There are weeks in the Christian life when nothing appears to be happening at all.
No epiphanies. No burning bushes. No thunderous revelations. Just laundry, emails, meetings, leftovers, and a prayer life that feels suspiciously like it’s running on polite small talk.

These are the weeks that worry us.

We begin to suspect that we’ve misplaced God somewhere between Tuesday and Thursday. Surely if God were really at work, there would be at least a mild sensation of uplift — perhaps a glow, a chord change, or a goosebump. Instead, there is only the steady hum of the furnace and the alarming realization that it’s already Wednesday again.

But here is the inconvenient theological truth: when nothing special is happening, God is often at work most deeply.

Scripture, inconveniently, is full of long stretches where nothing dramatic occurs. Israel wanders. The disciples fish. Paul makes tents. Jesus spends thirty years being astonishingly unremarkable. If this were a streaming series, someone would complain about the pacing.

And yet, this is precisely where formation happens.

God, it turns out, does not seem especially interested in our need for constant spiritual fireworks. God is far more committed to shaping patience, fidelity, kindness, courage, and love — virtues which, regrettably, develop best in conditions of repetition and mild boredom.

Uneventful weeks are where faith learns to walk without applause.

Unremarkable prayers — those honest, weary offerings of “Well, here I am again, Lord” — are not failures of devotion. They are signs of trust. They say, I will show up even when I have nothing impressive to report.

If we’re honest, many of our most dramatic prayers are really just cries for divine intervention into situations we would rather not endure. God answers those prayers too — but God also works quietly in the long obedience of ordinary days, reshaping us while we are distracted by groceries and calendars.

Stephen Leacock once suggested that life is mostly made up of things that happen while we’re waiting for something else to happen. Theology would add: this is not a problem to be solved, but a grace to be received.

God is not idle in uneventful weeks. God is building trust, deepening roots, and teaching us how to remain present without needing proof of progress. The Kingdom of God advances at a pace best measured by yeast, not fireworks.

So if this week feels spiritually unremarkable, take heart.
God is still very busy.

You may simply be doing holy work in plain clothes.

A Companion Prayer

Faithful God,
when the days blur together
and nothing seems especially holy,
remind us that you are still at work.

Meet us in ordinary prayers,
in faithful routines,
in the quiet courage of showing up again.

Save us from believing that you only move
when we feel inspired or impressed.

Teach us to trust your hidden labour,
your patient shaping,
your steady presence in the unspectacular.

Bless the weeks without headlines,
the prayers without eloquence,
and the faith that keeps walking
even when nothing special is happening.

Amen.

There are few places where theology is tested more rigorously than in the nave of a church on a Sunday morning. The hymns may be glorious, the sermon inspired, the coffee valiantly brewed — but the thermostat will, without fail, be wrong.

Too hot. Too cold. Too warm in the back. Too drafty near the windows. One parishioner is discreetly fanning themselves with the bulletin, another has wrapped a scarf around their neck as if preparing for a North Atlantic crossing. The thermostat, meanwhile, sits on the wall like a silent prophet, blinking serenely, unmoved by our pleas.

And here we encounter our first spiritual lesson: control is largely an illusion.

We imagine that with the right setting — 68°F, 21°C, “Auto,” “Hold,” or the mysterious “Eco” mode — we can achieve communal comfort. But the thermostat has its own mysterious wisdom. It responds slowly. It resists urgency. It seems to suggest that human impatience is not its concern.

This, I suspect, is very close to how God feels about most of our prayers for immediate adjustment.

The Gospel according to the thermostat teaches us that community is messy. What feels just right to one person feels unbearable to another. The Kingdom of God, it turns out, is not climate-controlled. It is shared space. It requires layers — literal and spiritual — and a willingness to tolerate a bit of discomfort for the sake of being together.

There is also the matter of authority. Somewhere in every parish is a person who knows how the thermostat really works. They may not hold elected office, but they possess the sacred knowledge. They adjust quietly, often during hymns, leaving the rest of us wondering if anything has changed at all. This is not unlike the hidden saints of the church: unseen, misunderstood, occasionally blamed, and absolutely essential.

