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.

Every preacher has lived through the week when the sermon seems to write itself — which, of course, is always a lie. It never writes itself. What actually happens is that one sits down with noble intent and a full mug of coffee, opens a blank document, and watches in quiet despair as the cursor blinks — mockingly — for forty-five minutes.

Then, suddenly, something happens. An idea appears, like manna from heaven or a rogue pigeon through an open window. A verse leaps from the lectionary; a story springs to mind; the first paragraph seems to flow. You feel as though you’ve been divinely inspired, or at least moderately caffeinated.

But beware, dear reader, of the sermon that “writes itself.” It is the homiletic equivalent of a runaway horse. It starts out beautifully — wind in your hair, theological insight shimmering in the morning sun — and before long you are galloping toward a fence you didn’t see coming, clutching the reins and shouting, “Lord, make it stop!”

In my experience, these sermons tend to begin with the lofty sweep of Genesis — perhaps with a cool Old Testament story like the one of Baalam’s jackass giving him a better prophetic message that Baalam himself seemed able to deliver — and end somewhere in Revelation — having, along the way, taken unauthorized detours through Romans, a passing reference to the church roof fund, and one touching but irrelevant story about my Aunt Mabel’s cat. The Holy Spirit, I suspect, enjoys a good chuckle during these creative outbursts.

The trouble with the “self-writing sermon” is that it rarely listens to its own advice. It tells the congregation to slow down and rest in God’s timing, while I’ve been typing furiously at 11:47 p.m., eating dry cereal from the box, and muttering, “Just one more paragraph, Lord.”

And yet, sometimes, in spite of all the chaos, God still uses the sermon that galloped off without permission. Someone will say afterward, “That really spoke to me,” and I’ll smile graciously while inwardly thinking, Which part? The one about Aunt Mabel, or the story of Baalam’s talking jackass?

Here’s the quiet truth: the best sermons — the ones that reach beyond words — are never truly ours. Whether they arrive in tidy drafts or in holy disarray, they are vessels for something greater. God has this uncanny habit of slipping grace through our most tangled sentences, our roughest outlines, our most desperate Saturday night desperate efforts.

So the next time a sermon “writes itself,” I’ll try to remember to hold on loosely. To laugh a little. To thank God for the mystery that makes sense only after the pastoral blessing.

After all, if grace can work through a donkey in the Old Testament, surely it can work through a sermon that refuses to stay on topic

Friends, my recent hospital stay has given me more time to think than is strictly safe for anyone. There’s nothing quite like absolute bed rest — that special phrase which means “you will now do nothing at all, except think about the ceiling tiles and your life choices.”

And so I did what any sensible clergyperson would do when confined to a hospital bed — I started praying. And reflecting. And, as it turns out, learning a few hard truths about how God answers prayer.

First of all, let me say how deeply grateful I am for the overwhelming number of messages, notes, and assurances of prayer that have come my way from friends, family, parishioners, and probably at least one person who accidentally added me to their intercession list thinking I was someone else. Each of those prayers has been a lifeline. Truly.

But somewhere between the IV antibiotics and the less-than-divine hospital cuisine, I began to realize that answered prayer doesn’t always look like we imagine it will.

Back in August, while walking the Camino de Santiago — a journey that was meant to be part pilgrimage, part spiritual tune-up — I carried many intentions in my heart: prayers for my family, my friends, my parishioners past and present. But there was one prayer that kept bubbling up, rather persistently: that God might heal the circulation in my left leg, which has been troublesome for some time.

So there I was, standing in the Cathedral of Santiago de Compostela, offering my heartfelt prayer on August 12th — and by that very evening, I developed a blister on my left big toe.

Now, I’m not suggesting God has a mischievous sense of humour… but it did feel a little like the Almighty had taken my request for “improved circulation” and decided to start the process with a live demonstration of human frailty.

That blister turned into an infection that refused to yield to any earthly antibiotic, and before long, I found myself facing the grim prospect of losing the very toe attached to the leg I had prayed for. Somewhere in the heavens, I imagined God sighing and saying, “Patience, Don. We’re getting there.”

Fast forward to Thanksgiving Day. My nurse took one look at the toe and said the three words no one likes to hear: “Go to Emergency.” I did, expecting the usual routine — IV antibiotics, discharge, repeat. But this time, the doctors had other ideas. The Infectious Disease specialist decided to keep me in, declaring, “You’re not going anywhere.” (They say that like it’s reassuring.)

Before long, I found myself on absolute bed rest, being seen by a vascular surgeon who, after a quick examination, said something I’ll never forget: “Don’t worry too much about the toe. I want to fix the circulation in that leg so this doesn’t happen again.”

To turn to Scripture, I am mindful of the first reading last night for the Feast of St. Luke the Physician and Evangelist, written in the Wisdom of Jesus Ben Sirach:

“Honour physicians for their services, for the Lord created them, for their gift of healing comes from the Most High, and they are rewarded by the king.”

God had brought me along a difficult path that led me to the doctor who would deal with the problem — and good old Sirach reminds us that that doctor was certainly an instrument of God’s healing ministry

And there it was — the answer to the prayer I’d prayed two months earlier. It just didn’t look like an answer at the time. It looked like an infection, a hospital bed, and an intimate familiarity with hospital pudding.

