The Gospel According to the Long Weekend Traffic Jam

There are certain signs that tell Canadians a long weekend is approaching.

The grocery store suddenly looks as though people are preparing for a six-month expedition into the Arctic. Hardware stores are full of people convinced that they absolutely must build a new deck before Monday morning. Every gas station develops lineups that would make Disneyland proud. Somewhere, someone has already forgotten the hot dog buns.

And then there is Highway 400.

There are few places where Christian character is tested quite so thoroughly as sitting in a traffic jam on the Friday afternoon before a summer long weekend.

Everyone begins the journey in excellent spirits. Windows are down. Favourite music is playing. Coffee is within reach. Vacation has officially begun.

Then, twenty kilometres later, you realize you have travelled precisely the distance of one respectable golf drive.

That is generally when sanctification begins.

You start making remarkable observations.

“Surely there must be another route.”

“There cannot possibly be this many cottages.”

“Who are all these people?”

The answer, of course, is wonderfully simple.

They are us.

Every driver believes traffic would disappear immediately if only everyone else would stay home. We somehow never suspect that we ourselves may have made a small contribution to the congestion.

The Kingdom of God has a curious habit of exposing that sort of thinking.

Jesus rarely seemed to be in a hurry. He walked almost everywhere. He stopped for children. He paused for blind beggars. He noticed women who quietly touched his cloak. He allowed interruptions to become opportunities for grace.

Most of us, on the other hand, become deeply inconvenienced if someone dares merge into our lane two car lengths ahead.

It is amazing how quickly a highway becomes a spiritual retreat when there is absolutely nothing else you can do.

The traffic jam quietly removes one illusion after another.

You are not in control.

You are not going to arrive any sooner by glaring at the brake lights ahead.

Your repeated consultation with the GPS does not magically create new pavement.

At some point, surrender becomes the only sensible strategy.

Oddly enough, surrender is one of the central disciplines of Christian life.

The Apostle Paul often speaks about patience as though it were one of the fruits of the Holy Spirit. I have occasionally suspected that the Holy Spirit spends every August practising this fruit somewhere between Barrie and Orillia.

Perhaps the real miracle of the long weekend is not that millions of people eventually reach the cottage.

The miracle is that they eventually relax enough to enjoy being there.

The traffic itself becomes forgotten almost immediately.

Isn’t that true of so many things we worry about?

The frustrations that consume us today often become stories we laugh about tomorrow.

The long line eventually moves.

The campground is reached.

The barbecue is lit.

Someone remembers the marshmallows after all.

The children run toward the lake.

The sunset appears without consulting anyone’s schedule.

Creation quietly reminds us that God has never measured life by kilometres travelled per hour.

Perhaps that is why Jesus so often invited people simply to “Come.”

Not, “Hurry.”

Not, “Rush.”

Not, “Beat everyone else there.”

Just…

“Come.”

As another long weekend approaches, perhaps the traffic jam itself can become an unexpected spiritual discipline.

Turn down the anxiety.

Turn up the gratitude.

Notice the people travelling with you.

Say a prayer for those travelling beside you.

Accept that some journeys simply take longer than we planned.

After all, the destination is not made more beautiful because we arrived five minutes earlier.

Grace has never once been delayed by traffic.

It has always travelled at exactly the speed our souls needed.

Follow along on Instagram @renewablespiritual.

Companion Prayer

Loving God,

When our journeys slow and our patience wears thin, remind us that Your grace is never in a hurry. Give us calm hearts, kind spirits, and thankful eyes for the beauty that surrounds us. Watch over all who travel on our long weekend, bringing them safely to those they love. And wherever the road may lead, keep us always travelling in the company of Christ.

Amen.

The Theology of the Garage That Never Quite Gets Cleaned

There are certain projects in life that seem to exist not so much to be completed as to remind us of our humanity. For some people it is writing a novel. For others it is learning the bagpipes. For many of us, it is cleaning the garage.

Every summer begins with noble intentions.

“This is the year,” we tell ourselves confidently. “By Labour Day that garage will be immaculate.”

By the middle of August, however, the garage has merely become a different arrangement of the same clutter. We have successfully moved three boxes from the left wall to the right wall, rediscovered a rake we were convinced had been stolen sometime during the Harper administration, and found enough half-used paint cans to redecorate a small principality.

Progress has certainly been made.

Just perhaps not visible to the naked eye.

Stephen Leacock would surely have appreciated the garage. It is one of those places where optimism repeatedly collides with reality, yet optimism stubbornly returns the following Saturday morning wearing work gloves and carrying a fresh roll of garbage bags.

Growing up on our family farm in southwestern Ontario, garages and machine sheds were places of constant activity. Tractors came and went. Tools disappeared with astonishing speed and somehow always reappeared exactly where no one had looked first. There was always a coffee can full of mysterious bolts that everyone insisted might be needed someday. Nobody knew what they belonged to anymore, but throwing them away felt almost immoral.

Farm garages have their own archaeology.

One layer tells the story of haying season. Another remembers the combine repair of 1978. Somewhere underneath everything lies the socket wrench everyone has been looking for since Easter.

And somehow, despite the apparent disorder, Dad could usually lay his hands on exactly what he needed.

I never quite learned that particular spiritual gift.

The older I become, the more I suspect that garages have something to teach us about grace.

