Today, across Canada, we mark the National Day for Truth and Reconciliation. It is a day to pause, to remember, to lament, and to commit ourselves again to the work of healing and justice with Indigenous peoples.

At the heart of this day is the truth of the Residential School system and its devastating legacy. Children were taken from their families, their languages silenced, their culture and spiritual traditions suppressed. Many never came home. The grief is not only historical; it is carried in the lives, families, and communities of Survivors today. To honour this day faithfully, we must listen to the truth with open hearts, and we must let that truth move us toward reconciliation—not as a distant ideal, but as a lived practice.

One powerful symbol of this journey is the Survivor’s Flag, created to honour those who endured Residential Schools and those who never returned. Every element of this flag carries meaning:

• The eagle feather speaks of spirituality and healing.
• The children in the circle remind us of the generations who were taken and of the sacredness of every child.
• The open door of the school signifies both the history of forced entry and the Survivors who walked out.
• The incomplete circle reflects lives cut short, families broken, communities wounded.
• And yet, the sun and the horizon point to the hope of renewal and the resilience of Indigenous peoples who continue to live, resist, and thrive.

For Christians, this day calls us to look deeply at our own complicity. The churches, including our Anglican Church of Canada, were not bystanders but active participants in the Residential School system. To remember truthfully is to confess honestly. Reconciliation is not an act of charity, but a Gospel demand: “All this is from God, who reconciled us to himself through Christ, and has given us the ministry of reconciliation” (2 Corinthians 5:18).

So today we do not wear orange or raise the Survivor’s Flag as mere symbols. We do so as commitments: to honour Survivors, to teach the next generations, to challenge racism and colonialism wherever they still wound, and to walk humbly with Indigenous partners in the work of healing.

Truth and reconciliation is not one day, but a lifelong journey. Yet it begins, always, with remembering—and with listening.

A Prayer for the National Day for Truth and Reconciliation

God of truth and God of mercy,
on this day we remember the children taken,
the Survivors who carry the weight of painful memories,
and the families and communities forever changed.

We grieve lives lost and cultures wounded.
We confess the sins of the church,
our part in a system that silenced languages,
denied traditions, and broke sacred bonds.

Open our ears to listen with humility,
our hearts to repent with honesty,
and our hands to work for healing with courage.

Bless the Survivors, their families, and their communities.
May the Survivor’s Flag wave not only as remembrance
but as a sign of hope and renewal.

Guide us, O Christ, into the hard work of reconciliation,
that together we may walk the path of justice,
restoring what has been broken,
and honouring the dignity of every child of God.

In your holy name we pray.
Amen.

Every Sunday, like clockwork, we stand and say one of the Creeds. For most of my career in ministry, Nicene Creed usually, sometimes the Apostles’, and on high occasions, we might even dust off the Athanasian — though I suspect if we tried that one, half the congregation would faint from lack of oxygen before the “not three eternals but one eternal” bit.

Now, why do I keep saying the Creeds? After all, I’ve known them by heart since I was a child. I’ve mouthed those words when I’ve believed them deeply, and I’ve muttered them when I wasn’t quite sure what I believed at all. I’ve stumbled over them with a dry throat, and I’ve proclaimed them at Easter as if heaven itself could hear.

I say them because, at their core, the Creeds are not just a laundry list of theological statements. They are a communal anchor. A kind of “we believe,” not “I believe alone in my corner.” When I stumble, the Church carries me. When I can’t find words, the ancient words find me.

There’s a kind of spiritual muscle memory in saying the Creeds. It’s like riding a bicycle, except with fewer bruised knees and slightly less wobbling (unless you’re kneeling and your leg falls asleep). The repetition plants truth in us, whether or not we feel particularly faithful on a given day.

And here’s the funny bit. In our age, we’re suspicious of repetition. We prefer the new, the novel, the shiny. Yet we repeat all sorts of things gladly: we watch reruns of our favourite shows, we order the same coffee every morning, we complain about the weather every February. (Some of us even still sing “Happy Birthday” though, if we’re honest, it may be the dullest melody ever written.) Repetition gives rhythm and shape to life.

