The Progressive Reverend

  The other day, Neil and I wandered into Mountain Goat Books, a new independent bookstore in Greenwich, near the Calgary Farmers' Market. Oh, what a beautiful little place. There is something rather magical about walking into a bookstore that feels as though it belongs in the middle of a forest. Mountain Goat Books has a warmth, a quietness that makes you want to linger. The books line the shelves, each holding a story, a little world waiting to be discovered. It is the kind of place where you could quite happily lose track of time. And the selection was wonderful. Now, I don't normally buy books. I love them, but I usually download them onto my Kindle. Yet I really wanted to support this lovely new little shop. So I wandered around, picking up books, reading their covers, and putting them back, hoping something might catch my attention. Eventually, I found myself in the spirituality section, where a book seemed to be waiting for me. Wintering: The Power of Rest and Retreat in...

I have been thinking about the word go .  Two letters. We use it all the time, and apparently once you start noticing it, you hear it everywhere. Think about being a kid. Ready, set… GO! And you ran. It didn't particularly matter where you were going. Across the playground. Down the sidewalk. Around the house. Away from whoever was “it.” “Go hide!” And off you went, trying to squeeze yourself behind a curtain while somehow believing your feet sticking out the bottom were completely invisible. Then there was Red Light, Green Light. Green meant GO . No hesitation. No committee meeting. No strategic plan. Just GO. Maybe that's why I like the word. There is something about go that feels like possibility. I love to travel, and my bucket list is frankly getting a little out of hand. Every time I cross somewhere off, I seem to add three more places. I see a picture. Oh, I want to go there. Someone tells me about a tiny town with incredible food. Add it to the list. I read about a hik...

After years of preaching, teaching, and doing church, I have found myself coming back to an embarrassingly simple question: What does it actually mean to follow Jesus? You would think I would have this figured out by now. I don't. I grew up in an Evangelical Lutheran Church, and the Christianity I experienced was very different from the Christianity I understand and live today. As a child, following Jesus felt like following rules. There were things you did and things you didn't do. There was sin. There was judgment. And somewhere underneath it all was the very real possibility of hell. Following Jesus meant being good. Being obedient. Believing the right things. And, perhaps most importantly, not getting it wrong. That understanding of faith stayed with me for a long time. It took me years to understand that following Jesus might be very different. And now, after seminary and ordination and several years of ministry, after hundreds of sermons and more Bible studies than I coul...

  This week, I overheard a comment about some of the changes happening at Parkdale. The suggestion was that they were all my ideas. I will be honest. It stayed with me. Not because I expect everyone to agree with every idea, or because I need credit for what is happening. It stayed with me because this church has never belonged to one person. Its life has always been shaped by people who cared enough to offer their time, their questions, their imagination, and their love. More than four years ago, Parkdale’s Council appointed a Strategic Planning Group to listen and imagine where God might be leading us. They gathered input from the congregation, Council, and committees. Together, they asked: Who are we? What is God calling us to do? How do we live out our commitment to building connections, living faith, and acting for justice? The plan that emerged named hopes for strengthening lay leadership, using our building in new ways, deepening our welcome, developing partnerships, ...

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...