📖 “Weeping may linger for the night, but joy comes with the morning.” (Psalm 30:5)

Psalm 30 reminds us that gratitude often rises out of places where we’ve known struggle or sorrow. Joy comes as a gift, clothing us in something new. Gratitude, then, is not just a private feeling, it’s a rhythm we can practice, a song we can carry into the world.

This week’s spiritual practice:

• Each morning, pause before you begin your day.
• Name one place in your life where God has brought light out of darkness, or joy after a hard season. Whisper a simple: “Thank you, God.”
• Write it down if you’d like, or carry it in your heart.

Then, as you move through your day, let gratitude spill outward. Offer words of thanks freely:

• Thank the cashier, the bus driver, the friend who checks in.
• Thank a co-worker, a family member, even someone who challenges you.
• Let your gratitude be a gift, reminding others that they too are seen and valued.

By week’s end, notice how gratitude changes not only your heart, but the hearts of those around you.

Psalm 146

Psalm 146 paints such a vivid picture of who God is. It tells us that God “secures justice for the oppressed, gives food to the hungry, sets prisoners free, opens the eyes of the blind, lifts up those who are bowed down.”

It’s not abstract. It’s not theoretical. It’s action.

And that’s the thing, God’s justice isn’t about lofty ideals floating somewhere in the clouds. It’s lived out in the most tangible ways: food shared, freedom restored, dignity lifted, belonging offered.

When we see this, we’re not just spectators admiring God’s work from a distance. The psalmist invites us to step into the picture, to let the rhythms of God’s justice shape the rhythms of our own lives. The psalmist isn’t just saying, “Look at what God does,” but also, “If you love God, let your life echo these actions.”

Justice with God’s hands is compassionate and personal. Justice with our hands can be too.

That might mean:

• speaking up for someone whose voice isn’t being heard,
• noticing the person others overlook,
• offering a meal, a ride, a listening ear,
• or choosing to love someone who has been told they don’t belong.

These acts might seem small, but they are kingdom work. They are the visible signs of God’s heart in our world. So maybe this week, as we hold Psalm 146 close, we can let it shape not only our praise but also our daily choices.

Reflect on the following as you make your way through the week:

• Which of God’s actions in Psalm 146 speaks to you most today?
• Who in your community might be “the stranger,” “the oppressed,” or “the bowed down” God is calling you to notice?
• What is one small, concrete act you can take this week to make God’s justice visible through your life?

Remember, God’s justice is love in action, and we are called to be part of the story.

Let’s pray:
God of compassion and courage, open our eyes to see the ones you see, open our hearts to love as you love, and open our hands to join in your work of justice. Let our lives echo your mercy, until all your children know they are seen, valued, and beloved. Amen.

This week, our worship invites us to sing a song of justice grounded in Psalm 146, a psalm that reminds us where to place our trust:

“Do not put your trust in princes, in mortals, in whom there is no help…The Lord lifts up those who are bowed down; the Lord watches over the stranger.”
(Psalm 146:3, 8–9)

God’s justice is not abstract. It’s active, grounded, and embodied; lifting up the lowly, feeding the hungry, healing the brokenhearted. It shows up in how we treat one another, how we build community, how we notice what’s going on around us.

🚶‍♀️ Practice: See and Speak – A Justice Walk

At some point this week, take a walk. It can be around your block, through your workplace, or along a familiar trail (though not through the woods in light of the threat of forest fires). The place doesn’t matter but your awareness does.

As you walk, open your senses to the world around you. Ask:

• Where do I see signs of compassion, dignity, equity?
• Where do I see places or people being overlooked?
• What is broken, hurting, or in need of healing?

Pause at least once. Whisper a line from Psalm 146:

“The Lord lifts up those who are bowed down. The Lord watches over the stranger.”

Let your walk become a form of prayer.

You don’t need to solve anything, unless you have the means to do so (like picking up stray garbage left behind by others). You don’t need to judge or explain. Just notice. Bless what is good. Name what is broken. And let God speak into both.

🙏 Go Deeper:

After your walk, take a moment to reflect:

• What stayed with you?
• What surprised you?
• Where did you feel the Spirit nudging you?

