Dear reader, it happened again this week. I had carved out a day with a to-do list as long as my arm — laundry, phone calls, perhaps even the noble attempt to conquer the dust bunnies that seem to breed in dark corners when I’m away. Instead, sometime after lunch, I sat down in my chair for “just a minute” of rest. You already know what happened. When I opened my eyes, an hour had disappeared, and the to-do list was still leering at me.

Now, in a world obsessed with productivity, I could have berated myself for laziness. But instead, I thought of Walter Brueggemann’s reminder that the Sabbath itself is an act of resistance. When ancient Israel kept Sabbath, they were proclaiming to Pharaoh, “We are not slaves anymore.” They were saying, “Our worth is not in endless bricks or bottomless quotas. Our worth is in the God who rested on the seventh day.” To nap in the middle of a busy day is not only self-care — it is a tiny rebellion against the idol of busyness.

Above all, I am a firm believer in the Sunday post-liturgical nap. Many of you know that I am a strong introvert. There are few things that introverts find more exhausting than being in very public settings — much less being the one leading those public settings. As much as I love parish ministry, and as a liturgist, I dearly love the liturgy, Sundays are exhausting. After the last hymn fades and the final parishioner has left the building, my soul begins to long for that quiet recliner or couch that awaits me at home. The post-liturgical nap is not laziness. It is spiritual survival. It is the space where I can breathe deeply, reset, and remember that God is God — and I am not.

Jesus himself modelled this. He napped in the boat while the disciples panicked at the storm. (I’m not sure my snoring is as holy as his was, but the principle still stands.) And he reminded us that “the Sabbath was made for humankind, not humankind for the Sabbath” — in other words, God’s gift of rest was never meant to be another burden, but a delight.

We often imagine holiness as tireless labour: praying without ceasing, working without faltering, serving without resting. But sometimes, holiness looks suspiciously like a Sunday afternoon nap. It is the reminder that we are creatures, not machines; that God runs the universe just fine without our constant supervision; that our value does not depend on what we accomplish.

Of course, not every nap feels holy. Some of mine look suspiciously like the escape tactics of a procrastinator. (Stephen Leacock once said, “I am a great believer in luck, and I find the harder I work, the more I have of it.” I, on the other hand, find the more I nap, the more the chores pile up — but that’s another sermon.) Still, when our rest is claimed as God’s gift, it becomes more than avoidance — it becomes worship.

So, dear reader, the next time you feel guilty for closing your eyes when the world clamours for productivity, remember this: to nap in faith is to say, “I am not Pharaoh’s slave. I am God’s beloved.” The holiest thing you may do this week might just be to close your eyes, take a deep breath, and trust that God holds the world — even while you nap.

Prayer for Rest and Renewal

Gracious God,
you created us for work and for rest,
for service and for stillness.
Teach us to receive Sabbath as your gift,
and to trust that the world rests safely in your hands.
Bless our naps, our pauses, and our moments of quiet,
that in them we may be restored to love you more deeply
and to serve others with joy.
Through Jesus Christ, who slept in the boat
and rose to calm the storm.
Amen.

Dear reader, yesterday I was invited for a round of golf in the couples’ group that my friends have every Friday afternoon. Now, I know what you’re thinking: “But Padre, you are single!” Quite right. My appearance in a couples’ group may seem a little odd, but I usually get called in as the emergency substitute when someone’s partner is unavailable — sort of the “designated hitter” of the golf course. Each week our friend Ron invents a little side game to make the round interesting for golfers of all levels. This week he unveiled what he called “Poor Man’s Golf.” In this curious version, we were only allowed to use a putter, a nine iron, and a seven iron. The rest of our expensive collection of clubs had to remain at home, mocking us silently from their bags. It meant, of course, that the entire round was basically a study in one thing: the short game.

Now, my short game is… well, a theological exercise in humility. I can manage a respectable drive, and most days I can keep up in the fairway. But when I’m forced to rely on those little touch shots around the green, I discover that physics has a wicked sense of humour. My chip either dribbles a polite three feet, as if apologizing for disturbing the turf, or else rockets across the green like it has somewhere better to be. My companions, kind souls, always say, “Take your time.” But I was taking my time — that was the problem!

And yet, as I stood there watching the ball do everything but what I intended, I found myself learning again about patience. The Gospel, too, is full of calls to patience — with ourselves, with others, and with God. Growth, like a good chip shot, rarely comes on the first attempt. It comes slowly, with practice, with perseverance, and with a fair bit of laughter at ourselves along the way.

