Dear reader, you know that my last two weeks has involved an extended stay in hospital. The initial Doctor had ordered absolute bed rest. Within 8 hours, I had given orders to my sister, and found myself in bed with phone, iPad, laptop, and iPad keyboard — everything that I needed to be able to work from that bed. I couldn’t feel good about just lying there resting. I desperately needed to feel that I was accomplishing something — that I was productive — even as I was trying to prepare for a huge surgery, and the recovery to follow.

There’s a certain holiness, I’m convinced, in crossing something off a list. That tiny motion of the pen — the triumphant slash through “send email,” “call plumber,” or “clean the drawer of unidentified keys” — is accompanied by the faint sound of angels humming a victory chorus. At least, that’s what I tell myself as I ceremonially mark off “write sermon,” only to immediately add “revise sermon,” “polish sermon,” and “pray sermon actually makes sense.”

We live in an age that worships productivity. If the Apostle Paul were writing today, someone would have marketed his journeys as “Paul’s Seven Habits of Highly Effective Missionaries.” There’d be an app for his epistles (“Track your discipleship progress — get push notifications from Corinth!”). And yet, I suspect the Lord, gazing down upon our colour-coded calendars and bullet journals, might sigh lovingly and say, “Children, I created you to be human beings, not human doings.”

Let’s imagine, for a moment, the divine take on our to-do lists.

1. “Have you considered adding rest to that list?”

God, you may recall, managed to create the entire cosmos in six days — and then rested. Not “checked email during a quick Sabbath breather,” not “caught up on unread messages from the Seraphim Slack channel,” but rested. No wonder the commandment to keep the Sabbath holy sits right there with all the other big ones; the Creator was serious about rest.

Yet here we are, elbow-deep in productivity hacks, trying to fit a Sabbath in between “fold laundry” and “update expense spreadsheet.”

It’s as if we fear the world will stop spinning if we take a nap. The truth, of course, is that the world will keep turning — and our neighbours will probably appreciate us more if we’ve had a good rest.

2. “Whose glory is this list for?”

We love the satisfaction of being “on top of things.” But the Kingdom of God operates on a different kind of logic. The first shall be last, and the last shall — well — probably still be behind on their emails, but they’ll be loved nonetheless.

Productivity, at its best, is stewardship: doing what needs to be done so love can flow more freely. At its worst, it’s pride in disguise — our way of proving to the world (and perhaps to ourselves) that we are indispensable.

If God can run the universe without our constant help, perhaps we can trust the divine economy enough to occasionally sit down, breathe, and simply be.

3. “I didn’t create you for checkboxes.”

When Jesus called his disciples, he didn’t hand them a clipboard. There was no “Mission Objectives” spreadsheet:

• Recruit twelve apostles
• Feed multitudes
• Walk on water (stretch goal)
• Defeat death (deadline: Easter)

Instead, Jesus invited them into relationship, into the unpredictable rhythm of grace — sometimes active, sometimes contemplative, always purposeful. The divine to-do list is written not in ink but in love, and its first line always reads: “Be present.”

4. “Productivity is not holiness.”

This one hurts. We often equate being busy with being faithful. Parish priests are notorious for this — after all, there’s always another meeting, another sermon, another pastoral visit, another email thread titled “Quick Question” that turns into a 47-reply theological debate about coffee hour logistics.

But holiness is not busyness. Holiness is attention — attention to God, to others, and to the moment right in front of us. Sometimes that means getting things done. Sometimes it means letting them go.

5. “Grace, not guilt, should guide your day.”

Perhaps that’s the heart of it. God’s list for us isn’t about tasks, but about trust. The work that really matters — the forgiveness given, the kindness offered, the prayer whispered over a cup of lukewarm tea — is often invisible to our planners. Grace doesn’t need a checkmark. It only asks for an open heart.

So next time you find yourself staring at your endless list, take a cue from our divine Editor-in-Chief. Cross off “save the world” — that’s already been handled. Add “give thanks,” “take a walk,” “laugh,” and maybe even “do nothing for five minutes.”

Who knows? You might just discover that in God’s eyes, the most productive thing you can do is rest in grace.

In conclusion:

If there is a heavenly to-do list, I suspect it looks something like this:

1. Love God.
2. Love neighbour.
3. Nap if necessary.

And perhaps, in the margins, written in divine handwriting:

“Don’t worry so much. I’ve got this.”

A Prayer for the Theology of the To-Do List

Gracious and patient God,

You who shaped the stars and then took a day to rest, teach us again that Your Kingdom does not run on deadlines, calendars, or colour-coded charts.

We confess that we often measure our worth by what we accomplish, and forget that You delight in us simply because we exist.

Forgive our frantic striving, Lord, and calm the restless ticking of our inner clocks.

When we are tempted to worship productivity, remind us that You call us not to perfection, but to presence — to sit at Your feet as Mary did, to breathe deeply, to remember that grace cannot be scheduled.

Bless our lists, O God, but bless them lightly.

Let them serve love rather than pride, and help us to see each task, great or small, as a chance to join You in the quiet work of compassion.

When our day is done and some boxes remain unchecked, teach us to rest without guilt, trusting that the unfinished work of our hands rests safely in Yours.

