By the Wednesday after the Third Sunday of Advent, we find ourselves in the precise middle of everything—and in charge of very little.

Half the candles have been lit. Half the days remain. Half the preparations are finished, while the other half are waiting patiently in a pile labelled “I’ll deal with that later.” Wednesday has a way of doing that. It stands firmly between intention and completion, reminding us — without apology — that we are not nearly as organized as we had hoped by now.

This is not a failure of Advent. It is, in fact, its preferred operating system.

Advent at midweek is not about dramatic gestures or heroic spirituality. It is about learning to wait while the world keeps interrupting us. It is about holding hope in one hand while answering emails with the other. It is about discovering that God is perfectly willing to arrive while we are still mid-sentence.

The scriptures around this time do not offer us a checklist so much as a promise: God is drawing near. Not once everything is polished. Not once the schedule settles down. But right here, in the middle of the week, in the middle of the mess, in the middle of our best-laid plans.

It is such that this blogger might observe that humanity, having been promised salvation, immediately responded by inventing spreadsheets and wondering why joy refuses to be itemized. And Advent gently chuckles at our efforts, reminding us that the coming of Christ is not something we manage — it is something we receive.

So this Wednesday, if you feel caught between anticipation and exhaustion, take comfort. You are not behind. You are simply mid-Advent. And God, it seems, does some of God’s best work precisely in the middle of things.

The miracle is still on its way.
And somehow, wonderfully, so is the grace to wait.

A Companion Prayer

Faithful God,
in the middle of this week
and the middle of this season,
meet us where we are.
Calm our anxious planning,
steady our distracted hearts,
and teach us to trust your timing.
As we wait for the coming of your Son,
help us to notice your presence
already among us—
in the unfinished,
the interrupted,
and the ordinary moments of our days.
We ask this through Jesus Christ,
our hope and our joy.
Amen.

There is a peculiar holiness in those ten minutes before the next thing. You know the ones I mean. The ten minutes before choir practice, when the altos are searching for their tuning forks like archaeologists unearthing relics. The ten minutes before the parish advisory meeting, when everyone is still hopeful and charitable, blissfully unaware of any agenda items involving budgets or roof leaks. The ten minutes before Sunday worship, when the church is quiet — except, of course, for the rumble of the coffee percolator and the occasional acolyte sprinting past like a startled gazelle.

It is in these rare and precious pockets of time — those ten-minute intervals that appear between the good, the chaotic, and the divinely unpredictable — that we are invited into rest. Not the grand rest of sabbaticals or spa retreats or the mythical “slow weekend” we promise ourselves every June. No, I mean the rest we can actually get: the holy pause, the sacrament of stopping, the spiritual deep breath that arrives before the next thing barrels toward us with all the subtlety of a thurible swung by an enthusiastic novice thurifer.

Scripture, of course, is full of moments where God moves in the margins. Elijah hears the still small voice not in the storm, but in the quiet after it. Jesus sneaks away before the disciples can ask Him one more clarifying question about the parables. Even the psalmist whispers, “Be still, and know…” as if knowing God requires stillness — or at least ten uninterrupted minutes of it.

The trouble is that we often treat these in-between moments as disposable. “Oh, I’ve got ten minutes! I can answer three emails, reorganize my entire life, and possibly rework the sermon illustration so it no longer involves sheep in quite such a dramatic fashion!” But rest, true rest, rarely barges in uninvited. It prefers to slip gently into the room like a kindly parishioner carrying a plate of cookies you didn’t ask for but are deeply grateful to receive.

What if — just imagine — what if the ten minutes before the next thing were not simply the warm-up act for the main event, but the very place where God is already waiting for us? What if these moments are less about preparation and more about presence?

Rest isn’t the absence of activity; it’s the presence of peace.

So I offer this modest proposal: let us reclaim the ten-minute window. Let it be a moment to sit down before someone asks why we’re standing. Let it be the deep breath before the hymn, the whispered prayer before the meeting, the smile shared with no one in particular simply because grace showed up and sat down beside you.

And in the Anglican tradition, resting for ten minutes is essentially the same as keeping a minor feast day — optional, reverent, and best accompanied by tea.

My friends, life will always give us the next thing. God gives us the ten minutes before it.