And then there is patience. The thermostat does not respond to panic. You can jab at the buttons with all the fervour of a revival preacher, but it will not be rushed. It warms and cools in its own good time, reminding us that transformation — spiritual or otherwise — rarely happens on demand.

In the end, the thermostat invites us into a deeper truth: faith is less about perfect conditions and more about faithful presence. We gather not because everything is just right, but because God meets us as we are — sweaters, fans, complaints, and all.

If you listen closely, you can almost hear the thermostat preaching: “Blessed are the adaptable, for they shall inherit the pew.”

Companion Prayer

Gracious God,
who meets us in overheated rooms and drafty corners,
teach us patience when things are not quite right.
Loosen our grip on comfort,
soften our insistence on control,
and warm our hearts even when our toes are cold.

Help us to love one another across differences of preference and perspective,
to laugh when things are imperfect,
and to trust that your Spirit is at work
even when the settings baffle us.

May we be a people more concerned with welcome than warmth,
more devoted to presence than precision,
and always ready to adjust ourselves
before adjusting others.

Amen.

There is a persistent rumour in Christian circles that faith, if done properly, should involve regular epiphanies. Preferably with light effects. Ideally a choir. Possibly a tasteful fog machine.

We gather these stories the way anglers collect tales: Paul knocked flat on the road to Damascus, Moses with the burning bush, Peter blinking in the glow of the Transfiguration. These are the stories we remember, retell, and quietly hope might happen to us — perhaps while folding laundry or waiting in line at the bank.

But most discipleship, it turns out, does not happen like that at all.

Most of it happens without fireworks. Without choirs. Without anyone even noticing.

And thank God for that.

The Myth of the Constant Epiphany

Epiphany, as the Church wisely insists every year, is not a daily occurrence. It is a season, and even then, it arrives gently — wise travellers, a star that takes its time, a child who mostly looks like a child. After Epiphany, the decorations come down, the light lingers quietly, and life resumes its normal, slightly creaky rhythm.

If we insist that faith must always feel like revelation, we risk missing God altogether. We start mistaking volume for holiness and spectacle for presence. We assume that if nothing dramatic is happening, then nothing holy is happening either.

Which would come as a surprise to Jesus, who spent most of his ministry walking, listening, eating, and occasionally napping.

Faithfulness: The Long Obedience in the Same Direction

Faithfulness is not flashy. It does not announce itself. It rarely trends.

Faithfulness looks like praying when the prayer feels thin. Like showing up when you’d rather not. Like loving people who are occasionally hard to love, including yourself. It looks like keeping promises, tending relationships, returning again and again to the small disciplines that slowly, quietly shape a life.

Epiphanies change us in a moment. Faithfulness changes us over time. And time, inconvenient though it is, turns out to be God’s preferred medium.

Most saints are not remembered for their visions. They are remembered for their steadiness. Their stubborn hope. Their refusal to stop loving when it would have been easier — and far more dramatic — to quit.

The Quiet Good News

Here is the good news for those of us whose spiritual lives feel more like simmering than sparking: God is not disappointed.

God does not require constant insight, perfect clarity, or frequent mountaintop moments. God delights in faithfulness precisely because it happens in the ordinary, in the middle of real lives, with all their interruptions and imperfections.

Epiphanies are gifts. We receive them with gratitude when they come. But faithfulness is the soil in which those gifts take root — and that soil is available to everyone, every day.

Which means that if today feels unremarkable, unspectacular, or spiritually beige, you may be closer to the heart of God than you think.

A Companion Prayer

Faithful God,
we thank you for the bright moments
when the way is clear and the light is strong.

But today we thank you especially
for the quieter grace —
for steady days, ordinary faith,
and love that keeps showing up
without applause.

When we long for certainty,
teach us trust.
When we crave fireworks,
give us patience.
When we feel unnoticed,
remind us that you see.

Help us to walk faithfully,
step by ordinary step,
until one day we discover
that you have been with us all along.

Amen.

The Church calendar has always struck me as quietly unimpressed by my sense of urgency.

