The Ministry of Bringing Dessert

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

They are the people who bring dessert.

Not because they were asked.

Not because there was a sign-up sheet.

Not because they wanted recognition.

They simply arrive carrying something marvellously unnecessary.

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

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

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

Purely for planning purposes, of course.

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

Yet beneath the humour lies something rather beautiful.

Dessert is almost never essential.

Nobody needs pie in the strictest nutritional sense.

But somehow pie tells us something that vegetables cannot.

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

It says, “Stay a little longer.”

It says, “Conversation is still happening.”

It says, “Joy deserves another fifteen minutes.”

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

Someone brings dessert.

Someone else remembers real cream for the coffee.

Another quietly refills the water pitchers.

Someone notices the newcomer sitting alone.

None of these things appears particularly dramatic.

Yet together they become hospitality.

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

Jesus seemed remarkably interested in meals.

He accepted invitations.

He multiplied bread.

He turned water into wine before anyone expected him to.

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

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

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

Grace usually arrives carrying something extra.

An extra loaf.

An unexpected blessing.

A second chance.

Or perhaps an apple crumble that nobody saw coming.

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

The great festivals are behind us.

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

Now we settle into the ordinary rhythm of discipleship.

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

Perhaps that is why Paul speaks so often about generosity.

Not because God needs our gifts.

But because generosity changes the atmosphere wherever it appears.

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

It delights in giving just a little more.

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

Not because your host forgot.

Not because anyone expects it.

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

And if someone else has already brought dessert?

Well…

Bring whipped cream.

There is always room for one more act of grace.

Follow along on Instagram @renewablespiritual.

Companion Prayer

Gracious God,

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

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

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

Through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.

The Theology of the First Cool Morning in August

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

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

But it is cool.

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

You inhale deeply without sweating.

It is a miraculous experience.

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

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

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

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

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

We are nothing if not hopeful.

There is something deeply theological about that first cool morning.

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

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

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

We wake one morning and discover that something has shifted.

Perhaps forgiveness comes a little more easily.

Perhaps grief no longer occupies every room in the house.

Perhaps hope has quietly unpacked its suitcase after months away.

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

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

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

Grace has been at work while we were sleeping.

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

For this, we offer heartfelt thanks.

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

Yet perhaps we are wiser than we know.

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

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

That is resurrection quietly rehearsing itself every year.

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

Stand outside for an extra moment.

Take a deep breath.

Offer thanks for the gift of changing seasons.

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

Not with great fanfare.

Not with headlines.

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

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

Follow along on Instagram @renewablespiritual

Companion Prayer

Gracious God,

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

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

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

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

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

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

Amen.

The Gospel According to the Cooler Full of Ice

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

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

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

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

The cooler is not trying to impress anyone.

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

That feels surprisingly close to the Gospel.

Throughout Scripture, God seems remarkably interested in thirsty people.

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

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

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

Before profound conversations come glasses of water.

Before difficult decisions come cups of coffee.

Before lifelong friendships come shared meals.

Grace frequently arrives carrying something cold to drink.

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

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

Perhaps it should.

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

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

It is, admittedly, a very Canadian vocation.

Yet beneath the humour lies something beautifully holy.

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

Someone refills the water pitcher.

Someone brings extra lawn chairs.

Someone remembers sunscreen.

Someone keeps popsicles in the freezer for neighbourhood children.

Someone quietly packs the cooler.

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

But they may very well be remembered by heaven.

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

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

Not dramatic speeches.

Not flawless theology.

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

Perhaps that is what Jesus had in mind all along.

The world offers plenty of heat.

The Church can become known for offering cool water.

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

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

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

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

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

Companion Prayer

Gracious God,

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

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

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

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

Amen.

The Theology of the Swimming Dock

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

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

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

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

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

“It still feels cold.”

“Give it another minute.”

Five minutes later…

“Still cold.”

The fish are probably having their own conversation.

“Do you think they’ll ever get in?”