The Creeds do the same for faith. They remind us that God’s story doesn’t change with the headlines. They place us, week after week, inside the unbroken company of believers stretching back centuries. Even when I mutter, or wonder, or wrestle, I am still joined to the saints in saying: “We believe…”

So why do I keep saying the Creeds? Because in their repetition, I find something stronger than my own doubts. I find a reminder that faith is not about inventing new truths every Sunday, but about being re-rooted in the eternal Truth that carries me when my own legs won’t.

And besides, if a comedian can make us laugh by retelling the same joke in slightly different ways, surely I can repeat the Creeds every week without complaint. At least the Creed never forgets the punchline.

Prayer:

Eternal God,
You have given us words of faith to steady our hearts,
and a community to carry us when we falter.
As we repeat the ancient Creeds,
remind us that we are not alone —
we stand with the saints of every age,
rooted in your unchanging truth.
Strengthen us when our belief feels weak,
and teach us that even in repetition,
your Spirit breathes fresh life.
Through Jesus Christ, who is the same yesterday, today, and forever.
Amen.

I have often wondered what would happen if Jesus were to turn up at one of our parish potluck suppers. Not dressed in flowing robes and sandals, but in the ordinary clothes of someone who had just gotten off the bus, carrying a Tupperware container of something unidentifiable. Would we rush forward with a warm welcome and a generous plate, or would we do what Canadians are so very skilled at — smiling politely while gently directing him to the “visitors’ table,” the one strategically located near the drafty exit door?

Hospitality is one of those words we in the church love to use. We put it in parish profiles, committee mandates, and on the front of our bulletins. It’s a lovely word, full of warm associations — cups of tea, casseroles, and the holy grail of Anglican hospitality: dainties. But true hospitality, the kind that Jesus demonstrates and calls us to, is far riskier than passing around a tray of Nanaimo bars. It’s hospitality at the edges — welcoming people who make us uncomfortable, people who may not play by our rules, people who may never say thank you or stack the chairs afterward.

Scripture is full of this kind of edge-hospitality. Abraham running to meet three strangers in the heat of the day and discovering he has entertained angels unawares. Jesus eating with tax collectors and sinners, causing the good religious folk to choke on their soup. The early church struggling with whether Gentiles really belonged at the table (spoiler: they did). Over and over again, God calls us to fling the doors wide and make room for people who don’t meet our criteria.

The truth is, we like our criteria. They make us feel safe, in control. “Welcome,” we say, “but please be on time, reasonably tidy, and preferably able to sing in the choir.” We like our edges neat, trimmed, and manageable. But God’s welcome spills over the edges, like a pot of soup left too long on the stove, bubbling down the sides and onto the burner. It makes a mess. But it smells wonderful.

Hospitality without conditions is not about being careless; it is about being Christ-like. It is about creating spaces where people can show up as they are, with all their complicated stories, without fear of judgment or rejection. It is about seeing in them not projects to be fixed, but beloved children of God. And yes, sometimes it will leave us with sticky fingers, awkward conversations, and the odd moment where we desperately wish we could sneak out the back door. But it will also leave us with glimpses of the Kingdom—where the hungry are fed, the lonely find friends, and the stranger becomes neighbour.

So the next time someone unexpected turns up — whether at our church, our dinner table, or even at the drafty end of the parish hall — perhaps our call is not to shuffle them politely out of the way, but to say, “Pull up a chair. There’s room for you here.” After all, isn’t that precisely what God has already said to us?

One of the most curious things about Anglican worship (and, truth be told, about most liturgical traditions) is the sheer number of times we say the same things over and over again. If you have ever sat through a service thinking, “Didn’t we just pray that a minute ago?” — the answer is almost certainly yes. And if you’re very Anglican, the answer is, “Yes, and we’ll be doing it again next week.”

I remember once a parishioner confided to me that she sometimes drifted off during the Prayers of the People. When I asked her why, she said, “Because Father, I already know what’s coming!” I had to resist the temptation to point out that, in fact, she had just described the whole genius of the liturgy. It is like a favourite hymn or a well-worn path: we know where it leads, and yet, it still carries us somewhere holy.