Golf, in its own mischievous way, also teaches humility. Just when you’re feeling a bit smug after a long straight drive, the game offers a reminder: a shank into the rough or a sand trap you didn’t even see coming. Ministry is like that too — we’re given moments of success, but we’re also constantly reminded that we are human, not divine. The Gospel tells us our worth doesn’t come from flawless performance but from being loved by God, who knows our weaknesses and still delights in us.

And then comes grace — golf’s greatest sermon illustration. The “mulligan.” That blessed second chance. Undeserved, unearned, yet generously given. It’s the Gospel in miniature. Life with God is full of mulligans: second chances, fresh starts, and the freedom to try again without fear.

So yes, “Poor Man’s Golf” revealed what I already knew: my short game needs a lot of work. But it also reminded me of the deeper truths of faith: that patience is a virtue to be practised, humility is a gift to be received, and grace is the greatest mulligan of all. And if, on occasion, my seven iron behaves like a broom handle and the ball like a wayward comet — well, perhaps the Kingdom of God is closer than I thought.

Fore!

Prayer for Patience and Humility on the Course of Life

Loving God,
you teach us patience in every swing,
and humility in every missed shot.
Help us to see the fairways and roughs of life
as places where your grace meets us.
Keep us steady when our aim is poor,
and grateful when the ball rolls true.
May our whole game — short or long —
be played in the light of your Kingdom.
Through Jesus Christ, our guide and companion.
Amen.

Well, dear reader, this last week of vacation seems to have slipped through my fingers like sand at the beach—or perhaps more like the last cookie on a plate, where you’re not entirely sure who ate it, but you strongly suspect it was you. Next week, I return to work, and truth be told, there’s a part of me that looks forward to it.

Monday will mark 32 years since I began my first ministry as Rector of St. Thomas the Apostle and St. David’s in Cambridge. Thirty-two! That’s an awfully large number of candles for a pastoral cake. In fact, if we lit that many at once, I suspect the fire department might feel compelled to attend the party.

But behind the humour lies a deeper truth: these 32 years have not simply been a “job.” They’ve been a way of life. The patterns of prayer, preaching, and pastoral care are so deeply ingrained that they shape not only what I do, but who I am. Some of those patterns, of course, never stopped during vacation. I continued to pray the Daily Office, morning and night, and found myself reflecting theologically on the readings of each day. One does not really “switch off” being a parish priest, any more than one can take a vacation from breathing.

Still, there is something about re-entering the full rhythm of parish life that fills me with joy. To see the familiar faces of the congregation once more, to hear their stories from the weeks I’ve been away, and to join voices together in worship — it feels a little like coming home after a long journey. The truth is, I love the work of ministry. It is what I have been called to do, and, after three decades, I cannot imagine living any other way.

So as vacation draws to a close, I don’t step forward with dread or reluctance, but rather with gratitude and a quiet excitement. God has been faithful in these 32 years of ministry, and I trust that God will continue to be faithful in the days to come. And that, dear reader, is worth far more than any extra week of holiday — though, to be perfectly honest, I wouldn’t say no if someone offered me one.

A Prayer of Thanksgiving

Gracious and faithful God,
for these 32 years of ministry, I give you thanks.
For the privilege of proclaiming your Word,
for the joy of sharing in your sacraments,
for the gift of walking with your people in times of sorrow and celebration—
I praise you.

As I step forward into the days ahead,
grant me strength where I am weary,
joy where I am burdened,
and above all, a heart ever open to your Spirit.
May all that has been begun, continued, and ended in you
bring glory to your holy Name;
through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.

Well, dear reader, today has been marked in my calendar as “Doctor Day.” Now, before you rush to conclusions, let me assure you — my health is good. I’m not writing this from a hospital bed or with a dramatic fainting couch at the ready. It’s simply that, since my heart troubles some years ago, regular medical check-ups have become part of the rhythm of life. They are, if you will, like spiritual disciplines for the body — checking, guarding, maintaining what God has entrusted.

Last week I sat in the cardiologist’s office, waiting for his verdict. He smiled, looked up from the screen, and said that my heart is functioning beautifully and should last me another 30 years. (At which point I thought, “Well, that takes me almost to 90… if I’m still preaching then, you have my permission to roll me into the pulpit in a wheelchair.”) He also removed two of my prescriptions, which has already made a noticeable difference. My morning pill-taking ritual had been so extensive that I half-expected to be offered toast and marmalade to go with it. Now, at least, it feels less like I’ve already had breakfast by the time I’m through.

