As I continue to reflect on the life of ministry, I find that God has a way of sending perfect examples straight into my daily life — sometimes with the subtlety of a whisper, and sometimes with the force of a nurse wielding a blood-pressure cuff.

Yesterday, as many of you already know, I spent the better part of the day in the hospital. It was a day of spectacularly long waits punctuated by brief bursts of medical efficiency: a nurse for three minutes, followed by an hour on an uncomfortable hallway chair; a doctor breezing in and out like he was auditioning for a cameo in a medical drama; another hour on the chair; and so forth. It was like being in an airport, only without the possibility of a duty-free Toblerone to soften the blow.

Now, frustration is always an option in these circumstances. But frustration, I’ve discovered, never makes the line move faster, the chair feel softer, or the antibiotics taste better. What it can do, however, is rob me of the opportunity to be who I am called to be: a priest, yes — but also simply a baptized Christian, living out the promises we’ve all made.

And so, when a nurse came to take blood, apologizing profusely for the delays as if she were personally responsible for the global shortage of chairs with adequate padding, I decided this situation was in need of grace. Instead of snapping or sighing, I simply told her, “I know you’re all doing the very best you can. You’re doing a fantastic job.” Her dour expression cracked into a radiant smile, and I realized just how little effort it takes to transform a moment.

It became a bit of a theme for the day. Another nurse, visibly carrying the weight of the entire ER on her face, relaxed into a smile after a few words of thanks. A third, who despite exhaustion managed to be kind and cheerful, received in return my gratitude for being a bright spot in an otherwise weary day. Each exchange cost me nothing. But it was ministry — small, ordinary acts of blessing in a place where patience and kindness can be in short supply.

By the time I was finally released — antibiotics in my system, stomach protesting, body tired — I thought the day’s lessons in patience and gratitude were complete. Owen and I were halfway to the exit when God interrupted yet again. A woman came running down the hall, spotted my collar, and asked, “Are you a priest?”

Now, when someone asks you that in a hospital, it is never because they want your opinion on the coffee machine. Her mother-in-law had just been brought in, in very bad shape, and was near the end. Would I come and pray?

I was tired. I was hungry. I wanted to go home. But ordination, you see, is not something one clocks in and out of. I was taught that Ordination leaves an indelible mark on the soul, with responsibility to be available in those unexpected encounters. So of course, I went. I prayed with the woman, anointed her, and stood with the family. When they discovered I was not hospital staff but a fellow patient, they apologized profusely for troubling me. But there was no apology needed. God had placed me in that hallway at that moment, collar and all, not for my own purposes but for theirs.

And that, I think, is the very heart of ministry. Not the grand plans or the scheduled meetings, but the interruptions. The hallway prayers. The moments when our own agendas collapse, and God’s agenda quietly unfolds.

So, if you find yourself today waiting — whether on a hard chair, in a slow line, or in some season of life that seems to drag — remember this: the waiting may not be wasted. God may have someone for you to bless. And all it might take is a simple word of thanks, a smile, or the willingness to pause when someone calls out, “Are you a Christian?”

Because ministry, more often than not, looks less like a pulpit and more like a hallway.

Prayer

Gracious God,
you meet us not only in the sanctuary,
but in the waiting rooms, the hallways, and the interruptions of life.
Teach us to offer kindness where there is weariness,
gratitude where there is strain,
and prayer where there is need.
May we be ready, in every unexpected encounter,
to share your love with patience and joy.
Through Christ our Lord. Amen.

This past weekend I had the joy — and let’s be honest, the sheer terror — of performing a wedding. Now, I should clarify that the terror wasn’t about the couple. The bride, Erin, is someone I’ve known since she was about eight years old, when she arrived in Sunday School with her blond hair, determined expression, and an iron-clad certainty that she was not there to be taught. No, Erin had come to teach.