Repetition in worship is not accidental; it is spiritual medicine. We repeat prayers because the human heart is remarkably stubborn. God says, “I love you,” and we answer, “Yes, but…” God says, “Be still,” and we reply, “After I finish this.” God says, “Forgive,” and we retort, “Surely you don’t mean them.” It takes time — lots of time — for those words of grace to sink in. The Church, in her infinite pastoral patience, makes sure we hear them not once, not twice, but over and over, until at last the penny drops.

There is also a comfort in the repetition. Life is full of unpredictability — appliances break, politicians bicker, the Wi-Fi goes down at the precise moment you hit “send.” But in the liturgy, you know that after “The Lord be with you,” there comes the sturdy reply, “And also with you.” That familiar rhythm is like sitting in a chair that has been moulded to your shape.

I suppose it is rather like being in a long marriage. One might think that saying “I love you” every day could become tiresome. But it does not. It deepens, it steadies, it reminds. The repetition does not diminish the words; it sanctifies them.

So, the next time you find yourself praying the Lord’s Prayer yet again, or saying the Creed for the thousandth time, take heart. Those words are chiselling away at the stone of your heart, shaping it slowly but surely into the likeness of Christ. And perhaps, with Stephen Leacock’s dry grin, we might admit that the repetition of liturgy is a bit like listening to Uncle George tell the same story every Christmas dinner: you know exactly where it’s going, but it wouldn’t be Christmas without it.

Companion Prayer

Gracious God,
You speak to us in words ancient and ever new.
Through the steady rhythm of prayer and praise,
you shape our hearts and guide our steps.
When life feels chaotic, anchor us in the familiar words of faith.
When our spirits grow weary, refresh us with the comfort of holy repetition.
Teach us to hear your voice not as an echo,
but as the living Word that renews us each day.
Through Christ our Lord,
Amen.

Theologians have written weighty tomes about God’s presence in the cosmos, about divine transcendence and immanence, and about mysteries so vast that the average parishioner might begin to wish they had just stayed home with a nice cup of tea. But I’ve discovered, over many years in ministry, that God is not nearly as elusive as we sometimes make God out to be. In fact, God is far more likely to show up on your very own street — sometimes even on garbage day, which is proof enough of grace.

When I speak of Neighbourhood Theology, I’m not referring to the kind of highfalutin treatise one might footnote to death, but rather to the way we discover God in the ordinary, often overlooked corners of our daily lives. God, it turns out, is not allergic to sidewalks, cracked driveways, or neighbours with particularly noisy lawnmowers.

Take, for instance, the lady who lives three houses down and insists on waving cheerfully every morning, rain or shine. I am convinced that her smile is more evangelistic than most sermons I have ever preached. (A sobering thought for a preacher, but one that keeps me humble.) Or consider the teenagers across the street, who gather now and then on the front porch with guitars, singing songs whose lyrics I cannot for the life of me understand. Yet even there, God is present — in the joy of music, in the mystery of youth, in the reminder that life always presses forward with hope.

There is something deeply theological about learning to see God’s hand in the common and the familiar. We often think of ministry as something that happens in stained-glass sanctuaries or under vaulted ceilings. But in truth, the neighbourhood is God’s cathedral, and the front porch can be an altar just as surely as the table in the chancel.

The Psalms remind us, “The earth is the Lord’s and all that is in it.” That includes your street. The cracked pavement, the aging trees, the local cat who has adopted every house as its own parish — these are, in their own way, sacraments of God’s nearness. And if you’ve ever tried to get your recycling bin out before the truck roars by at an unholy hour, you’ll know that prayer rises naturally from the depths of the soul.

And here’s the hopeful bit: when we begin to recognize God in our neighbourhoods, we realize that we are never truly alone. That argument we overheard between neighbours, the laughter of children playing tag, the smell of bread drifting from up the street — these are all reminders that God has stitched us together in community, calling us to love our neighbours as ourselves.

Stephen Leacock once quipped that a town was really just “a collection of houses built around a few people who know how to talk.” I think he was onto something. The church, too, is a neighbourhood. And God’s theology is not written only in books — it is lived out in backyards, in shared casseroles, and in the simple act of checking in on the elderly gentleman who still insists on shovelling his own driveway.