May we have the good sense to notice.
And perhaps — God helping us — the courage to rest.

Amen.

Companion Prayer

Holy God, You meet us not only in the great moments of life, but in the quiet pauses before the next thing. Teach us to rest in You — to breathe deeply, to be still, and to welcome Your peace into the small spaces of our day. Help us receive these ten-minute graces as gifts, not accidents; as invitations, not interruptions. Refresh our spirits, steady our hearts, and prepare us gently for whatever comes next. In Jesus’ name, Amen.

Every December, as faithfully as the magi following their star and as inevitably as the choir breaking into spontaneous disharmony during warm-ups, our parish assembles the Outdoor Nativity Scene on the church lawn.

It is, I must say, one of our holiest annual undertakings — where devotional intention meets meteorological mischief and a surprising amount of zip-ties.

Act I: The Unboxing of Holiness

There is nothing quite like retrieving the Nativity figures from the depths of the parish storage room. Each year, I open the boxes with the same reverence devotees bring to sacred relics — only to find that Joseph’s nose has once again detached itself and migrated mysteriously into Mary’s veil. The shepherds emerge looking slightly shell-shocked, which is fair, given they’ve been living in a Rubbermaid tomb for eleven months.

The Wise Men always appear particularly regal, though one of them — Melchior, if memory serves — has a leaning problem. Every Advent he slowly tilts to the left, as though pondering a deep theological question or perhaps simply giving up on posture until Epiphany.

Act II: Installation on the Lawn (Also Known as the Annual Wrestling Match)

Setting up the Nativity on the lawn is something between a liturgical dance and an episode of Survivor. The wind, as a rule, is against us. The stakes (literal and metaphorical) are high. And every year, like clockwork, someone asks, “Should we just wait until the ground isn’t frozen?”

To which the proper Anglican response is, “Oh no, we couldn’t possibly.”

Once arranged, the Holy Family stands serenely, as though they have no idea they will shortly become the unwilling adversaries of winter storms. Baby Jesus lies swaddled in His cradle, blissfully unaware that within days He may be gently relocated by a well-meaning toddler visitor — or an over-curious neighbourhood raccoon. (We do love our outreach ministries.)

Act III: The Seasons of the Nativity

There is a moment — usually right at dusk — when the lights switch on and the Nativity scene glows with that peaceful, impossible calm that makes every passerby pause. For all our fussing, zip-tying, frostbitten fingers, and attempts to persuade Joseph to face due east instead of gazing forlornly at the shrubbery, the effect is beautiful.

This little tableau on the lawn becomes a small sermon in itself. A reminder that God shows up not in curated perfection but in fields, stables, church lawns, and even in our lopsided attempts to proclaim good news with plywood saints and Styrofoam sheep.

Each year someone asks me if the Nativity will ever be replaced with something more modern — perhaps inflatable, perhaps illuminated, perhaps interactive. I simply smile and say, “If the Holy Family has survived two millennia, they can surely withstand another Canadian winter.”

And they do.
With dignity.
With grace.
With occasional rescue missions after a windstorm.

And we love them for it.

A Pastoral Thought

Our outdoor Nativity reminds me that incarnation isn’t tidy. It happens in the cold, in the awkward, in the wind-blown, in the delightfully human. It happens wherever we dare to place Christ visibly in the world — even on the front lawn.

May our own lives shine with the same slightly-askew but deeply sincere proclamation:
Emmanuel has come. God is with us. Even here. Even now.

A Companion Prayer

Holy God,
As we look upon the Nativity on our lawn,
steady in the wind and shining in the dusk,
grant us the grace to make room for Christ
in the ordinary and the unpredictable.
Bless all who pass by and glimpse Your love,
and make our lives joyful signs of Your presence.
In the name of the Word made flesh. Amen.

If one had accidentally looked in on our most recent Parish Advisory Committee meeting one might have been excused for the laughter that might have ensued. There we were, gathered around the table with gloves and mittens. Some still wore their winter coats, or at the very least, had them drawn around their shoulders. We had arrived for the meeting to discover that the furnace was not functioning, and that the parish hall was incredibl;y cold. As it turned out, at some point in the previous few days, some well-meaning individual had attempted to raise the temperature on the thermostat, and in-so-doing, had managed to take the furnace out of heating mode altogether.

