The Progressive Reverend

What Makes Church Feel Alive? I have been thinking a lot lately about worship. Not theology in the abstract. Not church decline. Just a simple question: What do people actually need from church now? What helps someone walk into a sanctuary carrying stress, grief, loneliness, exhaustion, or uncertainty… and leave feeling lighter, calmer, more hopeful, or more connected? What makes worship meaningful? Because churches seem to be wrestling with this everywhere. Some churches use lights, smoke, bands, giant screens, and high-energy music. Others lean into candles, silence, ritual, and quiet reflection. Some people find God in loud music and energy. Others find God in stillness. Some people long for creativity and surprise. Others long for peace and familiarity. And honestly, I don’t think there is one right answer. But I do think there are important questions worth asking. What helps people feel connected to the Spirit? What creates a sense of sacredness now? Is it beauty? Music? Silence? ...

There is something sacred about gathering. Not because the music is perfect. Not because the sermon changes your life every week. Not because church people always get it right. But because, in a world pulling us in a thousand directions, gathering reminds us who we are. Some Sundays, if we are honest, it is easier to stay home. The laundry is waiting. Kids have sports. The week has been long. The weather in Calgary can make staying under a blanket feel almost holy. Life is full. Busy. Loud. Exhausting. And yet. There is a quiet kind of healing that happens when people choose to show up together. Research continues to show what many people of faith have always known deep in their bones: communities of spiritual practice help people feel less isolated, more hopeful, and more resilient. People who participate in faith communities often report stronger emotional well-being, deeper social connections, and a greater sense of meaning and purpose. In a world where loneliness has quietl...

I have been thinking a lot about community lately. Not the abstract kind. Not the polished kind we put in mission statements. The real kind. The kind that smells like fried fish and sea air. The kind where children play across the street, goats wander nearby, stray dogs circle hopefully, and people gather because this is just where people gather. While we were in St. Vincent, we visited a small local restaurant. The kind of place where people don’t really sit inside, so the inside becomes a mix of restaurant and storage. A couple of tables on the porch. A few picnic tables in the parking lot. The menu was simple: catch of the day or blackfish, served with provisions. And yet, there it was. Community. At one table sat about eight women of different ages. One of them asked me how I was and seemed to actually want to know. Not the polite kind of question. The kind where your answer matters. Nearby, another group gathered around a picnic table, drinking beer, talking, laughing, eating, enj...

I came home with salt still on my skin and something I can’t quite name sitting with me. For two weeks, life slowed down. Morning didn’t rush me. No schedule chasing me out the door. Just light coming through the window and the ocean, always there. I swam every day. In Indian Bay . The kind of water that makes you forget what time it is. The kind that holds you without asking anything in return. It felt… good. Simple in a way that makes you wonder what we’ve done to our lives back home. And it’s beautiful there. It really is. But there’s something else. Because there were no fish. Or almost none. I kept waiting for that flicker of movement, that quick flash of colour. But mostly it was just… quiet. The reef didn’t feel alive. It felt tired. Like something that had been through too much and didn’t have the strength to show it anymore. And I don’t know what to do with that. Part of me wants to explain it. To make sense of it quickly. There’s no recycling. Garbage...

It has been a long year already. And we are only three months in. There has been too much loss for such a short stretch of time. Too many goodbyes. Too many quiet moments where grief sits heavy in the room, like a guest who will not leave. Even the season has seemed to echo it, winter lingering, snow refusing to melt, the earth still held tight in cold hands when we are so ready for warmth. Some years feel like this. Like everything is holding its breath. And yet… here comes Easter. Not politely. Not timidly. But stubbornly. Hopeful in a way that almost feels defiant. The story of Jesus Christ does not pretend that death isn’t real. It does not rush past the sorrow or tie it up neatly. It lingers at the tomb. It allows the silence. It lets the grief speak its full truth. And then, without warning, without explanation that satisfies the mind, something shifts. Life. Not as a return to what was. But as something new. Something transformed. Something that says, quietly but un...

There’s something almost defiant about Palm Sunday . It arrives with joy that knows full well what is coming. We line up with our branches, we hum the songs, we let ourselves get a little swept up in it all. There’s movement, laughter, children who take their roles very seriously, and adults who, just for a moment, remember how to play. We wave palm branches like we believe something good is possible. And maybe that’s the point. Because life doesn’t pause its heaviness for holy days. Grief doesn’t step aside. The world doesn’t suddenly become lighter just because the calendar tells us it should. We carry everything with us: the worry, the loss, the unanswered questions. They don’t disappear. But neither does joy. Palm Sunday feels like permission. Permission to celebrate even when your heart is tired. Permission to sing even if your voice is a little cracked. Permission to join the parade, knowing full well that the road ahead bends toward heartbreak. There’s something deeply...