The Progressive Reverend

 Christmas carries a particular kind of anxiety for many of us. Not the dramatic, unravelling kind, but the quieter, more human kind. The wondering kind. Will this be enough? Will it be received the way we hope? Will the care behind it be felt? There’s also the list. The list that seems to follow people from room to room as December unfolds. Groceries to buy, homes to tidy, gifts to wrap, baking to finish. Small details pile up, each one whispering that something might fall apart if it’s forgotten or not done quite right. And yet, for many, the deeper anxiety isn’t found in the errands or preparations. It lives in the moments that carry the most meaning. If I’m honest, for me that moment is Christmas Eve. I put so much pressure on myself to get it right. I want the services to be full of wonder and delight. I want people to feel the weight and warmth of tradition. I want it to be beautiful, meaningful, a little magical. I want people to leave feeling like the church has helped...

Some weeks, just getting to church feels like its own minor miracle. I’ve been thinking about that a lot as our Christmas pageant draws near, the sheer effort it takes for families or really anyone to walk through our doors on a Sunday morning. Two working parents, kids in cleats or skates or dance shoes, lunches to pack, sleep to catch up on, a mountain of December to-do lists, and yet somehow people still come. Once, a neighbour with three small children said to me, “Church is a commitment you have to make a priority each and every week, otherwise it just won’t happen.” She was right. But her words aren’t just for families, they’re for anyone who chooses to carve out this sacred hour. Anyone who whispers,  I need this,  even when life pulls hard in every direction. And honestly, that commitment fills me with gratitude. Because this Sunday is one of my favourites of the entire year: Joy Sunday, crowned with the glorious, holy chaos of our children’s Christmas pageant. We have...

Every December, I find myself repeating that Advent is a season to slow down, and then I glance at my calendar and laugh because nothing about this season feels slow. There are gifts to wrap, concerts to attend, family expectations to meet, cookies that may or may not get baked, and a level of busyness that seems baked right into our culture. It can feel impossible to move gently through a month designed for rushing. But maybe slowing down in Advent isn’t about stopping the whirlwind around us. Perhaps it’s about tending to the stillness inside us, even while the world keeps spinning. Advent gives us these ancient words: hope, peace, joy, love, not as separate tasks, but like four threads we’re invited to braid into our days. They show up in surprising places if we slow down enough to notice. Hope appears in small flashes, almost quiet enough to miss, a neighbour waving from their car, a child humming a carol, a moment where the light catches the frosted branches and we rememb...