While I am busy colour-coding my week, optimizing my to-do list, and congratulating myself for surviving on coffee and good intentions, the calendar simply turns the page and says, with great calm: Ordinary Time. Again. And then again. And then — just to make sure I’ve understood — green.

Green, of course, is the liturgical colour of not hurrying. It is the shade of grass growing at its own pace, of trees that stubbornly refuse to leaf on command, and of a Church that declines to be rushed even when the world is tapping its foot loudly.

The Church calendar knows something about burnout that we tend to forget:
not every season is meant to be intense.

The Theological Brilliance of “Nothing Special Today”

Modern life, bless its caffeinated heart, suggests that if something isn’t dramatic, productive, or Instagram-worthy, it may not be worth doing at all. The Church calendar politely disagrees.

After Christmas fireworks and Epiphany sparkle, after Lent’s earnest self-examination and Easter’s trumpet blasts, the calendar does something revolutionary: it settles down. It gives us long stretches with no plot twists, no special effects, and no urgent instructions other than keep going.

Ordinary Time is not an intermission.
It is formation.

This is where faith learns to breathe again. This is where prayer becomes less like a sprint and more like a daily walk that still counts even when no one is timing it. This is where God does most of the growing — quietly, patiently, and largely out of sight.

If the Church calendar were a person, it would be the sort who responds to your frantic monologue with a gentle nod and says, “Yes… but have you considered a nap?”

Holy Seasons as Divine Boundary-Setting

One of the calendar’s most under-appreciated spiritual gifts is that it simply won’t cooperate with our addiction to urgency.

You cannot extend Advent because you’re not ready for Christmas.
You cannot rush through Lent just because self-reflection is inconvenient.
You cannot skip to Easter without passing through Good Friday, no matter how efficient your planner is.

The calendar is, in this way, an act of divine resistance.

It insists that time belongs to God before it belongs to us. It reminds us that rest is not a reward for productivity but a rhythm woven into creation itself. It teaches us — over and over again — that life is not lived well at a perpetual gallop.

Burnout, it turns out, is often what happens when we ignore the seasons and demand harvest every week.

Green as a Spiritual Intervention

Green seasons are where the calendar stages its gentlest intervention.

Here, growth is slow. Faith deepens by repetition. Love matures through showing up. There are no spiritual fireworks scheduled, and no one is keeping score.

This is deeply inconvenient for a culture that prefers breakthroughs to faithfulness and highlights to habits. But it is also profoundly merciful.

Because burnout often arrives disguised as devotion.
And exhaustion frequently masquerades as commitment.

The Church calendar, wiser than we are, knows that holiness is not sustained by urgency but by rhythm. By work and rest. By feast and fast. By green seasons long enough for roots to go down.

What the Calendar Preaches Without Saying a Word

Every time the calendar turns and calmly announces another week of Ordinary Time, it preaches a quiet sermon:
    •    You are not behind.
    •    You do not have to be extraordinary today.
    •    God is still at work when nothing dramatic seems to be happening.

And perhaps most graciously of all:
You are allowed to live at a human pace.

Which, frankly, is very good news — for clergy, for caregivers, for parents, for over-achievers, and for anyone who has ever mistaken exhaustion for faithfulness.

The Church calendar will still be here tomorrow.
Still green.
Still patient.
Still gently teaching us how not to burn out in the presence of God.

A Prayer for Green Seasons and Gentle Pacing

Holy God,
you who made time itself
and called it good before we ever learned to rush,

Slow us down when we confuse urgency with faithfulness
and exhaustion with devotion.
Teach us again the wisdom of seasons—
of sowing and waiting,
of resting and rising,
of work that ends before we do.

When everything in us wants to hurry toward results,
remind us that roots grow in hidden places,
that love matures quietly,
and that most holiness happens without an audience.

Give us grace for the green days —
the ones without fireworks or footnotes,
when faith shows up, prays simply,
and keeps going without applause.

Deliver us from the lie that we must always be productive
to be pleasing in your sight.
Let your calendar shape our hearts,
your patience set our pace,
and your mercy teach us how to live at a human speed.

We offer you our days as they are—
unfinished, unhurried, and held by you—
through Jesus Christ,
who walked, rested, prayed, and trusted time to the Father.