We spend an astonishing amount of energy trying to convince ourselves that life must be perfectly organized before God can make good use of us.

“I’ll volunteer once things settle down.”

“I’ll pray more when life gets less hectic.”

“I’ll become the person God wants me to be after I’ve sorted everything out.”

The difficulty is that life never really gets sorted out.

There is always another project leaning against the wall.

Another responsibility waiting on the workbench.

Another unexpected expense tucked behind the lawn mower.

Another emotional cardboard box labelled “I’ll deal with this later.”

God, meanwhile, seems remarkably unconcerned.

Throughout Scripture, the Lord repeatedly calls people whose lives resemble garages in late August rather than magazine showrooms.

Abraham was still wandering.

Moses was still making excuses.

David carried regrets.

Peter possessed enthusiasm in quantities far exceeding wisdom.

Paul admitted he was still pressing on rather than having already arrived.

Not one of them waited until life became perfectly organized before God began working through them.

Grace has never demanded immaculate storage.

Perhaps that is because God specializes in seeing possibilities where we mostly notice clutter.

The old experience that seems useless becomes wisdom for someone else.

The painful chapter we would rather hide becomes the place from which compassion grows.

The forgotten gifts tucked away for years suddenly become exactly what another person needs.

The Holy Spirit has an extraordinary habit of making beautiful things out of what we assumed belonged in the discard pile.

Even Jesus spent much of his earthly ministry among lives that looked anything but tidy.

Fishermen with tangled nets.

Tax collectors with tangled consciences.

Families with tangled relationships.

Disciples with tangled understanding.

He never stood at the doorway saying, “I’ll come back once you’ve cleaned this place up.”

He simply walked in.

Perhaps that is why I have grown rather fond of garages that never quite get finished.

They remind me that life is always under construction.

There is always another corner to sweep.

Another shelf to straighten.

Another cobweb to remove.

And there is always another Saturday when we smile, put on the old work clothes once again, and give it another try.

The Christian life is rather like that.

Sanctification is less like unveiling a perfectly restored museum and more like steadily making room for grace to work among the wonderfully ordinary accumulation of a lifetime.

One shelf at a time.

One dusty corner at a time.

One small act of faithfulness at a time.

So if your garage is still a little untidy this August, take heart.

It may simply be reminding you of one of the deepest truths of the Gospel.

God has never waited for perfect order before moving in.

In fact, some of the finest renovations the Holy Spirit ever undertakes begin in places that looked far too cluttered to be holy.

And if, while cleaning, you happen to discover the missing screwdriver, the Christmas lights, and a lawn chair you forgot you owned…

Count that as an unexpected blessing.

Just don’t ask where the tape measure has gone.

That remains one of the Church’s enduring mysteries.

Follow along on Instagram @renewablespiritual.

Companion Prayer

Gracious God,

Thank you for loving us just as we are, not only as we hope someday to become. When our lives feel cluttered with unfinished tasks, old regrets, and worries tucked into forgotten corners, remind us that your grace is never discouraged by the mess.

Teach us to make room for your Spirit one small step at a time. Help us to trust that even the parts of our lives we would rather hide can become places where your mercy, healing, and purpose take root.

Give us patience with ourselves, generosity toward others, and the quiet confidence that you are always at work, even when progress seems slow.

And as we continue the holy work of becoming the people you created us to be, may we never forget that you entered our lives long before everything was in perfect order.

Through Jesus Christ, who is always making all things new.

Amen.

The Spiritual Discipline of Walking After Supper

There are many spiritual disciplines that have been recommended over the centuries. Prayer. Fasting. Silence. Solitude. Pilgrimage. Lectio Divina. Contemplation.

I would like to suggest adding one more to the list.

Walking after supper.

Now, I realize that this recommendation may not impress the monks of the fourth century. They spent decades perfecting lives of extraordinary holiness while living in caves. Compared to that, wandering down the sidewalk in running shoes while discussing whether the tomatoes need watering seems rather less heroic.

Even so, I think they would understand.

Some of the best conversations I have ever had have happened while walking after supper.

When I was growing up on our farm in southwestern Ontario, supper was an event, not simply a meal. Farm work has a remarkable ability to create healthy appetites. After everyone had eaten—and perhaps after someone had accepted a second helping they had loudly insisted they did not need—it was not unusual to wander outside.

There was no destination.

Someone would head toward the lane.

Someone else would drift toward the fields.

Before long, a small procession would develop that had absolutely no agenda whatsoever.

The dogs were delighted.

The mosquitoes were equally delighted.

The adults discussed crops, neighbours, weather, and family news.

Children chased butterflies, picked up interesting rocks, and somehow managed to arrive home carrying sticks that apparently possessed enormous scientific value.

Nothing important was scheduled.

Yet somehow everything important happened.

I sometimes wonder whether our souls still remember that rhythm.

Walking after supper slows us down enough to notice that the day is ending. The light softens. The air cools. Birds settle into the trees. Gardens begin to smell even sweeter than they did at noon. The whole creation seems to sigh contentedly before night arrives.

It is difficult to hurry while watching a sunset.

It is even more difficult to worry about tomorrow while listening to crickets tuning up for their evening concert.

Jesus seemed remarkably fond of walking.

