There comes a moment every Advent — usually somewhere between the third page of the to-do list and the fifteenth parish email about who exactly moved the nativity sheep again — when a well-meaning somebody cheerfully tells you,
“Don’t forget to take time for prayer!”

And you smile politely, because that is what good Anglicans do, even as your inner voice responds, “I’ll take time for prayer just as soon as I’m finished saving humanity from the Annual Pageant Costume Crisis.”

This, friends, is the season when clergy and laity alike can wear ourselves thinner than the last cookie on the parish cookie plate — inevitably broken, yet still dutifully eaten. The lead-up to Christmas brings beauty, yes, but also a flurry of bulletins, grocery lists, family tensions, memorial services, school concerts, neighbourhood festivities, wrapping paper incidents, and the universal December panic of discovering everyone else finished their shopping in October.

And so we find ourselves weary.
Bone-tired.
Spiritually overcooked.

And it’s in these moments — when your brain feels like cold porridge and your soul a little frayed at the edges — that prayer becomes… complicated. You know you should pray. You want to pray. But all that comes out is a theological mutter resembling, “O God… um… yes… okay… amen.”

Here is the good news:
God hears that.
In fact, God might even prefer it.

Because prayer — real prayer — isn’t about eloquence or endurance. It’s not an Advent spiritual triathlon where only the strong survive. Prayer is showing up. And sometimes “showing up” looks like collapsing into God’s arms and saying nothing at all. Sometimes it looks like lighting the Advent wreath and staring at it blankly for five full minutes, wondering if you remembered to turn off the oven. Sometimes it’s a sigh, or a groan, or the exhausted raising of one eyebrow heavenward as you whisper, “You know.”

And God does know.
Our tiredness is not a barrier to God. It’s an invitation.

The Incarnation itself is God stepping directly into our human weariness — into the lists, the chaos, the midnight tears, the shepherds who probably arrived without washing their hands, and the general sense that life is happening faster than we can organize it. Jesus meets us not at our polished best, but in our stumbling, sleepy, shepherd-hearted devotion.

So if this Advent you find yourself too tired to pray, then pray like this: trusted, honest, simple. Offer God your tiredness. Offer God your silence. Offer God the five minutes you have between the last meeting and the choir rehearsal. God receives it with love that never grows weary.

And perhaps — just perhaps — that is the most faithful prayer of all.

Companion Prayer

O God of Candlelight and Chaos,
In this busy Advent season, when our energy runs low
and our lists run long,
teach us again that you welcome us just as we are—
weary, frayed, distracted, and longing for rest.

When our prayers are little more than sighs,
receive them as hymns of the heart.
When our thoughts wander like shepherds in the night,
gently lead us back to your peace.
When we feel too tired to pray,
remind us that simply turning toward you
is prayer enough.

Wrap us in your quiet strength.
Renew our hope.
And help us find, even in our exhaustion,
the deep comfort of knowing
that you never grow weary of loving us.

Come, Lord Jesus,
into our tired December hearts.
Amen

There’s a curious thing that happens after walking the Camino: you come home expecting trumpets, banners, and perhaps a small parade of parishioners holding “Welcome Back, O Pilgrim!” signs. Instead, you find your laundry still unfolded, the dog unimpressed, and Sunday’s bulletin stubbornly refusing to proofread itself.

It turns out that life — much like the Camino — doesn’t care overly much about your spiritual epiphanies. It simply hands you a new day and asks, politely but firmly, “Right then. What’s your next step?”

And perhaps that’s exactly the point.

On the Camino Portugués, I learned the deeply humbling truth that the great mysteries of life tend to reveal themselves not in triumphant leaps, but in the slow, steady rhythm of one foot in front of the other. You walk through sun and rain, villages and vineyards, cobblestones and questionable café bathrooms, and somewhere along the way God whispers: “Just this step, beloved. Take just this step.”

It is the same in parish life.

People often imagine the church runs on grand moments: Christmas Eve choirs soaring toward heaven, baptisms with three generations beaming, or vestry meetings that — by miracle alone — end under two hours. But in truth, the life of a parish is shaped by tiny, faithful actions: the coffee maker who shows up ten minutes early; the choir member who remembers both their folder and their reading glasses; the warden who tightens a mysterious bolt on a wobbly pew no one else can locate; the child who shyly lights a candle for “everyone who is sad today.”

Small steps. Quiet holiness.