Every parish has its theological flashpoints — questions that have shaped Christian discourse for centuries. Incarnation, Trinity, ecclesiology, and of course the perennial mystery: who keeps turning the church thermostat up (or down, or in this most recent experience, OFF)?

If St. Paul had been writing to a modern congregation, I’m convinced there would be an additional epistle tucked somewhere between Galatians and Ephesians entitled, “Paul, an apostle of Christ Jesus, to the congregation most grievously afflicted by temperature fluctuations.” He would begin, as always, with grace and peace — but he’d quickly get to the heart of the matter: “Brethren, I hear that some among you insist the sanctuary is too warm, while others declare it is colder than a Canadian February — this should not be so!”

Friends, the church thermostat is not merely a beige rectangle on the wall. No, it is a spiritual barometer of the community. In any given parish, there are at least four factions:

    1.    The Perpetually Frozen
These are the saints who arrive wearing scarves knitted during the first Trudeau administration and who sit in the pews shivering like penitents at the gates of heaven.
They insist the church is “an icebox” and whisper urgent prayers: “Come, Holy Spirit — and bring warmth!”

    2.    The Radiantly Overheated
This group fans themselves with the bulletin until it resembles a tropical palm frond.
They claim that the temperature has reached “the fourth circle of Dante’s sauna” and ask if the rector is preparing us for life in the desert — or perhaps another dire place where temperatures are said to be warmer still.

    3.    The Secret Adjusters
These are the sneakiest of parishioners. They move silently during fellowship hour, sidling up to the thermostat like a liturgical ninja, adjusting it by two degrees and hoping no one will notice. Alas—everyone notices.

    4.    The Switzerland Contingent
These blessed souls sit in equanimity, apparently unaffected by temperature at all. They are the living embodiment of Isaiah’s peaceable kingdom: the lamb lies down with the lion, and apparently the sweltering sit comfortably beside the freezing. These are the people we aspire to be… but usually only after coffee hour.

And then, of course, there is the rector — caught in the middle, like a referee in an ecclesiastical climate summit. I have found that explaining the intricacies of the building’s HVAC system (“It’s actually on a timed cycle,” “It takes two hours to adjust,” “The Spirit blows where it wills”) elicits the same response as preaching a 45-minute sermon on Levitical purity laws: nodding, smiling, and absolutely no change in behaviour.

But here’s the thing: Temperature wars, in all their absurdity, illuminate something true about being the Church. We are a people who gather despite our differences — political, theological, and yes, thermal. We come together because Christ has drawn us into one Body, not by making us the same, but by teaching us how to love each other in our delightful, quirky, contradictory humanity.

When we can sit beside one another — one person wrapped in a shawl, the other peeling off layers like an onion — and still say “Peace of Christ,” we glimpse the Kingdom.

Warm or cool, drafty or cozy, overheated or downright Arctic — the miracle is that Christ meets us there.

And so, the gospel according to the church thermostat is simply this: Love one another, even when you strongly suspect the person next to you just turned the temperature up three degrees.

A Companion Prayer

Holy God,
You who created fire and frost, warmth and coolness,
Teach us to live peaceably with one another—
even when we disagree about the temperature.
Grant patience to the overheated, comfort to the chilly,
wisdom to the secret adjusters,
and grace to all who navigate the climate of community.
Make our hearts warmer than our arguments
and our fellowship cooler than our frustrations.
In all things, knit us together in the perfect harmony of Christ.
Amen.

It’s winter in Ontario. Whether we like it or not, that means that we need to renew our acquaintance with the snow shovel.

There is nothing quite like the first snowfall to remind a parish priest of two great spiritual truths:
    1.    Winter has arrived with all the subtlety of a brass band, and
    2.    The Lord loves us, but apparently expects us to shovel.

I maintain that every congregation has a parish snow shovel — sometimes two, occasionally seventeen, depending on how many enthusiastic parishioners felt moved by the Spirit during a Canadian Tire clearance sale. Ours is the humble, slightly bent, eternally loyal instrument of winter sanctification. It leans in the narthex like a weary monk, waiting for the next call to service, or possibly just hoping someone will fix its wobbly handle before Easter.