The Gospels are filled with roads, lakeshores, dusty paths, villages, gardens, and hillsides. So many of the deepest conversations in Scripture happen while people are walking together. The disciples often learned not while sitting in classrooms but while putting one sandal in front of the other.

Perhaps there is a reason for that.

Our bodies settle into a gentle rhythm that allows our minds to settle as well.

Words come more easily.

Silences become less awkward.

Gratitude sneaks up on us without making a fuss.

Walking has a way of untying knots that sitting in a chair never seems to manage.

There is, of course, one unavoidable hazard.

If you are married, there is always the possibility that your leisurely stroll will suddenly include the sentence, “While we’re out here, we might as well pull a few weeds.”

This is rarely followed by only a few weeds.

Half an hour later you are standing in the garden holding a bucket that now weighs approximately the same as a small hatchback, wondering how a peaceful evening constitutional became unpaid agricultural labour.

This, too, may be sanctifying.

Ordinary Time is full of invitations like this.

Not dramatic.

Not spectacular.

Simply faithful.

The Kingdom of God often grows while people are walking together after supper.

Perhaps that is why evening walks remain one of God’s favourite classrooms.

No admission fee.

No registration required.

Just comfortable shoes, open eyes, grateful hearts, and enough time to notice that the One who walked with two discouraged disciples on the road to Emmaus still enjoys accompanying ordinary people on ordinary roads.

So tonight, after supper, take a walk.

Leave your phone in your pocket.

Wave to the neighbours.

Admire someone else’s flowers.

Laugh at the rabbits who are convinced they own your lawn.

Listen to the birds.

Breathe deeply.

Give thanks.

You may discover that God has been waiting just around the corner, perfectly content to keep pace with you all along.

After all, grace has never been in much of a hurry.

Follow along on Instagram @renewablespiritual.

Companion Prayer

Gracious God,
Thank you for the gift of ordinary evenings, shared meals, and quiet walks beneath your wide sky. Slow our hurried hearts so that we may notice your presence in the beauty of creation, the laughter of those we love, and the kindness of neighbours along the way. Teach us to walk at the pace of your grace, trusting that you are always beside us, even on the most familiar roads. May every step become an act of gratitude and every ordinary day become another opportunity to grow closer to you; through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.

The Spirituality of Opening Every Window

There comes a point in every Ontario summer when the weather is just right. The humidity finally takes a day off, the breeze remembers its manners, and someone in the house declares, “Open every window!”

Suddenly there is a great flurry of activity. Windows that have been firmly shut against winter cold, spring pollen, or July heat are thrown wide open. Curtains begin to dance like they have been waiting months for an invitation. Fresh air wanders from room to room as though it owns the place. Even the house seems to breathe a long sigh of relief.

It is one of the happiest sounds of summer.

It is also, I suspect, one of God’s favourite metaphors.

The trouble is that most of us spend much of life behaving like old farmhouses in January. We keep ourselves buttoned up. We close the windows against disappointment, criticism, grief, awkward conversations, and people who might rearrange our comfortable furniture. We convince ourselves that staying sealed up will keep us safe.

Instead, we slowly become stuffy.

The soul is rather like that. Without fresh air, it becomes filled with stale worries, recycled resentments, and opinions that have been sitting in the corner since the last federal election. Before long, we cannot remember whether we are protecting our peace or simply preserving our dust.

Stephen Leacock might have observed that there are few people more determined than a homeowner who has just decided the outdoor air is “perfect.” Every window must be opened immediately, regardless of whether anyone else in the household is wearing a sweater. Someone invariably insists that a cross-breeze has been scientifically proven to cure every known ailment except perhaps taxes. Another family member quietly closes the bedroom window five minutes later. Thus begins one of summer’s great domestic liturgies.

I confess that I rather enjoy it.

There is something wonderfully hopeful about opening every window. It assumes that what is outside may actually be a blessing. It welcomes birdsong instead of silence. It exchanges conditioned air for living air.

Faith asks us to do something remarkably similar.

The Holy Spirit has never shown much interest in remaining outside politely knocking forever. Throughout Scripture, the Spirit arrives as breath, wind, fresh air, and unexpected movement. Pentecost itself sounds less like an orderly committee meeting and more like every window in the house flying open at once.

Perhaps discipleship is simply learning to crack open another window.

A window of gratitude.

A window of forgiveness.

A window of curiosity.

A window toward someone whose story we have never taken the time to hear.

A window that lets God surprise us again.

The wonderful thing about fresh air is that it does not ask permission to improve the room. It simply comes in and quietly does its work.

Grace often behaves exactly the same way.

So perhaps today, if the weather cooperates, throw open every window in your house. Let the breeze wander through the rooms. Listen to the trees applauding outside. Breathe deeply.

Then ask yourself a gentler question.

“Lord, is there a window in my heart that I’ve kept closed for far too long?”

Do not be surprised if the answer arrives on the wind.

Follow along on Instagram @renewablespiritual.

Companion Prayer

Gracious God,
Thank you for the gift of fresh air, gentle breezes, and hearts that can still be opened. Sweep through our lives with your Holy Spirit. Clear away what has become stale, fill us with new hope, and teach us to welcome your surprising grace each day. Through Christ our Lord. Amen.