Amen.

There is a particular kind of disappointment that comes after a feast day.
The banners come down. The trumpets go back into their cases. The casserole dishes are returned to their rightful cupboards, which immediately forget having ever been tidy.

And then — green.

Not the dramatic purple of penitence, nor the jubilant white of angels doing overtime, but green. The colour of lawns that need mowing and vestments that rarely get their own Instagram post. Ordinary Time. The season when God, having waved enthusiastically from the mountaintop, slips his hands into his pockets and says, “Shall we walk?”

It is tempting to assume that when the great moments pass — the star, the voice from heaven, the water turned wine-coloured, the dramatic ta-da! — God must have stepped out for a coffee. Surely holiness thrives best on spectacle. Surely faith needs fireworks.

But Ordinary Time suggests something else entirely.

This is the season when Christ stops waving and starts walking.
Not striding ahead with a flag, not hovering above us with a glow and a soundtrack, but matching our pace. Ordinary pace. The speed of errands and conversations and second cups of tea. The pace of people who are figuring things out as they go.

This is the Jesus who walks the long way around. Who lingers. Who tells stories that take a while to land. Who seems in no particular hurry to wrap things up neatly. A Jesus who, rather inconveniently, appears to believe that transformation happens less in moments of astonishment and more in stretches of companionship.

Which may explain why Ordinary Time is so long.

We like our spiritual lives punctuated: big events, clear markers, unmistakable signs that something important has happened. God, on the other hand, appears to favour accumulation. A word here. A meal there. A habit slowly formed. A mercy practised so often it begins to feel normal — and then, only later, holy.

Ordinary Time insists that faith is not sustained by constant urgency. It grows the way gardens do: quietly, daily, and occasionally in ways we don’t notice until someone else points it out. Green is not boring. Green is resilient.

I’m sure we are all familiar with the statement that life is lived while we are making other plans. Ordinary Time gently corrects us: God is met there too. In the in-between. In the middle chapters. In the chapters without titles.

Christ walks with us when there is nothing left to celebrate, no crisis demanding prayer, no milestone requiring cake. He walks with us when the dishes still need doing, the emails still need answering, and holiness looks suspiciously like faithfulness.

And perhaps that is the point.

Ordinary Time is not the absence of God.
It is the presence of God without the need for announcement.  

A Companion Prayer

Gracious God,
When the banners come down and the songs quiet,
teach us to recognize you in the steady steps beside us.

When there is no crowd, no voice from heaven,
and nothing particularly impressive to report,
remind us that you are still here.

Give us patience for green seasons,
eyes to see slow growth,
and hearts willing to walk without needing to rush.

Stay with us in the middle chapters of our lives,
where faith is practised more than proclaimed,
and love is learned by repetition.

Walk with us today, O Christ—
not ahead of us, not above us,
but beside us,
until even the ordinary becomes a place of grace.

Amen.

The trouble with Epiphany is that it gives the distinct impression that once the star has shone, the gifts have been opened, and the visitors from the East have politely excused themselves, everything should now be clear, luminous, and permanently sorted.

And yet.

By January 22nd — or in my experience much sooner — the star has been carefully packed away in a labelled box (or shoved hastily into a cupboard marked Seasonal Things—Do Not Open Until Advent). The wise ones have gone home by another route, the camel parking lot is empty, and there is a suspicious smell of cold coffee lingering in the parish kitchen.

Epiphany, it turns out, does not cancel the ordinary. It hands it back to us.

The magi depart, but the dishes remain. There are crumbs on the parish hall floor. Someone has to put away the folding chairs. Someone has already misplaced the bulletin announcements for next Sunday. And someone — often the same someone — is wondering whether the star was meant to do a bit more heavy lifting than it appears to have done.

This, I think, is the great mercy of Epiphany.

The light comes not to rescue us from daily life, but to accompany us back into it. God does not say, “Now that you have seen something extraordinary, you may leave the ordinary behind.” Instead, God says, “Now that you have seen — go wash the cups, answer the emails, shovel the snow, show up again.”