You might write a line in a journal, offer a prayer, or share a story with someone close.

“As a deer longs for flowing streams, so my soul longs for you, O God.” – Psalm 42:1

Some weeks feel like deserts.

We go through the motions, but joy is dry. Prayer feels like a stretch. Hope is something we know we should feel, but don’t. It’s in these dry places that Psalm 42 meets us.

The writer doesn’t pretend. Rather they speak plainly: “My tears have been my food day and night.” They remember better days: the sound of worship, the feeling of closeness to God. But now, all of that feels far away. And yet, even in the desert, they speak this truth to their own soul: “Hope in God; for I shall again praise him.”

That’s what longing sounds like when it refuses to give up.

To thirst for God is itself a kind of prayer, an ache that pulls us back toward the One who is Living Water. We may not always find God in the ways we used to. But the thirst, the longing, means the connection isn’t lost. It’s just waiting to be found again.

So if you’re in a dry place, you’re not alone. Even the psalmist wandered through that desert. And still, a quiet hope grew.

Reflective questions for this week:

• Where do you feel spiritual thirst right now? What’s missing or dry in your inner life?
• What “streams” have sustained you in the past? Worship? Community? Time in nature?

This week, return to one of those “watering places,” even briefly. Go for a walk. Light a candle. Whisper a breath prayer: “My soul thirsts for you, O God.”

When words fail, and prayer seems difficult, here are some words to carry with you:

O God, when I feel dry, be my stream. When I feel far, draw me close. I thirst for you. Amen.

Psalm 100

Psalm 100 calls us to “Enter his gates with thanksgiving, and his courts with praise.” It’s an invitation to bring praise into every part of life, not just in church pews or moments set aside for prayer, but in the thick of our daily living.

Everyday praise is about paying attention. It’s about leaning into the gift of being alive, noticing what we so easily overlook. The warmth of coffee in your hands. A friend’s unexpected message. The laughter at the dinner table. The steady rhythm of your own breath.

When we live with praise, we live awake. We refuse to let the ordinary become invisible. We remember that every heartbeat is a borrowed gift, every relationship a chance to love well, every corner of our day a place where gratitude can grow roots.

To praise God in everyday moments is to say: I will not take this life for granted. I will not sleepwalk through what should make me sing.

Maybe praise this week is offering a genuine thank you to someone who usually goes unnoticed. Maybe it’s taking five quiet minutes to watch the clouds. Maybe it’s blessing your meal with more than habit, really tasting it, naming the goodness of it.

Maybe it’s telling someone, “I’m grateful for you.”

A few questions to hold this week:

• Where are you being invited to notice life’s small gifts?
• What ordinary moment can you turn into praise?
• How can your praise overflow into kindness and care for someone else?

May your gates swing wide this week, may your everyday courts be full of thanksgiving, and may you feel the steady goodness of the One whose love endures forever.

Let’s pray:

Holy and loving God, open our eyes to the wonder tucked inside our ordinary days. Teach us to greet each moment with a thankful heart, to find Your goodness in small things, to delight in the people we share this life with, to turn each breath into a quiet hallelujah. May our lives be songs of praise that echo far beyond these words: in how we love, how we listen, how we care. Guide us to live wide awake, never taking for granted the gift of life You’ve given. In Jesus’ name, we pray. AMEN

*** Please Note ***: There will be no Mid-week Moment for July 23rd or July 30th while Rev. Richard is away on leave.

On Sunday, Jeanie Whitehead, our chair of the Worship Committee, surprised me (Rev. Richard Bowley) with her thanks for my leadership in the planning for the Joint Centennial Celebration held at FHS on June 8th. She also offered her appreciation for the message I delivered that day, which had to be written last minute due to our guest speaker being ill.

I felt so blessed by that appreciation, and for the appreciation that many in the congregation showed me that day, and in the months and – almost – years of ministry at Nashwaaksis United Church (August 1 is the 2 year anniversary).