The Ministry of the Extra Cob of Corn

There are certain moments in life that reveal the true character of a Canadian summer. One of them happens when someone asks, “How many cobs would you like?”

Now, sensible people answer, “One.”

Reasonable people answer, “Two.”

But there is always one saintly soul standing beside the barbecue who says, “Go on… have another. We’ve got lots.”

That, my friends, is the ministry of the extra cob of corn.

I have never once in my life heard anyone say those words with reluctance. They are always spoken with generosity, usually while balancing tongs in one hand and trying not to burn the hamburgers with the other.

There is something wonderfully extravagant about fresh Ontario sweet corn. It arrives for only a short season, and for those few glorious weeks we behave as though every meal ought to include six dozen ears. Farmers’ wagons appear along country roads. Pickup trucks become mobile corn markets. Churches seem incapable of holding a summer barbecue without it. Entire families gather around picnic tables looking like participants in some ancient agricultural ritual, complete with butter running down their elbows.

Stephen Leacock would probably have observed that no civilized conversation can continue once everyone has been handed a cob of corn. It is impossible to appear dignified while chasing kernels around your plate or discovering that butter has somehow migrated onto your glasses. Corn is God’s great equalizer. Bishops, bankers, plumbers, teachers and toddlers all end up looking exactly the same.

Perhaps that is one of its hidden ministries.

Jesus seemed remarkably fond of meals where there was more than enough. The feeding of the five thousand was not merely about avoiding hunger. It was about revealing the abundance of God. Everyone ate until they were satisfied, and there were baskets left over besides.

God does not seem especially interested in calculating grace by the teaspoon.

The Kingdom often feels like that unexpected extra serving. Forgiveness beyond what we deserve. Mercy beyond what we imagined. Hope beyond what circumstances would suggest. Joy that sneaks into ordinary Tuesday evenings over supper.

We spend a surprising amount of our lives worrying there will not be enough—enough money, enough energy, enough time, enough love, enough faith. Scarcity becomes our default setting.

Yet the Gospel keeps placing another cob of corn on our plate.

Not because we earned it.

Simply because generosity is what God does.

Looking back, many of the richest moments of my life have come from someone’s “extra.” The extra invitation to stay for coffee. The extra chair pulled up around the table. The extra phone call when life was difficult. The extra prayer offered quietly after everyone else had gone home. The extra chance when I had made a mess of things.

None of those could be measured in dollars.

All of them were grace.

Perhaps that is why St. Paul speaks of the fruit of the Spirit rather than the ration of the Spirit. Love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, generosity… these are not commodities to be guarded carefully in a locked pantry. They are crops meant to be harvested and shared freely.

And perhaps that is the invitation for today.

Be the person who offers the extra cob.

Not only at supper, although that would certainly brighten someone’s evening.

Offer the extra smile.

The extra word of encouragement.

The extra measure of patience.

The extra act of kindness that no one expected.

Because somewhere today, someone is quietly wondering whether there will be enough goodness left in the world to carry them through.

You may become the proof that there is.

After all, our Lord has always specialized in feeding people until they discover that grace is far more abundant than they first imagined.

And if there happens to be butter dripping off your chin while you remember that…

Well, that simply makes the sermon more believable.

Follow along on Instagram @renewablespiritual.

Companion Prayer

Gracious God,
thank you for the countless ways your generosity fills our lives, often in places we least expect. Teach us to trust that your grace is always enough, and then make us generous with what we have received. Help us to offer an extra measure of kindness, patience, encouragement, and love, so that others may catch a glimpse of your abundant Kingdom through us. Through Christ our Lord. Amen.

The Spirituality of Picking Wild Berries.

Growing up on a fairly large cash crop farm in southern Ontario, I lived a remarkably blessed childhood. The fence rows and ditch banks that bordered our fields were full of wild treasures if you knew where to look.

Early each summer came the wild strawberries. They were tiny compared with the strawberries we grew in the garden, but they possessed a sweetness that no supermarket berry has ever managed to imitate. You had to pick a great many of them to fill even a small bowl, but every one was worth the effort.

A few weeks later came raspberry season. Along the edges of the fields grew wild red raspberries and black raspberries in astonishing abundance. A walk along the fence line with a pail often became an expedition that ended with quarts of berries making their way back to the farmhouse.

There was a particular satisfaction in sprinkling those berries over a bowl of morning cereal or spooning them over vanilla ice cream. They were the labour of your own hands. They tasted better because you had found them yourself.

Mind you, raspberry season also left evidence. My forearms usually carried enough scratches from the thorn bushes to convince anyone that I had been engaged in some sort of agricultural combat. I considered those scratches badges of honour, proof that persistence often has delicious rewards.

Even now, whenever I see a patch of wild berries beside a country road, I am carried back to those summer mornings on the family farm. They remain among my happiest memories, and perhaps that is one reason I have always thought that God has something to teach us through wild berries.

There is something wonderfully optimistic about a person who goes looking for wild berries.

It begins with confidence bordering on theological certainty. We march into the woods carrying an empty bucket and the firm conviction that somewhere out there is a patch of berries just waiting to make our breakfast more interesting. We have no guarantee. We simply trust.

Faith often begins exactly there.

Wild berry picking has always struck me as one of God’s quieter classrooms. There are no admission fees, no PowerPoint presentations, and very little applause. Just a patch of raspberry canes or blueberries tucked into the edge of a field, quietly producing fruit because that is simply what they were created to do.