“I doubt it. They’re discussing it.”

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

Eventually someone simply jumps.

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

“It’s actually not bad!”

Of course it isn’t.

It never was.

The hardest part was not the water.

The hardest part was letting go of the dock.

Faith often works the same way.

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

We wonder if we’re ready to forgive.

We wonder if we’re ready to begin again.

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

We keep waiting until every uncertainty disappears.

But certainty is remarkably elusive.

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

Instead, God gently says, “Come.”

Throughout Scripture, people rarely receive complete road maps.

Abraham leaves home without knowing the destination.

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

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

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

Faith has always involved stepping beyond the familiar edge.

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

God gave us wisdom for a reason.

But there is a difference between wisdom and hesitation.

Wisdom asks good questions.

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

Ordinary Time has been quietly teaching us this all season.

Growth rarely happens while remaining perfectly comfortable.

Seeds split open before they grow.

Gardens stretch toward the light.

Birds eventually leave the nest.

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

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

Perhaps disciples eventually must do the same.

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

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

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

Conversations I would rather have avoided.

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

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

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

Not every plunge was graceful.

Some felt more like spectacular belly flops than elegant dives.

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

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

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

We are not called to leap into emptiness.

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

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

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

Not, “If you become brave enough.”

Not, “If you never feel afraid.”

Simply, “I will be with you.”

That promise changes everything.

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

Offer the forgiveness.

Begin the conversation.

Take the first small step.

Volunteer.

Pray.

Dream again.

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

Because the remarkable thing about faith is this:

The water has been ready all along.

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

Follow along on Instagram @renewablespiritual.

Companion Prayer

Gracious God,

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

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

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

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

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

Amen.

The Spiritual Discipline of Reading on the Porch

There comes a certain point in every Canadian summer when a porch chair quietly begins calling one’s name.

It does not shout.

It does not send notifications.

It simply waits.

And if one has been paying attention to the rhythms of creation for any length of time, one eventually recognizes that resisting the invitation is usually a mistake.

Now I have spent enough years in parish ministry to know that porches come in many varieties. Some are grand wraparound affairs with enough room for half the parish. Others are little more than three wooden steps and a chair that has survived several questionable paint jobs. A surprising number lean ever so slightly in a direction that engineers might politely describe as “optimistic.”

Grace seems remarkably unconcerned.

The true purpose of a porch has never been architectural.

It exists to slow us down.

Of course, every respectable porch also requires a book.

This is where matters become wonderfully complicated.

There are those disciplined souls who actually finish every book they begin.

I admire these people enormously.

I have never entirely understood them.

Most of us possess what might be called a “summer reading pile,” which is less a carefully organized literary project and more an expression of extravagant hope.

By August it generally contains theology, history, mystery novels, gardening books, biographies, one cookbook we have absolutely no intention of following precisely, and at least one volume purchased because someone confidently declared, “You simply must read this.”

It has been sitting beside the chair ever since.

Meanwhile, the dog has shown considerably more interest in it than we have.

Still, there is something quietly holy about opening a book on a summer afternoon.

Reading asks something of us that our hurried lives rarely do.

It asks us to stay.

To linger.

To pay attention.

To listen to another voice without immediately preparing our own reply.

That, it seems to me, bears more than a passing resemblance to prayer.

I have often found that two of the greatest spiritual disciplines in my own life have been taking time simply to sit and read, and taking time simply to sit and write. Neither activity always looks particularly holy. In fact, much of what I read has nothing to do with theology, and much of what I write never becomes a sermon, a blog post, or anything anyone else will ever read.

That is not really the point.

Reading gently draws my mind into new places while giving my body permission to rest. Writing does something equally valuable. It allows me to gather the scattered thoughts, dreams, questions, and little observations that have accumulated throughout the day and shape them into something a little more coherent. Sometimes those pages become something worth sharing. More often, they simply become a conversation between God, my own heart, and an old notebook.