We don’t need the Pyrenees or the path to Santiago to learn this. The Gospel is quite content to teach us on Highway 50, in the church kitchen, or halfway down the aisle when we suddenly remember we left our sermon in the printer. God works just as gracefully through the ordinary ankle-level moments as through the mountaintop ones. And as I think of hoibness in small steps, it is a huge comfort for me. I’ve spent 3 months in healing, and I’m not there yet. Small steps are about all I can manage these days.

One of the most liberating lessons of pilgrimage is realizing that holiness is not a destination — it’s a practice. And practice, as every pilgrim limping into a Galician albergue knows, is simply a thousand tiny decisions to keep going. To start again. To trust that God will be found not only in the cathedral, but in the dusty road that leads there.

So perhaps the Camino’s greatest gift isn’t a Compostela certificate or a fridge magnet, but the courage to believe that small steps matter. A prayer whispered before getting out of bed. A gentle word to someone who needed more kindness than we realized. A moment’s pause before replying to that email best left marinating in grace.

As we walk the winding path of parish life — its joys, surprises, potholes, potlucks, and all — may we remember that the God who walked with us through Portugal and Spain also walks through the grocery store, the vestry agenda, the pastoral visit, and the parking lot that mysteriously fills at 9:58 every Sunday.

Take the next small step.
God is already in it.

Companion Prayer

Gracious God,
You meet us in the great journeys and the ordinary ones —
in the thunder of pilgrimage and the hush of daily tasks.
Teach us the wisdom of small steps:
to pause, to notice, to trust,
and to walk gently in your love one moment at a time.
Guide our feet along simple paths,
and make our ordinary days holy ground.
Amen.

There comes a moment in every preacher’s life — usually somewhere between the second cup of coffee and the opening hymn — when you look down at your sermon manuscript and think, “Ah. I see the sermon has decided to preach something entirely different today.”

This is a well-known spiritual phenomenon, shared among clergy with the same solemn nod we reserve for funerals, synod budgets, and parishioners who whisper, “This won’t take long, Father.”

You’ve crafted the sermon carefully. You’ve consulted scripture, prayed deeply, consulted Working Preacher, rearranged the books on your desk for inspiration, prayed again, rewritten your introduction, and confidently printed out your final draft.

Then Sunday arrives.

You step into the pulpit, take a deep breath, open your notes — and the lofty theological masterpiece you prepared decides it no longer wishes to be preached. Instead, it curls up like a startled hedgehog, leaving you to fend for yourself.

I am convinced sermons are sentient. Left alone too long on one’s desk, they develop strong opinions. Yesterday’s well-behaved exegesis becomes today’s renegade homiletical toddler, knocking over your tidy structure and replacing it with a chaotic but strangely Spirit-filled improvisation.

Even great comedians, patron saints of gentle chaos, would agree: the best-laid homilies of clergy and commentators often go awry.

But here is the thing — sometimes that’s where the Spirit is hiding.

There are Sundays when the manuscript feels like a safety net woven of linen and best intentions, but the Spirit whispers, Let go, dear preacher. The people don’t need footnotes today. They need honesty.

There are moments when you glance down at your text and it seems to have entirely different ideas about what the congregation should hear. Bits of it disappear. Other lines leap forward with new meaning. A sentence you don’t remember writing suddenly becomes the heart of the whole thing.

And occasionally your sermon will look up at you like a mischievous altar guild cat and say, “I’m done now.”

That’s when you step back — sometimes literally — and let God do the heavy lifting.

Improv, in the pulpit, has less to do with cleverness and far more to do with surrender. It’s not about abandoning preparation (heavens no!). It’s about trusting that somewhere between the biblical story, your own human fumbling, and the gathered hopes of the congregation, the Holy Spirit is weaving a message more graceful than your outline ever anticipated.

And sometimes the sermon that doesn’t behave is the one the community needs most.

So when your notes betray you — when they slide off the lectern, flutter like rebellious pigeons, or simply refuse to match the moment — take heart. You’re in good company.

After all, the first disciples were never given a manuscript either.

And somehow, the Word still got preached.

Amen.

Companion Prayer

Holy Spirit of wisdom and surprise,
When our plans unravel and our words wander,
steady our hearts to trust that You are still speaking.
Guide our thoughts, shape our stories,
and let grace rise even from our fumbles.
Bless all who preach and all who listen,
that together we may discover the living Word
moving among us, unexpected and full of hope.
Amen.

