(A meditation on patience, technology, and the stubborn holiness of parish administration)

I feel as though I should preface this parable for readers from Christ Church with an assurance that our photocopier is currently in perfect operation, and Thanksgiving material is all successfully printed. This is a parable.

There are few things in parish life that test one’s sanctification quite like the parish photocopier. I have often thought that if Jesus had lived in the age of office technology, one of his parables would have begun, “The kingdom of heaven is like a photocopier that jammed just as the bulletin was almost finished.”

It is a tale as old as time — or at least as old as toner. It begins innocently enough: you approach the machine with faith and optimism, bulletin master copy in hand, heart full of purpose. You press “Start,” and for a few glorious seconds, the hum of productivity fills the air. Then — clang, grind, flash — a small screen lights up with that most unhelpful of pastoral phrases: “Error. See technician.”

And that’s when the real spiritual formation begins.

I have stood before that machine and other of its ancestors as if before the burning bush — removing trays, checking for paper jams, pressing mysterious buttons with the same desperate hope that one might apply to a defibrillator. “Please, Lord,” I mutter, “just let it finish the last ten bulletins.” (Sometimes, I even promise greater holiness if only the toner will cooperate.)

Of course, the copier does not listen. It humbles the clergy, confounds the administrator, and gives parishioners yet another opportunity to practise patience in the face of adversity. If grace perfects nature, then the parish photocopier is clearly the furnace of sanctification.

Yet, if we look beneath the frustration and flying paper, there may actually be a parable worth hearing. The broken copier reminds us that much of ministry — indeed, much of life — is about persistence and patience in the midst of imperfection. Things break. Plans unravel. Toner runs dry. And somehow, God still shows up.

Sometimes it’s in the person who quietly steps in to hand-fold bulletins after the machine gives up the ghost. Sometimes it’s in the laughter that erupts as the choir realizes the hymn numbers are all wrong. And sometimes, it’s in the humility that comes when the priest realizes that not everything can be fixed by pressing the power button twice.

The parable of the broken photocopier, then, is not really about machines at all. It’s about the community that gathers when things don’t go as planned — the people who make do, who show grace, who remind one another that ministry is not measured in perfect bulletins but in the shared laughter and faith that get us through the chaos.

In the end, the kingdom of God might look less like a perfectly printed order of service, and more like a group of faithful people gathered around a jammed machine, laughing, praying, and finding holiness in the hum of human imperfection.

And yes, the technician eventually arrives. He opens one obscure panel, removes a single scrap of paper, presses a hidden button, and the copier bursts back to life. It’s like resurrection—complete with the smell of warm toner and second chances.

So, perhaps the next time your own plans jam, when things just won’t align, you might remember: even a broken photocopier can proclaim good news. Grace, after all, still manages to print, even when the machine doesn’t.

A Prayer for Patience in the Age of Photocopiers

Gracious God,
You who bring order from chaos and calm to anxious hearts,
grant us patience when the toner runs dry
and wisdom when the machine says, “See technician.”
Teach us to find joy in imperfection,
grace in small frustrations,
and laughter in the holy absurdities of ministry.
Remind us that even jammed paper can proclaim your presence,
and that your love is never out of alignment.
Through Christ our patient Redeemer,
Amen.

There are days when prayer feels like the most natural thing in the world. The birds are singing, the coffee is strong, and your heart just overflows with gratitude. And then there are the other days. The ones where your prayers sound like they’re bouncing off the ceiling tiles of a drafty parish hall. Days when you sit down to pray and find yourself mentally rearranging the kitchen drawers instead.

I’ve had mornings when I open my prayer book, take one look at the Collect of the Day, and think, “Lord, you’re getting a rain cheque on this one.”

And yet, it’s precisely on those dry, distracted, spiritually uncooperative days that prayer matters most. Because prayer, at its core, isn’t about our mood, our eloquence, or even our enthusiasm. It’s about relationship. And relationships, as anyone who’s ever tried to put together an IKEA bookshelf with another human being knows, require consistency more than sentiment.

