(Or, Grace, Technology, and the Perils of the Forgotten Login)

It started, as these things so often do, with a simple task. Someone — possibly me — was meant to update the parish website. A few clicks, a cheerful cup of coffee, and the words “Welcome to St. Swithun’s” would once again greet the world in the proper liturgical colour of the season. But then came the dreaded login screen.

I typed in the username. Wrong. Tried again. Wrong. Tried the password I use for everything. Still wrong. Then, with growing despair, I did what every honest cleric has done since the dawn of digital ministry — I clicked “Forgot Password.”

What followed was not so much a technological process as a spiritual journey.

First came Confession: I admitted I’d written the password “somewhere safe,” which turned out to mean “in a notebook last seen during the reign of the previous rector.” Then came Penance: I dutifully answered three security questions, none of which I could recall ever writing. (I maintain that I have never had a childhood pet named “Gideon the Fish.”)

Then came Silence: the spinning wheel of eternal waiting. And finally, Absolution — an email that said, “Your password has been reset.” Except, of course, it was sent to the wrong account.

At that moment, I realized: the Church that forgets its password is not just a tech problem — it’s a parable.

The truth is, sometimes we really do forget our passwords. Not just the digital ones, but the spiritual ones too — the words, practices, and rhythms that once gave us access to grace. Prayer becomes something we mean to get back to. Worship feels distant. The language of faith starts to sound like something we used to speak fluently.

When that happens, we can be tempted to panic — to start pressing every spiritual “reset” button in sight. Maybe a new program, a shinier website, a bigger font in the bulletin will fix it. But the problem is deeper than that. It’s not that we’ve lost access to God; it’s that we’ve forgotten where we keep the key.

Jeremiah might have called this “forgetting the covenant.” Paul might have called it “losing the first love.” I call it “Tuesday morning before coffee.”

But here’s the good news: God doesn’t lock us out when we forget our login. Grace doesn’t come with two-factor authentication. We may forget our passwords, but God never forgets us.

The divine server is always running, so to speak. All we need to do is click “Remember me.”

So perhaps the Church that forgot its password isn’t in trouble at all. Maybe it’s being invited to pause — to rediscover the joy of logging back into the life of prayer, community, and compassion that it once knew by heart.

And maybe — just maybe — when we finally remember where we wrote it down, we’ll find that God has already reset it for us.

“For where your treasure is, there your password will be also.”

(Okay, not quite Scripture — but close enough for the techies)

Somewhere in the unseen bureaucracy of heaven, I am convinced there exists a small, perpetually overworked department known as The Ministry of Lost Things.

You can picture it, can’t you? A tidy office with angelic clerks filing reports on missing car keys, vanishing sermon notes, and the single sock that went missing during the spin cycle. Somewhere between “Guardian Angels” and “Department of Miracles” sits this quiet little office, responsible for tracking every umbrella left in the narthex since 1958.

And business, I suspect, is booming.

Now, clergy are particularly good customers. I once misplaced a carefully written sermon mere minutes before the service — only to find it later tucked inside the Book of Common Prayer, right between the Nicene Creed and a funeral homily for Mrs. Murgatroyd. (Both, arguably, about resurrection.) I’ve lost vestments, pens, and, on one memorable occasion, a small silver spoon that mysteriously reappeared during coffee hour three weeks later, perched jauntily in the sugar bowl like it had never left.

But this isn’t really about lost things, is it? It’s about what happens to us when we lose anything — our footing, our patience, our confidence, or our sense of God’s nearness.

In Luke 15, Jesus tells three parables about lostness — the sheep, the coin, the prodigal son. In each, the lost thing doesn’t find its way home through cleverness or effort. It’s found because someone goes looking. The shepherd searches, the woman sweeps the floor, the father keeps his eyes on the road. Heaven, it seems, is filled with a passion for retrieval.

And that’s the heart of grace, isn’t it? That no matter what’s gone missing — our hope, our joy, or our good humour — God is already rummaging through the drawers, gently calling out our names.