Both practices remind me that not every moment has to produce something. Sometimes the greatest gift is simply creating enough quiet for the soul to catch up with the rest of us.

The Scriptures often describe God’s wisdom arriving not through spectacle, but through quiet attentiveness. Elijah found God not in the wind or earthquake or fire, but in what the King James Version beautifully called “a still small voice.” Jesus Himself regularly withdrew from crowds into places where silence could once again become audible.

Perhaps our porches become little monasteries without anyone noticing.

There, between the turning of pages and the scratching of a pen, between the songs of robins and the gentle sway of the rocking chair, we slowly remember that our worth has never depended upon constant productivity.

The rocking chair keeps moving.

The breeze keeps blowing.

The neighbourhood carries on with bicycles, lawn mowers, children chasing one another with astonishing enthusiasm, and somebody somewhere inevitably attempting to barbecue something just a little too enthusiastically.

Life continues.

And we discover that we need not manage all of it.

Perhaps that is one of God’s quieter gifts.

A porch reminds us that we are allowed simply to receive the day.

Not every moment must accomplish something.

Some moments exist simply to be inhabited with gratitude.

I suspect this is one reason Jesus so often taught people to notice ordinary things—birds, flowers, seeds, vineyards, fishermen, bread. Holiness has always been hiding in plain sight, waiting for someone willing to slow down long enough to recognize it.

So if you happen to find yourself on the porch today with a book in your lap—or perhaps a notebook resting beside your coffee—do not worry if you read only a few pages or write only a few lines before becoming distracted by the breeze, the clouds, or the neighbour walking past with a friendly wave.

You may have accomplished less than you intended.

But perhaps you practiced something even more important.

You remembered how to be fully present in a world that God still lovingly refuses to hurry.

And that may be one of the finest chapters you write—or read—all summer.

Follow along on Instagram @renewablespiritual.

Companion Prayer

Gracious God,
Thank you for the gift of quiet moments that restore our souls. Teach us to slow our hurried pace, to delight in simple pleasures, and to discover your presence in the turning of a page, the song of a bird, and the gentle breeze of an ordinary afternoon. May our times of rest deepen our faith, renew our spirits, and remind us that we are loved not for what we accomplish, but for who we are in you. Grant us hearts that are attentive, grateful, and ready to receive each day as your gift.

Amen.

The Ministry of the Neighbour Who Waves

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There are many mysteries in life.

Why do socks disappear in the dryer?

Why does the grocery cart with the wobbly wheel always seem to choose me?

And why is it that the neighbour who has lived three doors down for twenty years still introduces himself every Canada Day as though we met only yesterday?

These are questions that may remain unanswered until the Kingdom comes.

But there is one neighbourhood mystery I have come to appreciate over the years.

The Wave.

You know the one.

You’re driving slowly through the neighbourhood.

Someone is watering flowers.

Someone else is sitting on the porch.

A person is walking a dog that appears to be walking them.

And then, without a word, someone lifts a hand from the steering wheel, or raises two fingers from the lawn chair, or gives that wonderfully understated Canadian nod that says, “I see you.”

Nothing dramatic happens.

No speeches are made.

No committees are formed.

No ribbon is cut.

Just a wave.

An entire village could probably be governed successfully by the proper use of hats, good manners, and people waving at one another before anyone had time to become unnecessarily suspicious. There is probably more wisdom in that than first appears.

I count myself particularly blessed in this regard.

About a year ago, Sarah and Matt moved into the house next door. Not long after they arrived, their beautiful baby was born. Since then, life for them appears to operate at a pace known only to new parents and air traffic controllers.

Yet there is something about Sarah that quietly delights me.

No matter the season of the year.

No matter how rushed she appears.

No matter how full her hands are with all the equipment that seems to accompany every outing with a small child—bags, blankets, bottles, toys, and contraptions whose purpose remains a mystery to those of us whose diaper-changing days are long behind us.

She always looks over.

She smiles.

She waves.

