Sunday, June 27, 2021

Fifth Sunday after Pentecost

 Mark 5

21 When Jesus had again crossed over by boat to the other side of the lake, a large crowd gathered around him while he was by the lake. 22 Then one of the synagogue leaders, named Jairus, came, and when he saw Jesus, he fell at his feet. 23 He pleaded earnestly with him, “My little daughter is dying. Please come and put your hands on her so that she will be healed and live.” 24 So Jesus went with him.

A large crowd followed and pressed around him. 25 And a woman was there who had been subject to bleeding for twelve years. 26 She had suffered a great deal under the care of many doctors and had spent all she had, yet instead of getting better she grew worse. 27 When she heard about Jesus, she came up behind him in the crowd and touched his cloak, 28 because she thought, “If I just touch his clothes, I will be healed.” 29 Immediately her bleeding stopped and she felt in her body that she was freed from her suffering.

30 At once Jesus realized that power had gone out from him. He turned around in the crowd and asked, “Who touched my clothes?”

31 “You see the people crowding against you,” his disciples answered, “and yet you can ask, ‘Who touched me?’ ”

32 But Jesus kept looking around to see who had done it. 33 Then the woman, knowing what had happened to her, came and fell at his feet and, trembling with fear, told him the whole truth. 34 He said to her, “Daughter, your faith has healed you. Go in peace and be freed from your suffering.”

35 While Jesus was still speaking, some people came from the house of Jairus, the synagogue leader. “Your daughter is dead,” they said. “Why bother the teacher anymore?”

36 Overhearing what they said, Jesus told him, “Don’t be afraid; just believe.”

37 He did not let anyone follow him except Peter, James and John the brother of James. 38 When they came to the home of the synagogue leader, Jesus saw a commotion, with people crying and wailing loudly. 39 He went in and said to them, “Why all this commotion and wailing? The child is not dead but asleep.” 40 But they laughed at him.

After he put them all out, he took the child’s father and mother and the disciples who were with him, and went in where the child was. 41 He took her by the hand and said to her, “Talitha koum!” (which means “Little girl, I say to you, get up!”). 42 Immediately the girl stood up and began to walk around (she was twelve years old). At this they were completely astonished. 43 He gave strict orders not to let anyone know about this, and told them to give her something to eat.

My wee laddie turned 30 this week, and suddenly I’m out of touch.

Not so much with the usual music, clothing, slang, social media platform, or recreational choices, but children’s books— something I haven’t thought about for many years. I had an inkling, and my inkling relates to the lesson of the day, so I decided to check out bestselling books for preschoolers.

Sure enough, there are many best-selling books about bodies, learning about your body, and self-esteem related to what you find. And they seem to follow a few broad themes, the first being a general kind of body positivity: Bodies Are Cool (Tyler Feder); Me and My Amazing Body (Joan Sweeney); and 

I Love Being Me! (Mechal Renee Roe).

And then there is the inevitable and wildly popular book Everyone Poops (Taro Gomi), and what seems like an unintentional sequel, We Poop on the Potty (Jim Harbison). Some things need to be said.

I’m particularly partial to the rhyming titles, such as Oliver West! It’s Time to Get Dressed! (Kelly Louise); Whose Toes Are Those? (Jabari Asim), and (of course) Whose Knees are These? (Jabari Asim). And this then leads us to books for kids who are self-conscious, such as Big Hair, Don’t Care (Crystal Swain-Bates) or a new personal favourite: Your Nose! A Wild Little Love Story (Sandra Boynton).

The link to our passage is bodies, physicality, and the extent to which we can imagine the scene. I’m going to reread a summary version, with a focus on the physical. (Remember this is a story within a story, so we begin and end with the healing of Jairus’ daughter)

Jairus fell at Jesus’ feet.

He pleaded, “Please come and put your hands on her so that she will be healed.”

A large crowd followed and pressed around him. 

A woman was there who had been subject to bleeding for twelve years. 

She came up behind him in the crowd and touched his cloak.

She thought, “If I just touch his clothes, I will be healed.”

Immediately her bleeding stopped and she felt in her body that she was freed from her suffering.

At once Jesus realized that power had gone out from him. 

“Who touched my clothes?” he asked.

“You see the people crowding against you,” his disciples answered, “and yet you can ask, ‘Who touched me?’”

The woman, knowing what had happened to her, came and fell at his feet.

Jesus then went in where the child was. 

