As the date of my Camino departure draws near, I’ve been doing a different kind of preparation.
Not for my feet. Not for my packing list.
But for the part of the journey that’s harder to quantify:
my soul.

Because the Camino is more than a walking holiday.
It’s more than a challenge or an adventure.

It’s a walk along “the Way.”

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The Way Before There Were Christians

Long before believers were called Christians… they were simply known as followers of the Way.
You’ll find it in the Book of Acts:

“Saul was still breathing threats and murder against the disciples of the Lord… so that if he found any who belonged to the Way, he might bring them bound to Jerusalem.”
(Acts 9:1–2)

What a name.
Not a doctrine.
Not a denomination.
Not even a building.

Just… the Way.

That name has stayed with me. Because that’s what pilgrimage is all about.
It’s a movement. A journey. A following.
Not toward a destination on a map—but toward a deeper encounter with God.

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Walking with Jesus

The Camino has its own name: The Way of St. James.
But deeper still, it is a way of walking with Jesus.
And that means preparing—not just to walk to Santiago, but to walk more closely with Christ.

And that preparation?
It’s not just about praying more or journaling better.

It’s about surrender.
About creating space.
About letting go of expectations, old guilt, or the desire to control how “holy” the experience feels.

In a world where we’re trained to measure progress by what we can produce, walking the Way is radically countercultural.

No finish line.
No productivity metrics.
Just footsteps, silence, wonder, and grace.

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This Way, Together

So as I prepare to leave for Spain on August 3rd, I’m not just laying out trail socks and foot powder.
I’m trying to unclutter the inner rooms of the heart.
To prepare to meet God in bread, in birdsong, in the breath between the steps.

And as always, I want to invite you to walk with me—not just online, but spiritually.

Whether you’re reading this from a bustling city, a quiet village, or your own sacred stretch of trail:
You, too, are a follower of the Way.
And Christ is still calling:
“Come, follow me.”

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Follow Along the Way

I’ll be blogging from the Camino beginning August 3rd—sharing photos, stories, and spiritual reflections as they unfold (and perhaps a few sore-footed prayers along the way).

You can follow the journey here:

👉 ddavidson.ca/blog_anglican_priest

Until then, may your path be blessed with silence, surrender, and small glimpses of grace.

Buen Camino, friends.
Fr. Don+

When preparing for the Camino, there comes a moment when the packing begins. And if you’re anything like me, that’s when you realize how different this journey is from every other trip.

There’s no need for formal wear. No books the size of small bricks. No laptop, not even a backup pair of black dress shoes. It’s just you, a backpack, and the stubborn truth that every ounce matters.

---

You start to weigh things—not just literally, but spiritually.

Do I really need that third shirt?
Do I really need to carry that old regret?
Do I really need to bring that “just in case” bit of anxiety?

Packing for the Camino is unlike any other packing I’ve done. It’s not about being prepared for anything. It’s about learning to trust that what I have is enough, and that what I need will be given.

That lesson isn’t only for my backpack. It’s for my soul.

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Alongside the socks and sunscreen, I’ve been doing some spiritual packing too. Which, in truth, means spiritual unpacking.

I’ve been trying to lighten the load I don’t always see:

• Expectations about how “holy” the Camino should feel.
• The pressure to make it all “meaningful.”
• That quiet guilt I carry around like an over-packed toiletry kit.

Instead, I’m trying to leave room—for the voice of God, for the kindness of strangers, for surprise.

---

The more I strip away the extras, the more I remember why I’m going:
Not to escape, but to encounter.
Not to perform, but to be present.
Not to collect souvenirs, but to let go of what no longer serves.

So if you’re reading this and wondering what kind of spiritual journey you might be packing for—ask yourself:
What am I carrying that’s weighing me down?
What might I leave behind to make space for grace?

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Follow My Camino Journey
I’ll be walking the Camino de Santiago beginning August 3rd, and blogging from the trail. If you’d like to walk with me—spiritually, virtually, or just in curiosity—you’re warmly invited to follow the journey here:

ddavidson.ca/blog_anglican_priest

There’ll be stories, photos, prayers, and the occasional reminder that God walks with us—even when our feet hurt.

Until then: pack light. Travel faithful.
And may your own path be blessed.

Buen Camino,
Fr. Don+

I’ve spent a lot of time listening to the stories of my LGBTQIA2S+ friends and reading the Bible through fresh eyes. One thing has become so clear to me: God’s love is bigger and more inclusive than we can imagine.