Now, shovelling the church walkway is no small thing. It is a peculiar blend of vocation, perseverance, and cardio. One moment, you are a serene person contemplating the mysteries of the Incarnation; the next, you are locked in mortal combat with a drift that appears to be actively resisting conversion. If snow has spiritual gifts, stubbornness is surely one of them.

I have learned over the years that the parish snow shovel teaches us ministry in miniature.
It reminds us that:

1. Vocation is often discovered at the bottom of the steps.
   God may indeed call through burning bushes, but more often the call arrives as a text from the junior warden saying, “Father, the steps are a skating rink again.” And suddenly, you discover that vocation includes the prophetic, the pastoral, and the mildly heroic.
2. Perseverance is a fancy word for “keep going.”
   Shovelling is a sacrament of persistence. Just when you clear the last step, a gust of wind topples a fresh load of snow upon your newly minted masterpiece, as though the weather itself is testing your eschatology. Ministry, too, has this recurring quality: finish one task, and three more drift in.
3. The spiritual gift of not slipping is under-appreciated.
   Let us be honest — nothing humbles a priest faster than performing an involuntary liturgical dance on icy stone. Yet each careful step becomes a prayer: “Lord, plant my feet on higher ground — or at least a dry one.” Grace abounds, but so does ice.
4. Service done quietly is sometimes the holiest of all.
   When the early parishioners arrive and walk safely inside without noticing the labour that made their welcome possible, there is a gentle joy in that hidden kindness. The Kingdom grows as much through cleared steps as through soaring sermons.

So let us take heart, friends. Whether you wield the parish snow shovel yourself or pray fervently for those who do, remember this: God is somehow in the shovelling. In the small, cold, persistent tasks that keep a community moving forward — one step, one scrape, one determined heave at a time. And in this, we find the quiet beauty of vocation lived faithfully, boots crunching on fresh snow.

Companion Prayer

Gracious God,
Bless all who labour in winter’s chill—those who clear steps, shovel paths, and make safe the way for others.
Grant us perseverance when the drifts are deep, humour when the ice is slippery, and gratitude for every unseen act of service that builds your Kingdom in gentle ways.
Keep our feet steady, our hearts warm, and our spirits joyful in all we do for love of you.
Amen.

There is an unmistakable moment every year — usually sometime around the first Sunday of Advent — when the Advent wreath appears in the sanctuary like a seasonal celebrity making its grand entrance. One minute the chancel looks perfectly ordinary, and the next there it is: a fir-sprigged crown of theological symbolism and mild fire hazards, perched proudly as if to say, “Yes, I am evergreen, thank you for noticing.”

In many parishes, the placement of the Advent wreath is accompanied by a level of ceremonial care normally reserved for coronations, royal weddings, and the changing of the toner cartridge. It is carried in with a reverence suggesting that if one drops it, Christmas itself may be delayed until further notice.

I remember one late Advent Sunday when the Christmas Tree had already been set up in the church ahead of the pagaent that would happen the following Sunday. It was placed in the front windos of the church, alongside the beautiful Advent wreath. On that almost ill-fated Sunday, as the children left for Sunday school, the Advent wreath with its many lit candles was knocked over into the 12 foot of blue spruce that was our annual Christmas tree. Fortunately a nearby warden jumped in quickly and extinguished the nascent fire on the tree. t would require a little turn to conceal the singed bits, but overall, escaped relatively unscathed.

But setting minor fire hazards aside, what a beautiful, hope-laden thing that Advent wreath is. Round like God’s unending love; green like the promise that life somehow refuses to quit; and studded with candles that bravely stand upright even when the heating vents conspire against them.

Of course, the lighting of the candles can be… shall we say… spiritually character-building. If Stephen Leacock had been an acolyte, he’d have written a multi-volume tragicomedy titled On the Futility of Matches. Anyone who has tried to coax an uncooperative candle to ignite in front of a watching congregation knows that nothing tests one’s sanctification quite like a lighter that sputters or a wick that seems made of Teflon. And yet — somehow — the flame eventually catches, to the quiet relief of clergy, servers, and parish fire marshals alike.