Unfortunately, we were not able to record the Centennial Service due to technical difficulties, but I thought that it would be good to share the text of the message that I offered on that day for anyone who didn’t get a chance to hear it. The title, though it was not in any of the material, was 100 Years – A Great Start

***Small Disclaimer*** Sometimes the words on the page aren’t always the words that come out. Sometimes in the moment I feel called by the Spirit to add words, skip others, or go in a different direction entirely. However, for this message I did stick pretty close, as far as I can remember. Also the way I structure my sermons may seem strange, but it works for me

You can read the message below, or download a pdf here.

Thank you again, for this call and ministry that we share!

100 Years – A Great Start

Holy and loving God, We gather today with full hearts, grateful for the faith that brought us here, grateful for the hands that built and shaped this United Church of Ours, grateful for the stories, the songs, and the saints. As we mark a hundred years of witness and wonder, we pause. Root us again in your love, and ready us for the journey ahead. By your Spirit, breathe fresh vision, and lead us into the wide horizon of your grace. In Jesus’ name we pray, Amen.

It’s a strange thing, standing at the 100-year mark.
-There’s something deeply human about looking back, remembering where we’ve been, the people who came before us, the moments that mattered. 
-And for many of us, when we think about the church, our minds go back to what some might call the “glory days.”

You know the ones.
-The pews were full. The choir had a waiting list. Sunday School classrooms overflowed. The building rang with laughter and life and the sound of dishes clinking in the kitchen.
-And when we remember those days, something in us aches, not just with gratitude for those who brought us this far, but with a longing.
-Longing for what we’ve lost. Longing for the days when church felt central, to our lives, to our communities, to the world.
-And that longing is real. It deserves to be honoured. Because the truth is those days were beautiful. 
-The love poured into our churches – the commitment, the service, the sacrifice – it mattered. It still matters. It’s part of the foundation we stand on today.
-but that same longing is also a sign that the Spirit is still stirring in us, nudging us on to what might be.

Because the Holy Spirit is not a museum curator.
-The Spirit is not content to linger behind us, holding tight to the memories of what once was. The Spirit does not live in the comfort of yesterday’s victories. 
-The Spirit is not frozen in time with the best hymns and the best attendance record.

No, the Spirit is out ahead of us.
-Moving. Stirring. Dreaming things we haven’t yet dared to imagine. And as much as we honour the past, as much as we celebrate the century behind us – , and that is part of what we are doing here today – we are not called to live backward.
-We are called to live forward. And the good news is the same Spirit who stirred in the hearts of those early visionaries in 1925, they’re still stirring now.

So if we’re not called to live backward — then what are we called to carry forward?
-What endures, even as buildings change, even as programs shift, even as the world seems to move faster and faster around us?
-Paul puts it simply in his letter to the Ephesians: “I have heard of your faith in the Lord Jesus, and your love for all the saints… and I do not cease to give thanks for you.”

Faith and love.
-That’s what lasts. And if there’s one thing the United Church of Canada has tried – however imperfectly – to live out over these past 100 years, it’s that.
-Not just faith as belief, but faith as trust, trust in a God who is still speaking, still welcoming, still reforming the church.
-and not just love as sentiment, but love as action, love that shows up, stands up, and speaks up for those pushed to the margins.

Think of what that faith and love have made possible for us over the last century.
-It took faith to dream of a union in 1925, a bold, Spirit-led act of ecumenical hope.
-It took love to speak hard truths, to apologize to Indigenous communities and begin the long journey of reconciliation.
-It took faith to ordain women when it wasn’t popular.
-It took love to affirm our LGBTQ+ siblings when the world said “no” but the gospel said “yes.”
-If faith and love could do that in 1925, in 1936, in 1988 – what might they do in this generation? What doors is the Spirit opening now that we’ve barely dared to knock on?

Because faith and love is the heart of this church.
-Not perfection. Not certainty. But a deep, stubborn trust in God’s grace, and a love wide enough to hold difference, doubt, and hope all at once.

That’s something worth carrying into the next century.
-And Paul doesn’t just name those as characteristics. He goes deeper. He prays that we might be rooted and grounded in love.
-And being rooted is about where we draw our strength. It’s about what holds us fast when the winds change and they’ve changed a lot over the years.