Sometimes the waving hand is the very one already holding baby equipment, making it less of a graceful wave and more of an impressive feat of balance. But somehow that only makes it more wonderful.

She always takes a moment to say hello.

I doubt she realizes how much that simple gesture brightens my day.

It lasts only a few seconds.

Yet every single time it quietly says, “I see you.”

“You matter.”

“I’m glad you’re my neighbour.”

It is perfect and beautiful neighbourliness.

And every time it happens, the whole neighbourhood feels just a little warmer.

It has often struck me that Jesus spent a remarkable amount of time simply noticing people.

He noticed Zacchaeus before anyone thought he deserved noticing.

He noticed Bartimaeus when the crowd wanted him to be quiet.

He noticed the woman who touched the edge of his cloak.

He noticed children everyone else considered interruptions.

Again and again, the Gospels remind us that before Jesus healed people, he often acknowledged them.

“I see you.”

Those may be among the holiest words never actually spoken.

Perhaps that is why something as ordinary as a neighbour’s wave carries more spiritual weight than we realize.

Every wave quietly declares:

“You belong here.”

“You are part of this place.”

“You are not invisible.”

In a world where many people feel increasingly anonymous, those tiny acknowledgements become acts of grace.

Loneliness rarely begins with being physically alone.

It often begins with feeling unnoticed.

Modern life gives us endless opportunities to pass by one another without ever truly seeing each other. Garage doors open by remote control. Cars glide silently into driveways. Headphones accompany our walks. Screens occupy our attention while real human beings move past only a few feet away.

We have become astonishingly efficient at sharing geography without sharing humanity.

Yet every once in a while someone interrupts the trend with the smallest possible act.

A smile.

A nod.

A wave.

And somehow the world becomes just a little kinder.

Churches, if we are honest, sometimes underestimate this ministry as well.

We imagine hospitality requires elaborate programs.

Certainly those have their place.

But I have watched newcomers decide whether they feel welcome long before coffee hour begins.

Someone smiled.

Someone learned their name.

Someone waved across the parking lot.

Someone remembered them the following Sunday.

That quiet ministry often preaches a far more convincing sermon than the preacher.

Thankfully, no theological degree is required.

No diocesan committee has yet established a certification process for Advanced Liturgical Waving.

Although, knowing Anglicans, one suspects a subcommittee could probably be assembled.

The requirements would naturally include proper wrist angles, seasonal variations, and a respectful discussion about whether two fingers or the entire hand best reflects the Thirty-Nine Articles.

The meetings would be delightful.

The report would be slightly longer than necessary.

And everyone would still wave exactly as they always have.

Fortunately, the Kingdom has never depended upon perfect technique.

It has always depended upon willing hearts.

Every day God quietly places people along our path.

The cashier.

The crossing guard.

The neighbour cutting the grass.

The elderly gentleman sitting on his front porch.

The child riding a bicycle with far more enthusiasm than steering ability.

The woman walking her dog before breakfast.

Most of them are not asking for profound wisdom.

Many are simply hoping not to pass through another day completely unnoticed.

Perhaps that is why the ministry of the neighbour who waves matters more than we imagine.

It reminds us that every person we meet bears the image of God.

Every acknowledgement quietly honours that sacred truth.

Grace often arrives looking very much like someone who is already carrying more than enough, yet still finds room to notice another person.

Every smile becomes a tiny act of resurrection against isolation.

And every ordinary wave whispers the Gospel in a language every human heart understands:

“I’m glad you’re here.”

That may not seem like much.

But then again, neither did five loaves, two fish, or a mustard seed.

God has always been rather fond of beginning with small things.

Perhaps the Kingdom grows one wave at a time.

Follow along on Instagram @renewablespiritual.

Companion Prayer

Gracious God,

Thank you for the ordinary people who brighten our days with simple acts of kindness—a smile, a wave, a friendly greeting, or a moment of genuine attention.