Of course, they do not make it easy.

The berries always seem to grow in places protected by an impressive security system of mosquitoes, blackflies, thistles, poison ivy, and branches that somehow know precisely where your glasses are. You return home with a litre of berries and enough scratches to convince your family you have wrestled a small bear.

This is one of God’s gentler reminders that many worthwhile things require a little inconvenience.

Canadians spend an extraordinary amount of effort cheerfully wandering into mosquito-infested bushes in search of food that is freely available in neat little plastic containers at the grocery store. But somehow the berries taste different when you have earned every handful.

Grace has always had that quality about it.

The sweetest blessings are often the ones that required patience rather than speed.

You cannot hurry wild berries. You learn to look carefully. At first all you see are leaves. Then suddenly your eyes adjust, and everywhere there are little flashes of red, blue, or black hiding beneath the branches. What seemed empty is actually full.

Prayer works much the same way.

Most of us begin by saying, “Lord, I don’t see much happening.”

Then, slowly, our spiritual eyesight changes.

We begin noticing small mercies that were there all along. A friend’s encouraging word. A cool breeze after a hot afternoon. A child laughing. A neighbour waving from across the street. A moment of unexpected peace. They are scattered through the ordinary landscape like berries waiting to be discovered.

The Kingdom of God is rarely loud. It is often hidden just beneath the leaves.

Berry picking also teaches moderation.

The first few berries usually make it into the bucket. The next several mysteriously disappear into the picker. Scientific studies have yet to explain this phenomenon, although experienced berry pickers know it has absolutely nothing to do with self-control and everything to do with quality assurance.

By the time you reach home, your bucket may not contain quite as many berries as originally anticipated, but your soul is noticeably happier.

Perhaps God smiles at this.

Not every blessing needs to be stored away for later. Some are meant simply to be enjoyed while they are fresh.

And then there is the unexpected generosity of nature.

You rarely find just one berry. Where there is one, there are usually many more nearby. God’s creation seems to delight in abundance. A single bush becomes dozens. A handful becomes enough for a pie. A morning’s wander becomes enough to share with neighbours.

That, too, is how grace behaves.

God seldom gives us just enough to survive. More often, God gives enough to share.

Jesus fed crowds. The manna covered the ground. The nets overflowed with fish. The baskets of leftovers were gathered up. The Gospel is remarkably generous.

Perhaps that is why picking wild berries feels almost sacramental.

It invites us to slow down.

To pay attention.

To trust that goodness is often hidden where we least expect it.

To discover that abundance usually reveals itself to those willing to look carefully.

And perhaps, when we return home with purple fingers, scratched arms, and a bowl full of berries, we discover that the greatest harvest was not the fruit we carried back at all.

It was the quieter heart that returned with us.

Thanks be to God for berry patches, patient searching, and all the sweet surprises hidden beneath the leaves.

Follow along on Instagram @renewablespiritual.

Companion Prayer

Gracious God,

Thank you for the quiet lessons hidden in ordinary places. Thank you for berry patches, summer mornings, patient searching, and the joy of small discoveries.

Teach us to slow our hurried pace so that we may notice the gifts you scatter throughout each day. Give us eyes to see your grace hidden beneath the leaves of ordinary life, hearts that delight in sharing your abundance, and spirits that trust that you are always at work, even when we cannot yet see the fruit.

And when life leaves us with a few scratches along the way, remind us that your sweetest blessings are often found by those who keep looking with hope.

May our lives bear the fruit of your love, for the nourishment of the world and the glory of your holy name.

Amen.

The Ministry of Bringing Dessert

There are certain people who possess a spiritual gift so profound that the Church has never quite found a proper liturgical title for it.

They are the people who bring dessert.

Not because they were asked.

Not because there was a sign-up sheet.

Not because they wanted recognition.

They simply arrive carrying something marvellously unnecessary.

As a priest, I have attended enough parish suppers to know that dessert is rarely the main course. It is, however, the part everyone quietly checks to make sure has arrived.

Nobody rushes into the church hall asking, “Has the coleslaw made it?”

But more than one faithful Anglican has casually wandered past the serving table just to see whether someone brought butter tarts.

Purely for planning purposes, of course.

Stephen Leacock would probably have observed that Canadians possess an extraordinary ability to appear completely indifferent to dessert while simultaneously calculating exactly how many Nanaimo bars remain on the tray. It is a national talent.

Yet beneath the humour lies something rather beautiful.

Dessert is almost never essential.

Nobody needs pie in the strictest nutritional sense.

But somehow pie tells us something that vegetables cannot.

It says, “The meal isn’t just about survival.”

It says, “Stay a little longer.”

It says, “Conversation is still happening.”

It says, “Joy deserves another fifteen minutes.”

I have always found that one of the quiet miracles of parish life is how often God works through people who bring just a little more than was expected.

Someone brings dessert.

Someone else remembers real cream for the coffee.

Another quietly refills the water pitchers.

Someone notices the newcomer sitting alone.

None of these things appears particularly dramatic.

Yet together they become hospitality.

The Kingdom of God often arrives disguised as people paying attention.

Jesus seemed remarkably interested in meals.

He accepted invitations.