He took her by the hand and said to her, “Talitha koum!” (which means “Little girl, I say to you, get up!”). Immediately the girl stood up and began to walk around (she was twelve years old). 

He gave strict orders not to let anyone know about this, and told them to give her something to eat.

A few things to note here: first, there is an obvious connection between healing and touch. The dialogue between “If I could only touch him” and “Who touched me?” tells us all we need to know about the immediacy of touch and the need to be present, both to touch and to be touched. In almost every healing, there is an element of the physical.

And this also tells us all we need to know about this incarnational God we worship. We follow the Way: an intentional decision to walk the way we walk, to enter the pain and suffering of life, and to visit God’s healing on the people he met. I’m going to assume all the people he met. This is the moment we remember John’s coda, the last words of his Gospel: “Jesus did many other things as well. If every one of them were written down, I suppose that even the whole world would not have room for the books that would be written.”

Imagine the power of God emanating for everyone he met—a gentle touch, a kind word, a gentle challenge—and forgiveness for all that is past. We tend to see these a series of “healing episodes,” passages that we preach (or avoid) as individual units of healing. My sense, based on this passage and others, is that Jesus healed everyone he met: whether they knew it or not, whether they wanted it or not. Meeting Jesus meant transformation, and meeting Jesus means transformation, because the power of God is infinite.

And that brings me to another point, one born of the remarkable line: “At once Jesus realized that power had gone out from him.” Remember this is Mark’s Gospel. Generally it’s John’s Gospel that gives us the self-aware Jesus, the Jesus that knows (and tells people) that he is the way, the truth and the life. Mark’s Jesus is the “tell no one” Jesus, which is the way our reading ends today. Yet he knows that power has left him, and Mark knows too. Jesus doesn’t heal by accident, it’s always his intention to heal.

And then the remarkable end to our passage, when we finally meet Jairus’ daughter after what seems a false start. Even in their grief, the people around the girl think it’s absurd that she is merely sleeping. In a time well acquainted with death, they know she is gone, and they think they know the limit of God’s power. “You are dust,” God said, “and to the dust you shall return.” Yet even this bit of divine legislation does not bind the Son of the Most High, who understands the mysteries of death and can raise the dead. This, and the raising of Lazarus, remain the most confounding of Jesus’ miracles, but we are invited to open ourselves to this mystery nonetheless.

The past few weeks, and the discovery of countless graves around residential schools, reminds us of the power of the physical. The Truth and Reconciliation Commission’s final report dedicated a chapter to missing children and unmarked burials, but the physical discovery of graves, and the innocents within, has moved us more than many expected. And so we heed the moderator’s words, who in a letter to clergy this week offered these reflections:

This is a time for The United Church of Canada to listen rather than prescribe. The pain in Indigenous communities and churches is immense. I ask you to continue to hold Indigenous members of the United Church and their families and communities in prayer and ask members of your community of faith to do the same.

Again, back to the physical. We use our ears rather than our tongues, and listen to the pain that is shared, the anguish and the anger. I expect it will be a long summer of listening, and reflecting on the past. And prayer is an excellent place to start, knowing that we will be called upon to act, and will need God’s help when that moment comes.

God’s desire to heal is infinite, and God’s desire to walk with those in pain is never-ending. God entered our world precisely to heal everyone who God met through Jesus. This tells us all we need to know about the heavenly healing mandate. As God’s agents, or ambassadors, we share the same mandate, and strive (first of all) to do no harm, and then share the same gentle touch, and kind word, and wish for healing that we know. May God give us the strength we need, now and always, Amen.

Sunday, June 20, 2021

Fourth Sunday after Pentecost

Mark 4

35 That day when evening came, he said to his disciples, “Let us go over to the other side.” 36 Leaving the crowd behind, they took him along, just as he was, in the boat. There were also other boats with him. 37 A furious squall came up, and the waves broke over the boat, so that it was nearly swamped. 38 Jesus was in the stern, sleeping on a cushion. The disciples woke him and said to him, “Teacher, don’t you care if we drown?”

39 He got up, rebuked the wind and said to the waves, “Quiet! Be still!” Then the wind died down and it was completely calm.

40 He said to his disciples, “Why are you so afraid? Do you still have no faith?”

41 They were terrified and asked each other, “Who is this? Even the wind and the waves obey him!”

Ten knots of steady breeze, no waves, slightly overcast (less likely to burn), a willing crew, skipper in a good mood, and worthy adversaries on the racecourse. Is that too much to ask?