Open our eyes to notice those around us, especially those who may be feeling lonely, overlooked, or forgotten. Give us hearts that are never too hurried to acknowledge another person, and hands that are always ready to offer a blessing, even in the smallest ways.

May our everyday encounters quietly reflect your love, so that through us others might know they are seen, valued, and deeply loved by you.

In the name of Christ, who always noticed those others overlooked. Amen.

The Spiritual Wisdom of Watching the Sunset

There are few things in life that unite humanity quite as effectively as a good sunset.

It does not matter whether you are standing beside the ocean, sitting on a dock, leaning against the tailgate of a pickup truck, perched on a Muskoka chair at the cottage, or simply glancing out the kitchen window while washing the supper dishes. When the sky begins to blush with shades of orange, crimson, and violet, something within us instinctively says, “Well… I should probably stop what I’m doing for a minute.”

It is one of the few moments when even busy people suddenly become philosophers.

The remarkable thing is that nobody believes they have personally painted the sunset. We simply receive it.

That alone is an excellent spiritual lesson.

We live in a culture that encourages us to produce, improve, optimize, maximize, and generally keep ourselves occupied until bedtime. Somewhere along the way we begin imagining that every worthwhile thing in life depends upon our effort.

Then evening arrives.

The sun quietly slips below the horizon without asking our permission.

The earth keeps turning.

The birds begin settling into the trees.

The crickets tune up for another night’s performance.

And all of creation gently reminds us that God has been running the universe quite competently long before we arrived.

This comes as both humbling news and tremendous relief.

I have often thought sunsets possess a kind of built-in liturgy.

First comes gratitude.

The day happened.

Some of it went beautifully.

Some of it perhaps did not.

Some conversations gave life.

Others may need a little prayer before bedtime.

Yet somehow we arrive at evening carried by more grace than we probably noticed.

Then comes surrender.

A sunset quietly teaches us that not every chapter has to be finished today.

There will always be another email.

Another project.

Another patch of weeds.

Another load of laundry.

Another problem that insists it deserves immediate attention.

The sunset simply smiles and says, “Perhaps tomorrow.”

There is remarkable wisdom in that.

Even God rested.

Surely we can allow ourselves permission to stop folding towels long enough to admire the western sky.

Although, if your household resembles mine over the years, someone will inevitably observe, “You know… those towels aren’t going to fold themselves.”

This is technically true.

But neither is the sunset going to wait until we’ve finished organizing the linen closet.

Priorities, friends.

Jesus himself often stepped away from the demands of ministry to pray, to rest, to simply be with the Father. If the Saviour of the world did not believe every task required immediate completion, perhaps neither should we.

Ordinary Time has been quietly teaching us all summer that holiness is rarely found in dramatic moments alone. More often, it grows through faithful attention to ordinary gifts.

Watching the sunset may seem wonderfully unproductive.

Perhaps that is precisely why it is so necessary.

It reminds us that beauty is not earned.

Grace is not manufactured.

Peace cannot be scheduled into fifteen-minute increments.

They are received.

One evening the sun will set exactly as it has countless times before.

The colours will fade.

The first stars will appear.

Tomorrow will come with fresh opportunities, fresh responsibilities, and undoubtedly fresh reasons to misplace the car keys.

But tonight…

Tonight, let the sunset preach.

God is still creating beauty.

God is still holding the world together.

And you, beloved child of God, are allowed to simply stand still long enough to watch.

Perhaps that is one of the holiest things we do all week.

Follow along on Instagram @renewablespiritual.

Companion Prayer

Gracious Creator,

As the sun sets and the day draws to a close, quiet our busy hearts. Teach us to receive the beauty you freely offer, to release what we cannot finish, and to rest in the confidence that you continue your good work even while we sleep.

Fill us with gratitude for the blessings of this day, grace for its unfinished moments, and hope for the tomorrow you are already preparing.

May every sunset remind us that your love never fades, your faithfulness never ends, and your peace is always waiting for those who pause long enough to receive it.

Through Christ our Lord. Amen.