There are places in parish life where heaven and earth seem to meet — around the altar, of course; in the parish hall when the coffee is fresh; and, surprisingly often, in that most misunderstood of ecclesial ecosystems: the church parking lot.

If sanctuaries are for prayer and proclamation, then the parking lot is where the liturgy of lived community begins. It’s the narthex before the narthex, the first impression for newcomers, and the last frontier for seasoned parishioners who have mastered the arts of potluck navigation, vestry debate survival, and knowing which pew has optimal lumbar support. But nothing — nothing — prepares the soul for the mysterious choreography of Sunday traffic flow.

To the uninitiated, it looks like chaos. To the seasoned parish priest, it is a living parable.

There are, for instance, the early arrivals — those beloved saints who pull into the lot with the same steady purpose as monastics heading for morning prayer. They park with grace and dignity, leaving generous space between vehicles as though writing a sermon about hospitality with their bumpers.

Then the mid-morning rush begins. This is when a curious spiritual law emerges: no matter how many empty spots remain, everyone will still try to park as close to the front door as possible. I’ve seen drivers circle the lot three times, apparently discerning the will of God regarding proximity, only to accept the Holy Spirit’s gentle nudge: “Park in the name of Jesus, and walk.”

Meanwhile, children tumble out of minivans with bulletins already flying like liturgical confetti, and someone — usually the choir alto — realizes they’ve left their music folder in the car, thus beginning a small but meaningful pilgrimage.

But the true moment of sanctification arrives after the dismissal.

Nowhere in the New Testament are we commanded, “Thou shalt not honk,” yet every Sunday, we choose the narrow path of patience. Cars attempt to leave from five different directions at once, in a pattern reminiscent of the Israelites wandering the desert — though with slightly more grumbling. There’s always a kind soul who waves ten cars ahead, and another who inadvertently blocks the entire westbound flow by attempting to back out of a space at an angle known only to theoretical physicists.

And in this sacred gridlock, we practice the spiritual discipline of grace.

We wave. We smile. We inch forward as though moving through molasses, gently reminding ourselves that we have just proclaimed Christ’s peace and perhaps ought to live it at least until we reach the road.

The parking lot, for all its quirks, teaches us something essential. Hospitality begins long before anyone reaches the front steps. Patience is forged on pavement as much as in prayer. Community is experienced in the gentle negotiation of whose turn it is to go next.

And perhaps best of all: every week, without fail, the church parking lot gathers us — messy, late, joyful, weary, eager, distracted — into a single space and sends us out again with the quiet hope that we will recognize the holy in the everyday places where rubber meets road.

May our parking lots be safe, our traffic patterns merciful,
and our honking held firmly in check.

Companion Prayer

Gracious God,
In the simple coming and going of our church parking lot,
teach us the ways of patience, hospitality, and gentle grace.
Help us to see one another not as obstacles to navigate,
but as neighbours to love.
Bless our arrivals with gratitude,
our departures with peace,
and our moments of waiting with the quiet reminder
that we travel this road together.
In Christ, who guides every step and every stoplight,
Amen.

There is a particular sound that every parish priest knows deep in their bones. It is not the rustle of hymnbooks, nor the gentle wheeze of the organ blower finally giving up the ghost. No, it is the rectory doorbell — that tiny electronic herald of mystery, mischief, and occasional mayhem.

Some doorbells are polite, Anglican even. Ding-dong, as though clearing their throat. Others, installed during what must have been a particularly optimistic stewardship campaign, produce chimes so melodic they could double as a Handel aria. Mine simply declares, with the social subtlety of a brass band on parade: BING-BONG! Which is to say, “Brace yourself, Rector. Something interesting this way comes.”

Over the years, I’ve developed a split-second triage system whenever the bell rings. First, a pastoral examination of conscience: Did I forget a meeting? A wedding rehearsal? Someone’s casserole dish? Then a glance in the mirror to assess whether I am clad in something approximating pastoral respectability or if I’m still wearing my “sermon-writing sweatshirt” featuring a coffee stain shaped vaguely like the Holy Spirit.

The adventures begin the moment I open the door.

Sometimes it’s the wandering neighbour who has decided, without warning, that today is the day to discuss the theological implications of squirrels. (“They bury things and forget where they put them. There’s a sermon in that, Father.” Reader, they were correct.)