Sadly, we rarely get the race we want. We sail on what is affectionately known as “Slumber Bay,” notorious for evenings without wind. And when you do get the wind you want, it can disappear in the face of something called the summer inversion, somehow related to a city filled with hot air.

And then there is the wave action, amplified by travelling across the lake, and prone to strange behavior as it approaches the shore. It tends to reflect off the lee shore, meaning your trip in and out of the basin can induce something the French like to call the “mal de mare.”

At least Humber Bay doesn’t have sharks. I recently learned that I will soon live 25 minutes from the shark bite capital of the world, a rather sobering thought. Add pythons and alligators, and I suppose you’ll find me indoors. Also, Humber Bay has no whales, which I truly appreciate after reading last week’s updated Jonah story.

A lobster diver was working off the coast of Cape Cod when he felt a large bump. Everything went dark, and he assumed he was losing consciousness after a shark bite. Not so! He was, in fact, in the mouth of a humpback whale. What followed was likely the longest and most terrifying 30 seconds of his life, until the whale thought better of the snack, surfaced, and spit him out. Clearly, we need to reconsider how we view some Bible stories.

And this got me thinking. Every year we hear about a certain storm on the Sea of Galilee, usually in summer, and we look at it as a stand-alone miracle story. We talk about faith and trust, and Jesus’ unusual relationship with the natural world—as a stand-alone miracle story. But what about other stories—storm stories—found in the pages of scripture? What can we learn when we take these stories together? I’m thinking of two others, beginning with a certain prophet fleeing to Tarshish (not Cape Cod) and then our old friend St. Paul, who also had an adventure on the sea.

The thing about Jonah is we tend to get so caught up in the digestive part of the story we neglect what came before. And since I’m a huge fan of how the story of Jonah is told, I’m going to share the good bits in the middle:

4 Then the Lord sent a great wind on the sea, and such a violent storm arose that the ship threatened to break up. 5 All the sailors were afraid and each cried out to his own god. And they threw the cargo into the sea to lighten the ship.

But Jonah had gone below deck, where he lay down and fell into a deep sleep. 6 The captain went to him and said, “How can you sleep? Get up and call on your god! Maybe he will take notice of us so that we will not perish.”

Notice the sudden nature of the storm, just like the Sea of Galilee, and the fact that our protagonist finds the whole thing rather soothing. But the sailors see the peril here, just like the disciples, and begin to make a plan. First they wake up Jonah and suggest his God lend a hand. Then they cast lots to discover who is responsible—not in a malicious way—but to understand the nature of the threat. When they discover it’s Jonah, they pepper him with questions, and soon understand the problem.

We tend to forget that it’s Jonah who suggests he be thrown overboard, something the sailors refuse to do. First, it would be rude, and second it’s bad luck to throw someone overboard, and finally, racers can be disqualified if they do it. Odd that they need a specific rule for that.

So hold that story in your mind while we look at a third “storm at sea” passage, this one from Paul’s journey to Rome found in Acts 27. Paul has been arrested, and claimed his right—as a Roman citizen—to appeal the charge before Caesar. Naturally, he would go by sea, except that winter had begun. Yet Paul was determined to get to Rome.

Again, I’m going to share a short passage, mostly because it proves to me that the author (Luke) was both a physician and a sailor:

13 When a gentle south wind began to blow, they saw their opportunity; so they weighed anchor and sailed along the shore of Crete. 14 Before very long, a wind of hurricane force, called the Northeaster, swept down from the island. 15 The ship was caught by the storm and could not head into the wind; so we gave way to it and were driven along. 16 As we passed to the lee of a small island called Cauda, we were hardly able to make the lifeboat secure, 17 so the men hoisted it aboard.

His reference to a specific point of sail (“head into the wind”) and the leeward passage near Cauda tells me all I need to know about Luke the sailor.

So the journey continues with Paul having second thoughts—not about going to Rome—but about putting the crew at risk for the sake of this passage. I encourage you to read all of Acts 27—a true adventure story. It ends with an intentional shipwreck, at Paul’s suggestion, to ensure all their lives be saved.

So three storms for three very different reasons. The first is an effort to stop Jonah, the second is an effort to stop the unbelief of the twelve, and the third is just a storm—a Nor’easter, to be precise. In the first, God makes the storm, in the second God (in Jesus) unmakes the storm, and in the third, the storm is just a storm. Or is it?