The psalmists knew this feeling well. “How long, O Lord?” is not just poetic language — it’s the ancient equivalent of “Are you even listening up there?” But still they prayed. They brought their silence, their frustration, their anger, and their boredom to God — and somehow, mysteriously, that too became holy.

Now, I must confess: I’ve spent years trying to make my prayer life as tidy as my sermon notes (and those who’ve seen my desk know that’s saying something). I’ve colour-coded detailed prayer lists. I’ve experimented with apps, and even set reminders on my phone that cheerfully say, “Time to talk to God!” — which, I suspect, makes the angels roll their eyes. But the truth is, prayer is rarely tidy. It’s a long conversation with the One who loves us enough to sit through our tangents.

There’s an old saying that “faith is not feeling but fidelity.” That’s why I keep praying when I don’t feel like it — because prayer is less about getting results and more about staying rooted. Even when I can’t find the words, the rhythm of prayer — the Our Father, the Lord have mercy, the gentle cadence of the Daily Office — carries me like a steady heartbeat when my own rhythm falters.

And here’s the funny thing. More often than not, when I finally stop trying to feel something and just show up, God does the rest. The silence softens. The ceiling tiles disappear. And somehow, grace sneaks in through the side door, carrying a mug of tea and saying, “I’ve been here all along.”

So if you’re in a season when prayer feels dry or distant, take heart. Keep showing up. Say your prayers even when you’d rather scroll the news or take a nap. Because sometimes the holiest thing we can do is simply to show up, tired and distracted though we are, and say:
“Here I am, Lord. Again.”

And God, who has been waiting all along, smiles and says,
“I know. I’m glad you came.”

Prayer: When Prayer Feels Hard

Gracious and patient God,
You know the days when prayer comes easily,
and the days when the words just won’t come at all.
When our minds wander and our hearts feel heavy,
remind us that simply showing up is enough.

Teach us that prayer is not performance,
but presence — Yours and ours together.
Help us to rest in the rhythm of faith,
trusting that even our sighs and silences are heard by You.

When we are weary, be our strength.
When we are distracted, be our centre.
And when we don’t feel like praying,
draw us gently back to You —
for You are always waiting,
listening,
loving.

Amen.

Everyone who knows me within my ministry, knows how deeply and dearly I love the sacraments. No matter what level the churchmanship of a given congregation, I love to see the sacraments celebrated well, and to see them used to draw all the congregation into the presence of God. They are tools meant to help us to see the Spiritual reality behind God’s loving presence in our daily reality. And so with that said, I’ve been thinking a lot lately about how those sacraments sometimes speak again, not in the church’s buildings, but in our own daily life.

The great danger in writing about sacraments is that people immediately imagine the clergy in full vestments, the smell of incense wafting about like the Spirit on overtime, and the hushed tones of holiness reserved for things that happen behind an altar rail. But I’d like to suggest that the sacraments, like mischievous children at a formal dinner, refuse to stay where we’ve put them. They sneak out of church, tracking grace all over creation.

Take, for example, the Eucharist. The Church has spent centuries refining how we handle bread and wine, ensuring no crumb or drop goes rogue. And yet, there it is — grace, showing up at your kitchen table in the shape of burnt toast and slightly over-brewed tea. When friends gather to share a meal, stories are told, laughter erupts, and someone inevitably spills something — which, in my book, makes it properly Anglican. These moments are little Eucharists, hidden in plain sight. Christ seems to have a habit of showing up wherever there’s food and forgiveness on the menu.

Then there’s Baptism, that joyous occasion where a baby (or an adult brave enough to know better) gets a generous splash of sanctified water. But look closer: have you ever been caught in a sudden downpour, the kind that soaks you through before you can find your umbrella? There you stand, dripping and blinking, wondering if you’ve been cleansed or just thoroughly inconvenienced. I suspect God laughs at our confusion — for maybe, just maybe, that rainfall is a reminder that baptism, while theologically a one time event, is always renewable. Every time life drenches us — with tears, with laughter, with the sudden surprise of grace — it’s as though the heavens whisper, “Still mine.”