Of course, I suspect that in the heavenly filing system, under “Lost Things, Clergy,” there’s a rather fat folder marked Don Davidson. But I also imagine a note attached in some celestial handwriting:

“All accounted for — eventually found — with laughter, patience, and divine persistence. A few small pieces missing.”

So if you’ve lost something lately — an object, a relationship, a bit of your peace of mind — take heart. The Ministry of Lost Things is still open, and business remains brisk.

And if you happen to find my reading glasses in the meantime, please leave them by the font. I have a feeling they’ll turn up there.

A Prayer for the Ministry of Lost Things

Gracious God,

Finder of the lost and Keeper of the found, we give you thanks for your patient love — the love that searches the dark corners of our lives and never tires of calling our names.

When we misplace our peace, our courage, or our sense of direction, remind us that nothing is ever beyond your reach. Gather up our scattered thoughts, our forgotten hopes, and our wandering hearts, and bring them home to you.

Bless all who are searching this day — for meaning, for belonging, for the way forward.

And when we discover again the things we thought were gone, teach us to rejoice, as heaven rejoices over one lost soul found.

In the name of the One who came looking for us, even Jesus Christ our Lord.

Amen

(on healing, grief, and time)

Since returning from walking the Camino, I have had another long walk I have been travelling. What seemed a minor foot injury on the Camino infected, and began a lengthy journey of healing for me. And those who know me well, know that I have near-endless patience with others, and almost none for myself. Why am I not past this yet? Why do I need to sit down and put my foot up? Why am I not managing to do as much now as I should? I learned much from walking the camino. And it seems that the camino has yet one more lesson to teach me.

It has often been said that the Christian faith is built on one grand moment — the Resurrection. The stone rolled away, the angelic announcement, the impossible made gloriously possible. But if we’re honest — and clergy occasionally are — most of our resurrections don’t look like that at all.

Our resurrections are quieter. Slower. Less cinematic. No brass fanfare, no lighting effects, and certainly no choir emerging from behind the tomb. Instead, there’s usually coffee. And awkward silence. And the slow dawning realization that maybe, just maybe, things will not always hurt quite as much as they do right now.

That’s resurrection in slow motion.

I’ve been thinking about that lately — how the Bible tells us of one morning when everything changed, but life insists on taking the scenic route. Healing, like holiness, rarely works on our timetable. We want Easter morning; God offers us the long, meandering walk to Emmaus. We want our hearts to leap; God gives us the gentle burn of recognition that comes after a long conversation and a loaf of bread.

Grief, I’ve discovered, doesn’t vanish with the sunrise. It lingers, unpacking itself in odd corners of our lives: in the grocery aisle when the right brand of jam appears, or in a pew that now sits emptier than it used to. Healing, for its part, is equally patient — like a cat that sits on your chest until you finally acknowledge that it’s there to comfort you.

And yet, in those slow, awkward, quiet moments, something holy happens. The pulse of new life beats again — faint at first, but real. A phone call from a friend. A Sunday hymn that lands differently. A shared laugh over something that once would have brought tears.

In parish life, we tend to measure resurrection by attendance, budgets, or whether the photocopier worked on the first try (spoiler: it didn’t). But the real measure, I think, is subtler. It’s found in the people who keep showing up, even when the pew feels empty. It’s in the faithful who still plant gardens in cemeteries of the soul — and in the God who turns those gardens into green shoots of grace.

Resurrection in slow motion is still resurrection. It just comes with more coffee breaks and fewer trumpets.

So if you’re in a season where hope feels like it’s taking the local train instead of the express, take heart. God’s timetable may be slower than ours, but it’s infinitely more faithful.

The stone does roll away — just not always before lunch.

A Prayer for Resurrection in Slow Motion

Gracious and patient God,
You move through our days not with haste,
but with the quiet persistence of dawn light
creeping gently through the curtains.