Today’s adventure began with a trip to the endocrinologist. My sugars are usually good, but Spain — with its time zones, tapas, and long evenings — introduced a bit of chaos. My theory is that my insulin and my body clock were not on speaking terms. I suspect the doctor may phrase it differently, but I’ll let him have the final word. After all, I’ve noticed that specialists like to be right—and more often than not, they are.

As I thought about these visits — cardiologist, endocrinologist, chiropodist (yes, even my poor Camino foot has had its very own doctor) — my heart was filled not only with the blood flow my cardiologist so cheerfully confirmed, but with something deeper: gratitude. Profound thanksgiving. What an extraordinary blessing to live in a country where I need not worry about whether I can afford care, or whether there will be a doctor to see me. It is simply provided. That, dear friends, is an incredible freedom, and a moral gift.

I found myself thinking back to Sunday School when I was a child. Before we split into classes, we would gather for a short worship, and every week it ended with a prayer for Canada. The words are still with me, etched in memory like scripture. Today they ring in my heart again.

We are so blessed. My prayer now is that I may live in such a way as to be worthy of this blessing — that my life, like yours, may express gratitude not merely in words, but in deeds of kindness and care.

And so, while my doctors ensure that my heart continues to beat well, I ask God to make certain it also continues to beat faithfully.

Almighty God, who hast given us this good land for our heritage: We humbly beseech thee that we may always prove ourselves a people mindful of thy favour and glad to do thy will. Bless our land with honourable industry, sound learning, and pure conduct. Save us from violence, discord, and confusion; from pride and arrogance, and from every evil way. Defend our liberties, and fashion into one united people the multitudes brought hither out of many kindreds and tongues. Endue with the spirit of wisdom those to whom, in thy Name, we entrust the authority of government, that there may be justice and peace at home, and that, through obedience to thy law, we may show forth thy praise among the nations of the earth. In the time of prosperity, fill our hearts with thankfulness, and in the day of trouble, suffer not our trust in thee to fail; all of which we ask through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen. (Book of Common Prayer, 1962)

Dear friends,

As I sit to write this morning, the sun is only just beginning to rise. I realize, however, that within a very few days, that same moment will be greeted not with golden light but with darkness. Even here in August, the signs are already whispering to us that the seasons are changing, and that summer is beginning to yield to its inevitable close.

This, of course, led me to think (as it so often does) about the various jobs and chores that still need my attention. And then reality interrupted me: my foot, which still insists on reminding me of its injury from walking the Camino in Spain, is not yet fully healed. Feet, I have learned, are particularly slow to mend. This is because one cannot stay off of them, particularly when the golfing season is slipping away and one feels morally obligated to seize every last chance to play. (Surely, St. Paul would have mentioned golf if he had known about it. I suspect his line might have been: I have fought the good fight, I have kept the faith, I have played the last round before frost.)

Now, many of the jobs staring me down are really two-person affairs anyway, and I began to wonder how I would manage them. Just then, as though sent on cue, my nephew Owen appeared on the scene. Owen is always eager to come and help — and, it must be admitted, equally eager to enjoy a short holiday at his uncle’s house. His arrival reminded me what a blessing it is to have people in our lives who quietly step in and offer a hand, whether in times of great need or simply in the ordinary tasks of life.

Scripture reminds us again and again that God does not leave us to walk alone. Christ sends us companions on the journey — family, friends, sometimes even strangers — who arrive at just the right moment. It is one of the small miracles of daily life that so often God’s help comes wearing familiar faces and carrying a toolbox.

So today I give thanks — for Owen, and for all the others in my life who lend their strength when mine is lacking. Since Owen also loves a good meal, I believe breakfast out will be his particular reward. And as I say my Morning Prayer today, I will give thanks not only for him, but for all the helping hands God has sent my way.

For truly, these small mercies — these acts of generosity and companionship — make one’s days good, and remind us of the larger mercy that surrounds us always: that we are never left to walk alone.

Gracious God,
I thank you for the gift of family and friends,
for those who come alongside me in times of need,
and for the small mercies of laughter, companionship, and care.
Bless all who offer helping hands in my life,
and grant that I, too, may be ready to serve others
with the same generosity and love that comes from you.
Through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.

Well, dear reader, today finds me standing on the shores of the mighty and beautiful Lake Huron. Ostensibly, I am here for a round of golf with friends, but truth be told, the golf is almost incidental. (And depending on how my swing goes today, it may be just as well that it remains incidental.) This land, this stretch of Ontario, has a beauty of its own that sneaks up on me—rather like a golf ball that hooks left when you were sure it was going straight.