Over a hundred years, we’ve seen cultural shifts, declining attendance, rising anxieties about the future of organized religion.
-We’ve seen hard decisions, shrinking budgets, amalgamations, and closures. But through it all, the roots have held. Because those roots go deeper than any single generation.
-They go deeper than any single building or program or trend. They reach all the way down and back to the love of Christ, a love that does not fail, even when everything else feels fragile.

But roots aren’t there just to keep us in place. Roots feed growth.
-To be rooted in love doesn’t mean staying the same, it means having the nourishment we need to stretch, to reach, to risk.
-It means being secure enough in who we are to evolve. Brave enough to be transformed. Bold enough to dream of what might yet be in the shadow of uncertainty.
-That’s what has kept the United Church moving forward, not a desire to keep up with the times, but a desire to keep growing in love.
-And that’s still our calling. Not just to protect what was, but to live more fully into what could be. To open wider. To go deeper. To reach beyond.

And if love is what roots us, then our faith and the Spirit are what helps us to grow.
-in his letter Paul prays that “the eyes of your heart may be enlightened,” that we might know the hope to which we are called, and trust in the power already at work within us, “the power that can do immeasurably more than all we can ask or imagine” with the support and guidance of the Spirit

That’s not just a poetic flourish. That’s a vision.
-And it’s one we need, especially now, as we stand at the edge of a new century in the life of this church.
-Because, let’s be honest, it’s easy to feel uncertain about the road ahead.
-We’re not the cultural center we once were. We don’t have the same numbers, the same programs, the same predictability.
-We worry about sustainability. About relevance. About whether there’s a place for the church in tomorrow’s world.
-yes, the road ahead is uncertain. But uncertainty is just space for God to surprise us.

And Paul’s words continue to call us back to hope.
-They remind us that the Spirit is not finished with us yet, that God is not done with us yet. That the story of the United Church of Canada isn’t just a chapter in the past, it’s a living, breathing witness that is still unfolding.

Because the Holy Spirit doesn’t cling to what was.
-They move toward what will be. The Holy Spirit is always out ahead of us, calling us into new forms of community, new partnerships, new expressions of worship and witness.

And our job? Our job is to catch the wind.
-To raise our sails. To let go of what holds us back. To trust that when Paul says “immeasurably more” it’s not just a hope, it’s a promise.

One hundred years. It’s no small thing.
-It’s a century of prayers whispered and shouted. A century of babies baptized, of bread broken, of hands held in hospital rooms. A century of music, mission, justice, coffee, casseroles, hard questions, holy moments.
-It’s worth celebrating. It’s worth giving thanks. It’s worth pausing, just for a moment, to marvel at the ways that the Holy Spirit has worked through us over the years.

But the best way we honour the past is by living into the future.
-By being a people still rooted in love, still shaped by faith, still willing to risk everything on the wide and wild grace of God.

So let’s not shrink from what’s ahead.
-Let’s not bury the gospel in caution and committee. Let’s ask. Let’s imagine. Let’s believe that God is still at work in us, through us, among us, doing more than we can yet see.

And let’s carry this words of Paul into the next century as we continue to be guided and inspire by that Spirit:
-“That Christ may dwell in our hearts through faith…That we, being rooted and grounded in love, may have power…To grasp how wide and long and high and deep is the love of Christ…And to know this love that surpasses knowledge…That we may be filled with all the fullness of God.”

One hundred years. It is no small thing. But it’s a great start. Let’s pray:

God of all generations, you have been our help in ages past, and you are our hope for years to come. We thank you for all that has brought us to this moment: for faith passed down, for love lived out, for courage shown, even in uncertain times. Now, O God, send us forward with hearts wide open. Plant us deeper in your love. Grow in us a holy imagination for what your church can be. Keep us faithful. Keep us brave. Keep us rooted and keep us reaching. We offer this and all our prayers in the strong name of Jesus Christ, our brother and our guide. AMEN

Psalm 13

How long, O Lord?
How long will you hide your face from me?
How long must I wrestle with my thoughts and have sorrow in my heart all day long?

Psalm 13 doesn’t begin with praise. It begins with protest. With a voice that dares to say out loud what so many of us keep hidden: How long? Where are you? Why does it feel like you’re silent when I need you most?

