The Progressive Reverend

Lately, I have been walking around Parkdale, noticing things. The kitchen is shining. And I mean shining. After a long summer of coffee, camps, meals, meetings, children, and all the beautiful mess of a well-used building, a couple of volunteers spent hours cleaning it from top to bottom. Outside, the benches and bridge have a fresh coat of paint. What looked tired a few weeks ago looks cared for again. Another volunteer has spent endless hours waiting for contractors to arrive. And while he waits, he finds things to fix. There is always something to fix. This is, after all, a church. Over the past few weeks, I have watched people give an extraordinary amount of time to this place. And I keep thinking about how much of the community is built this way. Quietly. A paintbrush in someone's hand. A cloth across a counter. A loose hinge tightened. A pot of coffee made before anyone else arrives. None of it is glamorous. All of it matters. Parkdale simply could not be the community it is ...

I have been thinking about gardens lately. Maybe because summer is beginning to let go. The tomatoes are finally ripening. Flowers that were spectacular a few weeks ago are beginning to fade. The light is changing. Here and there, if you look closely, a leaf is beginning to turn. Creation is always becoming. Nothing stays exactly as it was. And somehow, that doesn't make creation less beautiful. It makes it alive. Which has me wondering about the church. Maybe the church was never meant to be a painting. Maybe it was always meant to be more like a garden. Something we inherit, yes. But also something we tend. A painting is finished. We hang it on the wall. We admire it. We protect it. We try to preserve it exactly as it is. But a garden? A garden is gloriously unfinished. Things grow. Things die. Things surprise us. Something you planted carefully refuses to grow, while something you didn't plant at all appears between two rocks and absolutely thrives. There are seasons of abun...

Every season has something to teach us. Autumn teaches us that letting go is part of life. Winter invites us to slow down, to rest, and to trust that not everything beautiful is visible. Spring whispers that new life is always possible, even after the longest seasons. And summer... Summer reminds us to laugh a little louder, linger a little longer, and rediscover the joy of seeing familiar things with fresh eyes. Perhaps that's why we've decided to let our worship take on a bit of a summer spirit this year. Over the next nine weeks, Sunday mornings at Parkdale are going to look and feel a little different. We'll leave the sanctuary behind and gather in the garden. There will still be Scripture, prayer, music, and meaningful reflection, but there will also be conversation, storytelling, and opportunities to participate rather than simply observe. Think of it as a summer edition of worship. A chance to experience church from a different perspective. The summer worship series ...

Summer has a way of loosening our grip. The alarm clock feels a little less urgent. School lunches disappear. Evening sports practices come to an end. Calendars that have been packed for months suddenly develop open spaces. For families, summer often arrives like a long exhale. There are later bedtimes, slower mornings, camping trips, backyard barbecues, afternoons at the lake, and evenings spent lingering on the deck long after the sun begins to set. There is time to sleep in, time to wander, time to simply be. And honestly, I think that's a gift. For generations, church life often followed a different rhythm. Growing up, church wasn't optional. Unless we were out of town, we were there every Sunday. It was simply what we did. But as I've been reflecting on routines lately, I've come to believe that stepping away from one routine for a season is not necessarily a bad thing. What matters is not whether we sit in the same pew every week. What matters is whether we contin...

This week, Calgary has felt like a study in contrasts. One moment, the sky is dark with thunderclouds rolling across the horizon. Next, the sun breaks through, and the garden seems to have grown another inch overnight. The peonies are beginning to open. The lilacs are fading. The grass is impossibly green. It has me thinking about how often life unfolds the same way. We spend a lot of time looking for certainty. We want clear answers. We want to know exactly where we are headed. We want a five-year plan for our lives, our churches, our communities, and sometimes even our faith. Instead, what we often get is weather. Storms. Sunshine. Unexpected growth. New possibilities. Moments of doubt. Moments of hope. And somehow, life keeps unfolding anyway. I've been spending a lot of time in the garden this week. Partly because everything is blooming, and partly because of the new puppy who is learning the rhythms of life, one sniff, one adventure, and one bathroom break at a ti...

There is a quiet kind of grief moving through the church right now. Not dramatic grief. Not headline grief. Just the slow ache of watching pews thin out, budgets tighten, and wondering what the future of the church will look like twenty years from now. Many church leaders carry that worry quietly. I know I do. This week I read an article by former moderator Carmen Lansdowne about a small church in British Columbia. It was not a story about explosive growth or some brilliant strategy to save organized religion. It was simply a story about a church that was alive. And honestly, I have not stopped thinking about it. Because I absolutely want the church to grow. I want more people to discover community and purpose. I want children and youth filling our spaces again. I want people who feel disconnected, exhausted, lonely, or spiritually adrift to find something real inside church walls. I want more for the church than simply surviving. But the article reminded me that growth and aliveness a...