Through Jesus Christ, who accomplished the greatest work of all — and still took time to pray, to walk, and to share a meal — we offer this day, and every day, back to You.

Amen.

Today I finally go home from my extended hospital stay. I know that there is not a thing in the refrigerator, and so the first stop on the way will have to be at the grocery store to re-stock. It’s funny that such a simple stop could become something that I would so look forward to, but after two weeks of beef patty and herbed chicken, I am really excited to make something creative. But that anticipation of a grocery trip got me really considering the grocery store, or perhaps more, the grocery store parking lot.

There are few places where the human condition is more clearly displayed than in the parking lot of a grocery store. Some theologians explore the mysteries of divine transcendence; others probe the depths of the Trinity. I, however, seem to spend an inordinate amount of my pastoral life contemplating… grocery carts.

If you want to understand original sin, human frailty, the hope of redemption, and the entire Epistle of James — all in under three minutes — simply observe what happens when someone unloads their groceries. A curious drama unfolds:

There is the Saint in Training, who returns the cart dutifully, even though the cart corral is three postal codes away. They persevere like Hebrews 12 incarnate, pushing their cart with the resolve of a pilgrim bound for Santiago.

There is the Optimist, who positions the cart “close enough,” vaguely in the direction of the cart return, perhaps hoping that a strong wind will cooperate with their moral intentions.

There is the Theologian of Chaos, who leaves their cart precisely where their car was moments earlier — as if the act of vacating the parking space transfers all cosmic responsibility to the next person.

And, of course, we have the Mystic, who gently nests their cart with another but in a creative new location unburdened by signage, order, or the labyrinthine laws of the parking lot. A sort of “new monasticism of metal and wheels.”

As I watched this liturgy of carts one afternoon, I began to wonder whether grocery carts are one of God’s more underrated sanctifying tools. Returning a grocery cart is a tiny, almost invisible act of courtesy — remarkably unglamorous and entirely unmonetized. It will not earn you sainthood, social media followers, or even a polite nod. In fact, most of the time, no one sees you do it.

Which is precisely what makes it holy.

Our faith traditions are filled with reminders that grace is found in the small gestures — cups of cold water, mustard seeds, widow’s mites, greetings offered, burdens shared. Courtesy is the quiet cousin of charity: modest, unassuming, but profoundly Christian. It builds community in ways so subtle we almost miss it.

To return a grocery cart is, in a way, to practise incarnational theology: grace with wheels. You’re saying, “I occupy this world with you, and my small actions affect your daily life.” It’s the spiritual discipline of not making someone else’s day harder. And while no one may canonize you for it, the angels probably smile and say, “Look — there’s one of ours, pushing holiness uphill.”

The truth is, we’re all cart-leavers sometimes. Life gets busy. Children get cranky. Rain falls horizontally. And every so often we find ourselves thinking, “Surely someone else will take care of this one.” Which is just another way of saying, “I’m human.”

But on the days when we do return the cart — when we take the extra thirty seconds to leave a small corner of the world tidier than we found it — we participate in the slow, steady mending of our common life.

Community is never built in grand gestures alone. It is built in parking lots, grocery aisles, and the tiny courtesies we offer one another, over and over again, quietly and without applause.

So the next time you find yourself standing at the back of your car, staring at the cart and contemplating your options, just remember: you are engaging in one of the great unheralded spiritual decisions of modern life.

Push the cart. Return it home.

And smile, knowing that holiness sometimes squeaks a little on the pavement.

Prayer

Holy and gracious God,

You meet us not only in sanctuaries and chapels, but in parking lots, grocery aisles, and the small, unremarkable corners of daily life.

Teach us the sacred art of courtesy — to choose kindness when no one is watching, to return the carts that aren’t ours, to lighten the load for a stranger without expecting reward.

Make our hands willing, our steps mindful, and our hearts generous in the little things, that your Kingdom may be built not only with grand gestures,but with simple mercies offered in love.

Bless our community with patience, with humour, with compassion in unlikely places, and with grace that rolls gently toward others. In the name of Christ, who meets us in every ordinary moment.

Amen.

There is a line I’ve used more than once in sermons, pastoral visits, and the occasional hospital corridor ramble: “Sometimes the grace of God needs skin on it.”

What I mean, of course, is that God’s mercy, love, and tenderness often arrive not in thunderclaps or angelic choruses (though I wouldn’t object to a cherub or two), but through ordinary humans doing extraordinarily kind things — sometimes completely by accident.

I’ve been thinking a great deal about this during my latest chapter of “Don in the Hospital: The Miniseries.” When one is lying flat on a bed that seems to have been engineered by a committee who never actually tested it, there is ample time to ponder the ways God slips into our day disguised as people who are, frankly, no more qualified to be angels than the rest of us.

The Grace of the Unintentional Saint

Take, for example, the nurse who came in one evening to take my vitals. She was cheerful, energetic, and utterly convinced that I had the blood pressure of “a man ten years younger.”

Now, this was all highly encouraging — until she added, “Of course, the machine is acting up again, so who really knows?”