These words are not polite. They are not tidy. They don’t fit neatly into a greeting card or a Sunday smile. But they are holy. Because they are honest.

Have you ever felt like the silence of God was louder than any answer? Have you ever whispered in the dark, How long? Have you ever looked around and wondered if your prayers have simply slipped through the cracks?

Sometimes we want faith to be neat and resolved, to wrap every struggle in a bow and call it a blessing. But the Psalms remind us that real faith makes room for honest lament.

• What grief or ache are you carrying today that doesn’t have an easy fix?
• Where in your life do you feel stuck in the question, waiting for a sign that hasn’t come yet?

Even as we struggle with questions like these, the Psalmist reminds us that we don’t need to rush past the pain. There is no false optimism here, no quick solution. There is just a heart, cracked open, daring to speak. And somehow, that honesty is the prayer. It is sacred.

Often we think we need to find the right words to make God listen, but maybe it’s our rawest most honest words that God loves most. Maybe lament is an act of trust in itself, “I trust you enough to bring you my mess.”

Yet this Psalm doesn’t stay only in the shadows. At the end there is a turn that is small, but brave: “But I trusted in your steadfast love; my heart shall rejoice… I will sing to the Lord, because he has dealt bountifully with me.”

The questions are not answered. The sorrow is not gone. But faith remains, not instead of lament, but alongside a lament unresolved.

• What would it look like to hold both sorrow and trust in the same hand?
• What small, quiet hope do you dare to speak, even while the questions remain?

Psalm 13 invites us to pray honestly, to sing even when we don’t feel like singing, to remember that our “How long?” is a sacred song too.

As you reflect on how lament plays into your conversations with God, take these questions with you into the week.

• Where in your life are you waiting for God to show up?
• What truth might you speak aloud this week, even if it’s messy?
• How could you choose trust, not because you have an answer, but because you know you are heard?

Lets pray:

Holy Listener, You hear what we dare not say. You hold our anger, our questions, our tears. You do not turn away from our lament. You sit with us in the unresolved places. Teach us to trust that we are seen, even in silence. Give us courage to speak our “How long?” And help us find a song to sing, even while we wait. AMEN

Psalm 23

We like to be in control.

Even when we say we’re willing to let go and trust, many of us still keep a hand on the wheel, just in case. But the life of faith calls us into a different rhythm. One where we don’t always need to have the map, because we trust the One who is guiding us. Psalm 23 invites us into that different way of being. It doesn’t offer a checklist or a strategy. It offers an image: a shepherd leading, a sheep following.

“The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want.”

Not I will get everything I desire, but I will have enough.
Not I am strong enough to manage on my own, but I am held by One who knows the way.

It’s not easy. Trust rarely is. Especially when we don’t know what’s coming next. But what if trust isn’t about knowing where we’re going? What if it’s about knowing who is with us along the way?

So let me ask you:

• What are you holding onto that makes it hard to let go?
• Where in your life are you being invited to loosen your grip and follow?

There are seasons where we’re drawn toward stillness, where the soul longs to slow down, to breathe again. Sometimes it takes being brought to a full stop before we can receive what we need.

We often resist that kind of rest. We convince ourselves we have to earn it, or that things will fall apart without us. But trust means believing that the world won’t end if we take a deep breath.

But that kind of rest isn’t always easy. Even when we’re weary, there’s a temptation to push through, to earn rest, to prove ourselves, to stay useful. The Shepherd, though, invites us to lie down not because we’ve earned it, but because we need it.

• When have you resisted rest even when you knew you needed it?
• What might your soul be asking for right now?

And then there are the valleys.

Those moments when things feel uncertain or heavy. We don’t choose those places. But we do get to choose how we move through them, and whether we walk them alone.

Sometimes trust is as simple, and as profound, as taking the next step. Not because the road is easy, but because we are not walking it alone.

• What valleys have you come through that changed you?
• Where have you sensed presence, peace, or strength that wasn’t your own?

Sometimes, when we look back, we begin to notice something we couldn’t see at the time: The unexpected grace. The quiet companionship. The moments of provision that helped carry us through.