And then there’s that moment of Confession. In ministry, we clergy sometimes find ourselves sitting in quiet corners, hearing the whispered woes of the faithful person, and offering absolution like a gentle rain. But I’ve come to realize that confession leaks out of the church walls, too. It happens at coffee tables and pub counters, when someone sighs deeply and says, “I really messed that up.” There’s holiness in that honesty — not polished, not rehearsed, but true. And when a friend answers, “It’s okay, you’re forgiven,” we catch a glimpse of heaven’s mercy passing from one frail human to another.

The truth is, God’s grace is a bit untidy. It won’t stay in the chalice, the font, or, for that matter, the church walls. It overflows into kitchens, rainstorms, and awkward conversations. The sacraments — those outward and visible signs of inward and spiritual grace — have gone rogue. And thank God for that.

So next time you sit down for supper, step out into the rain, or admit something difficult to someone who loves you anyway — remember: you’re standing on holy ground. No vestments required.

A Prayer for Seeing the Sacraments Everywhere

Gracious and ever-present God,
You meet us not only in bread and wine,
but also in toast and tea,
in laughter that spills across the table,
and in the quiet company of those who love us anyway.

You baptize us again and again —
in the rain that soaks our shoulders,
in the tears that trace our cheeks,
and in the rivers of grace that flow through ordinary days.

You hear our confessions
in whispered prayers and honest conversations,
and you answer through the mercy
of friends who refuse to give up on us.

Teach us to see your holy mischief
in the everyday —
to taste Eucharist in shared meals,
to feel baptism in every drop of rain,
and to know absolution
in every word of forgiveness spoken in love.

Keep us alert to your presence, O Lord,
that we might find you not only at the altar,
but also in the kitchen, the garden, and the street.
For all the world is drenched in your grace,
and we, your slightly soggy servants,
give you thanks and praise.

Through Christ our Lord,
who sanctified both supper and rainstorm.
Amen.

I should have learned by now that God has absolutely no respect for my calendar.

Every week begins with such promise — my planner laid out neatly in front of me, pens arranged in a hopeful rainbow, appointments colour-coded like a bishop’s vestments in Ordinary Time. I make my lists, sip my coffee, and think to myself, “This week, Don, you’ll stay on top of things.” And without fail, by Tuesday morning, some unforeseen pastoral adventure has arrived to remind me that my plans are more of a suggestion than a decree.

It might be the parish printer choosing to undergo a spiritual fast during bulletin production, or a phone call from someone who “just needs five minutes” (which, in church time, means forty-five and a pot of tea). Sometimes it’s a funeral that rearranges the week entirely, or a wedding rehearsal that turns into a theological symposium on the nature of love, human fallibility, and the best brand of punch for the reception.

I used to call these “disruptions.” Now I call them “holy interruptions.”

Because, truth be told, much of ministry — and much of life — happens in the margins of our schedules. It’s the unplanned visit, the unexpected conversation, the last-minute request that somehow turns out to be the very place God was waiting to meet us.

The Gospels are full of these holy interruptions. Jesus never seemed to make it through a single day according to plan. He’d set out to preach in one town, and on the way, someone would tug on His robe, or a crowd would gather, or a friend would say, “There’s a wedding in Cana — you should come!” And there, amid the detours, the divine would unfold. Blind eyes were opened. The lost were found. Water was turned into wine — always a good reminder that God’s interruptions are rarely dull.

There’s a reason for that. The God we meet in Scripture — and, I suspect, in our daily lives — doesn’t inhabit the world of tidy schedules and predictable routines. God’s Spirit moves like the wind, or like a parishioner with a new fundraising idea. You can try to contain it, but you’ll fail gloriously. The holy, it seems, is allergic to our sense of control.

I remember one afternoon in a former parish when I had been determined to write a brilliant sermon. The study door was closed. The coffee was hot. The Greek New Testament was open to just the right passage. And then — knock, knock.

“Father, do you have a minute?”

Of course, I did. It turned out to be one of those conversations that began with, “I don’t really know why I came by…” and ended with tears, prayer, and a palpable sense that God had drawn near. The sermon got finished later — it always does. But that moment was ministry in its purest form: unplanned, unscripted, and holy.