Other times, the bell rings to reveal an over-enthusiastic delivery driver who has decided that the package labelled fragile should be launched toward the porch with the determination of an Olympic shot-putter. “Pastor! You’re home!” they cheer, handing me a parcel I did not order, addressed to a name I do not recognize, living at a house two blocks away. I accept it with the serene resignation one hopes to achieve by the 10th hour of the Great Vigil.

Then there are the classics:

• The earnest couple convinced their wedding rehearsal is today, though the invitation, calendar, and creation itself insist otherwise.
• The parishioner returning a borrowed book, apologizing profusely because it’s three months late, only for me to discover I had forgotten I owned it.
• The child selling fundraising chocolate who somehow manages to evoke both the Parable of the Persistent Widow and a very small, very polite tax collector.

But among the comic surprises there are also holy ones.

The lonely widow who stops by because the silence of her house felt too heavy.

The neighbour who brings soup because they saw the rectory lights on late and assumed (rightly) that the sermon was “still cooking.”

The person who knocks just to say they’re grateful the church is on the corner — a steadying presence in a restless world.

These, too, are doorbell moments of grace: little sacramental reminders that the priestly life is lived not merely in pulpits and boardrooms, but on porches, in foyers, and at front doors where Christ often arrives disguised as an interruption.

Jesus, after all, never made an appointment when he appeared at someone’s home. He simply showed up — at dinner tables, beside wells, in upper rooms, even on the beach with breakfast in tow. The holy has a habit of arriving unannounced. The rectory doorbell merely ensures we don’t miss it.

So yes, when that familiar BING-BONG echoes through the house, I sometimes wince. I sometimes laugh. Occasionally I pray for fortitude. But more often than not, I give thanks — because behind that door is someone beloved of God, someone whose story is about to mingle with mine for a few minutes.

And if it happens to be the delivery driver again, well… perhaps that’s just God’s way of reminding me that grace, like Amazon packages, arrives whether we ordered it or not.

Amen — and kindly ring only once

Companion Prayer

Gracious God,
You come to us in every knock upon the door
and every unexpected moment of grace.
Bless all who arrive on our porches and cross our thresholds —
the neighbour in need, the friend with good news,
the stranger seeking kindness,
and even the delivery driver with the wrong package.

Give us hearts ready to welcome,
ears ready to listen,
and spirits ready to find you in every interruption.
May our homes, like your Church,
be places of hospitality, healing, and holy laughter.

In Christ, who still meets us unannounced.
Amen.

There are several great mysteries in parish life: the location of the rector’s favourite pen, the theological significance of that one switch that controls exactly nothing, and the ancient, inscrutable habits of the church choir. Of these, only the choir is willing to speak—though not always in unison.

Now, if you ask any choirmaster, they will tell you (often with a twitch behind one eye) that the choir always shows up early. Liturgically early. Monastically early. The sort of early that suggests they’ve been spiritually preparing since Wednesday, communing with the angels and warming up their vocal cords in the key of “holy anticipation.”

Until, of course, they don’t.

Choir punctuality obeys its own sacred calendar, utterly unrelated to the one printed on the vestry door. You can have the best laid plans, the clearest emails, and a rehearsal schedule written with more precision than the Dead Sea Scrolls, and yet there will inevitably come that Sunday where everything begins exactly two minutes late — because Brenda’s car wouldn’t start, or Harold got distracted by a garage sale, or someone remembered at the last possible second that their black folder is still sitting on the piano at home, meditating quietly beside last year’s Advent wreath.

Folders, in fact, are a recurring spiritual theme. There is always one missing. Always. It is the liturgical equivalent of “Lo, he is not here,” accompanied by the faint rustling of frantic page-turning and the sotto voce whisper, “Does anyone have an extra copy?” Choir folders are the sock pairs of the church universe: frequently misplaced, occasionally reunified, and occasionally replaced with something close enough to pass under dim lighting.

And yet — this is where the holy mystery comes in — despite all of it, music happens. Beautifully. Miraculously. The anthem, once begun, rises like incense (or occasionally like a determined kettle boiled one too many times). Notes land. Harmonies appear. And the choir, this most eclectic of spiritual families, becomes a vessel of grace for everyone gathered.