So, friends, perhaps the next time you step outside and see your street, you might take a moment to pray, “Lord, open my eyes to discover You here.” Because the truth is, you don’t have to go far to meet God. Sometimes, it’s as simple as opening the front door.

A Prayer for Discovering God on Our Street

Loving God,
You walk with us not only in sanctuaries of stone and stained glass,
but also on sidewalks, porches, and garden paths.
Open our eyes to see You in the faces of neighbours,
in the laughter of children,
in the kindness of strangers,
and even in the quiet corners where loneliness lingers.

Teach us to cherish the holiness of ordinary places
and to recognize that every street is part of Your kingdom.
May we bear Your light in simple acts of love—
a word of encouragement,
a wave across the fence,
a casserole left at the doorstep.

Bless our neighbourhoods, O God,
that they may be filled with peace,
and let our daily comings and goings
be offerings of gratitude to You.

Through Christ our Lord,
Amen.

There is a curious truth that I have noticed about pilgrimage: everyone talks about the walking, the blisters, the weight of the backpack, the long days on the dusty road, and the blessed arrival at Santiago de Compostela. What we don’t talk about quite as much is what happens after you arrive—when the scallop shell is tucked away, the certificate (Compostela) is safely rolled up, and the weary pilgrim suddenly finds themselves back at home and wondering, “Well… now what?”

It’s rather like throwing a party. For weeks you’ve planned the food, the music, the guest list, the seating arrangements. The day arrives, everyone has a wonderful time, and then, after the last crumb of cake has been swept up, you stand in the empty room, not entirely sure whether to laugh, cry, or start vacuuming.

Pilgrimage endings have the same sort of anticlimax. After walking for days on end, sustained by the rhythm of boots on the path and conversations with fellow pilgrims, you suddenly stop. No more yellow arrows pointing the way. No more cafés selling café con leche at the exact moment when you thought your legs would give out. Instead, you are in Santiago—beautiful, holy, bustling Santiago—and you realize that the greatest challenge of the pilgrimage is not the blisters, but the question: what now?

It reminds me of the disciples after the Resurrection. They had walked with Jesus, listened to his teaching, watched miracles unfold before their eyes. And then, suddenly, He was gone — ascended into heaven, leaving them standing, rather awkwardly, staring into the sky. Two angels had to snap them out of it, saying in essence, “Stop gawking. You’ve got work to do.”

And so it is with us. Pilgrimage doesn’t end at the cathedral doors. It begins there. The road teaches us to slow down, to pay attention, to notice God in the small and the ordinary. Santiago is not the full stop; it’s the capital letter at the beginning of the next sentence of your life.

Of course, the first “next thing” many pilgrims do is indulge in a celebratory feast, often involving more octopus than one would think advisable for a single sitting. And then there’s the matter of the line at the pilgrims’ office. Nothing says “holy closure” quite like standing in a bureaucratic queue while a tired clerk inspects your passport and stamps with all the joy of a man who has stamped precisely 4,000 of them already that day. It’s the Church’s way of reminding us that holiness and waiting in line are often very closely related.

But beneath the humour lies the deeper truth: God calls us not only to walk the sacred road, but to carry its lessons back home. If the Camino teaches you to greet a stranger with kindness, then practice that on your street corner. If the Camino teaches you to travel light, then try releasing the spiritual baggage you’ve been carrying for years. And if the Camino teaches you that God meets us in bread, wine, and shared tables, then look for Him at your own dinner table, even if it’s only soup and grilled cheese.

Arriving at Santiago is not the end of the story. It is the reminder that life itself is pilgrimage, and that the holy work continues long after the walking stops. For the true Compostela is not a certificate, but a life lived with gratitude, humility, and joy — boots or no boots.

Some mornings begin with a bang—the alarm clock louder than the trumpet at Jericho, and the kettle sputtering as though to say, “Not today.” Other mornings begin with silence, but it is the silence of forgetting: forgetting appointments, forgetting one’s glasses, forgetting even which day of the week it is.