In parish life, we live perpetually in the tension between planning and openness. Vestry meetings, budgets, rotas, and calendars all serve their purpose. But we also need room for the Spirit to surprise us — to show up with an idea, a need, or a person who changes the direction of the day and maybe, if we’re lucky, the direction of our hearts.

So, I’ve come to think that our interruptions are not distractions from the work of God — they are the work of God. They’re the divine knocking at our door, calling from the other end of the phone, or gently turning our colour-coded plans upside down.

The trick, I suppose, is to meet each interruption not with frustration, but with curiosity. To ask, “What might God be doing here, right now, in this unexpected moment?”

And who knows? The next holy interruption might just be the best sermon you never got to finish.

A Prayer for Holy Interruptions

Gracious God,
You move through our days in ways we don’t expect —
in the phone call, the knock at the door,
the moment that breaks our routine.
Teach us to greet each interruption as a gift,
to listen for Your voice in the unscheduled and the inconvenient,
and to find You, always,
in the beautiful mess of ministry and life.
Amen.

After yesterday’s blog went live, I received a phone call from another former parishioner — one of those wonderful souls who seemed to have served in every possible capacity in parish including the Altar Guild but short of the Junior Choir. (And truth be told, if she’d had a good soprano voice, I suspect she’d have done that too.)

She said, “I read your blog, and when you talked about setting people free to do what they were called to do, I thought — that’s exactly what you did with Committees in the Church! That always really impressed me.”

I confess I was momentarily taken aback. To be praised for one’s work with committees is a rare and curious compliment — something like being congratulated for surviving an encounter with a bear. Still, I knew what she meant, and she was right: there was a principle at work there.

The principle was simple — and yet, in the Church, almost revolutionary: pick good people, and then get out of their way.

When a job needs to be done in the parish, we are often tempted to fill the space with whoever’s handy. The reasoning goes something like this: “We need someone to chair the Finance Committee. Fred owns a calculator. Fred will do.”

But that’s not discernment — that’s desperation.

Ministry, in its healthiest form, isn’t about plugging holes in a leaky ship. It’s about calling. It’s about prayerfully asking, “Who has God prepared for this?” — not simply, “Who’s available Tuesday nights?”

And that’s not just for clergy or those with titles before their names. Every single baptized person has a calling. Some are called to lead; others to bake, to teach, to count, to garden, to visit, to encourage, to repair, to sing (even if they really shouldn’t).

The Holy Spirit does not hand out identical job descriptions. But the Spirit does equip each and every one of us to build up the Body of Christ in our own way.

When I think about leadership, I always try to take time — sometimes too much time — to discern who might best lead a ministry. And when that person is found, and they take up that work, I make a point of retreating (as graciously as possible) into a support role.

The real joy comes later, when an executive summary of a committee meeting crosses my desk, and I realize — with quiet delight — that the meeting happened entirely without me.

There it is: a paragraph or two reporting decisions made, ministries expanded, and plans laid for the future. I read it with the same satisfaction one imagines a parent feels watching a child take their first solo bicycle ride. There’s that mix of pride and relief — and the pure joy that nobody got hurt.

For me, that’s the essence of parish leadership. It’s not about controlling everything. It’s about cultivating the confidence and faith to let others thrive.

If you’ve chosen good leaders, if you’ve discerned wisely, then your best contribution might just be to stand aside, cheer them on, and say a prayer of thanks that God has once again provided exactly who was needed, at exactly the right time.

And if you’re ever in doubt, remember the first rule of holy committee work:

“Where two or three are gathered together in Christ’s name… someone should take minutes — and the rector doesn’t have to be there.”

A Prayer for Letting Others Lead

Gracious and ever-faithful God,
you call each of us to serve you in the ways you have equipped us —
some to lead, some to support,
all to build up your Church in love.

Give us the grace to recognize the gifts in others,
the wisdom to call forth those gifts,
and the humility to step aside
so that your Spirit may move freely through your people.

Bless those who lead in quiet faithfulness,
who organize, encourage, and inspire,
often without notice or fanfare.
Let their joy be in your service
and their strength be in your presence.