Why? Because beneath the logistical comedy, beneath the forgotten pencils and the shoe that clicks, beneath the inexplicable late arrival of the tenors (seriously, tenors, who hurt you?), there is love. Love for the music. Love for the community. Love for God. And that is something worth arriving early for—or rushing frantically toward with a half-zipped robe and a borrowed binder.

So here’s to the choir: early birds, occasional wanderers, ministers of melody, keepers of the sacred cacophony until it blossoms into beauty. You show us that grace doesn’t require perfection, only willingness — even if your folder is in the wrong bag. Again.

There are days in the Church when we celebrate the great luminaries of the faith — Augustine, Teresa of Ávila, the Venerable Bede, and that one medieval bishop whose chief accomplishment seems to have been “died peacefully, thanks be to God.” But in the spirit of holy mischief — and with a nod to Stephen Leacock’s belief that life is always funnier when one is not entirely in control — I propose a new addition to the liturgical calendar:

The Feast of the Wardens.
(Preferably placed after Pentecost, when everyone is still feeling brave.)

You see, wardens are those valiant, sturdy souls who keep the parish from drifting into mild but unmistakable chaos. They are the quiet saints who ensure the lights don’t flicker like a haunted castle, the boiler doesn’t develop a contemplative life of its own, and the roof — by some miracle — remains roughly connected to the rest of the building.

I say “saints” deliberately. Consider the marks of holiness:
    1.    Patience beyond human measure.
Wardens possess a patience that would make Job blink twice. When the rector discovers at 9 a.m. on Sunday that the processional cross has been “misplaced” (again), the wardens do not panic. They simply walk calmly into the sacristy, move a single sheet of paper, and reveal the missing item — as though conjuring it from a parallel universe where everything is filed properly.
    2.    Miraculous problem-solving.
There are the moments — usually five minutes before a funeral — when the sound system emits a noise like an agitated goose. Parishioners panic. The rector prays. The wardens ap pear, fiddle with one cable, and immediately restore order. These small miracles go unrecorded in church history, but they are the reason the choir doesn’t revolt.
    3.    Long-suffering devotion to buildings.
Most saints wrestled lions or endured persecution; wardens grapple with peeling paint and interpretive dance performed by electrical wiring installed sometime during the Diefenbaker administration. They navigate boilers that make ominous sounds, roof lines that shift like tectonic plates, and budgets that cling to solvency with the tenacity of a wet bulletin board.
    4.    Keeping the rector calm.
This may be the highest calling of all. Somewhere in the Warden’s Manual (which I suspect is written on tablets of stone and stored in a locked drawer), there must be a line that reads: “Thou shalt not let the rector spiral.”
For every pastoral crisis I handle, there are seventeen practical ones the wardens quietly defuse. They hand me a cup of tea and say, “Don’t worry, we’ve taken care of it.” I never know what “it” is, but I am grateful all the same.

In truth, the ministry of the wardens is one of steadfast, hopeful service. They are custodians of mission, caretakers of community, and guardians of the parish teapot. They hold the sacred tension between tradition and possibility, between the roof that leaks and the future that gleams.

And so, I believe a Feast Day is not only appropriate — it is overdue.

Imagine it:
A special collect (“O God of flickering lights and forgotten keys…”), a hymn or two, perhaps even a ceremonial Offering of the Tools: keys, flashlights, duct tape, and whatever mystical object is required to fix the boiler.

After all, the Church has always needed saints.
She simply didn’t realize some of them come with toolboxes.

So here’s to the wardens: holy stewards, brave souls, faithful shepherds of the building fund, and the ones who keep the rector’s blood pressure in the green zone.

May their feast be blessed, their meetings short, and their photocopier jams few.

A Prayer for the Feast of the Wardens

Holy and gracious God,
We give you thanks for the wardens of your Church—
those steadfast souls who quietly bear the weight
of leaky roofs, flickering lights,
and the sacred mystery of where the keys have gone this time.

Bless them with wisdom in their decisions,
strength in their labours,
and patience — boundless patience —
for rectors, parish meetings, and boilers with opinions.

Grant them joy in their service,
companionship in their burdens,
and a deep sense of your presence
in every repaired hinge, balanced budget,
and Sunday morning saved from chaos.

May their work be a witness to your faithfulness,
their humour a sign of your grace,
and their hearts be filled with your peace.

This we pray in the name of Jesus Christ,
the true builder and cornerstone of your Church.
Amen.