I know that for too long, parts of the Bible have been used to wound rather than to heal, to divide rather than to bring together. That breaks my heart. As a cisgender, heterosexual ally, I want to be clear: you are loved. You are whole. You belong.

Let me share some of the Scriptures that have given me hope and the conviction that every LGBTQIA2S+ person is a beautiful reflection of God’s image.

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📖 Created in God’s Image (Genesis 1:27)

“So God created humankind in his image, in the image of God he created them.”

This verse reminds me that every person—every orientation, every gender identity—is created with sacred worth. When people misuse this verse to uphold rigid gender roles or binaries, I see it as missing the point entirely. The beauty of God’s creation is found in its diversity, not in uniformity.

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📖 The Greatest Commandment (Matthew 22:37-40)

“You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart… and your neighbour as yourself.”

Jesus didn’t say, “Love your straight neighbour” or “Love your cisgender neighbour.” He said, “Love your neighbour.” Full stop. Any interpretation that excludes LGBTQIA2S+ people isn’t just a misreading—it’s a betrayal of the heart of the gospel.

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📖 The Fruit of the Spirit (Galatians 5:22-23)

“The fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, generosity, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control.”

I see these fruits so clearly in the lives of my LGBTQIA2S+ friends. Their lives are marked by courage and faithfulness, even when they face rejection. That’s evidence of the Spirit at work—not sinfulness, not brokenness, but holiness and wholeness.

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📖 Peter’s Vision (Acts 10)

“God has shown me that I should not call anyone profane or unclean.”

This story is a powerful reminder that God’s welcome is always bigger than our human prejudice. When people use Scripture to shame or exclude LGBTQIA2S+ folks, they’re ignoring the very heart of God’s message: no one is unclean or unworthy in God’s sight.

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🚫 Addressing Misused Scriptures

I know some verses—like Leviticus 18:22 or Romans 1—are often thrown around to justify exclusion. But these verses are taken out of context and used to harm rather than heal. They were never meant to condemn loving, committed relationships. When I read them in light of the entire story of Scripture—of a God who loves and liberates—I see that they cannot overshadow the overwhelming message of grace and belonging.

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A Message of Belonging

To my LGBTQIA2S+ siblings:
You are fearfully and wonderfully made. You are a reflection of the God who is love. You are not an “issue” or a “debate.” You are beloved. Your love, your identity, your story—these are gifts to the church and the world.

To my fellow Christians:
Let’s be known by our love. Let’s be a church that listens, that learns, and that builds a table wide enough for everyone.

I’d love to hear how Scripture has spoken to you, or what has given you hope on this journey. Let’s keep the conversation going, in grace and in love.

I’ve been thinking a lot about what it means to be an ally. It’s easy to say “I support inclusion,” but living it out takes more than good intentions. It takes listening, learning, and opening our hearts to stories that challenge and inspire us.

These are some of the books that have helped me on this path. They’re not just theology texts or social commentaries—they’re stories of courage, faith, and hope that invite us to see God’s love more clearly.

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Books That Changed How I See the World

“UnClobber” by Colby Martin
This book opened my eyes to how the Bible’s so-called “clobber passages” have been misused to hurt LGBTQIA2S+ people. Martin writes with such care and humility, and his honesty about his own journey makes this book feel like a conversation with a wise friend.

“Transforming” by Austen Hartke
I’d never read anything that lifted up trans voices with such tenderness and scriptural faithfulness. Hartke’s words reminded me that God’s image is so much bigger and more diverse than we sometimes imagine.

“God and the Gay Christian” by Matthew Vines
Vines takes the questions that so many of us wrestle with—about scripture, sexuality, and faith—and answers them with clarity and compassion. This book gave me hope that we can find a faithful path forward together.

“Outside the Lines” by Mihee Kim-Kort
Kim-Kort invites us to see queerness not as a problem to fix, but as a gift that can deepen our faith and widen our hearts. Her writing is like a breath of fresh air.

“Walking the Bridgeless Canyon” by Kathy Baldock
This book was a revelation. It showed me the history behind so many of our assumptions about sexuality, and it helped me understand why real reconciliation requires knowing where we’ve been.

“Our Lives Matter” by Pamela R. Lightsey
Lightsey’s writing is fierce and gentle at the same time. She speaks from the intersection of race, gender, and faith in ways that are deeply moving.

