Truth and Reconciliation: It Matters to Me

As a white Anglican Canadian, I went to the four days of the Truth and Reconciliation Commission in Montreal expecting to feel uncomfortable. Uncomfortable because I do not understand First Nations languages and rituals, as I have grown up in a culture that does not privilege or value such knowledge. Uncomfortable because of the political nature of what ‘we’ are doing, the delicate balance between receiving testimony as witnesses and the colonial impulse to assimilate what we’re given into a narrative that claims to understand, explain, and weave devastating personal testimony into a coherent whole. Uncomfortable because I belong to a country and church that has committed genocide, and that continues to thrive under systems that perpetuate the denigration of First Nations peoples. Uncomfortable, perhaps most obviously, because of the stories we are called to hear.

I came here believing that I knew about residential schools because I had studied this history as part of my education. But I didn’t know, and will probably never really know. The films, displays, stories, and even apologies that made up my experience here showed me that I did not understand. The anger with which people spoke about reconciliation at the town hall was a crushing reminder of my, and our, incomprehension. How can we ever grasp what we have done? The whole truth, while it must be told and listened to, is too large and painful to ever be really understood by people who have not lived it.

I came here believing that I knew what it would be like to listen to the stories of trauma, because I have sat and listened to stories from other kinds of survivors. But it wasn’t true: I did not fathom what it would be like. I have never listened to someone’s story before while sitting in the shoes of the perpetrator. It’s amazing the difference this made. This strange reversal made me feel more closed-off, more isolated from their stories, less automatically sympathetic. I think, as human beings, we have this impulse toward protecting ourselves from blame and from guilt by becoming detached and indifferent because we don’t want to feel those feelings, the shame and burden of our responsibility. I also believe that I and others like me have a responsibility to push past that and into the painful empathy that you will never fully leave behind. It is easy enough to feel the suffering of a victim, and infinitely harder to bear witness to your own horrific actions.

Although I was there for four days, and have committed to listening to statements given at the Commissioners panel while I was not present, I found that there wasn’t enough time to listen to the stories. If I live a hundred years, there would not be enough time.

There were moments when I wondered if I hadn’t made some kind of horrible mistake, if I was in the wrong place altogether, if I had any right to be part of these stories and expressions. After the screening of the film We Were Children I attended on Friday morning, almost all the white people left the room immediately, even though the animators said there was going to be a time for reflection afterward and had asked people to remain. We did not have a discussion, and no one talked: instead, there was a violent and heartbreaking outpouring of emotions from some of the participants. The animators called in traditional healers to try and dispel the energy in the room, and those few outsiders who had inexplicably stayed behind found ourselves holding hands with strangers in the midst of their grief. I felt like an intruder witnessing something intimate which was not meant for me. It was intensely emotionally disturbing, more so than the evidence the full room had witnessed. But ultimately, if I am unwilling to stand with people cracking apart from the burden of their memories then I haven’t really received the stories.  

The pain and sadness, the hurt and anger and fear, the stories: we are called to listen and receive because as Church and country we have a moral responsibility to know and face up to the truth of our history and the realities it creates today. The Commission is about truth in its collecting of testimonies and evidence, in its mandate to spread this knowledge to the people who are responsible yet largely unaware of the realities lived by First Nations peoples in this country. This Commission is about healing in the sense that telling one’s story and being heard is an important part of the journey toward wholeness. It is a step on the very long path of reconciliation, a journey that will never begin without these first steps. But as many participants have brought up, it is not about reconciliation because reconciliation will not happen because of truth, listening, or apologies, though they are all part of it. Reconciliation demands that we take action to address the issues and inequities facing First Nations as a result of the devastation that we have wreaked on them. It is not only for us that we need to do it but, above all, for the people who are coming after.

What the Commission has manifestly failed to do is bring ordinary white people and First Nations people together. As a random, unimportant white attendee, how many Native Americans did you have a conversation with? We were all in the same crowded venue but almost no one spoke with people they didn’t already know. We still aren’t actually having relationships, and to be honest I have no idea how to fix it. Maybe it just has to come later.

The TRC was also uplifting. It brought forward the courage and strength of First Nations peoples in the face of wrongs that can never be righted. A wealth of vibrant, living cultures were on display. Our hosts were humble and gracious and generous. At the end of the last day there was a Birthday celebration for everyone who hadn’t celebrated their Birthday because they were in residential school, some of whom had not even known when it was. We sang Happy Birthday in many languages, in a way reinforcing for us just how deeply Canadian culture has infiltrated Native American cultures. Everyone got a glowstick. Everyone got a cupcake. Everyone got a Birthday card made by a child. Everyone was included. Our hosts generously welcomed all of us to celebrate with them, including those of us who could never have earned the right to attend. It was humbling and beautiful. It is with this spirit of humility that we are honoured to receive all we have been given by the survivors, their families, and their communities.

What the Truth and Reconciliation Commission asks us to do is never forget the stories, the courage of the people who have shared their gifts with us, by calling us to carry forward what we have witnessed in our deeds and to cherish the discomforting guilt. During the Montreal portion of the Commission, 154 statements were gathered; there were over 12,000 visitors; over 5,000 views through livestream from 30 different countries; over 500 children came on education day. It’s a beginning. To add to the official wording, we are doing it

 

“For the child taken,

For the parent left behind.”

For the child today,

And for the children who are coming.