This is not very far from where I grew up, in Tilbury East Township, where the land is so flat that the mere sight of a highway overpass can cause spontaneous mountain-climbing expeditions. As a boy, I scarcely noticed it. Flatness was simply the natural state of things, and one did not remark upon it any more than one remarks that the sun rises in the east. But now, at my age, I look at it differently. The wide, sweeping fields of grain are no longer just crops; they are golden seas, shimmering in the light. They remind me of my father’s work and of the countless meals that came from soil like this.

And then there is the lake — immense, powerful, mysterious. When I was young, it was “just the lake.” Today, standing on its shore, it strikes me with an awe I never felt before. The immensity of it feels like a parable of God Godsself: vast, unfathomable, life-giving, and not to be trifled with.

So I pause today — not just to line up a putt, but to give thanks. Thanks for having grown up on that farm, for the privilege of helping to grow the food that fed so many, for the blessing of being surrounded by three Great Lakes within a short drive. It is one of those moments when the ordinary becomes extraordinary, when what seemed commonplace reveals itself to be holy ground.

Perhaps that’s the real round I came to play today — not just golf, but a round of gratitude. For in the end, everything we have and everything we are begins and ends in the gracious love of God. Or, as the psalmist put it so well: “The earth is the Lord’s, and all that is in it, the world, and those who live in it” (Psalm 24:1)

Dear reader, my mind still often drifts back to the Camino, as though my boots are determined to keep walking even while I sit at my desk. Along that pilgrim’s road I stepped into more churches, chapels, and cathedrals than I can rightly count. Now, before you accuse me of excessive piety, I should admit that there was often a very practical reason for these holy visits: nearly every church along the way offered a stamp for the Pilgrim Credential. And without those stamps, there would be no certificate at journey’s end, no proof that one’s sore feet had indeed earned their blisters honestly. So, in I went, with my little booklet, hoping for the blessing of ink as well as grace.

Some of those stops were as simple as a stone bowl—plain walls, unadorned altar, a silence that almost echoed. One such was the pilgrim chapel near Redondela: stone upon stone, with nothing to distract the eye except, perhaps, one’s own thoughts.

Others were quite different—filled with paintings, bright colours, carved wooden reredoses pulling your gaze toward the altar and the holy sacrifice offered there. And then, of course, there were the cathedrals. Ah, the cathedrals! They seemed determined to prove that if heaven could fit under one roof, this would be the place. They were filled to overflowing with art, colour, statues, and carvings. To some eyes, they were inspiring. To others, perhaps, a bit gaudy—like a well-meaning aunt who insists on wearing all her jewelry at once.

But here’s what struck me most: all of these great spaces were built centuries ago, in a world without cranes, power tools, or laser levels. The immense stone angels in Santiago’s cathedral, towering over the chancel, each one carved by hand, must have cost some craftsman years of his life. And then, the sheer feat of raising them into place—well, I can hardly manage to put up curtains without catastrophe, so you can imagine my awe.

Regardless of whether you prefer the plainness of bare stone or the splendour of gilded wood, what mattered most to me was the dedication they all represented. Each brushstroke of paint, each carved feather of an angel’s wing, was someone’s offering to God. They were the work of hands and hearts, given in devotion to the One whose presence was known at the altar, where Christ’s Body and Blood were shared day by day in the pilgrim’s Mass.

It left me thinking, dear reader, about what our own offerings look like today. Perhaps we don’t carve stone angels or paint ceilings (and truth be told, I’d be a danger to myself if I tried). But in our care for one another, in our quiet acts of devotion, even in the way we share food and conversation, we too offer something to God. And though our gifts may look plain or simple, they are no less holy when given with love.

Well, dear reader, today I have resolved to do something I almost never manage to do as a parish priest: absolutely nothing.

You see, Sundays are rarely Sabbaths for clergy. They are days of sermons, sacraments, and a fair bit of holy scurrying about, all of which is blessed but none of which is restful. But today—today I laid out no plan, drafted no to-do list, and made no noble resolutions. I intend to follow the ancient and venerable discipline of doing nothing beyond sitting, breathing, and, if God so wills, napping. One of my professors in Seminary used to refer to such days as “having a bathrobe Saturday.”

Jesus reminds us that the Sabbath was given as a gift, not a burden. It was never meant to be a spiritual marathon of rules and regulations, but a weekly reminder that God delights not in our exhaustion but in our rest. Somewhere along the line, our modern world seems to have mistaken busyness for holiness, as though rushing about were one of the Beatitudes. It isn’t. And yet, how often do we find ourselves at day’s end so tired that our prayers sound less like the psalms and more like groans?