Her mother and I, in a moment of clerical improvisation that would make even St. Paul scratch his head, quickly devised a plan: Erin’s mother would “teach” the class, and Erin would be her “assistant teacher.” In truth, Erin ran the show. She prepared lessons, asked her mother theological questions over breakfast, and likely considered herself the youngest licensed catechist in the Anglican Communion. Frankly, I think the Church owes her back pay.

But ministry is never just about one Sunday morning. A few months later, the phone rang at the rectory. It was the hospital switchboard: they needed an Anglican chaplain immediately. I bolted to St. Mary’s at breakneck speed, imagining dire ecumenical emergencies — perhaps a bishop stuck in an elevator. But it was Erin’s grandfather, David, who had suffered a heart attack. He did not survive. Suddenly, the young “Sunday School assistant” and her family were walking through grief. And I walked with them.

Over the years, I prepared Erin for her First Communion, and then Confirmation, proudly presenting her before the bishop like a farmer showing off a prize sheep — though considerably more dignified. A few years later, after I had moved on to a new parish, I was called back to officiate the funeral of Erin’s grandmother. Once again, we walked through grief together.

And then came the call this year: Erin wanted me to perform her marriage. At that moment, St. Paul’s words from his letter to the Corinthians rang in my ears: “I planted, Apollos watered, but God gave the growth.” That is the work of ministry. We walk alongside people for a season, plant a few seeds, water a few more, and then entrust the rest to God. More often than not, we never get to see what blossoms.

This time, I did. On the day of her wedding, I stood there in my vestments, struck not just by the beauty of the day or the dress or the music, but by the grace of seeing that tiny, determined eight-year-old girl now a radiant, confident, loving woman.

Of course, all of this reflection happened in the car, on the long drive back through Toronto traffic. There’s nothing like a wedding followed by gridlock on the 401 to bring a priest to deep spiritual truths. Truly, nothing sanctifies the soul like sitting immobile on the highway long enough to learn all the lyrics to an insurance jingle.

But here’s what stayed with me: ministry is seldom glamorous, usually unpredictable, and always about trust. Trust that God takes the ordinary things we offer — our prayers, our teaching, our companionship in grief — and works them into something extraordinary. And every now and then, when we least expect it, God lets us glimpse the fruit of those seeds.

Thanks be to God for Erin, for her family, and for the privilege of these rare, grace-filled glimpses.

Prayer

Gracious God,
we thank you for the seeds of faith you plant in our lives,
for the chance to walk with one another through joy and sorrow,
and for the glimpses of grace you grant us along the way.
Bless Erin and Jeff in their new life together,
and bless all of us with patience to plant,
faith to trust,
and eyes to see the growth that comes from you alone.
Through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.

I thought that for the next couple of days I might reflect on the ordinary, everyday realities of parish ministry — the kind of things that never make it into the seminary prospectus, but which, in their way, are just as sacramental as anything that happens at the altar.

Take this past Tuesday, for example.

Tuesdays are always busy in our parish office. The doors open for the first time after Sunday, and it seems that every parishioner, committee, and well-meaning soul decides it is the ideal moment to descend with their bit of urgent business. If I ever need a test case for the doctrine of original sin, Tuesdays will do nicely.

But this particular Tuesday had an added wrinkle: it was also the day of our Community Supper. That means one hundred or so neighbours arriving hungry and, God willing, leaving full—not only of food but of fellowship. And, as if that weren’t enough, I had promised to provide the gluten-free French bread. Now, promising bread is easy; baking gluten-free French bread is another matter altogether. Especially when you’ve never done it before and suddenly discover your kitchen lacks several crucial implements. My kitchen, it turns out, was equipped to make toast but not bread of such ambition. So, new pans, flour blends, and thermometers were acquired, and the oven stood ready like a soldier on the eve of battle.

But then came the wasps.