One (who is given to often make observations in a rather Tongue-in-cheek manner might observe that the Church, having successfully hosted celestial visitors, immediately turns its attention to whether anyone remembered to turn off the lights and who is responsible for the broken casserole dish. This is not failure. This is faithfulness.

Epiphany does not mean we walk around glowing faintly for the rest of the winter, dispensing wisdom and smelling faintly of frankincense. It means we carry a quieter light into kitchens and offices, hospital corridors and parish committee meetings, Tuesday afternoons when nothing much seems to be happening.

The star does not stay overhead forever. It does its work and then trusts us with the rest.

Which is perhaps the deeper revelation: God is content to be known not only in radiant signs, but in the faithful, unremarkable continuation of love. In dishes washed without applause. In prayers said without fireworks. In showing up after the wise ones have gone home.

Epiphany leaves us not with answers, but with enough light to keep going.

And that, it seems, is quite enough.

A Prayer After Epiphany

Holy God, You gave us a star, and we followed as best we could. Now the sky is quieter, the visitors have gone, and the ordinary work waits for us again.

Bless the tasks that remain when the wonder has faded from view. Meet us in sinks and spreadsheets, in hallways and hard conversations, in the love that looks small but lasts a long time.

Keep your light alive in us when no one is watching, and teach us to trust that this, too, is holy ground.

Amen.

There are many noble visions of the Church. Most of them involve packed pews, thundering hymns, stirring sermons, and a general sense that something Important is Happening.

A Tuesday afternoon, by contrast, rarely cooperates.

On a Tuesday afternoon the Church is usually quiet. Too quiet. The kind of quiet that makes the building sound mildly judgmental if you drop your keys. The candles are stubby, the bulletin board is out of date, and the coffee pot — tragically — was emptied hours ago. No one is live-streaming. No one is counting attendance. No one is applauding the faithfulness of the vacuum cleaner.

And yet.

It is precisely on a Tuesday afternoon that the Church shows what it is really for.

On Tuesdays, the Church is not performing. It is simply being.
Being open. Being ready. Being stubbornly present in a world that prefers productivity over faithfulness and results over relationship.

On a Tuesday afternoon, someone wanders in — not because the website told them to, but because the door was unlocked. They sit quietly. They say very little. Sometimes they cry. Sometimes they don’t. Sometimes they just need a place where nothing is demanded of them, least of all cheerfulness. And the Church, to its credit, does not rush them.

On a Tuesday afternoon, the Church hosts meetings that will never trend. Committees are formed. Tea is made. Decisions are postponed wisely. Small acts of care are planned with large amounts of paper. Nothing dramatic occurs, but somehow the Kingdom inches closer.

This is the scandal of grace: it refuses to be efficient.

We live in a culture that measures worth by visibility. If no one is watching, we assume it doesn’t count. But the Church insists — politely but firmly — that the opposite is true. What happens when no one is watching may, in fact, matter the most.

A Tuesday afternoon visit to a hospital.
A prayer said over a name scribbled on a scrap of paper.
A quiet conversation in an office with a chair that has heard everything and promises to tell no one.

None of this makes headlines. But it makes people.

The Church still matters on a Tuesday afternoon because God still shows up on Tuesday afternoons. Not in a hurry. Not with a clipboard. But with the unnerving patience of love that believes presence itself is an act of faith.

And if you ever doubt this, unlock a church on a Tuesday. Sit quietly. Listen.
You may discover that while nothing appears to be happening, everything important already is.

A Prayer for Tuesday Afternoons

Gracious God,
who is just as present when the building is quiet
as when the sanctuary is full,
meet us in the unremarkable hours of our lives.

Bless the unlocked doors,
the half-finished cups of tea,
the chairs that creak with remembered stories,
and the prayers spoken too softly to impress anyone.

Teach us to trust that faithfulness matters
even when no one applauds,
that love is doing its work
even when nothing appears to be happening.

Be with those who wander in unsure of what they need,
with those who serve without recognition,
and with those of us learning—slowly—
that presence itself is holy.

On Tuesdays, and every ordinary day,
remind us that your grace keeps faithful hours,
and that nothing done in love is ever wasted.

Amen.

God meets us as we are — even in yesterday’s sweater.