Life, in short, is not a straight path. It meanders, it stumbles, and on occasion, it doubles back on itself. We may begin the day with determination only to find ourselves, two hours later, wondering why on earth we walked into the kitchen. It is into this wilderness of ordinary living that the Daily Office comes as a compass for the soul.

The Church, in its wisdom, gives us this rhythm of psalms, readings, and prayers not because it expects us all to be monks with perfect schedules, but because it knows us better than we know ourselves. Left to our own devices, we veer — sometimes wildly. The Daily Office is not so much a rigid rule as it is a steady orientation, always turning us back toward true north: Christ himself.

When I pray Morning or Evening Prayer, I am reminded that I do not pray alone. Even if the pews are empty, or I am in my study with only a dusty bookshelf for company, I know that my voice is joining a great chorus that stretches across time zones and centuries. Somewhere, even as I fumble my way through the canticles, someone else is whispering those same words. The compass is communal as much as it is personal.

Of course, there are days when I come to the Office distracted, tired, or, dare I say, cranky. My prayers resemble less a soaring hymn and more a shopping list hastily read aloud. And yet—here lies the grace — the compass still works. Even when I do not feel particularly holy, the Office quietly reorients me. It draws me back to scripture, back to prayer, back to God.

Think of it this way: sailors once steered their ships by the stars. On cloudy nights, they could not see the heavens, but the compass remained faithful. So it is with the Office. Some days the psalms blaze with clarity; other days they pass over me like rain on a roof. But always, always, the words hold me steady.

The Daily Office is a bit like one’s spectacles. You may not always notice you are wearing them, but without them, you stumble into furniture, misread the fine print, and mistake the neighbour’s dog for your own. So it is with the Office: it corrects our vision, helping us see the world and ourselves a little more clearly.

In a world that rushes us from one thing to the next, that celebrates busyness as if it were a sacrament, the Daily Office reminds us that time belongs to God. Each psalm, each reading, each prayer is a quiet recalibration of the soul’s compass needle, pointing us home.

So whether prayed faithfully at dawn or whispered hurriedly over a late cup of coffee, the Daily Office is not about perfection. It is about orientation. It is about remembering which way is north when life pulls us in every other direction. And perhaps, in its quiet and steady way, it is about finding the kitchen again — glasses in hand, kettle humming, and soul turned toward God.

A Prayer for the Compass of the Daily Office

Gracious God,
You are the true North of our wandering hearts.
In the psalms and in the prayers,
in the Scriptures read morning and evening,
You set our compass steady.

When our days spin in distraction,
when we lose sight of what matters most,
when our spirits grow weary and unfocused,
draw us back through the rhythm of Your Word.

Teach us to trust the quiet faithfulness of the Daily Office —
not as a burden, but as a gift,
not as a law, but as a lifeline.
Remind us that even when our voices falter,
we pray in chorus with saints and strangers,
across places and centuries.

Hold us steady, O Lord,
that in all we do and in all we are,
our lives may be oriented toward You,
through Jesus Christ our compass and our guide.

Amen.

There is something about the sound of a church bell that stirs the soul — or at least stirs something. For some, it stirs the heart to prayer; for others, it stirs memories of being marched off to Sunday School against their will. For the neighbour’s dog, it stirs an unshakeable conviction that the apocalypse is beginning on Nancy Street.

When I served at the Cathedral, I learned firsthand that bells stir more than nostalgia. A woman moved into a lovely home exactly halfway between the Roman Catholic and the Anglican cathedrals. What she thought she had purchased was peace and quiet. What she actually bought was a front-row seat for surround-sound bell ringing — Anglican peals on one side, Catholic chimes on the other. Very quickly, she began to lodge energetic complaints about this “noise pollution.”

I confess, I struggled to keep a straight face. Buying a house between two cathedrals and complaining about the bells is a bit like moving in beside Niagara Falls and asking the government to turn down the water pressure. But such is the human condition: God calls, and we’re often more irritated than inspired.

And yet, the bell’s very purpose is interruption. It rings across the hum of traffic, lawnmowers, and leaf blowers, insisting: Excuse me — eternity is happening right now. Would you care to join? Some respond with joy, others with groans, but the bell makes no distinction. It calls everyone — the faithful, the forgetful, the curious, and even the determined latecomer who waits until after the bell to sneak into church.