The Gospel According to the Watermelon

There are few moments in Canadian summer life that inspire quite as much confidence as standing in front of a large bin of watermelons.

Everyone suddenly becomes an expert.

One person insists you must thump the melon.

Another recommends lifting it to judge the weight.

Someone else is searching for “the field spot,” whatever that may be.

An elderly gentleman nearby quietly announces that he has been choosing watermelons successfully since Lester Pearson was Prime Minister and requires no advice from anyone.

Within minutes, complete strangers are offering one another opinions with the certainty usually reserved for constitutional law and hockey playoffs.

It is a beautiful thing.

Now, I confess that I have never mastered the art.

I have tapped.

I have knocked.

I have listened.

I have even held one thoughtfully beside my ear as though it might whisper helpful information.

The watermelon has never cooperated.

Sometimes I choose a magnificent specimen—sweet, crisp, perfectly ripe.

Other times I carry home what appears to be a large green bowling ball with aspirations of becoming fruit.

There seems to be an element of mystery involved.

Which, if we’re honest, resembles much of life.

We like to imagine that wisdom means always knowing exactly what to do.

That faithful people somehow receive a heavenly instruction manual.

That if we pray long enough, read enough books, and attend enough Bible studies, every decision will become wonderfully obvious.

Yet life rarely unfolds that way.

Discernment is not fortune-telling.

It is learning to walk closely enough with God that we trust God’s goodness, even when the next step isn’t perfectly clear.

Scripture reminds us again and again that wisdom is less about certainty than about relationship.

Solomon asked God not for guaranteed success, but for “an understanding mind.”

The disciples rarely knew where Jesus was taking them next.

Abraham packed for a journey without knowing the destination.

Even the saints spent a remarkable amount of time saying things like, “Well… I suppose we’ll see.”

That gives me considerable comfort.

Because most of us spend far too much energy worrying that we’ll choose the wrong watermelon.

Or the wrong career.

Or the wrong house.

Or the wrong opportunity.

Or the wrong path.

Certainly, our decisions matter.

But perhaps we sometimes underestimate the remarkable ability of God to work with ordinary people making imperfect choices.

Grace has always been wonderfully adaptable.

Over thirty-three years of parish ministry, I have watched people agonize over decisions that seemed enormous at the time.

Years later, they often discover that God’s faithfulness had been present in every season—not because they chose perfectly, but because God never stopped accompanying them.

The Kingdom has never depended upon flawless decision-making.

It has always depended upon faithful people willing to keep listening.

Which brings us back to the watermelon display.

Eventually, after much tapping, lifting, rotating, inspecting, and receiving unsolicited advice from three complete strangers, you simply choose one.

You place it in the cart.

You head home.

You cut it open.

Sometimes you celebrate.

Sometimes you quietly decide that next week you’ll try a different technique.

And life goes on.

There is something surprisingly hopeful about that.

Not every choice must carry the weight of eternity.

Not every uncertainty is a crisis.

Sometimes wisdom means praying, gathering good counsel, making the best decision you can, thanking God, and trusting that grace will meet you on the other side.

Besides, even if the watermelon isn’t perfect, there is always the possibility of turning it into fruit salad.

God has rescued far more complicated situations than that.

So perhaps this week, worry a little less about getting everything exactly right.

Listen carefully.

Pray faithfully.

Walk humbly.

Choose the watermelon.

And trust that the God who has guided saints, sinners, prophets, apostles, and bewildered parish priests for generations is more than capable of guiding you as well.

After all, God has never required perfect discernment.

Only faithful hearts willing to keep following.

Follow along on Instagram @renewablespiritual.

Companion Prayer

Gracious God,

Thank you for walking with us through all the ordinary decisions of life. When we are uncertain, grant us wisdom. When we are tempted to overthink every choice, grant us peace. Help us to listen for your voice, seek good counsel, and trust that your grace is always greater than our imperfections.