When our hearts ache,
and the tombs of our lives feel sealed tight,
remind us that You are already at work —
rolling stones we cannot lift,
stirring hope we cannot yet name.

Teach us to trust the slow work of grace.
Help us to notice the small resurrections —
a shared smile, a steady breath,
the courage to try again.

May we walk faithfully in the in-between times,
when Good Friday still echoes
and Easter morning feels far away.

And when at last new life unfolds,
even quietly,
even late,
may we rejoice in the God
who never stops bringing light out of darkness,
and life out of loss.

Amen.

There comes a sacred silence the morning after Thanksgiving — a sort of national liturgical pause in which the faithful lie prostrate, not before the altar, but upon couches, groaning softly in the general direction of the television. The turkey has done its work, the pies have conquered, and even the dog looks sluggish from too many “accidental” droppings from the table.

It is, in every sense, a holy day of recuperation.

There is something quite spiritual about the post-Thanksgiving stillness. The dishes (which multiplied like loaves and fishes the night before) sit drying in uneven stacks. The fridge hums a hymn of abundance as it holds Tupperware towers of mystery leftovers. Somewhere, a half-eaten pumpkin pie is having existential thoughts about its purpose. And there we sit, in sweatpants, reflecting — perhaps a little ruefully — on the wages of gluttony and the eternal promise of stretchy waistbands.

But here’s the theological rub: even in this carb-induced haze, gratitude still hums quietly beneath it all. For the fullness of yesterday gives way to the gentleness of today. We realize that thanksgiving isn’t just an event — it’s a rhythm. A feast, yes, but also a rest. A pause that says, “Enough. More than enough.”

Deuteronomy reminds us to rejoice in the good land the Lord has given, and to give thanks for the harvest. But it also, rather sensibly, allows for sabbath—a divine invitation to slow down before the next round of sowing and reaping begins. Perhaps this Monday-after is a kind of secular sabbath—a day sanctified for digestion, reflection, and perhaps the faint hope of fitting into one’s trousers again by Wednesday.

As a priest, I’ve often thought that God must smile on this day. Not because we are productive or pious, but because, for a brief moment, we stop. We stop doing and start being — thankful, full (perhaps overly so), and quietly aware that love, laughter, and even turkey leftovers are graces undeserved.

So today, be kind to yourself. Rest those weary carving arms. Forgive yourself for the extra slice of pie that was, strictly speaking, unnecessary but deeply sacramental. Let the recliner be your pew, and let your prayer be a simple, heartfelt:

“Thank you, Lord, for everything — especially elastic.”

And tomorrow?
Well, tomorrow we can begin the long and holy pilgrimage to rediscovering the bottom of the vegetable crisper.

A Thanksgiving Monday Prayer for Rest and Gratitude

Gracious and ever-patient God,
on this quiet day after feasting,
we give You thanks for the fullness that remains—
in our hearts, our homes, and perhaps, our fridges.

You, who set the rhythm of work and rest,
teach us the holiness of pausing.
As our bodies recover from abundance,
let our spirits rest in Your goodness.

We thank You for family, for friends,
and for those curious moments of grace
that emerge somewhere between the gravy boat and the laughter.
We thank You for the joy of shared tables,
and for the stillness that follows—the peace of simply being.

Forgive us, Lord, for ever mistaking busyness for blessing.
Help us to receive Your gifts with gentleness and humour,
to delight in Your creation without needing to conquer the dessert tray.

And as we linger in this blessed, drowsy calm,
remind us that gratitude does not end when the dishes are done.
It continues—in the rest, in the quiet,
in the slow return to ordinary time.

In the name of Christ,
who taught us to give thanks in all things—
even for leftovers.
Amen.

Thanksgiving Day dawns bright and brimming with promise — promise, that is, of potatoes to mash, pies to burn just slightly, and at least one relative to question your life choices somewhere between the turkey and the trifle.