It seems that a particularly industrious colony of yellow-jackets had decided to build a summer residence inside the church wall, with a convenient vent serving as their front door. They were pouring in and out as though attending their own kind of community supper, albeit with considerably more buzzing. Someone pointed out that a hundred folks arriving for a supper and an equal number of angry wasps made for a less-than-ideal dinner party. I imagined the headlines: “Community Supper Ends in Stinging Defeat.”

And so I remembered the words from my ordination service. They are noble words, full of grandeur: preaching the Word, administering the Sacraments, caring for the flock of Christ. And then comes that little line at the end — easy to miss unless you’re paying attention: “…and other duties as may from time to time be given you.”

Other duties.

Which is how I found myself, in full clerical dignity, armed with a can of insecticide in the church parking lot, waging a war of extermination against a buzzing enemy. My black clerical suit was not designed for this kind of combat, nor do I think St. Paul had wasps in mind when he spoke of “principalities and powers.” But there I was, engaged in wholesale slaughter, wondering how it all squared with the vows of love, care, and the sanctity of creation.

Ministry is like that. One moment you’re preparing bread for the hungry, the next you’re dispatching wasps for their safety. Servanthood is seldom neat, and holiness rarely comes wrapped in a tidy package. Sometimes it comes with flour on your hands, sometimes with wasp spray.

And perhaps that’s the deeper lesson. The Kingdom of God is not built on the grand gestures alone but on the small, strange, and sometimes absurd acts of service that keep people safe, fed, and cared for. If Jesus washed feet, then surely there is room in the holy work of the Church for the occasional battle against wasps.

Besides, if heaven does hand out second chances—as I firmly believe it does—I trust the wasps are now in a better place, buzzing happily, far from my parish hall.

Amen.

Prayer

Gracious and patient God,
you call us to serve you not only in the pulpit and at the altar,
but also in the kitchen, the office, and even the parking lot with a can of insect spray.
Grant us joy in the ordinary, courage in the unexpected,
and faithfulness in the tasks that never make it into the ordination vows.

As bread rises and wasps swarm,
remind us that your grace holds us steady,
that no labour done in love is ever wasted,
and that you are present even in the busiest Tuesday.

Bless the meals we share,
the people we welcome,
and the quiet, unnoticed duties that build your Kingdom.

Through Jesus Christ our Servant Lord. Amen.

It is a truth universally acknowledged (to borrow from another writer, who never had to endure dial-up internet), that a person in possession of a smartphone must be in want of a strong Wi-Fi signal.

Whether it’s at home, in the coffee shop, or furtively trying to log on in the church hall basement — where concrete walls seem to repel the internet the way my great Aunt’s cat repelled visitors — we know the frustration of a weak connection. The page buffers. The spinning wheel turns. Hope begins to fade. And in those moments, one feels less like a saint in prayer and more like Job on a bad day.

I’ve had a few days of dealing with wi-fi troubles in the house. I woke one morning, and the Google Home was no longer able to control all the lights in the house on my voice command. That night I sat down in the living room and the TV would not log on to any of the streaming services that I use. It didn’t take long to diagnose that the Router was having troubles. Fixing those troubles has been much slower than the process of diagnosis.

I suspect our spiritual lives sometimes resemble Wi-Fi more than we’d care to admit. There are days when we feel the connection is strong, prayer flows easily, the scriptures speak with clarity, and we’re certain that God’s Spirit is closer than our next breath. Then there are days when everything feels patchy, and we wonder if heaven has accidentally changed the password.

Scripture, of course, doesn’t mention routers or wireless fidelity, but it does speak endlessly of connection. Jesus tells us in John 15, “Abide in me, and I in you… apart from me you can do nothing.” Paul reminds us that the Spirit intercedes for us when words fail, like the best kind of divine tech support. And the psalms are full of honest cries that sound suspiciously like: “Lord, are you still there? Can you hear me now?”

