January 9, 2026
On New Year’s Eve, I officiated a wedding back in my hometown of Camrose. I lived 56 years in that area, alongside my dad, Oliver, who lived his entire life there. Camrose is more than a place for me – it is layered with people who knew my family along with myself.
As I walked into the rehearsal, I noticed the groom’s grandfather, Harold. He was a man I remembered from childhood, when my dad and Harold would visit. As I approached him, he looked up and said, “Hello, Oliver.” Then he added, “You look just like your dad.” I replied, “Harold, there are no better words you could have said.”
Folks, I love hearing: “You look like your dad. You sound like him. You’re as kind and caring as he was.”
My father and I were farming partners until his sudden and untimely death when I was 35. Our shared work tied us closely together, but our relationship was deeply strained. Oliver was a man shaped by his generation – a time when emotional expression was restrained and outright discouraged in the family. As a result, genuine emotional closeness between us was rare.
And yet, over time, something surprising began to happen. I noticed that those very qualities – the best parts of him – were showing up in me. Not because I worked at them deliberately, but because they were already there. I came to a quiet but powerful realization: if I want to know who my dad truly was in the world, I don’t look backward at my limited experience. I look at how I now show up. The kindness I extend. The compassion I offer. The care I bring into relationships. These are not solely my own creations. They are a living inheritance.
My dad lives on in me – not as the pain of a complicated relationship, but as the expression of his truest self.
So when Harold called me – named me – “Oliver,” it did not feel like a mix-up. It felt like recognition. Like a naming.
Names matter.
The names we’re given. The names we answer to. The names that shape how we see ourselves. So let me ask you: What are the names you carry? Not the one on your ID – but the one that whispers when the room is quiet. The name that rises when you fail. The name that demands perfection or reminds you of pain.
Some names have carried us. Some have wounded us.
That’s why Jesus’ baptism matters so deeply. When Jesus steps into the Jordan, he isn’t being fixed or made worthy. He’s being named. The heavens open, the Spirit descends, and a voice speaks – not with instruction or correction, but with identity: “This is my Son, the Beloved, with whom I am well pleased.”
Before Jesus teaches, heals, or suffers, he is named Beloved.
Baptism, at its heart, is not about earning God’s approval. It’s about remembering who we are. It’s about stepping into the water and hearing a truer name spoken over us – one louder than shame, fear, or failure.
Beloved.
And the question that remains for all of us is this: Which name will we choose to live from?
Names matter; names form our identity; names shape our self-worth.
January 2, 2026
As we step into a new year, our faith tradition invites us to look back before we rush ahead.
On Christmas Eve, we stood with Luke. We listened to angels and shepherds. We heard the story of a young mother and a newborn child laid gently in a manger. Luke gave us a story of tenderness—of God choosing vulnerability, poverty, and quiet trust. God came softly, asking to be held.
Then, last Sunday, Matthew told the truth we might rather avoid. His birth story is full with fear. Dreams warn. Power feels threatened. Families flee. Love does not arrive to applause, but to danger. Matthew reminds us that from the very beginning, God enters a world that resists being changed.
And now this Sunday, at the threshold of a new year, John takes us even deeper. “In the beginning was the Word.” Before the manger. Before the journey into exile. Before the mess and the miracle alike—there was God. The child born in Luke and the refugee of Matthew are not afterthoughts.
This is who God has always been.
Luke shows us how God comes.
Matthew shows us what it costs.
John tells us what it means.
The Word becomes flesh. God moves into the neighbourhood. Light shines in the darkness—and the darkness does not extinguish it.
In a world that often feels dominated by shadow, noise, and uncertainty, it is easy to forget the steady presence of God’s grace – Light.
To trust that this light is already among us is an act of faith. It means releasing the anxious search for a future sign or a miracle, and instead, resting in the blessed assurance that the hope of God’s kingdom is not merely a distant promise, but a current reality woven into the very fabric of our lives and community.
A new year does not erase what came before. It does not magically fix what is broken. But it does remind us where the story is rooted. Not in our strength. Not in our certainty. But in a God who enters fully, stays faithfully, and continues to shine.
My prayer for this year is simple: that we notice the Light—quiet, persistent, real—and trust that it is already among us, with us, and for us.
Blessed New Year!