Still, I’ll take the compliment. Grace with skin on sometimes comes wrapped in a faulty blood pressure cuff and a well-meaning grin.

The Ministry of the Man Who Brought the Wrong Tray

Then there was the young fellow delivering meals who regularly brought me the tray meant for another patient entirely. I would stare down at something described optimistically as “beef stroganoff,” while my actual gluten-free order was no doubt being enjoyed by a bewildered gentleman down the hall.

But here’s the grace: the young man would always clap his hands, laugh at himself, and say, “Well, sir, someone is eating better than usual today, even if I haven’t the faintest clue who.” Then he’d run off down the hall to rescue my gluten-free meal before it was gone

There is no theological term for this kind of compassion — the compassion that simply shows up, smiling, apologizing, and bringing with it the faint whiff of institutional gravy — but it is grace all the same.

The Compassion of the Cleaner with the Gift of Prophecy

One of the housekeeping staff, upon seeing me trying to reposition myself without disturbing the increasingly complicated system of hospital wires, tubes, and medieval torture devices attached to me, simply patted my shoulder and said, “It gets better, love. It always gets better.”

I am almost certain she was quoting the Book of Common Sense, chapter 12, verse 7 — one of the lost texts of Scripture we clergy wish we had. But whether she knew it or not, she was proclaiming gospel truth: God sends comforters who know nothing of theology but everything of kindness.

The Theology of Human Tangibility

There is something profoundly Anglican — and profoundly Incarnational — about discovering grace through the very ordinary humans around us.

God did not choose to love us from a distance.

God took on flesh.

Moved into the neighbourhood.

Ate with us.

Cried with us.

Healed us.

And, very possibly, chuckled at us.

So it should surprise no one when grace comes walking in wearing scrubs, or delivering the wrong supper, or whispering words of comfort entirely unsanctioned by any formal liturgical text.

We often pray for signs, miracles, or radiant epiphanies. But most often, the Holy Spirit nudges someone nearby — someone tired, someone worried, someone late for their break — and says, “Go. Be kind. And don’t worry, I’ll handle the rest.”

A Final Story (Because Grace Is Contagious)

Just yesterday, a volunteer — one of those indefatigable souls who looks like she’s been fueled exclusively by goodwill and lukewarm church-basement coffee — paused in my room. She didn’t have to. She wasn’t delivering anything, collecting anything, or checking anything.

She just stepped in, smiled, and said, “You look like you could use a little cheer.”

Then she handed me a tiny handmade card with a cheerful sun drawn on it by a local primary school class. The sun had seven rays, one eyebrow, and what I think was meant to be a smile but looked suspiciously like it needed dental intervention.

It was perfect.

Grace with skin on — and with a box of crayons.

Nothing Fancy, Just Love

These small, human gestures — unpolished, unplanned, and sometimes unintentionally hilarious — are where I’ve seen God most clearly this week.

Grace doesn’t always come robed in splendour.

More often it comes wearing sensible shoes.

It comes carrying a mop, or a food tray, or a half-functioning blood pressure machine.

It comes through people who don’t even know they’ve been deputized into divine service.

And it always comes at just the right moment.

Thanks be to God for compassion found in unlikely places — and for the beautiful, stumbling, hilarious ways we become grace for one another

Grace With Skin On

Let us pray.

Gracious and ever-present God, we thank you that Your love does not stay distant, hovering somewhere beyond our reach, but comes close — close enough to wear human hands, human humour, and human imperfection.

Thank You for the quiet angels who show up disguised as nurses, cleaners, volunteers, and all who carry kindness without even knowing it.

Bless those who bring comfort unintentionally, who share compassion without training, and who reveal Your grace in smiles, apologies, mismatched meal trays, and words of encouragement whispered in passing.

Teach us, O Lord, to recognize You in these ordinary saints, to welcome Your presence in the gentle interruptions of mercy, and to become, ourselves, grace with skin on — for those who are weary, frightened, lonely, or in pain.

Make our laughter holy, our clumsiness redeemable, and our small acts of tenderness a window into Your great love.

And as we continue our own journeys of healing, grant us patience, wonder, and the ability to see Your light shining in all the unlikely places You delight to inhabit.

In the name of Jesus, who became flesh so that we might know Your heart,

Amen.

Like my father before me, I have always been built rather close to the meal table. There are few things I enjoy more than pulling up a chair among friends to share food, laughter, and the sort of fellowship that requires a second helping. With that confession now shared, I must tell you that during my recent period of incarceration — or, as the hospital insists on calling it, “recovery” — it dawned upon me with deep and genuine chagrin that I had missed both the parish community supper and the October potluck lunch. I confess, this realization wounded me more deeply than the plethora of IV needles and Phlebotomists needles that have taken blood multiple times each day. There I was, lying in bed, while somewhere in the parish hall the saints were spooning out scalloped potatoes and the holy aroma of ham and baked beans was ascending to heaven as a pleasing offering..

There are many mysteries of the faith — the Incarnation, the Trinity, the miracle of forgiveness — but none, I am convinced, quite as mysterious as the church potluck supper. It is a rite that appears in no official liturgical text and yet, mysteriously, every congregation knows how to do it. No priest is ever trained for it in seminary (though perhaps we should be), and yet the first time it happens under your pastoral watch, you realize you are in the presence of something deeply sacramental — or at least deeply baked in Campbell’s soup.