What’s comforting is that God is never the one who disconnects. The Spirit is constant, pulsing with grace, closer than the faintest signal bar on your phone. But our attention wavers. We wander out of range. We try to log onto networks of self-reliance, distraction, and anxiety, and then wonder why the connection feels so weak.

Here’s the good news: when our hearts buffer, when the signal flickers, the Spirit is still holding the line. Sometimes the pauses are not disconnection at all, but space given for us to slow down, breathe, and remember that God is not an app to be launched but a Presence to be received.

So, friends, the next time your Wi-Fi sputters, let it be a parable. Don’t despair. Instead, let it remind you of the One who is always seeking connection, who never drops the call, and whose Spirit patiently waits to flood our hearts again with peace, hope, and love.

And if you’re reading this in the church hall basement, where the Wi-Fi is more parable than reality, take courage. The Holy Spirit requires no password.

Prayer

Gracious God,
You are always present, even when our hearts feel disconnected.
When life seems to buffer and our spirits falter,
remind us that your Spirit is steady, sure, and unfailing.
Draw us close, renew our connection in love,
and keep us abiding in you,
through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.

Every so often, a book comes along that refuses to let you put it neatly on the shelf and move on. The rev. Canon Maggie Helwig’s Encampment: Resistance, Grace, and an Unhomed Community is one of those books. It is not a “read and file” book. It is a “read and wrestle” book. And, if we are faithful, it is also a “read and act” book.

Helwig writes not from a safe distance but from lived proximity—with the community of those who have been pushed to the margins, who pitch tents under bridges, in city parks, on church lawns. She gives voice to lives our society too often tries to render invisible. Her storytelling is both sharp and tender: sharp in its truth-telling about systemic injustice, and tender in its attention to the humanity, resilience, and faith of those our world would rather not see.

Now, you might think this is the sort of book that will make you feel guilty. And yes, it probably will. But here’s the grace: guilt is not the final word. Helwig shows us that even amid precarious lives and fragile shelters, the God of Israel—the God who “tabernacles” among the people—continues to pitch the divine tent right in the midst of those encampments. This is not simply a book about housing policy; it is a book about incarnation. About the scandal of a God who does not set up shop in marble halls, but rather, as the Gospel tells us, makes a dwelling among the poor.

Reading this, I found myself uncomfortably reminded of how much of my own life is lived behind locked doors and well-insulated walls. And yet, as Helwig makes clear, the church is called not to barricade itself in comfort, but to open itself in solidarity. The Body of Christ is most visible when it risks proximity, when it chooses presence.

Helwig’s prose is luminous, but her message is relentless: this is not about “them”; this is about “us.” Because, in the end, an “unhomed” community is simply the family we have forgotten we belong to.

So let me encourage you: buy this book, borrow it, pass it around. Read it in your parish book group, your Bible study, your vestry. Let it make you uncomfortable, let it make you laugh, let it make you weep. Most of all, let it bring you nearer to the God who is already waiting for us in the tent city down the street.

Because holiness, as Helwig reminds us, may be closer to a sleeping bag on the ground than to a gilded altar. And if you have eyes to see, you might just discover that grace looks a lot like a tarpaulin stretched out against the rain.

There is a lovely invention in the game of golf that I am convinced was inspired by the Holy Spirit, even if it isn’t recognized by the Rules of Golf: the mulligan.

For the non-golfer, let me explain. A mulligan is the blessed reprieve after your first drive slices so spectacularly that it lands three fairways over, frightening small animals and possibly invalidating your insurance coverage. In the spirit of Christian charity, your playing partners look at you, sigh deeply, and say: “Take another shot.”

I have to tell you though that in my usual golf group, there was one guy who was known to take a huge number of mulligans. Every shot he took that wasn’t good was quickly written off the score sheet. He would come in after hacking up the course, and proudly announce that he shot a 76, and we would all shake our heads. We instituted a new rule. Every mulligan cost a dollar toward the annual end of season banquet. It didn’t slow down his use of mulligans, but it saved us all a lot on the admission to the dinner.