Maybe the storm is a test of character, for Paul, and for the crew of this vessel. Again, it’s a longer story, but the sailors show strength of character but not casting Paul adrift, by trusting his assurances about God’s protection, and by trusting his suggestion for a controlled shipwreck. They passed the test.

Likewise, the story of Jesus and the twelve is a test of character, but not the one that’s obvious. If the test is having faith in the face of the storm, we see the outcome. But if the test is showing awe in the face deliverance, then they mostly pass. “Who is this,” they ask, “that even the wind and the waves obey him?” Even asking the question takes them a step closer to accepting that this is God’s doing—God’s endless desire to save.

And finally back to poor Jonah, the reluctant prophet, and the ultimate inside man. He also seems to fail the test of character, running in the exact opposite direction from this appointed destination, but he still goes to Nineveh. Humbled, smelly, even forsaken by the hungry monster, but he still goes to Nineveh. He might be the ultimate victim of the mal de mare (for the whale), but he still goes to Nineveh.

And this is all God asks of us. If your life is a shipwreck, try to save others on the way. If the storms of life have you in a panic, accept that Jesus is in the same boat. And if you’re swallowed up by all that life sends you, and feeling trapped inside, trust that you too will land in a better place, with God to guide you.

Sunday, June 13, 2021

Third Sunday after Pentecost

Mark 4

26 He also said, “This is what the kingdom of God is like. A man scatters seed on the ground. 27 Night and day, whether he sleeps or gets up, the seed sprouts and grows, though he does not know how. 28 All by itself the soil produces grain—first the stalk, then the head, then the full kernel in the head. 29 As soon as the grain is ripe, he puts the sickle to it, because the harvest has come.”

30 Again he said, “What shall we say the kingdom of God is like, or what parable shall we use to describe it? 31 It is like a mustard seed, which is the smallest of all seeds on earth. 32 Yet when planted, it grows and becomes the largest of all garden plants, with such big branches that the birds can perch in its shade.”

33 With many similar parables Jesus spoke the word to them, as much as they could understand. 34 He did not say anything to them without using a parable. But when he was alone with his own disciples, he explained everything.

Weston has a secret portal that gets you under the 401.

Weston has a secret Victorian village hidden amid the highrises.

Weston has a somewhat secret shrine to Mary, right up there with Lourdes and Guadalupe.

Weston has a secret history on the west bank of the Humber, until the river had other ideas back in 1850.

Weston is mystified by the secret of all those bank departures, though greed might be the answer.

And finally, number nine on Now Magazines “Hidden Toronto” list of the city’s best-kept secrets is…Weston.

I’m sure I’ve only scratched the surface here. And I didn’t even start on the secrets of Mount Dennis or the secret part of Pelmo Park north of the 401.

Leaving that for another day, we are surrounded by things unknown and things unexplained. There is a popular online forum called whatisthisthing, where people will post a picture of something mysterious looking, and enlist others to help them figure it out. It’s the ultimate crowdsourcing, where the secret of an unfamiliar item is revealed by someone who immediately knows what it is.

Related to this is an entire genre of “reality television” with titles like How It’s Made, How Do They Do That? and What on Earth? There is obviously an appetite for understanding hidden things, or things that are remarkable in their creation, even if they are commonplace or familiar.

And that takes us to our lesson. Seeds scattered on the ground, the disproportionate growth of the mustard seed—these parables take something familiar and open up the meaning to reveal more. And in this case we get the explicit introduction “this is what the kingdom of God is like”—the implied purpose of every parable. But before we begin to draw Kingdom lessons, let’s look again at how these tiny literary units work.

These parables use a device best described with the words “and yet.” On other occasions, we have talked about parables creating a world, which sours, then resolves to reveal the Kingdom. These simpler parables function in the same way: describing something, adding the “and yet,” and then pointing to some Kingdom theme.

In the first one, the Parable of the Growing Seed, the constructed world is someone planting seeds, and yet they don’t know how they grow. Still, the growth continues, until the harvest is plentiful. In the second—even simpler than the first—the constructed world is the mustard seed, and yet it’s among the smallest seeds on earth. It grows into a large shrub, and birds make nests in it’s branches.