I have long held that the church potluck is the true eighth sacrament — an outward and visible sign of an inward and digestible grace.

Let’s begin with the theology. Every potluck is, in a sense, a small act of the Kingdom. It takes many ingredients — a dozen kinds of lasagna, seventeen bowls of salad (six of which involve Jell-O), and one mysterious casserole that defies both naming and identification — and weaves them together into something holy. It’s the culinary equivalent of Pentecost: everyone brings their own dish, and somehow the Spirit translates it all into nourishment and joy.

I do remember one potluck lunch at St. Thomas the Apostle in Cambridge that hadn’t, shall we say, been organized according to any known principles of menu coordination. Somewhere between divine providence and human forgetfulness, the entire congregation managed to bring desserts. The result was less “parish luncheon” and more “Great Anglican Bake-Off.” Tables groaned under the weight of trifles, tarts, and towering cakes. The only green thing in sight was the icing on a batch of cupcakes. My treasurer at the time — a man of formidable conviction and an even more formidable sweet tooth — was entirely unbothered. He always made a beeline for the dessert table anyway, insisting in his perfectly polished English accent that “it would simply be a crime to fill up on casseroles and not have room left for the afters.” That day, he was vindicated as a prophet. We all dined gloriously on the “afters” alone, and not one soul complained. I daresay the angels joined in.

And consider the eucharistic echoes! The breaking of bread is replaced by the spooning out of potato salad. The passing of the peace gives way to the passing of the macaroni and cheese. The priest who stands at the altar now stands at the end of the buffet table, offering a blessing over devilled eggs and hoping the line moves quickly before the congealed salad congeals any further.

Of course, no potluck would be complete without a few minor disasters — the stuff of legend that binds us together for decades. There is always the parishioner who brings something “experimental,” like curried tuna loaf, and then stands watchfully to see who takes some. There’s the eternal debate about whether it’s acceptable to take dessert before salad, and the quiet scandal when someone sneaks out the back door with all the good brownies. These are the trials that purify the soul and teach us, painfully and repeatedly, that grace is not earned, but received — sometimes with indigestion.

And yet, for all its comic chaos, there is something profoundly theological happening beneath the surface. The church potluck is the great equalizer. It doesn’t matter whether you are the bishop or the one who just wandered in off the street — everyone gets a plate, everyone stands in line, everyone gets fed. There is no reserved seating at the potluck table. It is the living parable of the heavenly banquet, only with more casseroles and fewer angels.

I remember one particular potluck at St. David’s, years ago. We’d had a glorious liturgy that morning, the choir had sung like the heavenly host, and I was feeling quite priestly and accomplished. Then, as I reached for the serving spoon to dish out some pasta, it broke clean in two and launched a perfectly aimed glob of spaghetti sauce across the front of my white clerical shirt. The parish burst out laughing — and so did I. In that moment, my clerical dignity took a well-deserved tumble, and grace came rushing in, red and tomatoey.

It struck me later that this, too, was part of the sacrament. The potluck humbles us. It reminds us that we are not saved by polish or performance, but by participation — by showing up with whatever we have to offer, even if it’s only a store-bought pie or a slightly singed casserole.

When we gather around those long tables — folding tables covered in vinyl cloths, plates balanced precariously, conversation humming — we are tasting more than food. We are tasting fellowship, belonging, and the wild hospitality of God. In a world that tells us to consume, to compete, and to curate, the potluck dares to say: just bring what you’ve got, and there will be enough.

So yes, I stand by it — the church potluck is indeed the eighth sacrament. It may not appear in the Book of Common Prayer, but it shows up in every parish hall where love is served warm, grace is ladled generously, and laughter is the sound of the Spirit stirring the pot.

And if you ever find yourself worried about what to bring — relax. The Lord has already multiplied the loaves and fishes; you’re just responsible for the potato salad.

A Prayer for the Potluck Table

Gracious God, you feed us not only with bread, but with laughter and love.

Bless the hands that bring casseroles, the hearts that bring welcome, and the souls that find You between the Jell-O molds and the slow cookers.

May every shared table remind us of your eternal banquet — where no one goes hungry, and everyone has a story to tell.

Amen.

There’s a certain quality to hospital lighting that makes you wonder whether the architects ever met a patient. It’s that relentlessly cheerful fluorescent glow — halfway between a celestial beacon and an interrogation lamp. I’m convinced it’s designed to keep you both awake and introspective. And as I’ve been recently reminded, nothing invites theological reflection quite like being flat on your back at 3:00 a.m., bathed in institutional brilliance, listening to the squeak of a nurse’s sensible shoes down a too-long corridor.

Hospitals, I’ve discovered, are holy in their own peculiar way. Not in the grand, stained-glass-window sense, but in the ordinary holiness of vulnerability — where the body and soul both admit, “I can’t do this alone.” You might think that’s obvious, but clergy can be notoriously slow learners on that point. We’re trained to be the ones doing the visiting, offering the prayer, handing over the pastoral pamphlet — rarely the ones clutching the bed rail and praying that the IV pump will stop beeping.