Now, purists will tell you that a mulligan doesn’t exist in the official rulebook, that it’s cheating, that the honour of golf demands you play the ball where it lies—even if where it lies is in a pond that is now home to both your golf ball and your dignity. But I maintain that the mulligan is nothing less than a sacramental sign of grace.

Because let’s be honest: life is full of bad swings. We say the wrong word at the wrong time. We make decisions that land us in rougher patches than the groundskeepers at St. Andrews have ever seen. And when we survey the result, we want to stand there, head in hands, crying out like the Psalmist, “How long, O Lord?”

But then, comes grace. God, in infinite mercy, leans over like a kindly golf partner and says, “Take another shot.” That’s the heart of the Gospel: in Christ we are given a fresh start, not because we deserve it, but because God loves to give second chances. And God isn’t going to add a $1 rule for those fresh starts.

Now, the apostle Paul never wrote about mulligans (though I secretly believe he might have been quite handy with a seven-iron). But he did say, “If anyone is in Christ, there is a new creation; the old has passed away; see, everything has become new” (2 Corinthians 5:17). Which is essentially a theological way of saying: “That first swing doesn’t define you. Pick up another ball. Try again.”

Of course, as with mulligans, grace doesn’t mean we should make a habit of aiming for the water hazards of life. St. Paul also asked: “Should we continue in sin so that grace may abound? By no means!” In other words: don’t keep swinging wildly into the woods just because you’ve got a bag full of golf balls and a generous God. Grace is meant to transform us, not enable our recklessness.

And yet, I find comfort in knowing that the God we worship is not keeping score like a stern golf marshal with a clipboard. Instead, God delights in our learning, our growing, our fumbling swings. God is not tallying double bogeys but whispering encouragement: “Get up. Try again. You are loved.”

So perhaps the most Christian thing you can do on the golf course is not sink a long putt or land on the green in regulation, but to offer someone else a mulligan — to extend to them the grace that you yourself have received. Because that’s the real Kingdom game: not perfection, but forgiveness; not competition, but compassion; not final scores, but fresh starts.

And if, on some Saturday morning, you happen to find yourself with a driver in hand, squinting into the rising sun, may you hear not just the birdsong and the sound of sprinklers, but also the quiet, steady voice of God, saying to you what He has said to generations before: “Take another shot.”

Amen.

A Prayer for Mulligans and the God of Second Chances

Gracious God,
You are the Lord of fresh beginnings,
the Giver of second chances,
and the One who sees us not for our worst swings,
but for the children You call us to be.

When we drive our words and deeds
into the rough of selfishness,
or slice our intentions so far astray
that even the angels shake their heads,
You are there—
leaning over in mercy,
placing another ball before us,
and saying gently: “Try again.”

Teach us, O God,
not to fear our mistakes,
but to learn from them;
not to keep score against ourselves or others,
but to rejoice in grace freely given.

And give us courage, Lord,
to offer mulligans to those around us:
forgiveness where there has been failure,
patience where there has been frustration,
and compassion where there has been conflict.

For in Your Kingdom,
love is stronger than any out-of-bounds,
mercy runs deeper than any water hazard,
and Your grace is the true fairway home.

Through Jesus Christ,
our Saviour and Redeemer,
the Eternal Lord of the Second Chance.

Amen.

With a big out-of-town wedding yesterday, I must admit that it ended up being a rather late day for me, and that when the alarm clock screeched out the message that it was now time to get up and get moving, it was not the most welcome sound in the world.

I confess, dear reader, that my alarm clock and I have a complicated relationship. I seldom need an alarm. I wake naturally very early in the morning. But on days such as today…? It promises to rouse me in the gentlest way possible, yet its shrill voice suggests otherwise. In my more charitable moments, I think of it as a faithful little prophet, crying out in the wilderness of my bedroom, “Prepare the way of the day!” In less charitable moments, I consider the theology of throwing it against the wall.