Each week we light another candle. Hope. Peace. Joy. Love. And the middle one — Christ’s candle — if your wreath is so equipped, the great show-stopper of Christmas Eve. They glow with a gentle stubbornness in the early winter darkness, preaching a sermon even before the rector can clear their throat.

Hope: the kind that wakes us up.
Peace: the kind the world keeps forgetting it needs.
Joy: the kind that sneaks up on us between harmonies in “O Come, O Come, Emmanuel.”
Love: the kind that knows our names, our stories, and our need for a do-over.

And in that small circle of flame and evergreen, the church is saying something bold:
We are waiting, yes. But we are not waiting hopelessly.

We are leaning toward the Light.

Sometimes we may feel like one of the candles that just doesn’t want to catch — a bit windblown, a bit weary, wick perhaps trimmed too short by life’s shears. But every Advent wreath reminds us that God keeps trying. God keeps leaning close, whispering that spark of grace, coaxing us toward our own small brilliance.

By Christmas, the wreath has done its work. It has counted down the holy days, endured the drafts, and — if yours is like most parishes — has shed more greenery than a nervous hedgehog. But it has held the circle. It has held the light. And it has held us in the promise that God is coming close, again and always.

May our lives glow with something of that quiet courage, that gentle defiance, that evergreen hope.

A Companion Prayer

Holy One,
As the candles of the Advent wreath mark our waiting,
kindle in us the flame of hope that does not fade,
the peace that steadies us,
the joy that bubbles up unexpectedly,
and the love that circles us round.
Light our lives with the coming of Christ,
that we may shine with your grace
in a world longing for warmth.
Amen.

From my very earliest memories, this has been a time of year that was truly centred in the kitchen. All through the month of December, my mom would be baking and preparing things for entertaining friends, and for events for the church. I try to do the same traditional recipes every December, even though I shouldn’t eat those sweets, and I don’t do nearly the entertaining that my mom did. But as a result of those evenings spent in the kitchen, I’ve had a lot of time to reflect on the ministry of baking.

There are few things that reveal the spiritual condition of a parish more clearly than the potluck sign-up sheet taped to the parish hall window. You can tell who the optimists are—those who sign up for “Dessert” with a flourish, as if chocolate squares alone might usher in the reign of God. You can also spot the realists: the ones who quietly write “Caesar salad,” knowing full well they’ll pick one up at the grocery store while still wearing their choir cassock.

And then, of course, there are the competitive casserole artisans — the saints who treat every potluck as though it were the Great Anglican Bake-Off. They sweep into the hall bearing their creations like medieval relics: the tuna casserole topped with precisely aligned cheddar triangles; the lasagna layered with such architectural integrity that one suspects a retired engineer has been at work. These parishioners never say they “made” something. They crafted it. They “prayed over it.” They “let it rest,” as if it were a spiritual retreatant at the Diocesan Retreat Centre.

I once watched a parishioner place her macaroni-and-cheese on the table with the quiet solemnity of a high-church procession. She bowed slightly — as did two others who followed her with shepherd’s pie and an ambitious quinoa salad no one quite trusted. Somewhere deep within this holy casserole convergence lies the Anglican doctrine of “things done decently and in order,” though admittedly “order” becomes more theoretical than practical when the kids reaches the table first.

What fascinates me most is that despite the gentle competition, despite the whispered boasts (“It’s my grandmother’s recipe — you know, the one I won’t share”), something holy happens. People gather. They sit down together. They find themselves receiving grace ladle by ladle, spoonful by spoonful. It turns out that the Kingdom of God looks suspiciously like a long folding table covered in mismatched slow cookers.

The Great Anglican Bake-Off, in its own way, rehearses the Eucharist: we bring what we have, however humble or over-spiced, and discover that in community it becomes more than the sum of its parts. God’s abundance has a delightful habit of bubbling up right where our casseroles meet.

And on the rare occasion when someone forgets to take their leftovers home, even the raccoons go away blessed.

A Companion Prayer

Gracious God,
You who fed multitudes with loaves and fishes,
bless the hands that stir, mix, chop, and season
in the service of fellowship.
Teach us that every casserole shared,
every pie offered, every store-bought salad bravely placed on the table,
is a sign of your generous heart.
Make our gatherings places of laughter, warmth,
and the holy companionship that nourishes body and soul.
In Jesus’ name, the Bread of Life, we pray. Amen.