That’s the thing about trust. It doesn’t always come at the start of the journey. Sometimes, it’s what we grow into as we go.

Questions to Take With You:

• What would it look like to live today as if you truly trusted in God’s presence?
• Where might you be invited to let go of control and follow with more courage?
• What helps you pause and receive the care you need?
• When you look back, where have you noticed grace catching up to you?

Let’s pray:

Loving Presence, when the path ahead feels uncertain, remind us that we are not walking alone. Help us to release what we cannot control and find peace in being led. In the still moments, restore our weary hearts. In the shadowed places, steady our steps. And when we look back, may we see the grace that followed us all along. Amen.

Psalm 87

I once sat in a church where, during the announcements, the minister paused and said, “If no one has told you this week that you belong—let me be the first.”

It was such a simple phrase, but it caught me off guard. Something in me needed to hear it.

Psalm 87 paints a picture of a place where that kind of belonging is declared over people from all sorts of places, some of whom you’d least expect. Rahab, Babylon, Philistia, these weren’t friendly neighbours. And yet, the psalm says that God embraces them all as children with 5 simple words: “This one was born here.”

Not “this one was allowed to visit,” or “this one made the cut,” but born here. It’s a powerful image, like a passport stamped with grace.

There’s something beautiful in imagining God scribbling names into the book of belonging – names others might have crossed out.

It makes me wonder:

• Have I ever written someone off too quickly?
• Have I ever assumed someone didn’t quite “belong” in the circle of faith or community?
• And on the flip side, when have I been surprised by someone else’s welcome?

Psalm 87 doesn’t give us instructions or rules. It just offers this bold vision: that God is gathering people from everywhere. That our assumptions about who belongs and who doesn’t might need to stretch a little.

Maybe today is a good day to notice the walls we’ve built – or the ones we’ve walked into. And maybe it’s a good day to remember that God’s city has wide gates.

Let’s pray:

God of wide gates and open arms, thank you for the grace that welcomes us in, even when we feel on the outside. Help us to see others through your eyes – as beloved, as belonging, as born into your heart. Stretch our vision, widen our welcome, and make us builders of your city of love. AMEN

Psalm 8

There are moments – often unexpected – when something stops us in our tracks.

A pink-streaked sunrise peeking through the blinds. The echo of a loon call across still water. The quiet hush that falls over a starlit night. And in those moments, without even trying, we breathe differently.

• When was the last time something in nature made you pause – really pause?

Psalm 8 begins and ends with praise: “O Lord, our Sovereign, how majestic is your name in all the earth!” And tucked in between the praise is a deep sense of awe. The psalmist looks up at the moon and stars and asks, “What are human beings that you are mindful of them?”

It’s the kind of question that doesn’t need an answer, just space to settle in the soul.

• How does it feel to be reminded that God is mindful of you?

There’s a sacredness in allowing ourselves to be small – not insignificant, but small in the way that a child is small in the arms of someone they trust. When we stop long enough to pay attention to the beauty around us, we’re reminded that we are part of something vast, intricate, and pulsing with the presence of God.

• What happens in you when you allow yourself to feel small, without fear, without pressure?

But wonder takes time. It rarely arrives in a rush. It asks us to slow down. To notice. To listen.

So here’s an invitation this week: Take five minutes – just five – and step outside. Look up. Look around. Let yourself be amazed.

• What might God be saying to you, not in words, but through the beauty of the world around you?

You don’t have to solve anything. You don’t have to accomplish anything. Just stand in it. Let wonder hold you.

🌱 A Few Questions to Carry With You

• Where is awe waiting for me in the ordinary?
• How can I become more present to the sacredness of creation?
• What practices help me stay open to wonder, rather than rush past it?

Let’s pray:

A Prayer of Wonder

God of starlit skies and whispered winds,
You speak through the beauty of the world around us:
in moonlight, in birdsong,
in the stillness of a moment we didn’t know we needed.

Slow our steps this week.
Open our eyes to the sacred in the ordinary.
Help us to stand in awe,
to breathe deeply,
and to remember that we are held,
not because we are mighty,
but because You are mindful.

With wonder and gratitude,
Amen.