I have long suspected that the true miracle of Thanksgiving is not the harvest itself, but the survival of the host. Hosting Thanksgiving, you see, is a kind of spiritual discipline. It’s like a monastic retreat, only with more cranberries and considerably less silence.

By mid-morning, the kitchen becomes a battlefield where hope and gravy mingle freely. The potatoes, those innocent tubers of the soil, suddenly demand the precision of a Swiss watchmaker. The stuffing — so simple in theory — reveals itself as an alchemical mystery requiring intuition, humility, and a strong sense of smell. Somewhere along the way, the cat escapes with the turkey baster, and the children decide to test the smoke detector “for fun.”

Yet, somehow, in the midst of this holy chaos, gratitude sneaks in.

As I stir, slice, and pretend not to panic, I find myself remembering that Thanksgiving is not so much about perfection as it is about presence. It’s about the people gathered in our slightly-overheated dining rooms — the ones who tell the same stories every year, the ones who always bring too much salad, the ones who silently wash dishes while everyone else naps.

Today’s readings remind us that gratitude is an act of faith. Deuteronomy speaks of offering “the first fruits of the harvest” before God, a reminder that our abundance—however small, however frazzled—is meant to be shared. Psalm 100 tells us to “make a joyful noise unto the Lord,” which, as it turns out, sounds a lot like your aunt’s laughter over a wobbly pumpkin pie. And St. Paul, ever the realist, tells us that love is patient, kind, and (most relevantly) keeps no record of wrongs — especially when someone forgets to bring the dinner rolls.

So as the feast unfolds and the gravy boat makes its slow pilgrimage around the table, I give thanks — not for the flawless meal I imagined, but for the gloriously imperfect one I’ve been given.

For in every burnt crust and awkward conversation, there’s a whisper of grace. In every overfilled plate, a reminder that God’s abundance is always more than we can manage.

And when the last dish is dried, and the guests are gone, and I find myself alone with the turkey carcass and the faint hum of the refrigerator — I’ll smile, pour myself wee dram, and give thanks for the sacred, silly, splendid gift of it all.

A Thanksgiving Prayer

Gracious and generous God,
on this Thanksgiving Day we pause amid the bustle of kitchens and the clatter of dishes
to remember what truly feeds us.

You are the giver of all good things —
from the harvest of the earth to the laughter around our tables,
from the warmth of friendship to the quiet grace of a shared meal.
We thank you for the abundance that fills our lives —
not only in food, but in love, in memory, and in mercy.

Bless the hands that have prepared this feast,
the hearts that have gathered here,
and those whose places at the table we remember with affection and longing.

When we are tempted to measure our worth by what we produce or serve,
remind us that your love is not earned but given freely,
like sunlight after rain,
like bread broken and shared among friends.

Grant us the holy gift of gratitude —
not only for what we have,
but for who we have,
and for the unending grace that sustains us all.

And when the dishes are done,
the leftovers tucked away,
and the laughter lingers in the quiet,
may we find you still present —
in the peace that settles softly over the day,
and in the deep joy of being loved beyond measure.

Through Jesus Christ our Lord,
Amen.

There is a moment in every priest’s life — usually about three minutes before the procession — when a creeping sense of doom begins to set in. It starts innocently enough: the choir is lined up, the servers are ready, the organist is limbering up their fingers in a spirited prelude, and you think, “Ah yes, we are well-prepared.”

That’s usually when you realize your alb is on backwards.

Or that your stole, in some mysterious act of ecclesiastical rebellion, has decided to strangle you halfway down the nave.

I call this the theology of liturgical humility.

It began one Sunday when the new alb arrived — freshly pressed, gleaming white, with the promise of heavenly dignity. It also came with Velcro fastenings, which I naïvely assumed would simplify my life. Velcro, I reasoned, was a gift of modernity — a small triumph of engineering to make the ancient mysteries slightly more manageable.

But as with many things in parish life (and most things involving Velcro), it did not go as planned.