There are certain smells that are so sacred, so deeply woven into the fabric of our spiritual memory, that they should probably be bottled and sold in the vestibule under the name “Eau de Diocese.” Alas, the Anglican Church of Canada has yet to approve such a liturgical fragrance line — though I suspect General Synod would send it straight to committee, where it would sit until 2037 beside the report on “Innovations in Pew Cushions.”

Step into any parish church on a Sunday morning, and if you pause long enough, you’ll notice three scents quietly telling the story of who we are.

First, Chrism oil — that glorious blend of olive oil and balsam that wafts through baptisms, confirmations, and ordinations. It’s the aroma of belonging, the fragrance of being chosen and sent. If heaven has a signature scent, I strongly suspect it’s Chrism. It lingers in the wood grain of the font, in the sleeves of cassocks, and once, memorably, on the rector’s hands during coffee hour, leading to a parishioner politely asking whether I’d switched to a new “spicy cologne.”

Then there’s lemon oil, the unsung hero of every sacristy cupboard. It keeps the pews gleaming, the pulpit dignified, and the altar rails smelling faintly like a well-behaved orchard. When the vergers get enthusiastic with it, the sanctuary positively sparkles. Lemon oil whispers, “We prepared a place for you,” even if the pew you settle into wobbles ever so slightly because someone removed a kneeler bolt in 1984 and no one remembers why.

And finally, the one scent we never manufacture, never apply, never polish: the aroma of prayer.

It’s subtle — quieter than Chrism, softer than lemon oil — but unmistakable. It rises from whispered hopes in the back pew, from the tremble in the voice of someone lighting a candle for a child or a diagnosis or a future uncertain. It gathers in the rafters, woven into the dust motes that dance in the sunlight. It lives in the silence after the Peace, when for a brief moment we remember that God actually meant it when He promised to dwell among us.

If you inhale deeply enough, you might just catch hints of old hymnals, winter coats thawing after a snowy walk, and the coffee percolating in the parish hall — proof, perhaps, that sanctity is not separate from daily life but stitched right through it, like the symbols stitched onto a chasuble.

And so the sanctuary becomes a kind of holy recipe:
    •    one part sacramental Chrism,
    •    one part lemon-oiled elbow grease,
    •    and one part the gathered prayers of God’s people, simmering quietly in the heart of the parish.

The result? A fragrance far richer than any scented candle shop could bottle. A scent that says, “Here, you are at home. Here, you belong.”

May we carry that aroma with us—on our coats, in our spirits, in our conversations long after we’ve stepped back into the world God calls us to love.

Companion Prayer
Holy One, breathe upon us the fragrance of Your presence.
Let the scents of sacrament and service, of polished wood and whispered prayer,
remind us that You are near—
in the ordinary, the beautiful, and the deeply human places of our lives.
Make us living sanctuaries of grace,
bearing the aroma of Christ into every corner of the world.
Amen

There are certain rooms in parish life where the veil between heaven and earth grows thin. The sanctuary at the Eucharist. The parish hall during a potluck. And, of course, the sacristy — where holy chaos and divine order meet for tea at 8:00 a.m. sharp.

If you’ve ever ventured behind the curtain on a Sunday morning, you know the sacristy is a place of deep mystery. It is where half-burned candles go to retire, where purificators multiply like rabbits, and where at least one drawer contains so many unlabeled keys that I’m convinced some of them open doors in Narnia.

It’s also the place where I, the rector, stand heroically juggling chasubles, last-minute announcements, and the occasional acolyte who has “just remembered” they can’t carry the gospel book today because they “sprained a wrist petting the cat.”

Sacristies, for all their clutter and comedy, are sacred spaces of preparation. Here, between the frantic hunt for a matching set of chalice veils and the discovery that someone has stored a tea towel inside the thurible (don’t ask), we breathe and remember why we’re doing any of this.

It is the sacristy that holds our vulnerability. It sees us before the procession dignity kicks in: clergy adjusting collars, servers negotiating candle lighter etiquette, wardens muttering prayers that sound suspiciously like, “Oh Lord, not this again.” The sacristy is the workshop of reverence, stitching together the small human surrenders that make worship possible.