There is something about the weeks following Christmas leading us ever closer to Lent that drives home important spiritual messages beyond those that the Christmas story underlined. Primarily, in our exhaustion and re3covery from the frenzied activity of the season we recently came out of, and our struggles with the days that are still so short and have such long dark nights, it is so spiritually helpful to realize that Grace is there, even when I am exhausted, and feel like I’m not doing anything particularly well.

There are days when faith feels crisp, coordinated, and properly accessorized. The prayers line up neatly. The hymns land in the right key. Even your theology has been pressed and lightly starched.

And then there are those other days.

Days when you arrive before God wearing whatever you grabbed in the dark. Days when your soul has mismatched socks. Days when you feel spiritually under-dressed — short on eloquence, low on energy, and running on the fumes of last week’s courage.

On those days, if we’re honest, we suspect God might be quietly disappointed. Surely the Holy One prefers us properly attired: hope freshly ironed, gratitude polished, confidence buttoned all the way up.

But Scripture — and lived faith — suggest otherwise.

God, it turns out, has an astonishing tolerance for yesterday’s sweater.

Grace does not require us to arrive looking impressive. Grace does not stand at the door with a clipboard, checking whether our prayers are articulate or our faith feelings suitably enthusiastic. Grace opens the door, pulls up a chair, and says, “Come in. Sit down. You’ll do just fine.”

This is deeply inconvenient for those of us who like to prepare our holiness. Who would prefer to show God the version of ourselves that has slept well, thought clearly, and remembered all the right words. Instead, God consistently meets us when we’re rumpled, distracted, and quietly hoping no one notices the coffee stain on our soul.

Think of the Psalms: they arrive breathless, cranky, and occasionally sulky. The disciples follow Jesus with enthusiasm that frequently collapses into confusion. Elijah meets God not in a dramatic wardrobe of thunder and lightning, but in a still, small voice — no dress code specified.

The good news is this: God is not impressed by spiritual finery, but God is endlessly faithful to real people.

Which means the days you feel least “put together” may be precisely the days grace is closest. Grace has a way of meeting us before we’ve had time to tidy up. Grace knows the truth: transformation begins not with looking holy, but with being honest.

So if today you show up tired, uncertain, and wrapped in yesterday’s sweater of doubt, fear, or plain old weariness — take heart. God is not waiting for you to change clothes.

God is already glad you came.

A Prayer

Gracious God,
On the days when we feel unprepared, unfinished, and under-dressed in faith,
remind us that your love is not earned by polish or performance.
Meet us as we are.
Wrap us in mercy.
And clothe us again in hope,
one quiet moment at a time.
Amen.

There is a moment in nearly every pastoral conversation when the air goes quiet, the coffee goes cold, and someone looks at me with the hopeful expression normally reserved for doctors, mechanics, and Google. It is the look that says, “Surely you have the answer.”

And sometimes — brace yourself — I don’t.

This is mildly shocking to everyone involved, including me. After all, clergy are issued stoles, degrees, and an unspoken expectation that somewhere between seminary and ordination we were handed The Book of Explanations. (If you missed yours, check behind the photocopier. That’s where all important things eventually end up.)

Yet there it is: grief that makes no sense, prayer that seems unanswered, a diagnosis that rearranges life overnight, a future that refuses to come into focus. And in those moments, the most truthful — and often the most pastoral — thing I can say is:
“I don’t know either.”

We are trained, of course, to help. We love Scripture, tradition, wise sayings from saints and grandmothers alike. We have pockets full of hope and a theological Swiss Army knife. But there are times when explanations feel less like balm and more like bandages slapped on too quickly. They cover the wound without acknowledging the pain.

Saying “I don’t know” is not a failure of faith. It is often an act of faith. It refuses to rush God. It makes room for mystery. It stands barefoot on holy ground and admits that the ground is uneven.

Jesus himself seems remarkably comfortable here. He weeps at Lazarus’ tomb rather than delivering a tidy lecture on resurrection. He asks questions. He stays. He does not always explain — He accompanies. And that, it turns out, is often what people need most.

