trusting that God's love is real and available..

We are now in Montreal's Petite Italie neighborhood with our children and grandchildren. We've loved it for almost 20 years and have often shared it with our loved ones, too. After an earthy and robust lunch at a local brasserie, Vices and Versa on Boul. Saint-Laurent, the wider family went to the Old Port for some wandering while we elders chilled, rested, and regrouped. We've walked almost every section of this splendid city for two decades but sensed we needed a bit of a break this afternoon. It was the right call.

As the afternoon ripened, I read two essays that spoke to my maturing sense of call both as a pastor and an apostle of rock'n'roll. The first by Anglican priest Jon Swales connects a commitment to the way of Jesus with embodied compassion. He writes:

The call of the Kingdom, the summons of every genuine disciple, is not simply to study Jesus through Scripture, but to follow His way with our lives. We are called to incarnate something of His life in our own time and place, allowing the Kingdom to take flesh within our own story. And so, among the dispossessed, the forgotten, and the traumatized, we seek to make visible both the King and His Kingdom. In following Him there, we are ourselves slowly shaped into His image — cruciformly formed by the One whose Kingdom comes not through power over others, but through self-giving love. (Jon Swales, FB, August 13, 2026)

The second by Rowland Smith makes the case that the fundamental reason why more and more North Americans have quit religion is NOT their disdain for Jesus but their lived experience with church. When fidelity and faith have been reduced to merely attending worship instead of incarnating compassion, it's no wonder bored people bolt! Add to this a harsh, cruel, and judgmental mixture of bigotry, fear, shame, jingoism, and anti-science elitism, and church life bears no resemblance to the One sent into the world to make God's love flesh. Smith suggests that it's long past due to ask:

In light of John 20:21 (where Jesus greets his friends in the resurrection, saying: Peace be with you. As the Father has sent me, so I now send you!), isn't it long past due to ask how Jesus was sent by the Father?” If we survey the Gospels and look at the rhythms of Jesus’s sent life and ministry, we see Him walking dusty roads and loving people who had messy lives. The people he spent time with were often criticized by religious leaders (see Matthew 9:11). Jesus’ actions, highlighted by Gospel writers, involved many healings, encounters with the sick and broken, and compassion on those who were considered outcasts by the religious culture of the day. There were times when Christ verbally communicated information about God and His kingdom. But it’s worth noting that, primarily, He displayed the kingdom through actions and encounters with others. By traveling with Jesus, the disciples learned firsthand just how Jesus was sent by the Father. (Missio Alliance, August 3, 2026)

In an era that is hyper-polarized, saturated with fear and hate, overstimulated in every way imaginable, and disgusted with politics of every variety, my experience is that most of us ache to encounter these five realities in discipleship.  

1) A community that insists that God's love is both real and available to us all.

 

2) A worship experience that cherishes tradition as well as innovation in a contemplative mix of song, sound, silence, and solace.

3) A grounded liturgy that is safe, welcoming, engaging, inclusive, accessible while also satisfying us spiritually, emotionally, and intellectually.

4) A cadre of ordinary people who humbly refuse to judge another's journey and boldly seek one another's welfare.

5) A teaching ministry that helps busy and often weary adults practice an inward journey of faith that both empowers their souls and encourages them to let their outward lives bring tenderness and trust to those in need.

Fr. Jon Swales describes this incarnational wildness with bold strokes that resonate with me in his: Gospel of the Wounded Church.

The wild Messiah
is not done walking.
But now
he limps in the Body.
Here is the Church—
the Body of Christ,
broken.
She is the Bride—
covenanted,
called,
blessed to be a blessing,
light of the world,
a city on a hill.
But this Bride
has scars.
Some wounds are holy—
from washing feet,
bearing burdens,
serving the unseen,
kneeling where no king kneels.
But not all wounds are holy.
Some are self-inflicted—
scars from crusades,
stains from scandals,
the sword grasped
when the cross was forgotten.
And sometimes—
these seasons of
faithfulness and failure
happen at the same time.
She breathes in mercy
and inhales empire.
She touches the untouchable
and yet turns away.
A complicated Bride.
A Bride in need of healing.
Yet even now,
this broken Body
is still His Body.
Christ is not ashamed
to wear her wounds.
Even the scandalous scars
are gathered into grace.
For this is the wounded Church
sent into a wounded world—
a world unravelled by greed,
choked by climate breakdown,
teetering on the edge of collapse.
She is cross-cultural,
multi-lingual,
a global mosaic of mercy.
Here is a village chapel—
wooden benches,
a fragile choir
singing with hearts on fire.
Here is a grand cathedral—
stone arches,
candles lit,
ancient prayers
echoing in stained glass light.
Here is a corrugated iron hut—
the Spirit moves
as hands are laid
on the sick and the suffering.
Here is a city storefront—
where addicts and artists
gather to sing psalms
that break in unexpected hallelujahs.
Here is a protest march—
banners raised,
tears in the streets,
as songs of justice
rise into the tear-gas air.
Here is a quiet home—
an elder’s hands
cradling scripture,
as grandchildren
learn the stories
that shape the soul.
One Body,
many wounds.
One Gospel,
many accents.
The Church’s fractures
may yet become
the cracks
through which light gets in.
At her best,
she weeps with those who weep,
names the silenced,
stands interruptible in the crowd,
interrupting the machinery of death.
At her worst,
she forgets the Wild Messiah,
and the blessing becomes a blight.
But still—
the Spirit broods over the waters.
Still—
mercy rises from the margins.
Still—
the Lamb who was slain
leads her home.
Let the Church be like this—
honest about her fractures,
humble in her witness,
wild in her mercy.
Not a museum of saints,
but a field hospital of grace.
Not a fortress of certainty,
but a covenant people,
wounded yet sent.
The Gospel was never clean.
It still smells of sweat and sorrow,
rupture and resurrection.
It will not be televised.
It will be whispered
at the edges.
It will be sung
by the ones who stayed.
Let the Church be like this—
wounded,
wild,
and faithful.
Amen.
And amen again.