He multiplied bread.

He turned water into wine before anyone expected him to.

He compared heaven to banquets more often than committee meetings—which, if we’re being honest, is probably one reason heaven sounds so attractive.

Again and again, Jesus revealed a God whose instinct is abundance rather than bare necessity.

Grace rarely arrives saying, “This is the minimum acceptable amount.”

Grace usually arrives carrying something extra.

An extra loaf.

An unexpected blessing.

A second chance.

Or perhaps an apple crumble that nobody saw coming.

Ordinary Time is, in many ways, the season of dessert.

The great festivals are behind us.

The dramatic stories of Christmas, Holy Week, Easter, Ascension, and Pentecost have all been celebrated.

Now we settle into the ordinary rhythm of discipleship.

And it is precisely here that we discover faith is often built not by extraordinary moments, but by countless small kindnesses that make ordinary life sweeter.

Perhaps that is why Paul speaks so often about generosity.

Not because God needs our gifts.

But because generosity changes the atmosphere wherever it appears.

It reminds everyone present that love is never content with doing only what is necessary.

It delights in giving just a little more.

So the next time you are invited somewhere, consider bringing dessert.

Not because your host forgot.

Not because anyone expects it.

But because the Kingdom of God has always had a habit of arriving with unexpected sweetness.

And if someone else has already brought dessert?

Well…

Bring whipped cream.

There is always room for one more act of grace.

Follow along on Instagram @renewablespiritual.

Companion Prayer

Gracious God,

Thank you for the people who quietly make life sweeter—those who arrive with generous hearts, open hands, and unexpected kindness. Help us to notice the simple opportunities each day to offer encouragement, hospitality, and joy to others.

Teach us to live with the generosity of Christ, who always gave more love than was expected and more grace than was deserved. May our words, our actions, and even the smallest gifts we share become reminders of your abundant goodness.

And when we are the ones in need, help us to receive the kindness of others with gratitude, knowing that every act of love is a glimpse of your Kingdom.

Through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.

The Theology of the First Cool Morning in August

There is a particular morning every August when you step outside, coffee in hand, and something feels… different.

It is not cold exactly. Canadians know better than to call 16 degrees “cold.” We reserve that word for temperatures that make your eyelashes freeze together and your car emit noises normally associated with walruses.

But it is cool.

The air has changed. The humidity has finally packed its bags and wandered off somewhere less civilized. The breeze feels as though someone has quietly turned down summer’s thermostat during the night. Even the birds seem less frantic, as if they, too, have noticed that autumn has begun sending polite advance notices.

You inhale deeply without sweating.

It is a miraculous experience.

Now, if you are like me, your first thought is not, “Ah yes, the changing of the seasons reminds me of the inexorable passage of time.”

No. Your first thought is usually something far more profound.

“I might actually wear a long-sleeved shirt this morning.”

Canadians are remarkably optimistic creatures. One cool morning arrives, and suddenly we begin discussing soup recipes, football, apple pies, and whether it is too early to put on a fleece jacket. Someone will inevitably say, “You can feel fall in the air.”

Meanwhile, the weather forecast promises another week of thirty-degree afternoons.

We are nothing if not hopeful.

There is something deeply theological about that first cool morning.

Ordinary Time teaches us to pay attention to the slow work of God. Growth rarely announces itself with fireworks. More often, it arrives quietly, almost unnoticed, like cooler air drifting through an open window while everyone else is still asleep.

The Kingdom of God seems to delight in these gentle transitions.

Jesus spoke of seeds growing beneath the soil where no one could see them. Paul described us being transformed from one degree of glory to another. The Spirit often works less like a lightning strike and more like a change in the wind.

We wake one morning and discover that something has shifted.

Perhaps forgiveness comes a little more easily.

Perhaps grief no longer occupies every room in the house.

Perhaps hope has quietly unpacked its suitcase after months away.

Nothing dramatic happened overnight. Yet everything feels just a little different.

The first cool morning reminds us that God’s grace often moves in exactly that way.

It is easy to imagine that spiritual growth should always feel spectacular. We expect mountaintop experiences, dramatic conversions, or voices from heaven. Instead, much of discipleship consists of waking up one ordinary morning and realizing that our hearts have become just a little softer than they were before.

Grace has been at work while we were sleeping.

I have always loved these August mornings because they invite us to slow down. The frantic pace of summer begins to soften. Gardens are still producing generously, but they no longer seem quite so determined to conquer the entire backyard by Thursday. The sunsets arrive just a little earlier. The crickets seem slightly more confident. Even the mosquitoes, having spent two months auditioning for the role of tiny vampires, appear to lose a bit of enthusiasm.

For this, we offer heartfelt thanks.

Stephen Leacock might have observed that Canadians possess an extraordinary talent for discussing the weather with the seriousness usually reserved for constitutional reform. We will stand together in a church parking lot after worship and spend twenty minutes analysing one cool breeze as though Environment Canada has personally consulted us.

Yet perhaps we are wiser than we know.

The weather has always been one of God’s oldest sermons.

Every season reminds us that change is not something to fear. It is woven into creation itself. Summer yields to autumn. Leaves fall. Snow comes. Spring returns. Life is continually being made new, even when the landscape appears to be letting go.

That is resurrection quietly rehearsing itself every year.

