessarily mean beginning with the entire world.

It may begin with the room we are in.

The people we are with.
The slightly misaligned chairs that, despite our best efforts, never seem to sit perfectly straight.

Now, I will admit that there is a certain temptation to dismiss these moments.

To think, “Surely the real work happens somewhere else — somewhere more significant, more visible, more obviously impactful.”

But the Spirit does not seem particularly concerned with our categories of importance.

The Spirit shows up in kitchens.
In parish halls.
In conversations over coffee that begin casually and end somewhere entirely unexpected.

A Spirit-filled community is not one that waits for ideal conditions.

It is one that recognizes that the conditions are already sufficient.

Because the Spirit is already present.

Now, this does not mean that every chair arrangement is a moment of profound theological significance.

(Though I have seen some arrangements that certainly invited deep reflection.)

But it does mean that every act of gathering, every moment of shared life, every small expression of care and attention is part of something larger.

Something alive.

Something that is, quietly and persistently, reshaping the world.

Not through dramatic gestures…

…but through faithful presence.

Which means that when you find yourself this Saturday doing something that feels entirely ordinary —

Setting up.
Cleaning up.
Trying to determine why there are always more chairs at the end of the event than there were at the beginning —

You may, in fact, be participating in the work of the Kingdom.

Not in a way that will make headlines.

But in a way that matters.

Because the Church changes the world not only in its grand moments…

…but in its small ones.

In the spaces where people are welcomed.
Where community is formed.
Where the Spirit quietly does what the Spirit has always done.

Bringing life.

So go ahead.

Move the chairs.
Set the tables.
Show up.

And trust that even here — especially here — the work of Pentecost continues.

The Spirit is moving.

The Church is alive.

And the world is changing.

One slightly misplaced folding chair at a time.

Alleluia.

Follow along on Instagram @renewablespiritual

Companion Prayer

Holy Spirit,
You fill the ordinary moments of our lives
with purpose and grace.

In the tasks that seem small,
help us to see your work.
In the spaces we share,
help us to build community.

Give us joy in serving,
patience in the details,
and faith in your presence among us.

And as we go about our day,
remind us that we are part of something greater—
your living, moving, world-changing love.

Amen.