It’s humbling, lying there in that corridor of light, realizing that grace sometimes arrives disguised as a nurse entering my information into the laptop in the room with an unimpressed expression. There’s no incense, no organ music — just the quiet competence of those who care for the fragile, and the unmistakable sense that God is quite at home among the bandages, the monitors, and the endless cups of tepid tea.

I remember watching the light spill under my hospital room door one night, reflecting off the polished linoleum, and thinking of the Prologue to John’s Gospel: “The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness did not overcome it.” I realized, somewhat begrudgingly, that this verse applied even to corridor lighting at 3:00 a.m. God, it seems, doesn’t mind showing up in awkward places. The Incarnation, after all, began in a barn.

And yet, for all my complaining about hospital food (which seems to be a culinary experiment in how beige can taste like nothing), I found something deeply healing in the rhythm of it all — the coming and going of nurses, the quiet hum of care, the soft conversations of people who work where suffering is a daily visitor. These are people who live their vocation at the intersection of science and compassion. They may not quote the Psalms, but they embody them.

Somewhere between the morning rounds and the evening vitals, I began to see that this corridor light — this bright, persistent, mildly irritating glow — was more than just bad interior design. It was, in its own way, a sacrament: a reminder that light does not wait for our permission to shine. It enters wherever there is space, however cracked or tired or fearful we may be.

And perhaps that’s the grace of it. When we’re at our weakest — when our own light flickers and fades—it’s then that God’s light slips in quietly under the door, fills the corridor, and keeps vigil beside us.

So the next time you find yourself in a hospital — or any place where the world seems reduced to beeps and bandages — don’t overlook that odd, unwavering light. It may not be cathedral-quality, but it’s holy just the same.

After all, as I’ve learned from the good Lord and the good nurses alike: sometimes illumination comes not from stained glass, but from fluorescent tubes.

The Light in the Hospital Corridor”

Holy and Healing God,

You meet us not only in sanctuaries and sunlight, but in sterile rooms and sleepless nights. When we lie still beneath the glare of hospital lights, remind us that even there — especially there — Your love keeps vigil beside us.

Bless the hands that heal, the hearts that comfort, and the quiet souls who serve with grace and humour in places the world forgets.

Teach us to see Your light in the ordinary — in the nurse’s gentle touch, the hum of the monitors, the persistence of hope that refuses to dim.

When our spirits falter and our patience thins, grant us the gift of laughter — that sacred reminder that joy is still alive, even among the IV poles and clipboards.

Let that laughter, too, be part of our healing. And when we are restored, Lord, send us back into the world as bearers of that same light — a little bruised, perhaps, but burning still with gratitude and grace. Through Christ, the Light who never leaves our side.

Amen.

If I were ever foolish enough to attempt writing an eleventh commandment — and there’s a good chance I already have in some sermon or another — it would be this: “Thou shalt laugh at thyself.”

Now before the theologians clutch their pearls and the canon lawyers sharpen their quills, let me be clear: I am not adding to Scripture. Heaven forbid! I’m simply making an observation that if Moses had lived in a Retory with a parish council and a photocopier that jammed every Sunday at 9:59 a.m., he might have chiseled this one in himself.

Because truly, if we can’t laugh at ourselves, someone else surely will — and they’ll probably do it better.

There is a peculiar thing that happens in ministry (and indeed, in life): we begin with zeal, confidence, and perhaps a touch of smugness that we will be the one who gets it all right. And then, about two weeks in, reality sets in. The Sunday school craft goes up in flames (literally or figuratively), the sound system feeds back at the most solemn moment of the Eucharist, and the preacher realizes mid-sermon that their clever alliteration— “Faith, Family, and Fencing” — was meant for next week.

And in those moments, if we can’t laugh, we’ll break.

I remember early in ministry at St. David’s in Cambridge, a true comedy of errors came together all on one Sunday. I had hired an organist from the faculty of music at Wilfrid Laurier University. He was an absolute marvel to behold at the keyboard. He could play any piece of music at sight. But he had never attended a church prior to taking the job. He was never confident about when he was expected to play, and what should be the next thing played.

On this particular Sunday — a Sunday where we had a big parish potluck planned to follow the service — I had laboured long and hard over the liturgy. It was going to be a triumph of liturgical science. The opening hymn went off beautifully, and the organist distinguished himself.

I went to the chancel steps to sit and have a talk with the children, but as I sat down on the steps I felt and heard the unmistakable signs that the seat had just torn out of my pants — Not such a problem when covered by robes, but this could be difficult at the potluck after service. As I preached the homily, I could hear the unmistakeable sound of the organist’s hands flying around on the keyboard. He had the instrument turned off so it made no sound, but was using my sermon time to rehearse for his Monday Masterclass at the University. Throughout the service small things kept going wrong, and I was getting more and more upset that my perfect triumph was not going according to plan.