So when you notice that first cool August morning, don’t rush past it.

Stand outside for an extra moment.

Take a deep breath.

Offer thanks for the gift of changing seasons.

And remember that if God can gently transform the air overnight, perhaps God is quietly transforming you as well.

Not with great fanfare.

Not with headlines.

But with the steady, faithful grace that has always been the true climate of the Kingdom.

And that, I think, is worth putting on a long-sleeved shirt for.

Follow along on Instagram @renewablespiritual

Companion Prayer

Gracious God,

Thank you for the gentle moments that remind us to slow down and pay attention. As the cool morning breeze whispers that the seasons are changing, help us to trust that your Spirit is quietly at work within us as well.

When we long for dramatic signs of your presence, teach us to recognize your grace in the ordinary rhythms of life—in a deep breath of fresh air, a peaceful sunrise, a neighbour’s greeting, or the quiet assurance that hope has returned.

Give us hearts that are open to change, courage to embrace each new season, and wisdom to see your faithful hand guiding us through them all.

May we learn to welcome each day with gratitude, knowing that even when growth is slow and unseen, you are shaping us into the people you have created us to be.

And as we delight in the beauty of your creation, may we remember that the greatest transformation is not happening around us, but within us through the quiet work of your love.

In the name of Christ, who makes all things new.

Amen.

The Gospel According to the Cooler Full of Ice

There is something deeply reassuring about spotting a cooler full of ice on a hot summer day.

Whether it is sitting beside a baseball diamond, tucked under the shade of a picnic pavilion, waiting on the dock before an afternoon swim, or riding in the back of someone’s pickup truck before a family reunion, a cooler quietly announces, “Someone thought ahead.”

It is one of the least glamorous acts of hospitality ever invented.

Nobody gathers around admiring the engineering marvel of the cooler. It rarely receives compliments. No one says, “Well done! What a magnificent insulated container!” Instead, people simply open the lid, reach inside, and smile because there is cold water, lemonade, iced tea, or perhaps the occasional suspiciously coloured sports drink that appears to glow faintly in the dark.

The cooler is not trying to impress anyone.

It is simply trying to help people get through a hot day.

That feels surprisingly close to the Gospel.

Throughout Scripture, God seems remarkably interested in thirsty people.

The Israelites wandered through deserts where water was never guaranteed. The prophets spoke of streams in dry places. Jesus met a Samaritan woman beside a well and spoke of living water. On the cross, Jesus himself cried, “I thirst.” And the Bible ends with one of its loveliest invitations: “Let everyone who is thirsty come.”

Apparently God has always understood that thirsty people have difficulty paying attention to anything else.

Perhaps that explains why hospitality often begins with something refreshingly practical.

Before profound conversations come glasses of water.

Before difficult decisions come cups of coffee.

Before lifelong friendships come shared meals.

Grace frequently arrives carrying something cold to drink.

I have noticed over the years that the people who quietly keep coolers stocked are rarely looking for recognition. They simply notice when someone looks overheated. They remember that children seem to become thirsty approximately every twelve minutes. They know that older adults often forget to drink enough water. They quietly replace melting ice before anyone realizes it needs replacing.

They perform a ministry that never appears on parish organization charts.

Perhaps it should.

If the Church ever creates the Order of St. Igloo, I already know several worthy candidates.

Stephen Leacock might have observed that every family gathering includes one person who is unofficially appointed Keeper of the Cooler. This individual possesses mysterious knowledge about exactly where every beverage is located, how much ice remains, and why nobody should leave the lid open “for heaven’s sake!” Their vigilance is legendary. Their authority unquestioned. Even the family dog knows better than to challenge them.

It is, admittedly, a very Canadian vocation.

Yet beneath the humour lies something beautifully holy.

The Kingdom of God often grows through people who notice simple needs before they become emergencies.

Someone refills the water pitcher.

Someone brings extra lawn chairs.

Someone remembers sunscreen.

Someone keeps popsicles in the freezer for neighbourhood children.

Someone quietly packs the cooler.

None of these actions will likely be remembered by history books.

But they may very well be remembered by heaven.

Ordinary Time has a way of teaching us that faith is rarely built through spectacular moments alone. More often it grows through thousands of small acts of kindness that quietly say, “I’m glad you’re here.”

That may be one of the greatest gifts we can offer another person.

Not dramatic speeches.

Not flawless theology.

Just enough thoughtfulness that someone leaves feeling refreshed rather than exhausted.

Perhaps that is what Jesus had in mind all along.

The world offers plenty of heat.

The Church can become known for offering cool water.

So, if you happen to be the person packing the cooler this weekend, filling water bottles, freezing ice packs, or making sure everyone has something cold to drink, do not underestimate your ministry.

You may be preaching one of the clearest sermons of the summer.

Because every cooler full of ice quietly proclaims a Gospel truth:

Someone cared enough to prepare refreshment before you even knew you would need it.

And if that does not sound like grace, I do not know what does.

Companion Prayer

Gracious God,

Thank you for the simple kindnesses that refresh both body and soul. Thank you for cool water on hot days, for hands that prepare before others arrive, and for generous hearts that quietly notice what people need.

Teach us to practise the ordinary hospitality of your Kingdom. Help us to offer a glass of water, a place to rest, a word of encouragement, or a simple act of care without seeking recognition. May our lives become small reminders that your grace is always waiting before we even know we need it.