But here at Christ Church, I encountered a story that revealed the deeper truth. Our Presbyterian neighbour, in the final decline of her life, would ask her son to drive her over by Christ Church — not to come inside, (She was far too weak to attend an entire service) not to sit in a pew, but simply to hear the bell peeling. That sound, for her, was comfort and assurance. It was memory and hope all at once. It was, quite simply, the voice of God calling her home.

When I travelled in the holy land, the bells there had been long silenced. By an edict of Saladin, churches were forbidden from ringing bells to call the faithful to worship. Instead you would often hear intricate songs hammered out with sticks on the church doors to make that call to the faithful.

And that’s the mystery of the bell. For one person, it’s an annoyance. For another, it’s the very echo of eternity. It is both interruption and consolation, both nuisance and grace.

The church bell is, in its way, a sacrament of interruption. God uses bells—whether made of bronze, laughter, a child’s question, or even a smartphone notification—to pull us back into awareness of God’s presence. Always untimely, always inconvenient, and yet always grace.

So the next time you hear a bell—whether it annoys you or draws you to tears—pause and remember: it is not just marking time. It is announcing that God is here, and God is calling.

And if you happen to be the one tugging the rope in the bell tower, take heart: you’re not just ringing metal. You’re ringing grace.

A Prayer at the Sound of the Bell

Gracious and Eternal God,
your voice reaches us in ways both gentle and insistent.
Like the bell that rings across streets and hearts,
call us from distraction into your presence.

Help us to hear your invitation in the ordinary and the unexpected,
in sounds that stir irritation and in sounds that bring comfort.
Grant us patience when your call interrupts our plans,
and gratitude when your grace reminds us we are not alone.

May every peal, every chime, every gentle echo of your love
draw us closer to you,
until we recognize your voice as the guide of our days
and the hope of our hearts.

Through Jesus Christ, the Word made flesh,
who calls us each by name. Amen.

Each year, as September comes around, churches and communities across Canada pause for Orange Shirt Sunday. We put on our orange shirts, and with those shirts we carry a message: Every child matters.

It is a simple phrase, yet it stands against a history of profound injustice.

Between 1831 and 1996, Canada ran 139 Indian Residential Schools. Their purpose was not education, but assimilation. Their legacy is one of grief, trauma, and lasting harm.

To date, the grounds of only a few of these schools have been searched. Four have been carefully investigated, while another twenty have been examined with ground-penetrating radar. Nearly 4,000 unmarked graves have already been discovered. And there are many more schools still waiting to be searched.

Archbishop Mark MacDonald, the first indigenous Archbishop of the Anglican Church of Canada, , when speaking in my parish in Kingston, asked the painful question: “Why should a school have a graveyard?” It is a question that pierces the heart, a question that will not and should not go away.

Orange Shirt Sunday calls us to remember this history, but remembrance alone is not enough. Wearing the shirt is a good and necessary gesture, but reconciliation requires more. It requires us to hear the truth, to honour the survivors, to lament the lives lost, and to commit ourselves to change.

Because the injustices did not end when the last residential school closed. Today, many Indigenous communities still do not have access to safe drinking water. Indigenous patients are too often treated with prejudice in our medical system. In courts and legal proceedings across the country, Indigenous people continue to face systemic inequality.

So yes—wear your orange shirt. Wear it proudly, and wear it prayerfully. Let it remind you that every child matters. But let it also be more than a shirt. Let it be a call to action.

• Speak out for the voiceless.
• Work for fair treatment of every child, in every community.
• Stand alongside Indigenous brothers and sisters in their struggle for justice, dignity, and healing.

As people of faith, we know that every person is made in the image of God. Every child is beloved. Every child deserves to be safe, to be valued, and to be treated with respect.

Orange Shirt Sunday is not only about the past — it is about shaping the present and the future, so that never again will a school have a graveyard, and never again will the lives of children be treated as disposable.

Every child matters. And every one of us has a part to play in making that truth a reality.