If you really want to understand the soul of a parish, don’t start with the rector’s study, the vestry minutes, or even the sacristy cupboard (though, truth be told, that last one contains a whole universe best approached with mitts, a flashlight, and possibly an assistant curate).

No, the true spiritual barometer of any church lies in one humble location:
the parish noticeboard.

There it stands — usually in a hallway — half administrative command centre, half archaeological dig. A vertical landscape of thumbtacks, hope, and at least three generations of event posters, layered like the geological strata of pastoral ambition.

If you stand quietly before it, you can almost hear it whisper:
“I am what happened when no one wanted to throw anything away, but everyone wanted to be helpful.”

A Time Capsule of Good Intentions

There’s always that one curling, yellowing paper announcing a bazaar from three years ago — the one that seems to regenerate itself whenever someone tries to remove it. The edges are curled inward like it’s attempting to protect itself from extinction.

The event it advertised is long past. The leftovers were eaten, donated, or — let’s be honest — still wrapped in foil in someone’s freezer. But that poster hangs on, a survivor, an icon of Anglican resilience.

Nearby is a poster inviting parishioners to a Lenten study from a Lent that no longer exists, possibly in a year when Lent had 47 days and the calendar was printed by someone who forgot about leap year.

And there, tucked behind the sign-up sheet no one signed up for, is a notice for a diocesan workshop titled “Reimagining Reimagining.”

Even the thumbtacks speak a language of their own — some new and sharp, others bent from years of faithful service, all holding on with the tenacity of a churchwarden guarding the silver.

The Mystery Announcements

Every parish noticeboard contains at least one stray announcement with no clear purpose. Something like:

“Food Needed. See Mary.”

Which would be helpful if:
    1.    It specified what kind of food,
    2.    Or who Mary is,
    3.    Or whether Mary still attends this parish or moved to Alberta in 2019.

Beside it sits a half-torn flyer that simply says, “URGENT!” in large red letters, followed by absolutely nothing else. This may be a relic from when someone tried to repair the photocopier and gave up mid-print.

The Pastoral Perspective

And yet — here’s where the theology peeks out from behind the pushpins — there’s something oddly comforting about this curated chaos.

Every outdated poster represents a moment when the community tried something together.
Every curling sheet reflects hope that someone might see it and say, “Yes, I’ll help with that.” Every stray notice is a reminder that life in a parish is beautifully, gloriously human.

Our noticeboards are less about information and more about incarnation.
They reveal the ordinary holiness of our life together — the way God works through our best-laid plans, our half-forgotten committees, and our persistent thumbtacks.

A Lesson on Grace (and Office Supplies)

Perhaps the spiritual message of the parish noticeboard is this:
Even when our announcements go stale, our efforts falter, or our plans curl at the edges, God does not discard us.

Grace doesn’t toss us into the recycling bin.
Grace picks us up, smooths us out, and — if needed — pins us back on the board with a fresh thumbtack.

Which, come to think of it, is a perfect definition of parish ministry.

A Companion Prayer

Gracious and patient God, You who work through our best intentions and our most charming chaos, bless this parish of yours with the spirit of joyful service.

As we gather around noticeboards filled with yesterday’s plans and tomorrow’s hopes, remind us that You are present in every curling corner and every earnest announcement.

Teach us to cherish the small signs of community — the events we planned, the ministries we attempted, the efforts that didn’t quite unfold as expected — for all of them bear witness to our desire to love and serve You.

Give us eyes to see Your grace in the ordinary, hands willing to help when the call arises, and hearts that delight in the quirky beauty of life together.

Pin us, O Lord, with fresh resolve and renewed joy to the work You call us to do.

In the name of Christ, who gathers all our scattered notices into one holy purpose.

Amen.

Step quietly now, dear reader, for we are about to enter one of the least-documented ecosystems in the Anglican Church: the Rector’s Study. Though often glimpsed through a half-open door or a Zoom background carefully curated to hide the worst of the stacks, the study remains a mysterious and slightly dangerous habitat — somewhere between a monastery cell, a thrift store, and the aftermath of a book sale at Squirrelly St. Swithin’s-in the Swamp.

Let us begin our exploration with care, for this is holy ground. Also, you may trip on something.

1. The Desk: A Rarely-Horizontal Surface

True field guides always start with the terrain, and here we find a desk bravely attempting to be a flat workspace while bearing the load of several vocations at once: scholar, administrator, spiritual confidant, and emergency repair technician for the parish photocopier.