All this has reminded me of something the senior minister at Wheatley United Church once told me when I was a very young youth minister. He said, “God always answers prayer. Sometimes the answer is yes. Sometimes it’s no. And sometimes it’s not yet.”

In my case, it seems God’s answer came immediately — I just didn’t recognize it because it was wrapped in something that looked more like a problem than a solution.

So here I am, still resting, still healing, and still learning that God’s ways are rarely linear, tidy, or predictable. Healing continues to come — but by a road I never would have chosen.

And so I say, with both gratitude and a hint of exasperation, thanks be to God for the gift of healing — even when the road that leads there has a few unexpected blisters along the way.

Prayer – “When Prayer Looks Nothing Like What You Ordered”

Gracious and patient God, You hear us when we pray — even when our words are clumsy, our timing questionable, and our expectations far too specific.

We thank You for the mystery of Your answers: for the “yes” that delights us, the “no” that protects us, and the “not yet” that stretches our faith.

Teach us, Lord, to trust that Your work is not delayed, only deeper than we can see.

When healing comes through detours, when hope arrives wearing hospital socks, and when grace hides beneath frustration, help us to keep praying — and to keep laughing — as You lead us toward wholeness in Your time.

We give You thanks for Your mercy, Your humour, and Your steadfast love that refuses to give up on us, even when we’re ready to give up on ourselves.

Through Christ, the Healer and Companion of the weary, we pray.

Amen.

It was a bright Sunday morning — or at least as bright as it gets before coffee — when I arrived at the church to discover that the bulletins had gone missing. Not misplaced. Not accidentally printed in the wrong colour. Missing. Gone. Vanished into the great ecclesiastical abyss where paperclips, birettas, and half the parish’s teaspoons go to die.

I looked in the sacristy, the parish office, the rector’s study, and even (with some hope and not a little fear) behind the altar frontal. Nothing. I was about to call the police — or worse, the archdeacon — when the verger appeared, looking suspiciously calm.

“Oh,” he said, “I moved them to keep them safe.”

“Safe from what?” I asked.

He looked around solemnly. “From people taking them.”

It was at that moment I realized that Anglican life is, in many ways, a living parable. We are constantly trying to keep something safe — our bulletins, our pews, our hymns, our committee minutes — only to discover that, in doing so, we’ve hidden them from the very people who needed them.

The Lost and the Found (and the Misfiled)

Jesus once told a story about a woman who lost a coin and swept the house until she found it. If He’d been speaking in an Anglican parish, I suspect it would have been about a lost key to the vesting cupboard, or perhaps the missing wireless microphone that last worked during the Mulroney administration.

But the point, then and now, remains: what is lost matters to God. Whether it’s a coin, a sheep, or a sense of purpose. And perhaps, just perhaps, the Church’s call in every generation is to be in the ministry of finding — finding faith, finding hope, finding each other again after long absences, and sometimes even finding the bulletins five minutes before the opening hymn.

Holy Chaos and Divine Order

Of course, God has a remarkable sense of humour when it comes to order and chaos. St. Paul tells the Corinthians that “all things should be done decently and in order.” Wise words. But then you look at a parish potluck and realize that God’s version of order must be far more forgiving than ours.

The truth is, the Kingdom of God probably looks a lot less like a well-filed vestry minute book and a lot more like that potluck table — a bit untidy, some dishes you can’t identify, but everyone somehow fed.

Grace in the Mess

I sometimes wonder if the Church’s greatest strength isn’t its ability to get things right, but its refusal to give up when things go wrong. We forget the offering plates, we mix up the hymn numbers, we discover mid-sermon that the microphone has died — and yet somehow, in the midst of it all, grace happens.

Because grace, unlike bulletins, doesn’t get lost. It finds us — precisely in the places we thought we’d hidden our failures.

Epilogue: The Return of the Bulletins

For the record, the bulletins were eventually found — locked in the janitor’s closet, beside the mop bucket and an unsettling number of unclaimed umbrellas. When I held one in my hand, I felt oddly triumphant, as though I’d just discovered the Dead Sea Scrolls (only with more typos).

I looked at the verger and said, “You see, nothing is truly lost in the Church.”

He nodded, entirely serious. “Except the stapler,” he said.

And so, we press on — finding, losing, laughing, and trusting that even when our order falters and our bulletins vanish, God’s grace remains beautifully, stubbornly, unlosable.

A Prayer for the Misplaced, the Missing, and the Muddled

Gracious God,

You who leave the ninety-nine to find the one, look kindly upon all that has gone astray in our midst — our bulletins, our good intentions, and our sense of direction.

When we misplace what matters, teach us to seek with patience rather than panic, and to laugh gently at our own disarray.

Remind us that nothing truly precious is ever lost in You — not the souls we love, not the hopes we’ve buried under busyness, not even the faith that sometimes feels misfiled.

Restore to us the joy of finding, the peace of letting go, and the quiet assurance that grace is never where we expect it, but always where we need it.

Through Jesus Christ, Finder of the lost, and Friend of the slightly disorganized.

Amen.