And teach us all, Lord,
that the work of your kingdom is not ours alone to manage,
but yours to complete —
through the many hearts and hands you have called together in Christ.

Amen.

I had a lovely conversation yesterday with a parishioner from one of my former parishes. She said, “I read your recent blog post, and it got me thinking about the incredible fellowship we had back then — there was so much fun and laughter during those years.”

And she was right. Those were good years. Joy-filled, faithful, noisy years. The kind of years where you could almost hear the laughter echoing in the hall long after everyone had gone home.

Her words got me thinking too. I began to reflect on why that time was so rich with community life and grace. And I realized something that may sound strange for a priest to say: the best thing I did back then was get out of the way.

Now, before anyone rushes to assume that means I was lazy, let me assure you, I did my fair share of sermon writing, visiting, and keeping the church boiler from bursting into flame. But I learned early on that ministry isn’t about being the busiest person in the building—it’s about creating the kind of space where others can shine.

In those days, Charlotte organized regular soup lunches to support a feeding program she’d learned about in Africa. The Women’s Guild cooked up potato lunches that could make a dietician weep with joy (or possibly despair). Once a month, we held Bagel Sunday—an event that brought together the 8:00 and 10:00 congregations, reminding everyone that the early birds and the late risers were indeed part of the same flock.

The wardens, not to be outdone, put on an annual dinner and auction that could have given Sotheby’s a run for their money — if Sotheby’s ever featured a slightly used lawnmower and a homemade cheesecake as its top lots. And then there was John, who spent the summer months organizing volunteers to collect donations for ice cream at St. John’s Soup Kitchen. Because, as he rightly said, “Everyone deserves dessert once in a while.”

These weren’t “programs” in the churchy sense. They were living expressions of love, creativity, and faith. People weren’t waiting for permission — they were responding to the Spirit’s nudge and doing it together, with joy.

My greatest contribution? Learning the fine art of holy restraint — what I like to call “getting the heck out of the way.”

That, I’ve come to believe, is the essence of ministry. It’s not a solo act. It’s not about standing in the spotlight or being the one who makes everything happen. True ministry is about creating a space where the people of God can do what they were made to do — love God, love one another, and love the world with abandon.

When that happens, something beautiful takes root. The laughter grows louder, the joy becomes contagious, and even the hard work feels light. I look back on those years not because I did anything remarkable, but because the community did. They became the church in the truest sense — not a building or a hierarchy, but a living, breathing fellowship of faith.

And that, I think, is what the Kingdom of God looks like when it breaks through our potluck dinners and soup luncheons. It looks like God’s people shining in their own ways, working together, and maybe — just maybe — letting their priest step aside so they can show the world what grace looks like with sleeves rolled up and laughter in the air.

Prayer: Learning to Step Aside

Lord Jesus,
You send us out to share your peace and your good news,
not to draw attention to ourselves, but to you.
When our pride gets in the way,
when our plans take centre stage,
help us to step aside —
so that your light can shine through us.
Teach us to trust your Spirit working in others,
to serve with humility,
and to rejoice that your kingdom is near.

In your holy name we pray. Amen.

On rummage sales, pancake suppers, and the quiet holiness of community service

It has often been said that if you really want to know the heart of a parish, don’t start in the sanctuary — go straight to the basement. There, amid the aroma of coffee that has been brewing since the Trudeau era (the first Trudeau, mind you), you’ll find the living, breathing Gospel enacted with aprons, folding chairs, and a tin cash box that never quite balances at the end of the day.

Some people imagine that the “holy work of the Church” is found only in lofty prayers or grand sermons. But in truth, the real theological wrestling happens when two parishioners argue, with the passion of Aquinas and Luther combined, about whether the pancake batter should be thick or runny. (I once saw a disagreement escalate to the point where someone threatened to bring in a crepe pan—an act considered practically heretical in our context.)

The Rummage Sale as Eschatology

Take the rummage sale, for instance. On the surface, it appears to be the simple redistribution of household clutter — lamps missing shades, half-sets of china, and enough fondue pots to fuel the entire disco decade once again. But hidden in this chaos is an echo of the Gospel: nothing is wasted, everything has potential, and what one person discards, another receives with gratitude. It is a kind of eschatology in miniature: the last shall be first, and the broken vacuum cleaner shall be raised in glory — though only if someone has the right replacement bag.