Upon the desk are usually three stacks of books:

1. The “Current” Stack – containing everything the rector intends to read this week, plus three books purchased in a burst of optimism.
2. The “Pastoral” Stack – including well-worn tomes on grief, baptism prep, and the ever-elusive art of conflict resolution.
3. The “Mystery” Stack – containing volumes of dubious origin. No one remembers when they arrived. They simply are. Like manna.

Interrupting these stacks are approximately seven uncapped pens, each genetically predisposed to leak only when the rector wears white.

2. The Mug Ecosystem

Every study has a mug population, which tends to grow in inverse proportion to the rector’s sleep. These mugs range from:

• “World’s Best Priest” (given by a parishioner with suspicious enthusiasm),
• to the classic Synod 2011 mug (which no archaeologist has yet been able to date precisely),
• to the large, slightly chipped favourite, which holds exactly the right amount of tea to pray through the intercessions and still have a sip left for courage.

At any given moment, one mug will contain actual tea, one will contain tea in theory, and one will contain a pen someone mistook for a stir stick.

3. The Vestment Migration Patterns

Draped over chairs, doorknobs, and any protruding object that can bear weight, one finds stoles in various liturgical colours.
Green stoles, being the most common and resilient, may appear in surprising places—under books, over radiator pipes, or curled like friendly pets beside the printer.

The rarer colours — blue, rose, and the elusive “Where on earth did this come from?” — emerge only in their appointed seasons, much like the more mystical Canadian bird species that migrate through churchyards once a decade and cause the choir to stare out the window during the sermon.

4. The Sermons-in-the-Wild

Every rector’s study contains several half-finished sermons, often printed in 18-point font with enthusiastic margin notes such as “NEEDS POINT!” or “Find better joke.” These fragments roam freely, drifting between books, drawers, and occasionally into the recycling bin — only to be fished out again three months later with a cry of, “Aha! This is actually not bad!”

In their natural state, these sermons form the background hum of the study, reminding the rector that Sunday is always — always — coming.

5. The Sacred Clutter

There are objects in a rector’s study that defy categorization:

• A small bowl of paperclips that have intertwined into a liturgical Celtic knot.
• A collection of keys that open absolutely nothing.
• A stack of compassionate notes from parishioners, tucked beside a stack of mildly concerned notes from parishioners.
• A candle burned halfway down, kept in case of pastoral emergencies or power outages during evening meetings.
• The parish directory, dog-eared, creased, and cherished.

None of these items can be discarded. They are the archaeological record of ministry — layers of prayer, conversation, laughter, frustration, Holy Spirit nudges, and one unforgettable Vestry meeting.

6. The Real Centre of the Study

Amid the clutter, chaos, and carefully orchestrated disarray, there remains a quiet centre: the chair where the rector prays.

Some days the prayer is eloquent, steeped in Scripture and the cadence of centuries.
Some days it is simply: “Help.”
And on busy Thursdays, it is occasionally, “Lord, if you could also find that missing sermon manuscript, that would be lovely.”

It is here, among the books and mugs and pastoral detritus, that God meets the priest—not in spite of the clutter, but sometimes precisely through it.
Because ministry, like the rector’s study, is rarely tidy. But it is blessed.

A Closing Thought

The rector’s study is not a museum of clerical achievement; it is a living, breathing, slightly chaotic testament to a life spent listening — to Scripture, to people, to the Spirit, and to the kettle that has just boiled again.

If you ever find yourself in such a study, do not fear the clutter.
It is the sign of a priest who is trying — earnestly, prayerfully, and occasionally with a certain amount of comedic fumbling — to love God and God’s people.

And besides, if everything were tidy, you’d never find anything.

A Companion Prayer

Holy God,
You meet us not only in the quiet and the ordered
but also in the cluttered corners
where ministry is lived and love is practised.
Bless the desks piled high with books and hopes,
the mugs that fuel our prayers,
the stoles draped like reminders of seasons past,
and the half-finished sermons waiting for Your breath of life.

In the midst of our controlled clerical chaos,
grant us clarity when we are scattered,
peace when we are overwhelmed,
and joy in the small, holy messes
that reveal a life spent serving You and Your people.

Draw near to every priest and pastor
who sorts papers, pours tea, and offers grace—
and help us remember that Your Spirit
can hover just as faithfully
over a cluttered study
as over the waters of creation.

