The Progressive Reverend

A few weeks ago, I stumbled across an article that surprised me. According to researcher Thom Rainer, most unchurched people in the U.S. are far more open to visiting a church than we tend to assume. They’re not hostile. They’re not braced for a fight. Many are simply… waiting. Waiting for an invitation that, in many cases, never comes. And as I read, I found myself thinking about our own Canadian landscape, the land of soft apologies and “I didn’t want to bother you.” We’re famously polite, famously private, famously reluctant to impose anything on anyone, especially something as tender and personal as faith. I felt my shoulders lift in a sheepish little nod.  Yes, that’s me too. Because if I’m honest, I don’t invite people to church as often as I could. Not because I think they’d slam the door in my face, or because I’m embarrassed, or because faith feels old-fashioned. I simply… hesitate. I worry that an invitation might feel like pressure. I worry I’ll make someone uncomfortabl...

Some weeks arrive like a mosaic, glittering pieces of joy pressed right up against the jagged edges of the world’s grief. This was one of those weeks. It began with the Northern Lights. Neil and I were out walking, lost in conversation, when a neighbour stopped us with her dog tugging eagerly at the leash. Her whole face lit up. Look up, she said, like she had been entrusted with a secret too beautiful to keep. And there it was. The sky dancing with green and violet light, a quiet blessing stretched across Calgary. A moment of wonder we didn’t expect, shared between strangers on a sidewalk. And then the week carried on, as weeks do, with its mix of beauty and ache. A new report announced that the living wage in Calgary is now $26.50 an hour. A number that lands heavily. A reminder that our city can be beloved and still be bending under the weight of inequality. I met a woman who had fled domestic violence and was now living in a garage. A garage. Safety had come at a terrible price...

My grandmother met my grandfather, a Canadian soldier, in England during World War II. Within that span, they married, and she became pregnant with my uncle. She once told me a story about moving from London to Bath when she was 6 months pregnant because the bombs kept waking her up, and she was not getting enough sleep. For most of my life, that story felt like something from another world. But recently, I’ve found myself thinking of her each time I open Instagram and see Rosy, a young woman in Gaza who documents her life under siege. Rosy’s Instagram account,   @roseyingaza , began as a space to share joy—simple, everyday beauty. But when war broke out, her feed transformed into a diary of survival.  She films what remains of her home: broken windows, collapsed staircases, laundry hung between cracked walls. You can hear the hum of drones in the distance, the hollow thud of explosions. There’s no soundtrack, just life unfolding inside the ruins. When I watch her videos, I se...