Pancakes, Pews, and Perseverance

Then there are the pancake suppers. Ah yes, Shrove Tuesday, when the faithful gather to fortify themselves with carbohydrates and syrup before the lean season of Lent. To the outsider, it might look like mere flapjacks on paper plates. But to those who know, it is nothing less than a Eucharist of community. Children run sticky-fingered between tables, seniors balance cups of orange drink with stoic courage, and someone in the kitchen flips pancakes at a rate that would impress a Michelin-starred chef — though he or she will never be canonized, unless it’s by the Altar Guild.

I once heard a parishioner say, “This isn’t just about pancakes. This is about fellowship.” To which another added, “And sausage.” Both were right.

The Quiet Holiness of It All

What I love most is that these seemingly ordinary events reveal the extraordinary holiness of service. They remind us that faith isn’t lived only in sermons and hymns, but also in the washing of dishes, the setting of tables, and the counting of nickels from the bake sale jar.

It’s easy to overlook these things as “small.” But when Jesus said, “Whatever you do for the least of these, you do for me,” I like to think he included pouring coffee for visitors, selling sweaters for fifty cents, and frying up pancakes by the hundreds.

Now, if I may confess: I do used sneak downstairs not for deep theological reflection, but for the sheer joy of a good butter tart. (when I could still have such things.) But perhaps that too is a form of grace — sweet, flaky, and entirely necessary for the journey of faith.

So the next time you find yourself at a rummage sale or a pancake supper, don’t just see a fundraiser. Look closely, and you may glimpse the Kingdom of God breaking in — right between the gently used toasters and the maple syrup jug.

Prayer

Gracious God,
we thank you for the simple holiness found in our church basements —
in rummage sales, pancake suppers, and quiet acts of kindness.
Bless the hands that serve, the hearts that welcome,
and the laughter that binds us together in fellowship.
Teach us to see your Kingdom in the ordinary,
and to recognize Christ in every cup of coffee poured,
every dish washed, and every neighbour welcomed.
Through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.

Every so often, someone corners me after church with the kind of expression usually reserved for discovering that the casserole at a potluck was, in fact, made from last year’s leftovers. “Why,” they ask, “do we still read the Old Testament in church? Couldn’t we just skip to the good stuff — the parables, the Beatitudes, the warm parts?”

It’s a fair question. The Old Testament has its share of difficult passages. Battles, genealogies, and laws about fabrics — sometimes it feels less like devotional reading and more like a cross between a history textbook and a Levitical edition of Better Homes and Gardens. There are moments when, as Stephen Leacock once said about another kind of reading, “I know the book is good for me, just like cod liver oil, but I wish it came with a spoonful of jam.”

Now I feel as though I need to come clean on one thing. I must confess to a very keen love of the Hebrew Scriptures. The study of Ancient Hebrew was what made all of Scripture come alive for me. I love to be able to make the connections between the ancient story of Israel and the life of the people of God in our own scriptures, and in our world today. That is the real bread and butter of preaching for me. But I still have to admit that there are days when I read the Hebrew Scripture passage and wonder how anyone could preach a message of grace connected with that.

And yet — we keep reading it. Week after week, the lector bravely steps up and proclaims another story of wandering Israelites, moody prophets, or bewildering visions. Why?

Because the Old Testament is not just a preface we’ve outgrown. It’s the long, sprawling, sometimes messy story of God’s love affair with humanity. It’s a record of people who tried, failed, stumbled, repented, and tried again — much like us. It’s full of complaints (“How long, O Lord?”), confessions (“Create in me a clean heart”), and occasional flashes of astonishing faith (“Here am I, send me”).

And yes, it has its tough bits. There are passages that make us wince, moments we’d rather avoid, and questions that don’t have easy answers. But wrestling with those texts is part of the Christian life. Jacob wrestled with an angel and came away limping, but blessed. We wrestle with scripture, and sometimes we limp too — but we also find blessing.