“Queer Virtue” by Elizabeth M. Edman
Edman’s insights about how queerness and faith can enrich each other made me see that allyship isn’t just about welcome—it’s about transformation.

“A Bigger Table” by John Pavlovitz
Pavlovitz writes with such kindness and hope. His book reminds me that God’s table is wide enough for all of us, and that’s what makes the church beautiful.

“Rainbow Theology” by Patrick S. Cheng
This book weaves together race, sexuality, and spirituality in a way that is both challenging and comforting. Cheng’s voice is prophetic and pastoral.

“The Gospel of Inclusion” by Bishop Carlton Pearson
Pearson’s journey of faith and love is a reminder that no one is beyond God’s embrace—and neither is the church.

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Why These Books Matter to Me

Reading these books has been more than an intellectual exercise—it’s been a spiritual practice. They’ve shown me that God’s love is bigger than any of our fears or prejudices. They’ve challenged me to see inclusion not as an option, but as a core part of the gospel.

If you’ve ever wondered how to be a better ally, how to make your faith a place of refuge for others, or how to find God in the margins—these books are for you. They’re stories of hope and transformation, and they’ve been a blessing in my life.

If you’ve read any of these books, or have others you’d recommend, I’d love to hear about them. Let’s keep this holy conversation going.

There’s a lot of talk in ministry circles about crisis, trauma, burnout, and decline.

All of it matters.
All of it needs attention.
But if we’re not careful, we forget something essential:

Joy is part of the Gospel, too.

Not surface-level cheeriness.
Not toxic positivity.
But deep, rooted, radiant joy—the kind that bubbles up from aliveness, from connection, from Spirit.

That’s the kind of joy my dear singing teacher, Dr. David Falk, used to call me back to.

He taught from a simple but profound place:

“Always ask—‘What’s News?’”

Not “What’s broken?”
Not “What’s wrong with you?”
But—“What’s good? What’s changing? What’s unfolding in you today?”

It sounds simple, but it shifts everything.

Because in a world trained to scan for danger, a ministry that scans for joy becomes revolutionary.

When we lead from “What’s News?”—
We open space for the new thing God is doing.
We remind people that they are growing, even when it feels slow.
We tune our attention to the moments of music, beauty, clarity, kindness, courage, and care.

We become ministers of hopeful noticing.

It’s not naive.
It’s deeply spiritual.

Joy doesn’t erase the pain.
It balances it.
It keeps us from turning into walking triage units.
It reconnects us to the sacred reason we’re here in the first place.

After all—Jesus didn’t just come to bind up the brokenhearted.
He came to turn water into wine.
To gather friends around tables.
To marvel at lilies.
To laugh, to rest, to celebrate the return of the lost.

He came that our joy might be full. (John 15:11)

What would change if we asked that of ourselves and each other, every day?

• What’s news in your soul?
• What’s rising?
• What beauty are you holding?
• What tiny victory are you quietly proud of?

As leaders, we must learn to preach the joy as surely as we preach the need.
To name resilience, not just pain.
To call forward what is flourishing, not only what is fragile.

Joy is contagious.
It’s a resistance practice.
And it’s a holy one.

So today, before you brace for the next fire,
Pause.
Look someone in the eye.
And say:

“Tell me what’s news.”

Then hold it like sacrament.

There is a quiet grief many in ministry carry.
It’s not always named, but it lives in the body.
It shows up in burnout, in boundarylessness, in inherited guilt, in a subtle sense of unworthiness.

Sometimes, we think it’s ours alone.

But as I’ve sat with the work of Daniel Foor in Ancestral Medicine, I’ve come to see that not all wounds begin with us.
Some are ancestral.
Passed down silently, through gesture and culture, theology and fear.
Passed down through systems we didn’t create—but often find ourselves holding.

And those of us in leadership—spiritual, pastoral, or communal—often carry not just our own pain,
but the echo of those who came before us.

We are shaped by lineages of harm, yes.
But also by lineages of hope.

Foor writes that healing is not only individual—it is lineage work.
When we attend to our ancestors, we don’t glorify the past—we ask it to participate in transformation.
We say: “What you could not heal in your time, I will begin to heal in mine.”

This is deeply resonant with the ministry of Christ.
Jesus doesn’t erase ancestry—he redeems it.
He places himself in a genealogical line.
He honours those who came before—warts and all.
And then he invites the Spirit to make something new.