As I prepared to vest, the Velcro refused to cooperate. It either clung to itself in a passionate embrace or repelled all attempts at closure. I was locked in mortal combat with my own alb, spinning in slow circles like a bewildered monk in a laundry commercial.

When I finally emerged from the vestry — breathless but victorious — the choir was already halfway through the opening hymn. A parishioner whispered encouragingly, “You look very… secure, Father,” which I took as a kind lie.

Now, I have long believed that God works through human frailty. And nothing demonstrates that more convincingly than a priest attempting to bow gracefully while his chasuble catches on a rogue pew. Or when a deacon’s stole suddenly detaches mid-Gospel like a startled dove taking flight.

These are the holy reminders that worship is not performance art — it is participation in something divine, which occasionally includes slapstick.

We plan, polish, and rehearse. We polish the silver, arrange the flowers, fold the purificators with military precision. And then, just when everything gleams — someone’s bulletin catches fire from the Advent wreath, or a thurible refuses to smoke like a noncompliant parishioner at a potluck.

And there, in the absurdity, grace arrives.

Perhaps the lesson is that liturgical perfection is not the goal — presence is. God is not waiting for us to get our Velcro right. God is already in the laughter that follows when we don’t.

When the microphone fails, when the candles sputter, when the priest trips on the chancel step (again) — the holiness isn’t diminished. It’s deepened. Because it’s real.

We are, after all, only human: a community of slightly wrinkled vestments and good intentions, doing our best to proclaim something eternal in the midst of our temporary clumsiness.

And if ever I forget that, I have only to hear that unmistakable rrrriiiipppp of Velcro during the Gloria — to remind me that even heaven must be having a quiet chuckle.

A Prayer for Liturgical Mishaps

Gracious and patient God,
who smiled, I am sure, when Peter dropped the net on the wrong side of the boat,
grant me a measure of that same divine humour
when my alb refuses to cooperate,
my stole turns itself into a necktie,
and the sound system decides to join the heavenly choir a beat too soon.

Teach us, Lord, that perfection is not the goal — presence is.
That even when our vestments wrinkle, our candles sputter,
and our Velcro betrays us mid-procession,
your grace still holds everything together (often more securely than we do).

Bless the laughter that follows,
the humility that grows,
and the worship that continues —
imperfect, joyful, and wholly yours.

Through Christ our Saviour,
who knew the holy art of sanctified chaos.
Amen.

(A meditation on patience, technology, and the stubborn holiness of parish administration)

I feel as though I should preface this parable for readers from Christ Church with an assurance that our photocopier is currently in perfect operation, and Thanksgiving material is all successfully printed. This is a parable.

There are few things in parish life that test one’s sanctification quite like the parish photocopier. I have often thought that if Jesus had lived in the age of office technology, one of his parables would have begun, “The kingdom of heaven is like a photocopier that jammed just as the bulletin was almost finished.”

It is a tale as old as time — or at least as old as toner. It begins innocently enough: you approach the machine with faith and optimism, bulletin master copy in hand, heart full of purpose. You press “Start,” and for a few glorious seconds, the hum of productivity fills the air. Then — clang, grind, flash — a small screen lights up with that most unhelpful of pastoral phrases: “Error. See technician.”

And that’s when the real spiritual formation begins.

I have stood before that machine and other of its ancestors as if before the burning bush — removing trays, checking for paper jams, pressing mysterious buttons with the same desperate hope that one might apply to a defibrillator. “Please, Lord,” I mutter, “just let it finish the last ten bulletins.” (Sometimes, I even promise greater holiness if only the toner will cooperate.)

Of course, the copier does not listen. It humbles the clergy, confounds the administrator, and gives parishioners yet another opportunity to practise patience in the face of adversity. If grace perfects nature, then the parish photocopier is clearly the furnace of sanctification.

Yet, if we look beneath the frustration and flying paper, there may actually be a parable worth hearing. The broken copier reminds us that much of ministry — indeed, much of life — is about persistence and patience in the midst of imperfection. Things break. Plans unravel. Toner runs dry. And somehow, God still shows up.