Finally, it was time for the closing hymn. I announced it, and the organist looked at me and mouthed the word, “Now?” I mouthed back “Yes. Now!” He responded by mouthing, “Right now?” I spoke out loud and in an annoyed tone, “Yes! Right now!” He raised his hands and came down hard on the keyboard — but just as his hands touched the keys, before the first tone emitted from the instrument, there was a great crack of thunder. A flash of lightning rent the air around us, and there was darkness… and a complete lack of music.

As I stood there in the darkness and silence, I could almost hear a divine chuckle: “You were saying, Don?”

There’s a kind of holy humility that comes only through humour. It’s the moment when we see ourselves as we are — human, fallible, occasionally ridiculous — and realize that God loves us anyway. Laughter can be a small resurrection, the lifting of the spirit from the grave of self-importance.

Stephen Leacock, that great Canadian theologian of laughter (though he might not have claimed the title), once said, “Each one of us requires the spur of laughter to remind us that we are not gods, but delightfully flawed mortals.”

That’s the real heart of it. Humour isn’t about dismissing the sacred; it’s about remembering that we are not the sacred one. It’s what keeps the ego in check and the soul elastic. When we can laugh at our own blunders, we leave room for grace to slip in through the cracks.

So perhaps, in our quiet prayers at day’s end, alongside the confessions and thanksgivings, we might add:

“Lord, thank You for the gift of laughter — for the times You’ve reminded me that I am not the centre of the universe, but still loved all the same.”

And maybe, just maybe, that’s what holiness looks like: the ability to grin at our own absurdity and still find God smiling back.

Because, after all — if we can’t laugh at ourselves, we’ve missed one of the sweetest ways God teaches us humility

Faith without laughter is like coffee without cream — technically possible, but why would you?

A Prayer for Holy Laughter

Gracious and Joyful God, You who spoke creation into being with both wisdom and wit, teach us to take ourselves a little less seriously, and You a little more so.

When our plans fall apart, our dignity frays, and our perfectly crafted moments go gloriously sideways — help us to hear Your gentle laughter echoing through the chaos.

Remind us that humility isn’t humiliation, but the freedom to be human, to stumble and smile and start again.

Grant us, Lord, the grace to laugh at ourselves — to see in our foolishness the proof that we still have much to learn, and in our laughter the sound of resurrection joy.

Bless every holy giggle that chases away pride, every chuckle that heals the heart, and every grin that reminds us that You delight in Your children.

In the name of Jesus, who laughed with His friends, who wept when He must, and who still smiles upon us now.

Amen

Friends,

Many times this past week, as I’ve stared at the same four walls, the same institutional beige curtains, and what I suspect may be the same bowl of Jell-O reincarnated from yesterday’s lunch, I’ve found myself thinking of St. Paul’s admonition to “in all things give thanks.”

Now, I will confess that I have long admired Paul’s spiritual fortitude. His ability to write letters full of hope and gratitude while chained in a Roman prison makes my minor irritations with hospital life seem, well, less than apostolic. But still, when one has been on “absolute bed rest” for what feels like the gestational period of an elephant, one’s sense of gratitude can get a bit thin around the edges.

There comes a moment, usually around the third failed attempt to sleep while someone takes your blood pressure at 3 a.m., when one’s thoughts drift perilously close to grumbling. And yet, in those moments, Paul’s words echo like a small but persistent voice in the back of my mind—“in all things give thanks.” Not just the lovely things. Not just the obviously blessed things. All things.

It took very few days to discover that the hospital kitchen had only three options of entrees for a gluten-free diet. In the early days here, they seemed pretty good actually. But after nearly two weeks, it becomes VERY repetitive. It might be easy to slip back in to grumbling.

Now, I am a parish priest, which means I am well-practised at finding theological meaning in the mundane. I can locate grace in a parish budget meeting, hope in a funeral lunch, and holiness in the smell of burnt coffee. But hospital life tests even my most creative hermeneutics. There’s only so much sacramental symbolism one can wring out of an adjustable bed and a non-slip sock.

Still, in quieter moments, I find myself noticing small mercies. The nurse who smiles even after a 12-hour shift. The doctor who explains things with genuine kindness. The friend who texts just to check in. And even the pudding, which, though of dubious texture, is reliably chocolate.

Gratitude, I’ve come to realize, is less about liking everything that happens, and more about trusting that God is somewhere in everything that happens. Paul wasn’t telling us to be thankful for all things—he was inviting us to be thankful in all things. There’s a subtle but holy difference there.

And so, as the days wear on and the waiting continues, I find myself trying—however imperfectly—to give thanks. Not because I’m particularly saintly, but because I suspect that thankfulness is less a feeling and more a discipline. It’s the practice of remembering that God is present even in fluorescent-lit hallways, IV drips, and endless announcements over the hospital PA system.

It’s the stubborn belief that grace still works the night shift.

So yes, St. Paul, you win again. I will, in all things, give thanks. Even for this season of waiting. Even for the puddings and the pokes and the paperwork. Because if God can transform a Roman prison into a place of revelation, surely God can work through my hospital room too.

And who knows—perhaps tomorrow’s Jell-O will be lemon.

Thanks be to God.

Giving Thanks in All Things

Gracious and ever-present God, when our patience wears thin and our gratitude hides behind complaints, remind us that You are still near.