In a similar way, Lama Tsultrim Allione, in Wisdom Rising, teaches that the wounds we carry—especially collective and gendered ones—are not failures of faith.
They are doorways into deeper power.

She invites us not to silence rage, grief, or ancestral sorrow—
but to transform it through embodied presence, ritual, and sacred practice.
To feed our demons, not to worship them,
but to listen, learn, and liberate.

In many ways, that is the work of spiritual leadership in this time.
Not to rush toward light,
but to hold the darkness until it reveals its wisdom.
Not to abandon the broken line,
but to become a point of renewal within it.

What if ministry wasn’t just about visioning forward—
but also healing backward?

What if the Church understood that ancestral trauma, colonisation, generational shame, and spiritual bypassing are not peripheral concerns—
but central to the work of reconciliation and Gospel embodiment?

What if tending to our lineages was not indulgent—but responsible?
A sacred task, done not only for ourselves,
but for those who come after?

Because healing is not linear.
It is ancestral.
And resurrection is not just what happens after death.
It’s what happens when we choose to bring the bones of the past
into conversation with the Spirit of the present.

We do this work—
with prayer, with compassion, with discernment—
not to fix our families or rewrite history,
but to say:

“The harm stops here. The healing begins here.”
“This body, this ministry, this altar—will be different.”

There’s a moment in every Christian journey where the question shifts.

It’s no longer, “Do I believe?”
It becomes, “What will I do because I believe?”

Reading Ibram X. Kendi’s How to Be an Antiracist brought that question into sharper focus.

Kendi doesn’t offer easy answers. He doesn’t give us a checklist or a way to feel good about ourselves. Instead, he offers something far more Gospel-shaped:

The truth that racism is not just about hate.
It’s about power.
It’s about policies.
It’s about the choices we make, again and again, consciously or not.

And perhaps most strikingly, Kendi reminds us that being “not racist” is not enough.
Neutrality is not righteousness.
Silence is not holiness.
Intentions are not liberation.

He writes, “The opposite of racist isn’t ‘not racist.’ It is antiracist.”

That hit me like a Gospel call.

Because if our faith is not actively working to dismantle what harms our neighbour—
is it really faith at all?

Kendi’s framing of racism as something we do or undo, moment by moment,
feels like the spiritual practice of confession and repentance—
not once, but daily.
Not with shame, but with clarity.
Not to feel bad, but to do better.

And isn’t that what discipleship is?

Not mastering goodness, but apprenticing ourselves to grace.
Being teachable.
Being changed.
Letting Christ unsettle the parts of us that have made peace with power.

In this way, Kendi’s work calls us back to the Gospel—
not the comfortable one that keeps us in control,
but the one that lifts the lowly, tears down unjust systems, and starts everything over in love.

It asks us:

• Who are we centring in our communities?
• Whose voices are we silencing in our discomfort?
• Whose safety are we trading for stability?
• What theology have we baptised that still smells of empire?

To be antiracist, in the Christian life, is to repent in real time.
It’s to choose the Jesus road over the Roman road.
It’s to hear, again, the call:

“Let the oppressed go free.”
“Break every yoke.” (Isaiah 58)

This isn’t political. It’s spiritual.
It’s not partisan. It’s pastoral.

And if we’re not learning to live this way—
to listen, to change, to act—
then we’re not really following Christ.

We’re just following comfort.

So I read Kendi’s book not as a challenge to my faith—
but as a call deeper into it.

Because real faith doesn’t just believe in resurrection.
It helps make it possible—
in policies, in communities, and in hearts willing to be changed.

There is a longing that lives in many of us—especially those called to ministry—to encounter Christ in unmistakable ways.

In powerful worship.
In thin places.
In sacramental moments.

And yes, Christ is there.

But over time, and especially through seasons of weariness, I’ve come to realize something deeper:

Christ is also in the ordinary.

In chipped coffee mugs and messy kitchens.
In slow walks with someone who needs to talk.
In the ache of intercession that never makes it into the Sunday prayers.
In the quiet tenacity of someone who shows up, even when no one thanks them.
In the tired hands of those who clean the sanctuary long after the candles burn out.

These are not lesser places.
These are holy ground.

When we imagine the face of Christ only on mountaintops or behind stained glass,
we miss him in the cracked sidewalk.
In the grocery line.
In the grieving stranger.
In the child who asks, “Can I help?” and means it.

