The Progressive Reverend

You may have noticed my giant coffee mug—the one that boldly declares '  Jesus. Coffee. Bacon. Naps.  It’s not just a statement piece. It’s also the subtitle of this blog. And maybe, just maybe, you’ve been curious about why. Truthfully, it started as a joke. A kind of holy ode to the small delights that hold me together on any given Tuesday. But like most good jokes, there’s truth hidden in it—truth that’s been slowly steeping in my spirit like a strong cup of morning brew. As a mother to a 19-year-old who lives for the next thing on the calendar—concerts, dinners, events, anything that offers movement and meaning—I find myself curious. Curious might not be quite the right word. Envious? No, not really. Confused? Occasionally. But mostly I’m intrigued by the way some people are hardwired for forward motion, for the next flash of excitement. For my kid, an empty calendar can feel like a fog settling in. For me? Sometimes it feels like a sigh of relief. I’m not a raging ex...

I woke up this morning feeling a little melancholy. Sometimes the rain feels heavy to me. It’s not sadness exactly. More like a heaviness that stirs something deep inside—a softness, a longing, a truth we usually keep hidden under sunny skies. In a city that doesn't receive a lot of rain, I sometimes love rainy days; they make us slow down.  This morning, as the rain traced delicate paths down the windows, I felt that familiar, slow breath of melancholy move through me. Not unwelcome, just… present. The kind of feeling that doesn’t demand anything from you but honesty. And then I remembered a line from the song " Only When It Rains" by  Astrid S and Frank Walker. “But I’ve been told that it will get better when it rains. The flowers, they won’t grow with only the good and sunny days. 'Cause it’s only when it rains that we grow.” I think that’s what the ache is about—not despair, but remembering. Remembering that growth and grief are often tangled. That...

Red and white.   Flags flying on porches. Fireworks crackling across prairie skies. Canada Day evokes complex emotions these days. Some raise their flags with quiet gratitude, thankful for a country that—despite its flaws—offered them safety, dignity, and peace after fleeing war or oppression. Others stay home, choosing not to celebrate a nation still reckoning with its history: the pain of residential schools, the weight of colonialism, the injustices that still linger. And then there are voices—like the one I came across on Facebook—once proudly Canadian, now calling for Alberta to separate. It’s easy to understand the impulse. We live in fractured times. Trust in systems is crumbling. Some feel ignored or betrayed. The temptation to break away, to go it alone, can masquerade as strength. But I want to offer another word. A gospel word. Unity. Not forced agreement. Not erasure of difference. But the kind of unity Jesus prayed for in John 17:   “That they may all be one.” ...