Sometimes it’s in the person who quietly steps in to hand-fold bulletins after the machine gives up the ghost. Sometimes it’s in the laughter that erupts as the choir realizes the hymn numbers are all wrong. And sometimes, it’s in the humility that comes when the priest realizes that not everything can be fixed by pressing the power button twice.

The parable of the broken photocopier, then, is not really about machines at all. It’s about the community that gathers when things don’t go as planned — the people who make do, who show grace, who remind one another that ministry is not measured in perfect bulletins but in the shared laughter and faith that get us through the chaos.

In the end, the kingdom of God might look less like a perfectly printed order of service, and more like a group of faithful people gathered around a jammed machine, laughing, praying, and finding holiness in the hum of human imperfection.

And yes, the technician eventually arrives. He opens one obscure panel, removes a single scrap of paper, presses a hidden button, and the copier bursts back to life. It’s like resurrection—complete with the smell of warm toner and second chances.

So, perhaps the next time your own plans jam, when things just won’t align, you might remember: even a broken photocopier can proclaim good news. Grace, after all, still manages to print, even when the machine doesn’t.

A Prayer for Patience in the Age of Photocopiers

Gracious God,
You who bring order from chaos and calm to anxious hearts,
grant us patience when the toner runs dry
and wisdom when the machine says, “See technician.”
Teach us to find joy in imperfection,
grace in small frustrations,
and laughter in the holy absurdities of ministry.
Remind us that even jammed paper can proclaim your presence,
and that your love is never out of alignment.
Through Christ our patient Redeemer,
Amen.

There are days when prayer feels like the most natural thing in the world. The birds are singing, the coffee is strong, and your heart just overflows with gratitude. And then there are the other days. The ones where your prayers sound like they’re bouncing off the ceiling tiles of a drafty parish hall. Days when you sit down to pray and find yourself mentally rearranging the kitchen drawers instead.

I’ve had mornings when I open my prayer book, take one look at the Collect of the Day, and think, “Lord, you’re getting a rain cheque on this one.”

And yet, it’s precisely on those dry, distracted, spiritually uncooperative days that prayer matters most. Because prayer, at its core, isn’t about our mood, our eloquence, or even our enthusiasm. It’s about relationship. And relationships, as anyone who’s ever tried to put together an IKEA bookshelf with another human being knows, require consistency more than sentiment.

The psalmists knew this feeling well. “How long, O Lord?” is not just poetic language — it’s the ancient equivalent of “Are you even listening up there?” But still they prayed. They brought their silence, their frustration, their anger, and their boredom to God — and somehow, mysteriously, that too became holy.

Now, I must confess: I’ve spent years trying to make my prayer life as tidy as my sermon notes (and those who’ve seen my desk know that’s saying something). I’ve colour-coded detailed prayer lists. I’ve experimented with apps, and even set reminders on my phone that cheerfully say, “Time to talk to God!” — which, I suspect, makes the angels roll their eyes. But the truth is, prayer is rarely tidy. It’s a long conversation with the One who loves us enough to sit through our tangents.

There’s an old saying that “faith is not feeling but fidelity.” That’s why I keep praying when I don’t feel like it — because prayer is less about getting results and more about staying rooted. Even when I can’t find the words, the rhythm of prayer — the Our Father, the Lord have mercy, the gentle cadence of the Daily Office — carries me like a steady heartbeat when my own rhythm falters.

And here’s the funny thing. More often than not, when I finally stop trying to feel something and just show up, God does the rest. The silence softens. The ceiling tiles disappear. And somehow, grace sneaks in through the side door, carrying a mug of tea and saying, “I’ve been here all along.”

So if you’re in a season when prayer feels dry or distant, take heart. Keep showing up. Say your prayers even when you’d rather scroll the news or take a nap. Because sometimes the holiest thing we can do is simply to show up, tired and distracted though we are, and say:
“Here I am, Lord. Again.”

