The Progressive Reverend

  This summer, I had the extraordinary privilege of preaching my way through 100 years of the United Church of Canada. Ten sermons. Ten decades. Ten stories of courage, creativity, justice, and grace. It felt less like writing a series and more like walking a pilgrimage, stepping into the footprints of those who came before us while daring to imagine the road ahead. I cannot overstate my pride in being a minister in this denomination. Proud that we were born from a bold vision of unity. Proud that we have faced hard questions about justice and reconciliation and refused to look away. Proud that we have stood with the marginalized, opened our doors wider, and proclaimed a Gospel that actually looks like good news. This is not a church content with comfort or nostalgia. It is a church that chooses, again and again, to risk love in a complicated world. Preaching through our history taught me more than I expected. Each decade reminded me that the Spirit has always b...

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.” ...

This summer, we’ll gather once again in the garden—beneath the sky, among the trees, with birdsong as our choir and sunlight as our stained glass. There are the obvious reasons, of course. We live in Calgary, where summer feels like a gift we unwrap one warm day at a time. When the snow finally melts and the blossoms unfurl, it seems only right to follow the Spirit outdoors. And sometimes, even the most beautiful sanctuary—ours included—can feel a little heavy, a little too still. A shift in scenery invites a shift in spirit. But more than convenience or aesthetics, there’s a deeper invitation here—one rooted in a theology that sees God not as separate from creation but revealed through it. There’s a concept called  pantheism , the idea that the Divine is not only  in  everything, but  is  everything. That God is not just  found  in nature but  woven into  it—the breath in the wind, the pulse of the earth, the shimmer on the river’s surface. ...

Last Sunday, I preached about the difference between performative faith and real, justice-driven action. I spoke with conviction—boldly, maybe even a little too boldly—about the need for our actions to go beyond words and into the kind of love that changes systems, speaks truth to power, and uplifts the most vulnerable among us. And I still believe that. But this week, something happened that softened the edges of that message. I got a phone call from an old friend. We haven’t talked in a while. He’s been struggling with addiction. After three hard-fought months in a live-in recovery program, he tried to return to his old life—living alone, working alone, isolating himself in hopes that distance would keep him safe. But the relapse came anyway. He didn’t try to hide it. He told me plainly, with a voice full of weariness, that he slipped. That he’s lonely. He feels like he has no community. Part of him believes he doesn’t deserve one. And part of him thinks he doesn’t need one....

I had a bit of a reality check this week. As I watched CityTV cover the United Church of Canada’s 100th anniversary service at Knox United Church, I heard the anchor proudly announce that over 400 people were in attendance. A beautiful celebration, no doubt—but a small number. In Calgary alone, we currently have 13 United Church congregations. Not long ago, we had 16. A decade earlier, over 20. What happened? Even if every one of our 13 Calgary congregations had 100 active members, that’s 1,300 people in a city of 1.4 million—less than 1% of the population. By contrast, I’ve heard stories of Parkdale’s Sunday School in the early 1960s overflowing with 300 children, and sanctuaries filled with 500 adults every week. Of course, Calgary was a much smaller city back then—around 260,000 people—so that still only represented about 3.8% of the population. Even in our so-called glory days, we were never a majority. And maybe that’s okay. Later that same day, Neil and I made our way to the Cava...