Teach us to give thanks not only for blessings easily seen, but for those that come disguised — in waiting rooms, in weariness, and even in the odd mercy of hospital pudding.

Help us to see Your grace at work in the kindness of strangers, the skill of caregivers, and the quiet persistence of healing. When we are tempted to grumble, turn our sighs into small prayers of trust.

When we feel forgotten, remind us that we are held — always — in Your steadfast love.

Through Christ our healer and companion,

Amen.

One of the great spiritual challenges of life, I’ve discovered, is that faith often asks us to perform a sort of holy two-step that would put even the most limber ballroom dancer to shame. It’s the dance of holding on and letting go — sometimes at the same time.

Now, I should say right at the start that I am not naturally good at either of these. When it comes to holding on, I’m Olympic-level. I can cling to an idea, a plan, a sermon draft, or a half-empty jar of marmalade long past its usefulness. My motto might well be, “It’s not really gone bad if it still smells all right.”

On the other hand, letting go — ah, that’s another kettle of theological fish. The notion of simply releasing control and trusting that God will work things out has always struck me as a lovely sentiment, suitable for needlepoint cushions and inspirational posters, but rather risky in real life. After all, what if God’s plan doesn’t line up with my perfectly reasonable schedule?

And yet — there it is, that paradox that lies at the heart of faith. We’re called to hold on tightly to what truly matters: to love, to justice, to hope, to the promises of God. But we’re also called to loosen our grip on the illusions of control, the certainty that we know how everything should turn out, and the conviction that the universe is somehow waiting for our personal permission to proceed.

This tension is woven all through Scripture. Think of Moses, clinging to the staff that parted the Red Sea — yet letting go of the idea that freedom meant an easy road. Or Peter, stepping out onto the water, grasping onto faith even as he released his common sense. Or Mary at the tomb, reaching out to hold the risen Jesus, and hearing him say, “Do not cling to me.” The whole story of salvation seems to be one long exercise in divine paradox — a God who holds the world and lets it spin freely all at once.

I suspect that most of us, if we’re honest, live right there in that paradox. We hold on to faith, to relationships, to hope — even as life gently pries our fingers open from the things we were never meant to grip quite so hard.

In my own ministry, I’ve found that holding on and letting go often happen in the same breath. We hold on to the deep love of those we’ve lost, and we let them go into God’s keeping. We hold on to the church’s mission, and we let go of the illusion that we can control how it unfolds. We hold on to grace — and we let go of the guilt that whispers we don’t deserve it.

And somewhere in all of that holy balancing act, we discover that this is exactly what faith looks like — not perfect serenity, but the wobbling, hopeful trust of someone who knows that God’s got hold of us, even when we’ve lost our grip entirely.

So if you find yourself this week torn between holding on and letting go, don’t despair. You’re not doing it wrong — you’re just dancing the dance of faith. And if you happen to trip over your theological feet now and then, take heart: God leads beautifully, and grace always knows the steps.

A Prayer for Holding On and Letting Go

Gracious God,

You know how tightly we cling — to our plans, our worries, our perfectly arranged expectations. Teach us to hold fast to what gives life: to kindness, mercy, and your unshakable love.

And when the time comes to let go — of control, of certainty, of the way we thought things would be — grant us the courage to release it all into your hands. Help us trust that what falls from our grasp never leaves your keeping.

Hold us steady in the beautiful tension of faith that clings and faith that yields. Through Christ our Redeemer and Friend.

Amen.

(or, How Grace Keeps Messing Up My Plans)

Friends, I have a confession to make.

I am a recovering perfectionist clergyman. That’s right — my natural habitat is a tidy liturgical schedule, a polished sermon manuscript (preferably footnoted), and a parish hall where the coffee urn is never empty and the custard squares are perfectly aligned in their tray, like well-trained sacristans.

I love a good plan. A clean order of service. A calendar colour-coded within an inch of its life. And yet, God — in divine mischief — has never once shown the slightest interest in cooperating with my schemes.

Take, for example, the time I tried to lead Morning Prayer precisely as printed. The congregation, of course, had other ideas. One began the Gloria two lines early, another found herself in the Nicene Creed from some Sunday long past, and the organist heroically tried to accompany what could only be described as a theological jazz fusion. Meanwhile, I smiled serenely and prayed that no one noticed the twitch developing in my left eye.

You see, I used to think that holiness was synonymous with perfection — if only I could get everything right, God might finally nod approvingly, like a choirmaster with an obedient tenor section. But it turns out, grace doesn’t operate by Robert’s Rules of Order. Grace bursts in like a toddler at Evensong — off-key, sticky-fingered, and impossible to ignore.

Perfectionism whispers, “You’d better not mess this up.”

Grace counters, “You already did — and I love you anyway.”

And that changes everything.

Because somewhere between the spilled coffee, the misprinted hymn numbers, and the sermons that sounded so much better in my head, I’ve discovered that the kingdom of God doesn’t require flawless execution. It requires faithful participation.

The truth is, God seems remarkably unconcerned with my neatness. God’s holiness has a habit of spilling over the edges, like too much water in the baptismal font or too many people at the communion rail. Grace is gloriously inefficient. It refuses to stay inside the lines.