And God, who has been waiting all along, smiles and says,
“I know. I’m glad you came.”

Prayer: When Prayer Feels Hard

Gracious and patient God,
You know the days when prayer comes easily,
and the days when the words just won’t come at all.
When our minds wander and our hearts feel heavy,
remind us that simply showing up is enough.

Teach us that prayer is not performance,
but presence — Yours and ours together.
Help us to rest in the rhythm of faith,
trusting that even our sighs and silences are heard by You.

When we are weary, be our strength.
When we are distracted, be our centre.
And when we don’t feel like praying,
draw us gently back to You —
for You are always waiting,
listening,
loving.

Amen.

Everyone who knows me within my ministry, knows how deeply and dearly I love the sacraments. No matter what level the churchmanship of a given congregation, I love to see the sacraments celebrated well, and to see them used to draw all the congregation into the presence of God. They are tools meant to help us to see the Spiritual reality behind God’s loving presence in our daily reality. And so with that said, I’ve been thinking a lot lately about how those sacraments sometimes speak again, not in the church’s buildings, but in our own daily life.

The great danger in writing about sacraments is that people immediately imagine the clergy in full vestments, the smell of incense wafting about like the Spirit on overtime, and the hushed tones of holiness reserved for things that happen behind an altar rail. But I’d like to suggest that the sacraments, like mischievous children at a formal dinner, refuse to stay where we’ve put them. They sneak out of church, tracking grace all over creation.

Take, for example, the Eucharist. The Church has spent centuries refining how we handle bread and wine, ensuring no crumb or drop goes rogue. And yet, there it is — grace, showing up at your kitchen table in the shape of burnt toast and slightly over-brewed tea. When friends gather to share a meal, stories are told, laughter erupts, and someone inevitably spills something — which, in my book, makes it properly Anglican. These moments are little Eucharists, hidden in plain sight. Christ seems to have a habit of showing up wherever there’s food and forgiveness on the menu.

Then there’s Baptism, that joyous occasion where a baby (or an adult brave enough to know better) gets a generous splash of sanctified water. But look closer: have you ever been caught in a sudden downpour, the kind that soaks you through before you can find your umbrella? There you stand, dripping and blinking, wondering if you’ve been cleansed or just thoroughly inconvenienced. I suspect God laughs at our confusion — for maybe, just maybe, that rainfall is a reminder that baptism, while theologically a one time event, is always renewable. Every time life drenches us — with tears, with laughter, with the sudden surprise of grace — it’s as though the heavens whisper, “Still mine.”

And then there’s that moment of Confession. In ministry, we clergy sometimes find ourselves sitting in quiet corners, hearing the whispered woes of the faithful person, and offering absolution like a gentle rain. But I’ve come to realize that confession leaks out of the church walls, too. It happens at coffee tables and pub counters, when someone sighs deeply and says, “I really messed that up.” There’s holiness in that honesty — not polished, not rehearsed, but true. And when a friend answers, “It’s okay, you’re forgiven,” we catch a glimpse of heaven’s mercy passing from one frail human to another.

The truth is, God’s grace is a bit untidy. It won’t stay in the chalice, the font, or, for that matter, the church walls. It overflows into kitchens, rainstorms, and awkward conversations. The sacraments — those outward and visible signs of inward and spiritual grace — have gone rogue. And thank God for that.

So next time you sit down for supper, step out into the rain, or admit something difficult to someone who loves you anyway — remember: you’re standing on holy ground. No vestments required.

A Prayer for Seeing the Sacraments Everywhere

Gracious and ever-present God,
You meet us not only in bread and wine,
but also in toast and tea,
in laughter that spills across the table,
and in the quiet company of those who love us anyway.

You baptize us again and again —
in the rain that soaks our shoulders,
in the tears that trace our cheeks,
and in the rivers of grace that flow through ordinary days.