Refresh our spirits when we grow weary, soften our hearts when they become distracted, and help us become people who leave others feeling welcomed, strengthened, and loved.

In the name of Jesus, the Living Water, we pray.

Amen.

The Theology of the Swimming Dock

There are few places that capture the spirit of a Canadian summer quite like a swimming dock.

Whether it is a weathered wooden dock at the cottage, a floating dock on a quiet lake, or one of those municipal docks that has seen generations of children launching themselves into the water with more enthusiasm than precision, every swimming dock tells stories.

It is also, I have come to believe, a rather remarkable teacher of faith.

The interesting thing about a swimming dock is that it always invites a decision.

You can sit with your feet dangling in the water for hours. Many people do. They cautiously test the temperature every few minutes as though the lake might suddenly decide to become warmer simply because they are being patient.

“It still feels cold.”

“Give it another minute.”

Five minutes later…

“Still cold.”

The fish are probably having their own conversation.

“Do you think they’ll ever get in?”

“I doubt it. They’re discussing it.”

I’ve participated in enough of those dockside theological conferences to know they rarely change the outcome.

Eventually someone simply jumps.

For a brief moment there is a great splash, a surprising amount of dramatic shouting, and then comes the inevitable announcement.

“It’s actually not bad!”

Of course it isn’t.

It never was.

The hardest part was not the water.

The hardest part was letting go of the dock.

Faith often works the same way.

So much of our spiritual lives is spent with our toes in the water.

We wonder if we’re ready to forgive.

We wonder if we’re ready to begin again.

We wonder whether we should volunteer, change careers, retire, reconcile with someone, join a church, take a risk, or answer one of those persistent nudges that God seems unwilling to stop whispering.

We keep waiting until every uncertainty disappears.

But certainty is remarkably elusive.

God seldom says, “Once every possible question has been answered, then you may begin.”

Instead, God gently says, “Come.”

Throughout Scripture, people rarely receive complete road maps.

Abraham leaves home without knowing the destination.

Peter climbs out of the boat without knowing exactly how long the water will hold him.

The disciples leave their fishing nets before they have any idea where the journey will end.

Even Jesus continually invites people into trust before they fully understand where grace is leading them.

Faith has always involved stepping beyond the familiar edge.

Now, before anyone becomes concerned, I am not suggesting that reckless decisions are somehow holy. If the dock has a sign that says “No Diving — Rocks,” please do not imagine that this blog has suddenly become a commentary on ignoring common sense.

God gave us wisdom for a reason.

But there is a difference between wisdom and hesitation.

Wisdom asks good questions.

Fear asks the same question over and over again until summer is over.

Ordinary Time has been quietly teaching us this all season.

Growth rarely happens while remaining perfectly comfortable.

Seeds split open before they grow.

Gardens stretch toward the light.

Birds eventually leave the nest.

Even dragonflies don’t spend forever climbing reeds before they discover they can fly.

At some point, every living thing trusts what God has already placed within it.

Perhaps disciples eventually must do the same.

Looking back over thirty-three years of ordained ministry, I can see plenty of docks.

There were calls I wasn’t certain I could answer.

Congregations I wasn’t sure I was ready to serve.

Conversations I would rather have avoided.

Doors that opened with no guarantee about what lay beyond them.

If I had waited until I felt completely prepared, I suspect I would still be standing on the dock discussing the water with the fish.

Instead, time after time, grace proved deeper than my fears.

Not every plunge was graceful.

Some felt more like spectacular belly flops than elegant dives.

There were awkward landings, unexpected currents, and moments when I wondered if I had mistaken courage for foolishness.

Yet somehow, in every season, God was already present in the water before I arrived.

That may be one of the loveliest truths of the Christian life.

We are not called to leap into emptiness.

We are invited to step into the presence of the One who has been holding creation together since the beginning.

Long before our feet leave the dock, God’s love is already waiting beneath us.

Perhaps that is why Isaiah can say, “When you pass through the waters, I will be with you.”

Not, “If you become brave enough.”

Not, “If you never feel afraid.”

Simply, “I will be with you.”

That promise changes everything.

So maybe today is a good day to stop endlessly testing the water.

Offer the forgiveness.

Begin the conversation.

Take the first small step.

Volunteer.

Pray.

Dream again.

Trust the gentle invitation of God that has been waiting patiently beside you.

Because the remarkable thing about faith is this:

The water has been ready all along.

And by the grace of God, it is deeper, kinder, and more welcoming than we ever imagined.

Follow along on Instagram @renewablespiritual.

Companion Prayer

Gracious God,

Thank you for the quiet invitations you place before us each day. When we find ourselves standing on the dock, hesitant to step forward, remind us that you are already waiting in the waters ahead.

Give us wisdom to discern the difference between caution and fear, courage to take the next faithful step, and trust that your grace is always deeper than our doubts.

When the path feels uncertain, help us remember that we never leap alone. Your love surrounds us, your Spirit goes before us, and your faithful presence will always hold us.

May we grow a little bolder in hope, a little freer in love, and a little more willing to follow wherever Christ leads, knowing that every step taken in faith is held securely in your hands.

In the name of Christ, who continually calls us to “Come,”

Amen.