These days, I’m learning to relax — to see divine fingerprints in the smudges and holy laughter in the moments I once called mistakes. The Gospel, after all, is not the story of our getting it right — it’s the story of God making it right, despite us.

So, I’m letting go (well, trying to). If the bulletin is misnumbered, the sermon wanders slightly off-piste, or the children’s choir launches into an unscheduled encore of “Jesus Loves Me” — I’m learning to call it what it is: grace in motion.

And truth be told, it’s beautiful.

Because when I finally stop trying to impress God, I start to notice that God has been delighting in me all along. Not because I’m perfect — but because I’m loved.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go fix the typo on next Sunday’s sermon. Grace may be sufficient — but even grace deserves correct spelling

A Prayer for Recovering Perfectionists

Gracious and patient God, You who created galaxies that spin slightly off-centre and clergy who do the same —teach us to rest in the beautiful mess of your mercy.

When we try too hard to earn what you give freely, slow us down with laughter and grace.

When our plans fall apart, remind us that your Spirit does some of its best work through the cracks. Grant us the courage to make mistakes in your service, to sing the wrong verse with conviction, to spill the coffee of community without fear of your disapproval.

Help us to remember that holiness is not found in perfect order, but in honest love. That you delight not in polished performance, but in hearts that dare to trust your unpolished people.

So when the bulletins misprint, the sermons ramble, and our best-laid plans wobble like the parish folding table — meet us there, O Lord, with the quiet smile of One who knew all along that grace would get the last word.

Amen.

It’s a curious thing, really — this idea of “doing nothing.” It’s not something that comes naturally to clergy, to parents, or indeed to most Canadians who were raised with the firm belief that idleness is one step removed from moral decay. “Don’t just sit there — do something!” is the unspoken motto of modern life.

But I am discovering, rather against my will, that there is great holiness in doing absolutely nothing. Not a little something. Not multi-tasking while resting. Nothing. The big, unapologetic, guilt-inducing nothing.

This revelation comes to me, as so many good theological insights do, from the school of forced experience. When the body insists on rest — when recovery becomes not optional but mandatory — one suddenly finds oneself in the rare and unfamiliar parish of Stillness. It’s a small congregation, populated mainly by pillows, medical devices, and the occasional cup of tea that has gone cold while you were “resting your eyes.”

At first, I confess, I was a dreadful parishioner. I argued with my physician as though he were a heretic proposing a new creed. “Surely,” I said, “I could manage a little paperwork from bed? A few pastoral emails? A sermon draft, perhaps?” He smiled the way one does at a parishioner who is about to learn something the hard way and said, “No. You need to rest.”

So there I was — enrolled in the Ministry of Doing Nothing. And, like many clergy assigned to an unexpected cure, I tried at first to fill it with activity. I made lists of all the things I would do once I was doing something again. I even tried to justify the stillness as a spiritual discipline: “It’s not rest,” I told myself, “it’s contemplative prayer.” But the truth is, sometimes even prayer must give way to silence — to the simple act of being in the presence of God, unpolished and unproductive.

Scripture, as usual, has been ahead of me on this. The psalmist tells us to “Be still and know that I am God.” Jesus Himself, no stranger to a busy schedule, occasionally disappeared up a mountain to rest, much to the confusion of His disciples who, no doubt, preferred a tighter meeting agenda. Even God, having spent six days creating, took the seventh to sit back and say, “That’ll do.”

There is something profoundly theological in the idea that rest is not laziness but participation in the divine rhythm of creation. Doing nothing — when it is time to rest — is not neglect of duty; it’s an act of faith. It’s saying, “The world can turn without me for a while, and God will still be God.”

And perhaps that’s the holiest part of all. Because the uncomfortable truth is that many of us, even in ministry, secretly believe that the Kingdom of God will grind to a halt if we take a nap. (I imagine God chuckling gently at that one.) But the ministry of doing nothing teaches us that our worth is not measured in meetings attended, sermons written, or casseroles delivered. Sometimes, the best ministry we can offer is the quiet witness of trust — the still, surrendered confidence that God’s grace is enough, even when we are flat on our backs and contributing nothing but our presence.

So if you find yourself in a season of rest, recovery, or waiting — don’t rush it. Don’t try to make it productive. Put down the to-do list, the phone, and even the devotional book if you must. Just sit there. Breathe. Let God be God.

And who knows? In the silence, you may hear that still, small voice saying,

“Welcome, my child. You’ve finally stopped doing long enough to let me work.”

A Prayer for the Ministry of Doing Nothing

Holy and gracious God, You who rested on the seventh day, teach us the holiness of stillness.

When our bodies falter and our minds rebel, when our calendars whisper accusations of idleness, remind us that You are at work even when we are not.

Grant us the courage to rest without guilt, to wait without panic, to trust that the world spins safely in Your hands.

Let our stillness become prayer, our recovery become praise, and our waiting become a quiet act of faith. When the time is right, renew our strength as the dawn renews the day, that we may rise refreshed — not to do more, but to walk more gently in step with You.

Through Jesus Christ, who napped in boats and prayed on mountains, we rest in Your peace.

Amen.