There is something deeply human — and deeply Christian — about sitting beside someone in their not-knowing. No fixing. No platitudes. Just presence. Just truth. Just the quiet assurance that they are not alone in the wondering.

Ironically, this kind of honesty often opens the door to grace. When we stop pretending to have answers, we create space for God to be God. And for us to be what we actually are: companions on the road, not tour guides with laminated maps.

So if you find yourself at a loss for words, unsure what to say, or tempted to fill the silence with something that sounds vaguely theological but feels suspiciously hollow — take heart.

Sometimes the most faithful words are simply:
“I don’t know either. But I’m here.”

And that, more often than not, is enough.

A Companion Prayer

Gracious God,
You are not frightened by our questions
nor disappointed by our uncertainty.
When we stand before You without answers,
teach us to trust Your presence more than our explanations.

Give us the courage to be honest,
the humility to sit with mystery,
and the grace to accompany one another
when the way forward is unclear.

In the silence of not knowing,
meet us with Your peace,
and remind us that we are never alone.
Amen.

There are many ways to tell the seasons of the Church year. Some consult the Book of Common Prayer. Others look to the colour of the altar frontal. A few especially devout souls follow the lectionary so closely they can tell you the Gospel reading by the angle of the sun.

But the truest, most reliable calendar of all — the one that never lies, never transfers feasts, and never needs explaining — is the church parking lot.

I have come to believe that if the early Church Fathers had spent more time in Canadian parking lots, much theology could have been settled sooner.

Advent, for instance, is clearly the season of ice and anticipation. The parking lot is dimly lit, cautiously navigated, and everyone walks with that peculiar posture of hope mixed with fear — hope that we will arrive safely, fear that we will not. Advent teaches us to slow down, watch our step, and trust that light will eventually appear. Preferably before we fall.

Christmas arrives suddenly, usually announced by the mysterious disappearance of ice and the equally mysterious appearance of puddles that are deeper than they look. This is the season of Incarnation, when water is everywhere and you cannot avoid it, no matter how carefully you step. Boots are damp, hems are soaked, and yet — somehow — joy persists. Emmanuel has come, and apparently brought slush.

Epiphany is marked not by stars in the sky, but by pylons in the parking lot. Orange, authoritative, and utterly immovable, they appear overnight without explanation. They reveal truths previously hidden: that the route you have taken for years is no longer available, and that God may be calling you to go another way. The wise still arrive, but not without circling twice and muttering quietly.

Lent is the season of potholes. They grow slowly, deepen daily, and test both suspension and sanctification. Lent reminds us that life is not smooth, that repentance requires attention, and that denial — especially of visible craters — is never wise. It is a season for careful navigation and honest self-examination, preferably at low speed.

Holy Week arrives when everything melts at once. Water rushes everywhere. Old cracks are exposed. You wonder if the lot will survive. It feels chaotic, fragile, and just a little alarming — which is exactly right.

Easter, of course, is the miraculous moment when the parking lot dries. Lines reappear. The surface holds. You step out of your car without fear. Resurrection has occurred, and you were not entirely sure it would.

And then there is Ordinary Time, the long green season when nothing dramatic happens at all. The parking lot simply is. No ice. No puddles. No pylons. Just space enough to park, walk, and enter the building where God is already waiting. Ordinary Time teaches us that grace does not always announce itself with hazard cones. Sometimes it looks like stability, predictability, and the quiet gift of things working as they should.

The parking lot, it turns out, is not just a prelude to worship. It is a catechism underfoot. It teaches patience, humility, vigilance, and the profound Christian virtue of walking carefully for the sake of others.

And perhaps that is the final lesson: before we sing a hymn, before we pray a prayer, before we hear a word of Scripture, we practice faith out there — navigating uncertain ground, trusting the journey, and helping one another arrive.

Which is, when you think about it, the Kingdom of God in asphalt form.

A Prayer

Gracious God,
who meets us before we ever reach the door,
be with us in icy seasons and puddled days,
in times of caution and moments of clear ground.
Teach us to walk gently,
to watch out for one another,
and to trust that even uneven paths
can lead us to grace.
May all our comings and goings
be shaped by love, patience, and hope,
through Jesus Christ our Lord.
Amen.