Since returning from the Camino, my body—which still carries the ingrained discipline of a farm boy rising before dawn—has been staging a quiet rebellion. Instead of leaping from bed at six, it has conspired with the alarm clock to let me sleep a little longer. And perhaps that, too, is God’s way of nudging me to admit how often I’ve ignored His call to rest. It may also be my body’s way of saying, “You’ve walked across Spain, old boy. Sit down for once.”

The summer days are slipping quickly past us now, like children running downhill far faster than seems safe. Perhaps that’s the invitation of Sabbath—to slow, to breathe, to remember that we are not machines to be constantly wound up, but beloved children of God, given permission—even commanded—to rest.

So, dear friends, my prayer for you this week is simple: take the gift. Enjoy the long afternoon light, the quiet moment with a book, or even the gentle holiness of a nap. The Sabbath is not one more burden; it is grace wrapped in rest.

A Sabbath Prayer

Gracious God,
You created us not only for work but for rest,
not only for duty but for delight.
Teach us to receive the gift of Sabbath with joy.
Grant us peace in our bodies, quiet in our minds,
and renewal in our spirits.
May our resting remind us that we are Yours—
beloved, blessed, and held in Your care.
Through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.

Well, dear friends, as I glance ahead on the calendar, I see that I have but one week of vacation left. It has been magnificent so far — full of family, rest, golf, and, of course, the Camino adventures I’ve shared with you. But one unavoidable reality now looms on the horizon: the “stuff” that must be done before I return to parish life.

Now, don’t misunderstand me. I still intend to squeeze in at least three more rounds of golf. I’m not a saint yet, and if you believe in the communion of saints, you’ll know there’s always room for one more birdie. But alongside that noble ambition sits the somewhat less inspiring list: laundry from my various trips still waiting patiently in corners, dust in the house which is beginning to exhibit signs of independent life, and neglected chores that will not vanish by prayer alone.

So today is to be a “clearing the slate” sort of day. A day for vacuuming, washing, folding, and generally restoring order. It’s not glamorous, but there’s something quietly holy about it. Scripture reminds us that “whatever you do, in word or deed, do everything in the name of the Lord Jesus.” (Colossians 3:17). That includes preaching, praying, and yes… even scrubbing the bathroom sink.

The truth is, it is often in these ordinary tasks that we rediscover God’s presence. The sweeping and folding become their own small parables of grace — God is forever sweeping away what is broken, making clean what is soiled, and setting things in their proper place. If nothing else, I take comfort that heaven’s laundry, at least, will always come back perfectly folded.

So today I putter, polish, and perhaps mutter a little under my breath. And as I do, I remember: holiness is found not only in the soaring cathedral but also in the broom closet, not only in the hymns of Sunday but in the hum of the washing machine on a Tuesday.

And when the work is done? Well, then it’s off to the golf course, to sanctify the fairways with my slice.

Welcome again, dear reader, to this humble chronicle of my day-to-day walk of faith. Now, you might think that a priest on vacation has little of theological merit to say—after all, there are no sermons to write, no pastoral calls to make, no altar to set. But in truth, that is perhaps one of the most important lessons any of us can learn: God is present not only in the soaring sanctuaries and sacred liturgies but also in the ordinary, sometimes absurd, moments of daily life.

Vacation has reminded me of this in spades—or perhaps I should say, in nine-irons. The week began with a family reunion, where food and laughter flowed more abundantly than the iced tea (and that is saying something). Then it carried on with four rounds of golf with friends. Now, one might suppose that a golf course is a strange place to find spiritual insight. But I assure you, there are few places that teach humility, patience, and the need for divine grace quite as efficiently as the eighteenth hole—especially if you, like me, tend to visit the sand traps as often as the fairways.

In fact, I am convinced that golf may be the perfect metaphor for the spiritual life. Every shot is a chance to start again. Every lost ball (and I have contributed generously to the golf course economy in this regard) is a reminder of the parable of the lost sheep—only in this case, the shepherd rarely finds the missing one. And every unexpected putt that actually drops is a quiet miracle, proof that grace abounds even when our skill does not.

So, whether in church or on the course, around the reunion table or in the silence of prayer, God is there. The truth is simple but profound: the sacred and the ordinary are never far apart. For those with eyes to see, the whole of life shimmers with the presence of Christ—even on vacation, and yes, even on the back nine.