Alarm clocks, of course, are not biblical inventions. Nowhere in the Gospels do we read, “And lo, at the cock’s third snooze button, Peter arose reluctantly.” Yet the theme of waking and watchfulness is woven throughout Scripture. Paul tells the Romans: “You know what time it is, how it is now the moment for you to wake from sleep” (Romans 13:11). Jesus warns his disciples to keep awake, for we do not know the hour when the Lord will come (Mark 13:35-37).

In other words, alarm clocks are deeply theological objects. They remind us that time is not infinite, that our days are numbered, and that each new morning is both gift and calling. They summon us not simply to consciousness, but to faithfulness.

But let’s be honest — sometimes, when the alarm rings, faithfulness looks a lot like fumbling for the snooze button. And here lies another little parable: how often do we, spiritually speaking, hit “snooze” on God’s call? We sense the nudge to prayer, the invitation to forgiveness, the tug toward justice — and we think, “just a few more minutes, Lord.”

And yet, by God’s mercy, the alarm sounds again. Grace persists, even when we are groggy and grumpy. The morning comes, even after the darkest night. And every sunrise is, in its way, a resurrection — an invitation to rise and walk again in newness of life.

So perhaps tomorrow morning, when the alarm shatters your dreams and insists you face the day, you might pause before the muttered complaints. Instead, you could whisper a prayer: “Thank you, Lord, for the gift of waking. Help me to rise not only from my bed, but into the life you call me to live.”

And if you still hit the snooze button? Well, remember: even disciples dozed off in Gethsemane. The miracle is that Christ woke them — and us — up again.

Prayer

Lord of mornings and Master of time,
thank you for the gift of waking,
for each new day that calls us into life with you.
When we are tempted to “snooze” your call,
stir us by your Spirit to rise with courage,
to watch with faith,
and to walk in the light of your love.
Through Jesus Christ, who is our dawn and our day.
Amen.

This week has involved a lot of time spent sitting behind the wheel of my car. Between normal ministry stuff, a very sick aunt in Kitchener, and wedding and rehearsal in Brantford, I have spent more than the average amount of time in the car. It got me thinking about the holiness of some of those moments.

There are many places one might expect to meet the Holy Spirit. A quiet chapel. A mountaintop. Perhaps even a cathedral resounding with hymns. Few of us, however, would expect the third lane from the left on the 401 at 5:15 p.m. to be the site of divine encounter. Yet holiness has a stubborn habit of showing up in the most inconvenient places — often, it seems, precisely where we least want to be.

Take, for example, the humble red light.

There you are, late for a meeting (or, if you’re clergy, late for a meeting about a meeting), and the light turns red just as you approach. In that instant, holiness feels less like the serene glow of stained glass and more like the red glare of a cosmic joke at your expense.

But here is the thing: the red light is not an obstacle. It is an invitation.

The Red Light as Spiritual Director

Think of it. For 45 blessed seconds, you are freed from the tyranny of productivity. You cannot fix, you cannot hurry, you cannot persuade the light to change by sheer force of will (though I have tried). The red light looks you square in the eye and says: “Be still and know that I am God. Also, keep your hands at ten and two.”

This is holiness in a traffic jam: learning to see delay not as punishment but as prayer time.

The Temptations of the Jam

Of course, holiness is rarely the first thought. One is tempted instead to:

• Mutter imprecations about the driving ability of the person ahead (who clearly, by the speed of their reaction, is composing a sonnet before finding the gas pedal).
• Glance at the clock a dozen times, thereby bending the space-time continuum not one whit.
• Check one’s phone, which the local police will kindly remind us is neither holy nor legal.

These are the little wilderness temptations of modern discipleship.

