Rhonda Waters


Summer goodbyes

Christ Church Cathedral in Montreal is located a few blocks down the hill from McGill University. As a result, our pews always hold a scattering of students and, as the cathedral’s ministry to students and young adults falls under my portfolio, it’s my job to get to know them. I have a really great job.

Making it explicit

Part of my explanation for why I became a priest is that God knew I would be a lousy Christian otherwise.

Why can’t God do anything for himself?’

The question came from my small son in response to the story of Moses’ commission to free the Israelites from slavery in Egypt. “Why does he always get other people to do stuff?”

The continuing story

Alleluia! Christ is Risen!

And that changes everything-backwards and forwards.

Our story-the world’s story-is rewritten in this moment. Everything that came before means something a little different now-everything needs to be re-remembered in light of this new fact.

God and the 6 o’clock news

The church where I served as student minister has a number of very large stained glass windows: Christ with the children, the women at the empty tomb, and a rather lurid depiction of Christ on the cross, featuring a great deal of purple and agony.

Sacred experimentation

Twelve years ago, I conducted an experiment to find out if I was called to a life of ordained ministry in the church. The context of the experiment was the first Montreal Ministry Internship (or Challenge as it was called then), an intensive summer discernment program for young adults that was run by the Montreal Diocesan Theological College.

The unfinished story

“The beginning of the good news of Jesus Christ, the Son of God.”

So opens Mark’s account of the life, death, and resurrection of Jesus, presented to us as a sentence in verse 1.

An activist church

In the wake of the Michael Brown and Eric Gardner killings, my Facebook newsfeed has been filled with pictures and articles and thoughts from friends in the Episcopal Church of the United States.

A more complete joy

I hate winter. I hate the cold and the grey and the snow. I hate having to wear boots and mitts and hats. I hate the way my glasses fog up and my shoulders ache from hunching against the wind. I hate that it takes longer to get anywhere on slippery sidewalks and crowded buses. As autumn draws to a close, the dread builds and builds until the first snowfall when I can finally slide into bitter resignation.

A big red door isn’t enough

One Sunday morning, I stopped in at the Starbucks directly across the street from the Cathedral. The barista asked about my clerical collar. When I told him I worked at the (large neo-gothic) church visible from his workstation, he commented on how nice it was to see it open and lamented that it was usually closed.

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