In each case, the “and yet” is the secret of the parable, the hidden meaning that makes this part of the Kingdom. The simple act of sowing seeds results in the harvest. The tiny seed becomes a shrub, far out of proportion to the size of the seed. It’s about the miracle of growth, of course, but it’s mostly about the abundance that follows the simple act of sowing a seed.

Now, a scientist could explain all the steps needed to achieve germination (even a scientist in elementary school) and tell you about hydrating the seed (imbibition), activating the enzymes inside the seed, and putting down a root (radicle). Soon it will sprout, and the sun will take over from there—first the stalk, then the head, then the full kernel in the head.

But rather than looking at the science and saying ‘mystery solved,’ I think the mystery deepens. With each new discovery, and each new insight, what is really revealed is the remarkable complexity of everything God made. The more complex, and the more inexplicable, the more we wonder at the gift of the natural world that keeps giving. Things that work in nature for the benefit of others, cures waiting to be discovered in the natural world, even the number of stars in the sky—all reveal the glory of the Most High.

And then God made humans. Odd that we don’t need to condemn humanity for all our failures relating to the natural world, because we humans are busy condemning ourselves. Every day we need to choose whether we are part of the natural world, and therefore worth protecting, or we are somehow outside the natural world, and on our own. At this moment in human history we seem very much on our own, and we may pay a steep price.

In the same manner that we have divided ourselves from the natural world, we insist on dividing ourselves from one another. Some divisions—location, language—are a part of the diversity of human life. While others—race, status, economic standing— we create and impose on each other. The need to feel superior seems hardwired somehow, and the project of human living should always be setting aside that particular need.

It’s no secret that there is racism in Canada. We have been blessed with abundance, and yet we retreat to racism and xenophobia. We have created a society where everyone has access to healthcare and basic needs, and yet we imagine that some are less deserving or jumping some sort of invisible queue. We have all the resources to educate ourselves about how to live together, and yet we retreat to the voices that tell us what we want to hear, even when it leads to violence.

It’s no secret that there is racism in Canada, and yet the solution is within us, since we all contribute in some small way. Sounds like a parable, because it is. This little world we have created, remarkable in so many ways, still sours because we each carry that gene of superiority, that sense of suspicion, and that willingness to listen to the least helpful voices. It’s hard to even name that we carry around the kernel of racism within us, but by naming it we can perhaps begin to move on.

The point of a parable is resolving to reveal the Kingdom. Resolving implies trouble, or some human problem we face. And yet, in the face of trouble, God is most attentive, most willing to stand beside us, and most willing to lift up those in deep need. The parables show us that God’s direction always points to the Kingdom, where everything that divides us is cast out, where everything that hurts us is healed, and everything that separates us from the love of God is set aside—now and forevermore, Amen.

Sunday, June 06, 2021

Second Sunday after Pentecost

 2 Corinthians 4

13 It is written: “I believed; therefore I have spoken.”[a] Since we have that same spirit of[b] faith, we also believe and therefore speak, 14 because we know that the one who raised the Lord Jesus from the dead will also raise us with Jesus and present us with you to himself. 15 All this is for your benefit, so that the grace that is reaching more and more people may cause thanksgiving to overflow to the glory of God.

16 Therefore we do not lose heart. Though outwardly we are wasting away, yet inwardly we are being renewed day by day. 17 For our light and momentary troubles are achieving for us an eternal glory that far outweighs them all. 18 So we fix our eyes not on what is seen, but on what is unseen, since what is seen is temporary, but what is unseen is eternal.

For we know that if the earthly tent we live in is destroyed, we have a building from God, an eternal house in heaven, not built by human hands.

So we fix our eyes not on what is seen on Zoom, but on what is unseen beyond Zoom. Since what is seen on Zoom is temporary, but what is unseen (beyond Zoom) is eternal.

I think I mentioned before about the highly “curated” world some have created for Zoom. Appropriate artwork, a plant or two, lighting just right, doors closed to block noise and wandering family members. Some, of course, preempt the entire curation process by simply selecting an engaging background: palm trees, outer space, or that view from the end of the dock.

A lot of ink has been spilled in the age of Covid about the meaning behind what you present. Books say “look at me, I’m clever.” Diplomas on the wall say “trust me” or maybe “take me seriously.” An open door in the background says openness, or maybe it says you’re one of those brave people who can arrange their desk with their back to the door. I’m not one of them.

