The Progressive Reverend

Something beautiful happens when people gather—not just to worship, but to eat, to cry, to sing, to sort through old mugs at a garage sale, or to sway together to the sound of a piano on a Wednesday night. At Parkdale, these moments are not side events. They are the heartbeat of our church. A community like ours doesn’t just happen. It’s built, piece by piece, moment by moment. And this year, we’ve been building something extraordinary. This past Maundy Thursday, we gathered around a long table in the Sunday School room. We ate a meal rich with meaning—parsley, Matzah bread, sweet charoset—symbols of the ancient story of liberation. But even more powerful were the voices around that table—people of all ages and stages laughing, wondering, sharing. This meal wasn’t just a ritual—it was a reminder that Christ meets us at every table, in every bite, in every act of welcome. We remembered Jesus not with solemn silence, but through shared stories and full plates. And in doing so, w...

The other day I was scrolling through Instagram (as one does when procrastinating sermon-writing), and I stumbled upon a video titled  “What I Bought My Kids for Easter.”  The woman in the video started off by saying,  “I know you’re supposed to buy your kids bikes for Easter, but I decided to do something a little smaller…” Wait—what? Buy your kid a  bike  for Easter?! When did Easter become Christmas 2.0? I mean, growing up, I was lucky if I got a few chocolates and maybe— maybe —a hollow bunny. Easter was never about the Bunny, or baskets, or sugar crashes. It was the  greatest  Christian celebration of the year. It was the day the world turned upside down, because Jesus defeated death. And we  felt  it. There was this electric, euphoric joy that coursed through the whole church community. The sanctuary would ring with triumphant music. There was genuine laughter. People—usually so reserved—would shout:  “He is Risen!”  with a fo...

There’s something about Holy Week—that invites us to be more attentive. It is the heart of our story as people of faith. And it’s not a story we merely remember—it’s one we live. I want to personally invite you to join us at Parkdale United for two deeply meaningful gatherings: our Maundy Thursday Seder Dinner at 5:30 PM and our Good Friday service at 10:30 AM. Both offer something rare in this busy world: a sacred pause. A chance to be together. A chance to go deeper. On Maundy Thursday, we will gather for a Seder-inspired meal—an hour shaped by story, symbol, and community. We’ll eat, laugh, reflect, and be reminded that this meal—like the one Jesus shared with his disciples—is not just a ritual. It’s a call to love more boldly and live more justly. All ages are welcome. Whether this is your first Seder or your fiftieth, whether you come with certainty or curiosity—there is a place for you at the table. Please let me or Colin know if you would like to join us.  kimpuc@t...

This Lent, instead of giving something up, I decided to pay attention. Not in the passive way—like vaguely noticing the world as it swirls by—but in the intentional, uncomfortable, deeply human way. Yes, I had to resign from my self-imposed hiatus of not following the news. Yes, I had to be more present, even when it hurt. And yes, I’ve felt a little more anxious. A little raw. A little undone. But something beautiful has happened too. I find myself slowing down—stepping off the treadmill of distraction and into the stillness of sacred noticing. I’ve started to pause. To really see. A mother clutches a tiny mitten in the grocery store line. A headline breaks my heart. A siren in the distance becomes a prayer on my lips. I stop scrolling, and I whisper names. God, be near. God, have mercy. God, I see. It turns out that paying attention is its own kind of prayer. Not the folded-hands, eyes-closed kind (though those are good too), but the sort of prayer that walks around in your body. The...

There’s something sacred about spring rain. Not the flash storms or the icy drizzle of late winter, but the soft, steady kind that falls like a benediction—quiet, cleansing, persistent. The kind that turns the sidewalks into mirrors and the earth into a sponge. The kind that whispers, “Slow down.” And so I do. Or at least, I try. Because one of my favourite things to do is walk my dog. She, however, has other ideas about “slowing down.” If you've met her, you know. She’s a vision—I call her a bull in a china shop. There is nothing graceful about her except her fluffy white and grey fur. People often remark about how amazingly white her fur is—until it rains. Or, more accurately, after it rains. Because then, her favourite pastime is transforming into a high-speed bull charging her way through the bushes.  After a gentle spring shower yesterday, I thought: Now it’s safe. The sun peeked out. The ground looked... well, not dry, but dry- ish . I clipped on her leash with cautious opti...

  Lent has this way of slowing us down, pulling us toward the questions we might otherwise rush past. And this year, I find myself circling around one in particular: What do we do with suffering? Christians are called to care for those who suffer, to bind up wounds and sit in the ashes with the brokenhearted. But there’s something more to it—something that the theology of suffering asks of us. It suggests that we cannot truly walk alongside those in pain unless we have known pain ourselves. It’s not just an intellectual exercise. It’s lived. Now, let’s be clear: I do not believe that God causes suffering. And most who study the theology of suffering would agree. God is good. All the time. He is not in the business of dealing with pain like some divine bureaucrat. God is the very definition of goodness, incapable of anything less than love. But—and here’s the part that’s harder to swallow—God does not always take suffering away. Instead, God makes a way through it. He is present in ...