In Christ,
who brings order, mercy, and the gentle gift of humour,
Amen.

There are days when I’m convinced that Anglicans invented the first group fitness class. Long before Pilates became trendy and well before you could attend a Spin class at 6 a.m. with people who look much too cheerful for that hour, the Church had already perfected a full-body liturgical workout.

I’ve often thought that if St. Paul had foreseen the stand–sit–kneel sequence of Anglican worship, he might’ve added a line in 1 Corinthians along the lines of: “Do you not know that your pew is a temple of the Holy Spirit? Therefore glorify God in your posture.” And if Stephen Leacock had written a commentary on the Prayer Book, we’d surely have a chapter entitled “In Which the Faithful Do Unexpected Calisthenics.”

The Sacred Warm-Up: Finding the Right Pew

The workout always begins with the delicate art of pew selection. One must calculate carefully: close enough to the front to appear devout, but far enough back to avoid accidentally becoming the lay reader. This requires both strategy and subtle neck movements, not unlike a pigeon assessing whether the birdbath is safe. The warm-up continues as you slide into the pew and realize—too late—that you’ve chosen the one where the kneeler has the structural integrity of a wet noodle.

Stand, Sit, Kneel… Repeat

And then the real aerobics begin.

Stand! (With enthusiasm, but not too much. You don’t want to appear threatening.)

Sit! (Quietly. No pew-creaking fanfare, please.)

Kneel! (If able. If not able, assume the posture of Holy Intent.)

Then back up again, sometimes with the elegance of a swan, sometimes more like an arthritic giraffe attempting yoga.

Every congregation develops its own rhythm. You can almost hear the spiritual heartbeat of the parish in the synchronized thump of two dozen kneelers hitting the floor in unison—plus one kneeler that clatters a full two seconds late, testifying that sanctification is a process.

Liturgy as God’s Personal Trainer

Some say liturgy forms us. I say it also tones us.

It engages the quads, strengthens the core, and tests the balance of those who attempt to cross themselves without wobbling into the next pew. Generations of Anglicans have been kept limber not through gym memberships but through the faithful practice of standing for the Gospel and kneeling for the Confession.

And let’s be honest: nothing builds upper body strength like trying to wrestle a medievally heavy Book of Common Prayer from the rack without dropping it on your neighbour’s foot—especially during a quiet moment of prayer.

Preventing Liturgical Quad Strain

As your friendly neighbourhood priest—and apparently your liturgical physiotherapist—I offer a few pastoral tips:
    1.    Hydrate before worship. Not too much, mind you. Anglican services run long and the bathrooms are never close by.
    2.    Know your limits. If your knees sound like a floor full of popcorn during the Eucharistic Prayer, feel free to remain seated. God hears you just as clearly.
    3.    Use the pew for support. That is its spiritual gift.
    4.    Avoid sudden movements during incense. Trust me on this one.
    5.    When in doubt, follow the choir. They usually know when to move—unless it’s a new anthem, in which case all bets are off.

A Holy Exercise in Community

What makes our sacred aerobics truly transformative isn’t the posture changes, but the way we do them together. These shared movements remind us that faith is embodied, communal, and occasionally humorous. They’re small acts of unity that shape us into a people attentive to God and one another—even when someone stands too soon and the rest of us pretend we didn’t notice.

The miracle is that in all this movement—creaking pews, dodgy kneelers, slowly protesting joints—we meet the God who knelt to wash feet, who stood to bless, who sat at tables with the least likely guests. Our motions mirror His own.

So the next time you find yourself rising, sitting, kneeling, and rising again, take heart: you’re participating in the oldest fitness class in Christian history. And in the end, we’re not earning spiritual muscle—we’re being lovingly formed, one posture at a time

A Companion Prayer

Holy and gracious God,
You meet us in every posture—
when we stand in praise,
sit in wonder,
and kneel in humility.

Bless our creaky joints, our wobbly balance,
and our sometimes overconfident attempts
to follow the liturgical choreography.
Grant us joy in the movements we share,
patience with ourselves and one another,
and grace enough to laugh kindly
when our pews groan louder than we do.

May these simple gestures form our hearts
as surely as they stretch our bodies,
reminding us that worship is lived with our whole selves.
And in every rise and bow,
draw us closer to the One who stooped to serve,
stood to bless,
and walked beside us on the way.

In Christ’s name we pray. Amen.