Teach us to walk faithfully rather than fearfully, knowing that you are already waiting for us on the other side of every decision. Fill our hearts with confidence in your love, gratitude for your guidance, and joy for the journey you have set before us.

Through Jesus Christ our Lord.

Amen.

When the Power Goes Out

There are few events that reveal the true character of a neighbourhood quite like the electricity deciding it has worked hard enough for one day.

It usually happens on one of those impossibly warm July evenings.

The air has the consistency of warm oatmeal.

The fans stop with a sigh.

The air conditioner falls silent with all the dignity of a bishop concluding Evensong.

Someone, somewhere, says, “Well… that’s not good.”

Within five minutes, every respectable Canadian has performed the ancient ritual of opening the refrigerator door three separate times, apparently hoping electricity has returned during the previous forty-seven seconds.

It has not.

I have often suspected that power outages have a remarkable ability to expose just how dependent we have become upon things that hum quietly in the background.

We discover the Wi-Fi has disappeared.

The television has become an unusually expensive piece of furniture.

The microwave clock has resigned from public service.

The phone battery suddenly acquires the importance of the Crown Jewels.

For a few moments we wander the house pressing switches that have already proven they are no longer interested in participating.

Stephen Leacock himself might have observed that modern civilization is held together by extension cords and misplaced confidence.

And yet something rather wonderful often begins to happen.

People go outside.

Neighbours emerge from houses carrying lawn chairs as though responding to some mysterious civic summons.

Someone lights a candle.

Someone else produces flashlights large enough to guide ships safely into harbour.

Children begin chasing fireflies because, for once, nobody has suggested they come inside and watch something.

Across the street someone asks, “You folks all right?”

Another neighbour wanders over.

Someone shares a bottle of cold lemonade before it becomes room temperature.

Conversations begin.

Not hurried conversations.

Not the sort exchanged while one hand is already reaching for the car door.

Real conversations.

Stories are told.

Laughter drifts across backyards.

People remember names they had almost forgotten to use.

For an hour or two, the neighbourhood becomes something more than adjacent houses sharing municipal services.

It becomes a community.

I sometimes wonder whether our ancestors would find it amusing that we now require a complete electrical failure before discovering one another again.

Scripture has always known something about this.

The Psalmist reminds us, “Be still, and know that I am God.” (Psalm 46:10)

That is considerably more difficult than it sounds.

We are remarkably talented at keeping ourselves occupied.

We stream.

We scroll.

We answer emails that could almost certainly survive until tomorrow.

Silence makes many of us slightly uncomfortable.

But when the lights go out, stillness arrives whether we invited it or not.

It turns out that grace is often waiting there.

Ordinary Time in the Church is not the season of dramatic miracles or spectacular celebrations.

It is the season of paying attention.

The season of noticing that God has been quietly at work all along.

Sometimes it takes a little darkness for us to notice the light that already surrounds us.

A candle on the kitchen table.

A neighbour asking if we’re okay.

A child laughing in the twilight.

A conversation that would never have happened if the television had remained on.

Perhaps the Kingdom of God grows a little like that.

Not always in dazzling displays.

Sometimes it grows because the power goes out, the pace slows down, and people remember they belong to one another.

Of course, after about three hours someone inevitably begins calculating how much food is thawing in the freezer, and another neighbour develops an engineering proposal involving three generators, two extension cords, and what appears to be unreasonable optimism.

Civilization returns.

The lights flicker back to life.

The refrigerators hum.

The Wi-Fi reconnects with great ceremony.

Everyone cheers as though Canada has just won Olympic gold.

Then we wave goodnight and disappear indoors.

Still, for one warm July evening, we remembered something rather beautiful.

Community does not require electricity.

It simply requires people willing to notice one another.

And perhaps that has been God’s preferred power source all along.

Follow along on Instagram @renewablespiritual.