Incarnation didn’t happen once. It happens every day.

It happens when we meet someone’s gaze with kindness instead of judgment.
When we stop to listen, even if it’s inconvenient.
When we carry out ordinary tasks with extraordinary love.

This is not a lesser faith.
It is the faith.
Because it’s what Jesus himself modeled.

Born not in a palace but in a barn.
Teaching not from thrones but from hillsides.
Walking dusty roads.
Eating with outcasts.
Touching the overlooked.
Showing up—not in power, but in presence.

And that’s what we’re called to do, too.
To stop waiting for the big sign,
and instead notice the small sacrament of now.

To open our eyes and say:

“Surely Christ is in this place—and I did not know it.”

Every day is an altar.
Every interaction is an invitation.
And every moment holds the possibility of encountering the Holy.

All we need is a heart willing to look again.

Somewhere along the way, many of us were taught that to be in ministry means to always say yes.

Yes to the extra meeting.
Yes to the midnight crisis.
Yes to stretching a little further, staying a little longer, offering a little more.

And yes, ministry is a calling of deep generosity.
But boundless giving is not the same as faithful service.

Over time, that kind of ministry—ministry without boundaries—becomes a slow erosion.
Not just of time.
Not just of energy.
But of soul.

When we give without limits, we begin to disappear.

But here’s the truth, held tenderly in the Gospel:
Saying “no” can be an act of holy love.

Jesus said no.
No to the crowds when he needed solitude.
No to the demands of the powerful.
No to the expectations of those who wanted him to be something he wasn’t.

Jesus didn’t shape his ministry around people-pleasing.
He shaped it around truth.

And truth requires space.

Space to breathe.
Space to rest.
Space to listen to God.
Space to honor your own limits without shame.

Boundaries are not walls of selfishness.
They are borders of clarity and care—where we define what is ours to carry, and what is not.

For those in ministry, setting boundaries can feel disloyal.
Like we’re letting someone down.
But in reality, boundaries are what allow us to show up fully present and truly free.

They protect our time, yes.
But more importantly, they protect the sacredness of our “yes”.

Because when we learn to say “no” from a place of love,
our “yes” carries more weight, more grace, more truth.

Boundaries don’t make us less loving.
They make our love more sustainable.

And in a Church that often confuses exhaustion with holiness,
this is a lesson worth learning again and again:

You are not God. And you don’t have to be.

There’s a quiet crisis in the Church that doesn’t get talked about enough.

It’s not just declining attendance.
It’s not just budgets.
It’s not just cultural change.

It’s this:
Too many people called to hold others forget how to hold themselves.
Too many ministers offer grace to everyone but themselves.
Too many feel guilty for resting.
Ashamed of having limits.
Afraid that boundaries might look like weakness.

But Christ never asked anyone to burn out for the Kingdom.

When we look closely at Jesus—
not as an unreachable ideal,
but as a breathing, embodied presence—
we see a model not only of radical love for others,
but of gentle, grounded love for self.

Jesus withdrew to rest.
He napped during storms.
He rose early to pray—alone.
He surrounded himself with people,
and then stepped away when he needed to.
He nourished his body.
He wept openly.
He received love from friends—
oil on his feet, tears on his skin, food on his plate.

And then he said,

“Love your neighbor as yourself.”

Not more than.
Not instead of.
As.

You cannot pour from an empty vessel.
You cannot lead others to still waters when your own soul is parched.

Self-love is not self-indulgence.
It is spiritual discipline.
It is the ongoing recognition that you are a beloved child of God—
not just a channel for others’ healing.

It’s easy, especially in ministry, to mistake exhaustion for devotion.
To confuse depletion with faithfulness.
But there is no Gospel in quiet martyrdom for appearance’s sake.
There is only grace—
and the invitation to live in the same love we proclaim.

So let this be a word to all who serve:

• You are allowed to rest.
• You are allowed to say no.
• You are allowed to feel joy.
• You are allowed to tend to your own pain, your own body, your own belovedness.

The Christ we follow was not a machine.
Christ was fully human.

And did not only give love—
Christ also received it,
held it,
knew it.

And so must we.

Let the Church become a place where self-love is not questioned—
but honoured as sacred.
Because the leader who knows they are loved
is the one who leads not from survival,
but from wholeness.