The Discipline of Delay

What if, instead, we prayed? Not long, elaborate prayers—just the simple stuff. “Lord, keep me patient.” “Lord, bless the people in the car beside me.” “Lord, may I not honk like a goose possessed.” Even the Jesus Prayer fits neatly into one red light cycle, though admittedly it’s hard to pray “have mercy on me, a sinner” while also plotting exactly how you’d re-time the lights if the mayor gave you one week and a traffic manual.

The Theology of the Brake Pedal

Perhaps holiness in a traffic jam is simply this: remembering that I am not in control. The brake pedal teaches the same truth as the baptismal font: life is not my invention, and God’s timing is rarely my timing. Waiting at a light is practice for all the other waiting we must do — waiting for healing, waiting for clarity, waiting for the kingdom that Jesus promises.

So the next time the light turns red, don’t grit your teeth. Take a breath. Say a prayer. Wave charitably at the person who just cut you off. Who knows? That short delay may be less about getting to your appointment and more about God getting to you.

After all, holiness is not only found in the sanctuary. Sometimes it shows up between the brake and the accelerator, reminding us that God’s love—like GTA traffic—is patient, long-suffering, and quite often stuck at a standstill.

A Prayer for Holiness in Traffic

Patient God,
you are with us in chapels and cathedrals,
and also in the long line of brake lights before us.
When impatience rises, give us your calm.
When anger bubbles up, give us your mercy.
Teach us to see each red light as a chance to pause,
to breathe, to pray, and to remember that life is not ours to control.

Bless the strangers in cars beside us,
the hurried, the weary, the distracted,
and bless us, that we may drive not only with caution,
but with kindness.

Turn our traffic jams into sanctuaries,
our waiting into worship,
and our journeys into holy pilgrimages,
until we reach at last that city with streets of gold,
where every light shines green in your eternal presence.

Through Christ our Lord. Amen.

There are saints whose names are written in stained glass and history books. And then there are saints whose legacy is marked by the faint squeak of metal hinges and the stubborn pinch of fingers caught where the chair folds. These are the saints of the folding chairs.

You know them. They’re the folks who slip into the hall ten minutes before everyone else, setting up neat rows of chairs so the Bible study doesn’t become a game of musical chairs. Or they’re the ones who stay after the potluck, while the rest of us are locked in pitched theological debates over whose Jell-O salad had the most merit. These saints silently gather chairs, stack them in teetering towers, and roll them away with the reverence of a medieval procession—except with slightly more clanging.

Folding chairs are, in their own way, profoundly theological. They remind us that the Church is not built solely on sermons or hymns, but on the humble labour that makes space for community to happen. Every vestry meeting, every funeral tea, every youth group pizza night rests (quite literally) on someone’s willingness to haul out a chair. Without them, we’d be standing awkwardly, balancing our paper plates, trying not to spill coffee on the carpet.

I recall one church supper where the crowd was so large that we ran out of chairs altogether. We pressed into service the piano bench, a step stool, and what I am fairly sure was a flower stand that never quite recovered. It was a moment of creative community—but it also reminded us just how unnoticed the quiet ministry of the folding chair really is.

Theologically, folding chairs whisper to us about servanthood. Jesus washed feet; today, it might be setting out chairs in the parish hall. Nobody applauds, nobody takes pictures for the parish newsletter, and nobody writes a hymn about it (though I confess, I’d pay good money to hear “All Glory Be to Thee, O Chair Committee”). But there in the unnoticed work, Christ is present.

So the next time you walk into a perfectly arranged hall, or slide into a chair that someone else unfolded for you, give thanks for the ministry of the folding chairs—and for the quiet saints who keep our community from sitting on the floor. And for those who step up to do this holy servant ministry, it is indeed very scriptural. In 1 Peter it says for example, “Like good stewards of the manifold grace of God, serve one another with whatever gift each of you has received.”