Besides, the Old Testament is rich. Where else do we get the poetry of the Psalms, the vision of justice rolling down like waters, or the promise of Emmanuel, God with us? Without those voices, the New Testament floats in a vacuum. Jesus didn’t arrive in a world that had been twiddling its thumbs for four thousand years, waiting for something interesting to happen. He came as the fulfilment of Israel’s story — the long story we rehearse every time we open those ancient pages.

Think of it this way: skipping the Old Testament would be like tuning in to a movie halfway through and wondering why everyone is so emotional in the final scene. You’d miss the build-up, the characters, the heartbreak, the longing. You’d miss the story that makes the ending make sense.

So yes, sometimes the Old Testament is bewildering. Sometimes it’s tough to hear. Sometimes it reads like a sermon preached in the desert without coffee. But it’s our story too. It’s the story of God’s people learning — slowly, painfully, beautifully — what it means to walk with God.

And the best part? That story is still unfolding. Which means that when we hear the old, old words on a Sunday morning, we’re not just listening to history. We’re listening to family.

So the next time you hear the lector trudging through a long list of names or recounting the 37th rebellion of Israel, take heart. Beneath the dust is treasure. Beneath the strangeness is wisdom. And beneath it all is the God who has been telling the story from the very beginning—and who hasn’t finished with us yet.

Prayer

God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob,
God of prophets, poets, and pilgrims,
we thank you for the gift of your Word,
both old and new,
ancient and ever fresh.

When the stories seem strange,
give us patience.
When the words seem hard,
give us wisdom.
When the passages challenge us,
teach us to wrestle faithfully,
and find your blessing even in the struggle.

Open our eyes to see your grace
woven through the long story of your people,
and open our hearts to know that we too
are part of that story today.

We ask this in the name of Jesus,
the Word made flesh,
who fulfils all your promises.
Amen.

If you’ve ever driven in a new city without GPS, you’ll know the feeling of being lost before you’ve even left the parking lot. The streets all look the same, the signs are confusing, and you soon discover that “Maple Street” appears in at least three different neighbourhoods. Then comes the inevitable U-turn, and perhaps a whispered prayer that no one you know is watching you circle the block for the third time.

The Christian life can sometimes feel like that too. Without some sort of guide, the days blur together, and it’s easy to forget that God’s story is unfolding right in the midst of our own. This is where the church calendar comes in—not as a quaint relic or an old-fashioned add-on, but as something like a spiritual GPS.

Advent quietly recalculates us when we’ve gone astray, reminding us that hope is not wishful thinking but a promise rooted in Christ. Christmas, of course, is the great announcement that God has shown up—in person—whether we were ready or not. Lent is that polite but firm voice that tells us: “At the next opportunity, make a U-turn.” Easter, glorious Easter, is the declaration that the destination has been reached, even as the journey continues. And then there’s Pentecost, the reminder that the GPS isn’t just external—it’s God’s Spirit dwelling in us, guiding us even when the road is rough.

Even so-called “Ordinary Time” isn’t just filler, any more than the backroads between towns are meaningless. It’s in the green, steady weeks that we learn to live the faith in the ordinary rhythms of work, rest, family, and community. Ordinary Time teaches us that holiness isn’t confined to feast days, but can be found in Tuesday mornings and grocery store checkouts.

The church calendar doesn’t eliminate every wrong turn, nor does it prevent us from occasionally taking the scenic route when we didn’t mean to. But it does give us a sense of direction, reminding us where we’ve been, where we are, and where God is leading us.

So perhaps the next time you hear the collect for the week or see the liturgical colour change on the altar frontal, think of it as your divine GPS quietly saying: “Continue straight. God is with you.”

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Prayer

Gracious God,
You guide our steps through the seasons of life and faith.
In Advent, you teach us to wait;
in Christmas, you teach us to wonder;
in Lent, you teach us to repent;
in Easter, you teach us to rejoice;
and in Ordinary Time, you teach us to live faithfully day by day.
Keep us walking in your way,
until at last we reach our journey’s end in your eternal presence.
Through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.

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.