And in those moments — amid the lint rollers, rogue surplices, and the mysterious stain on the fair linen (origin unknown, inquiry ongoing) — God meets us. Not after we’ve perfected things, but right there in the holy mess. Grace shows up between a crooked stole and a mismatched burse, reminding us that God has always done God’s best work with people who are trying their best while tripping over the occasional alb hem.

So here’s to the sacristy: the backstage of the Kingdom, the cradle of preparation, the spiritual equivalent of a family kitchen just before company arrives. It may never make the tour brochure, but it’s where half our ministry happens. And sometimes — just sometimes — when the right candle lighter appears and the choir is on time — you can even feel the angels chuckling.

Companion Prayer

Holy and gracious God,
You who meet us in the sanctuary and in the sacristy,
in the polished moments and the wonderfully unpolished ones,
Bless all who prepare for worship—clergy, servers, sacristans,
wardens, musicians, and those who straighten the hymn numbers
at the very last second.
In our holy chaos, grant us calm; in our fumbling, grant us grace;
and in all things, let your joy be our strength.
Make our preparations acts of love, our mistakes occasions for mercy,
and our worship a true offering of praise.
Through Christ, who meets us in both reverence and laughter.

Amen.

There are days when the church feels less like a stately spiritual institution and more like a community-run emergency landing strip for hearts that have run out of altitude. If you’ve ever watched someone wander into the nave after a week of emotional turbulence, you’ll know exactly what I mean. Sometimes they look as though they’ve fought dragons. Sometimes they look like the dragons. And sometimes they look like they’ve misplaced their boarding pass of hope entirely.

Yet somehow — miraculously — the parish becomes a soft place to land. Not because we’ve got padded pews (those were strictly vetoed by generations of churchwardens determined to keep people awake), nor because we have state-of-the-art counselling suites (though the sacristy chair has absorbed enough confessions to qualify as an honorary therapist). It’s softer because the people are.

A parish, at its best, is a place where the weary can lean without fear of toppling; where the anxious can breathe in the liturgy’s rhythm; where the grieving can let their tears fall into the carpet and know it won’t be mentioned at Vestry. It’s a place where someone will gently slide over in the pew, offer a smile of recognition, and whisper, “You sit here often enough — you should probably consider leaving your name on the seat.”

In truth, being a soft place to land doesn’t require grand programs or dazzling innovations. It requires the slow, unhurried compassion of Jesus — the Jesus who never told exhausted disciples to “buck up,” but instead invited them to sit down on the grass while He fed them; the Jesus who looked at the crowds “harassed and helpless” and met them not with irritation, but with gut-deep tenderness; the Jesus who let weariness rest against Him without judgment.

In our time, mental health struggles are no longer the hidden guests of parish life — they walk right in the front door, often singing alto in the choir or helping make the coffee. And they should. Because a church that cannot welcome the anxious, the depressed, the wounded, the burnt-out, and the merely-trying-to-hold-it-together is not, in fact, the Body of Christ. It’s more like a poorly-run airport with no emergency response team.

Being a soft place to land means we give people permission to not be okay. It means we listen more than we fix. It means we bless the shaky, honour the fragile, and trust that God does some of God’s best work with cracked clay pots like us.

It might even mean restocking the Kleenex supply more frequently — though, in true Anglican fashion, we’ll blame the shortage on seasonal allergies.

So here’s to the parish: kneelers for the faithful, coffee for the fellowship, and compassion for the weary. May we be a place where bruised spirits catch their breath, where the overburdened are gently held, and where every person — no matter how turbulent their week — can find enough peace to try again.

Companion Prayer

Loving and Gentle God,
You know the weight we carry, the worries that wear grooves in our hearts,
and the quiet exhaustion we often hide from others.
Make your Church a soft place to land —
a refuge of kindness, a shelter for the anxious,
a home for all who are weary in body, mind, or spirit.

Give us compassion that listens, patience that steadies,
and grace that embraces without condition.
Gather us into your healing love
and help us offer that same love to all who enter our doors,
trusting that in You, every burden can find rest.
Amen.