You hear our confessions
in whispered prayers and honest conversations,
and you answer through the mercy
of friends who refuse to give up on us.

Teach us to see your holy mischief
in the everyday —
to taste Eucharist in shared meals,
to feel baptism in every drop of rain,
and to know absolution
in every word of forgiveness spoken in love.

Keep us alert to your presence, O Lord,
that we might find you not only at the altar,
but also in the kitchen, the garden, and the street.
For all the world is drenched in your grace,
and we, your slightly soggy servants,
give you thanks and praise.

Through Christ our Lord,
who sanctified both supper and rainstorm.
Amen.

I should have learned by now that God has absolutely no respect for my calendar.

Every week begins with such promise — my planner laid out neatly in front of me, pens arranged in a hopeful rainbow, appointments colour-coded like a bishop’s vestments in Ordinary Time. I make my lists, sip my coffee, and think to myself, “This week, Don, you’ll stay on top of things.” And without fail, by Tuesday morning, some unforeseen pastoral adventure has arrived to remind me that my plans are more of a suggestion than a decree.

It might be the parish printer choosing to undergo a spiritual fast during bulletin production, or a phone call from someone who “just needs five minutes” (which, in church time, means forty-five and a pot of tea). Sometimes it’s a funeral that rearranges the week entirely, or a wedding rehearsal that turns into a theological symposium on the nature of love, human fallibility, and the best brand of punch for the reception.

I used to call these “disruptions.” Now I call them “holy interruptions.”

Because, truth be told, much of ministry — and much of life — happens in the margins of our schedules. It’s the unplanned visit, the unexpected conversation, the last-minute request that somehow turns out to be the very place God was waiting to meet us.

The Gospels are full of these holy interruptions. Jesus never seemed to make it through a single day according to plan. He’d set out to preach in one town, and on the way, someone would tug on His robe, or a crowd would gather, or a friend would say, “There’s a wedding in Cana — you should come!” And there, amid the detours, the divine would unfold. Blind eyes were opened. The lost were found. Water was turned into wine — always a good reminder that God’s interruptions are rarely dull.

There’s a reason for that. The God we meet in Scripture — and, I suspect, in our daily lives — doesn’t inhabit the world of tidy schedules and predictable routines. God’s Spirit moves like the wind, or like a parishioner with a new fundraising idea. You can try to contain it, but you’ll fail gloriously. The holy, it seems, is allergic to our sense of control.

I remember one afternoon in a former parish when I had been determined to write a brilliant sermon. The study door was closed. The coffee was hot. The Greek New Testament was open to just the right passage. And then — knock, knock.

“Father, do you have a minute?”

Of course, I did. It turned out to be one of those conversations that began with, “I don’t really know why I came by…” and ended with tears, prayer, and a palpable sense that God had drawn near. The sermon got finished later — it always does. But that moment was ministry in its purest form: unplanned, unscripted, and holy.

In parish life, we live perpetually in the tension between planning and openness. Vestry meetings, budgets, rotas, and calendars all serve their purpose. But we also need room for the Spirit to surprise us — to show up with an idea, a need, or a person who changes the direction of the day and maybe, if we’re lucky, the direction of our hearts.

So, I’ve come to think that our interruptions are not distractions from the work of God — they are the work of God. They’re the divine knocking at our door, calling from the other end of the phone, or gently turning our colour-coded plans upside down.

The trick, I suppose, is to meet each interruption not with frustration, but with curiosity. To ask, “What might God be doing here, right now, in this unexpected moment?”

And who knows? The next holy interruption might just be the best sermon you never got to finish.

A Prayer for Holy Interruptions

Gracious God,
You move through our days in ways we don’t expect —
in the phone call, the knock at the door,
the moment that breaks our routine.
Teach us to greet each interruption as a gift,
to listen for Your voice in the unscheduled and the inconvenient,
and to find You, always,
in the beautiful mess of ministry and life.
Amen.