Because when all is said and done, the kingdom of God is not only built on lofty theology and soaring hymns. Sometimes it is built one folding chair at a time, squeaking faithfully into place. And as Paul reminds us, “Whatever you do, work at it with all your heart, as working for the Lord, not for human masters” (Colossians 3:23). Even the quiet work of setting up chairs is holy when done in love, for it prepares a place where God’s people may gather, and where Christ himself is in the midst.

Prayer

Servant Lord,
we thank you for the quiet ministries that hold our communities together—
for the chairs unfolded, the tables set, the coffee poured,
and all the unnoticed work done in love.

Bless those whose hands serve quietly,
whose labour makes space for welcome and fellowship.
Teach us to see holiness in the humble tasks,
and to serve one another with joy,
that every chair, every gesture,
may become part of your kingdom work.

Through Jesus Christ,
who calls us not to be served but to serve.
Amen.

I sometimes suspect that God gave us seasons not only for the farmers and their crops, or for those who like to keep an orderly calendar, but also for the poets, the preachers, and perhaps even the comedians. Every shift in the weather is a new sermon, if we are only willing to listen. And if you’ve ever tried to rake leaves in a stiff October wind or shovel snow that the city plough pushed right back into your driveway, you know that creation has a remarkable way of keeping us humble.

Fall: The Gospel of Letting Go
There’s something profoundly theological about autumn. Trees, who spend all summer working so hard at dressing themselves in leafy splendour, suddenly throw the whole wardrobe onto the ground. It’s as if creation itself is reminding us that letting go is not defeat but preparation. Prayer in the fall becomes an act of release — placing in God’s hands what we cannot control, and trusting that new life will come. Of course, if you’ve ever bagged leaves only to have a neighbour’s tree blow the next batch into your yard, you also know that letting go takes practice.

Winter: The Psalm of Silence
Winter teaches us that sometimes the holiest prayer is simply stillness. The snow muffles the noise of the world, and the long nights invite us into reflection. Prayer in winter is often wordless — resting, waiting, longing. Now, silence may sound holy, but let me assure you it’s not always easy. A quiet evening by the fire sounds romantic until the pipes freeze and you find yourself praying with great fervour over a hairdryer and a wrench. Still, winter reminds us that God is at work in the hidden places, even when the ground looks barren.

Spring: The Prayer of Surprise
Spring comes along like the choir bursting into a hymn one verse too soon — loud, joyful, and impossible to ignore. Buds appear where you thought the branch was dead, tulips pop up in flowerbeds you forgot you planted, and suddenly the whole creation is humming the doxology. Prayer in spring is thanksgiving — spontaneous, surprising, and sometimes a little muddy, because joy has a way of splashing where it pleases.

Summer: The Petition of Perseverance
And then comes summer — long days of heat where prayer takes the form of endurance. We pray for rain, for patience, for air conditioning that doesn’t break down. We pray with gratitude for ice cream and shade trees, and with lament for mosquitoes who seem to regard us as the Lord’s supper. Summer teaches us that prayer isn’t always lofty — it can be sweaty, persistent, and grateful for every breeze.

The Whole Year as Prayer
Taken together, the seasons remind us that prayer is not a one-size-fits-all activity. Sometimes it’s release, sometimes silence, sometimes joy, sometimes persistence. The world itself becomes our prayer book, turning its pages one season at a time.

So the next time you find yourself raking leaves, shovelling snow, planting flowers, or swatting mosquitoes, remember: you are already in the middle of a prayer. God is present in it all—inviting us, through the seasons, into the steady rhythm of grace.

Prayer

Creator God,
you are the Lord of every season.
Teach us to pray with the falling leaves,
to listen in the winter silence,
to rejoice with spring blossoms,
and to endure with gratitude in the summer heat.

In every rhythm of the year,
remind us that you are near,
guiding us, shaping us, and drawing us deeper into your love.
May our lives be prayers that follow your seasons of grace,
until all creation sings together in harmony.

Through Jesus Christ,
the Lord of time and eternity.
Amen.