Companion Prayer

Loving God,

When our plans are interrupted and life slows down, help us to discover the gifts that have been waiting for us all along. Open our eyes to the neighbours around us, the conversations that matter, and the quiet ways your grace shines even in unexpected darkness. Teach us to be a people who bring light through kindness, hospitality, and love, wherever we are. Through Christ our Lord. Amen.

The Theology of the Screen Door

There are certain sounds that belong exclusively to summer.

The distant drone of a lawn mower.

The cheerful complaint of a mosquito who believes you are tonight’s buffet.

The unmistakable music of children arguing over whose turn it is to hold the garden hose.

And then there is that most Canadian of percussion instruments…

BANG!

The screen door.

If you grew up with a proper screen door, you know exactly the sound I mean.

Bang.

Five seconds later…

Bang.

Thirty seconds after that…

Bang again.

By mid-afternoon it has slammed so many times that one begins to suspect the door itself has developed a personality and is expressing opinions.

Somewhere in every neighbourhood there is still a screen door faithfully announcing the comings and goings of summer.

As children we could never understand why adults insisted on saying, “Don’t slam the screen door!”

To a child, this seemed almost impossible.

The door was clearly designed to slam. It possessed a spring that could have launched small satellites into orbit. Even when you tried to close it gently, it seemed to gather momentum halfway through and finish the job with a dramatic flourish.

Bang.

Mission accomplished.

Grace abounds.

What strikes me now is that the sound of the screen door almost always meant something wonderful.

Someone had arrived.

Someone had wandered out for lemonade.

A neighbour had dropped by.

The cousins had come over.

Grandma was carrying another pie.

Someone was heading into the backyard where conversation, iced tea, and mosquito bites awaited.

That familiar bang announced life happening.

The door was opening because people were welcome.

Perhaps that is one of the quiet gifts summer still offers us.

During the colder months we tend to seal ourselves inside. Doors stay shut. Visits require calendars, text messages, weather forecasts, and what appears to be an international treaty negotiated several weeks in advance.

Summer is different.

People wander.

Children move freely between houses.

Neighbours stop while walking the dog.

Someone calls from the driveway, “You home?”

The kettle goes on.

An extra chair appears.

Nobody seems terribly worried if things are perfectly tidy.

In fact, if someone apologizes for the state of the house, the proper Canadian response is almost always, “Don’t worry about it.”

The conversation continues anyway.

I sometimes wonder whether our churches could recover just a little of the theology of the screen door.

Not carelessness.

Not chaos.

Simply openness.

An attitude that quietly says, There is room for one more.

Hospitality has never really depended upon polished furniture or spotless floors. It has always depended upon open hearts.

Jesus seemed remarkably unconcerned about whether people had made appointments.

He kept inviting unexpected guests to the table.

He accepted invitations from unlikely hosts.

He welcomed children who interrupted serious conversations.

He noticed strangers everyone else preferred to ignore.

Again and again, the Gospel sounds remarkably like the steady rhythm of a screen door opening for another guest.

Bang.

Come in.

There’s room.

Have something to eat.

Tell us your story.

Stay awhile.

Perhaps the Kingdom of God grows less through grand events than through ordinary acts of welcome repeated thousands of times.

A neighbour invited for coffee.

A newcomer greeted by name.

A family welcomed without being examined first.

A lonely soul discovering they don’t have to earn a place at the table.

None of these moments seems particularly dramatic.

Neither did the screen door.

It simply kept opening.

And because it kept opening, people kept belonging.

Maybe that is one of the holiest sounds of summer.

Not because of the noise itself.

But because every familiar bang reminds us that someone is always arriving…and someone cared enough to leave the door open.

Follow along on Instagram @renewablespiritual.

Companion Prayer

Gracious God,

Thank you for every open door, every shared table, and every unexpected visit that reminds us we were created for community. Open our hearts as readily as a summer screen door, that all who cross our paths may find kindness, welcome, and the warmth of your love. Make our homes, our churches, and our lives places where strangers become friends and where everyone discovers there is room enough for grace.

In the name of Christ, who always made space for one more.

Amen.