Whatever message you send, intentional or unintentional, curated or uncurated, it’s not real. We have advanced to the point where we can present ourselves to the world the way we choose, for good or for ill. One of the primary objections to social media—Facebook or Instagram—is that it breeds the abiding sense that other people are having better lives: more adventuresome, more meaningful, more beautiful. But it’s not real, it’s an illusion we create, or an illusion we consume.

Of course, with all technology, there is a lively debate about whether we would be better off without it. Philosophers would step into the sermon at this point to remind us that the minute someone invented the bicycle it guaranteed that someone would be the first to fall off a bicycle, in the same way that the invention of the telephone pretty well guaranteed that someone would call and offer to clean my ducts. Phones don’t phone people, duct cleaners phone people.

So we can’t turn back the clock, but we don’t have to accept our reality either. And this seems to be the subtext of Paul meditation on reality found in 2 Corinthians 4. Jesus has died, and Jesus has risen, and Jesus will come again to take us to himself. Outwardly the followers of Jesus were aging, some wasting away, some sleeping in death, but Paul says “do not lose heart,” for you are, in fact, being renewed day by day. The momentary affliction that is holding you down today will be replaced by an eternal weight of glory.

And I’m sure some were convinced. Some understood that the promise to return in glory didn’t have a date attached. Some knew that brothers and sisters in the faith would pass before that great and glorious day, and trusted that all would be sorted in eternity. Some were able to “trust the process,” words that never fully convince anyone, while others were not able to trust the process. And for the unconvinced, Paul had more to say:

So we fix our eyes not on what is seen, but on what is unseen, since what is seen is temporary, but what is unseen is eternal.

For we know that if the earthly tent we live in is destroyed, we have a building from God, an eternal house in heaven, not built by human hands.

It’s amazing really, the extent to which Paul could make good on his promise to be “all things to all people.” To those familiar with Plato he had one message, and to those who had never heard of Plato, he had another. Ironic that Paul, the tentmaker, had a foot in each world, and could speak to both.

To the Platonist, or those who knew about Plato, he seems to be making a reference to The Allegory of the Cave. In the allegory, his fictional cave dwellers are chained in a cave, facing away from the light, only able to see shadows of the world behind them. Some try to turn around, only to be blinded by the light of reality, and some may even escape—to see the full reality of the world beyond the cave. But there is more: anyone who tries to return to the darkness of the cave to warn the others will be disoriented and stumbling about as they enter, which will only serve as a warning to the cave dwellers that escape may not be worth it.

Paul is suggesting that those who live in a land of shadows need to see the light, regardless of the risk.

To the practical, or those who knew about practical things, Paul returns to tentmaking. Tents are great, tents offer a temporary solution to a practical problem, but tents are easily destroyed. Fortuitously, we have a building from God built for us, not made by human hands, but eternal in the heavens.

Back to the cave reference, Plato (and Paul) give us an allegory that fits any number of situations. Anyone who feels timid, or troubled, or overwhelmed, can find themselves in the Allegory of the Cave. Venturing beyond the known, the familiar, the comfortable, will seem like a risky endeavor. Anyone who has created a false reality for themselves, or has had a false reality imposed on them, will understand the Allegory of the Cave. Indeed, anyone who is tired of the way we have structured life in the cave of this society, will understand the power of the allegory to encourage some and inhibit others. Some want to escape the cave we have created, and others are happy with shadows.

The last fews days have been difficult for most, and most of all for Canadians that live in this land that once belonged to others. We are the heirs of a society that lived in the cave of superiority, the abiding belief that the shadows on the wall meant that our culture, language, and religion were better than the culture, language, and religion of the Indigenous peoples who have called this place home for countless generations. And now, in recent years, some have come to see reality, and others have not. Part of our work as a church is to convince ourselves (and others) that the reality of our past is hard to face, but facing it is the right and true thing to do. But there is more.

Some in the church will be tempted to define our relationship with First Nations as a social justice issue, something to champion with them and for them. The additional layer of reality here, however, is that it’s not a social justice issue for a church that operated residential schools. It would be like if I assaulted someone and then became a champion for victim’s rights. We need to be about reconciliation, and right relations, and repairing the damage we helped cause.

What is seen is temporary, but what is unseen is eternal.

Such is the Christian hope. The earthly tent we live in, the tent of superiority, and structured inequality, and state-sponsored violence will be swept away in time, leaving an eternal dwelling place, the place God would have us dwell. And then, at the last, all will be one—on earth, as it is in heaven.

May God help us as we seek this place. Amen.