Re-Potting Plants

I had this glorious plant: its leaves were green with this kind of purple fuzz growing on them. It was so pretty, every time I looked at it, it made me happy. I had bought it at Wallmart, taken it home, and eventually replanted it in a pot that worked well. I gave it a place of pride on a windowsill where it could get lots of sun, and it flourished. It grew so very tall, its leaves extending to the sun, soaking up the warmth and light, their purple gleam settling upon my heart. I luxuriated it its growth, in its beauty, in the pleasure it gave me to look at it.

But, alas, my plant outgrew its pot somewhat. The top of the root structure started to protrude. And even though its leaves were tall and luxurious, they also had a definite lean and angle. Thus, my mother decided to re-pot my beloved plant and trim its stalks.

I was so sad when I saw it. My plant, its leaves reduced to pathetic stubs. Look how it doesn’t reach toward to sun any longer! Look how desolate and frail it appears! All its glory lost. I admit it, I was a little devastated.

I think it affected me so much because I feel kind of similar to my unfortunate little plant. I was let go from my job. I’ve been feeling pretty useless. I’m not entirely sure of my place in the world. I’ve been living with a resurgence of Posttraumatic symptoms and the depression that can come with that. I’ve been having doubts about my relationship with and place in the Church. Why am I going here at all? What am I bringing to this community, anyway? Is ‘church’ the right place for me to be if I’m trying to heal – among other things – from church? If you don’t feel trust or community or fulfilment deep inside yourself, if you’ve lost your connection and your way with God inside a relationship of fear and distrust, is it okay to admit that? I’ve been feeling displaced, un-rooted, like I cannot even begin to long for and lean toward the sun.

It’s never an easy place to be, the place you find yourself when circumstances uproot you. It’s uncomfortable, messy, less-than-ideal. But, like the plant, it might be that you need that displacement if, in the future, you want to thrive. It might be that, for a while, you’ll have to make do with less: less beauty, less utility, less leaves to long for the warmth and the light. Close to the dirt, you have time to regroup, to solidify, to recover before once more venturing out, finding yourself strong enough to seek the sun. It’s okay to just be surviving, for a time.

So here I am, not reaching for anything. It’s not beautiful. It’s not glorious. My plant is on the windowsill, short and squat and ignoble. But maybe, just maybe, we’ll be able to sink our feet deep into this new and unfamiliar ground.

Show Me The Money! Tithing at Church

A few years ago, I found myself in a discussion with an Evangelical friend of mine who told me that she and her husband hadn’t been attending their church recently. When I asked her why, she replied that they felt guilty about not having any money to put in the collection plate, so they’d decided not to go.

I told her that she shouldn’t worry about it, that God asks us to give according to our means. It was quite a wealthy congregation, so it wasn’t in imminent danger of collapse or anything due to lack of funds. You can give in many ways, and actually forking over cash you don’t have is only one of them (and probably not a great plan, really). Though I kind of understood where they were coming from, I still didn’t really see how it was an issue. No church worth its salt demands an admission fee or implies that you have to pay for membership. People with more money can afford to give more and people with little money can give to the community in other ways. Frankly, everyone should be encouraged to give to the community in other, non-monetary ways, but that’s a different discussion. If you do end up feeling like all your church wants from you is your checkbook, maybe you should look into another congregation.

However, I admit to feeling kind of ashamed, especially recently, about the fact that I’m always dumping my spare change into the collection plate. Objectively I know it’s not supposed to be an issue. I’m pretty sure it’s less to do about church and more to do about my general money anxiety (I’ve been unsuccessfully looking for a job for months now, and after years of shoving money into education I think I have about 3 to 6 more months of unemployment left before I’m completely screwed). But knowing those things doesn’t make me feel a whole lot better. It’s kind of ironic, but apart from being able to feed myself and house myself and pay my bills and have a general sense of my life being meaningful, the main reason I want a job is to be able to give real money to the church I attend.

It’s kind of funny that since I’m attending church downtown instead of in my suburb I’m spending more on travelling to and from there – not to mention that I might have to purchase lunch – than I tend to give as donation. On the one hand, I feel like I suddenly have even less money to give the church, which makes me kind of panicky. On the other hand, technically I’m spending even more on worship and God should be pleased! It’s a weird situation. If the church really wants my money, I suppose I could just stay home and mail it to them. But somehow I don’t think that’s the point.

The Bible – and Christian history in general – is full of examples about how important it is to give your money and support to your church. While we Anglicans do not rigidly ascribe to the idea of tithing, or handing over 10% of your earnings to the church, certainly donating money on a weekly basis is normative. We also have all sorts of other creative ways to convince you to give your money to the church: bake sales, bazaars, fundraisers and, my personal favourite, charging somewhat exorbitant rates for flower arrangements that decorate the nave. Then again, I used to be Catholic, and once paid 20$ to have a Mass said in a deceased person’s name, which literally involves no resources at all.

Ultimately, I think that giving is meant to be joyful rather than some sort of burden, and the New Testament certainly doesn’t assign any sort of ‘amount’ to it (see 2 Cor 9:5-7). I, like my aforementioned Evangelical friend, shouldn’t feel one way or another about what I manage to give the church on a given week. What I put in the collection plate is less important than the fact that I do it freely and with joy in my heart, rather than with sadness at parting with my toonies or the oppression of obligation.

I’ll be working on grasping that one for a while.


In the meantime, here are Kat’s helpful tips* on how to save or acquire money while your long-term solvency is in doubt, so that you have more to give the church:

-when you visit friends, raid their couch cushions for forgotten change: you will also be doing them a favour by cleaning their furniture, so feel free to count this as payment for your valuable services.

-only use conditioner every second time you wash your hair, and you will spend less on hair products and have more money for the church: plus, using less disposable stuff is a valuable environmental service.

-visit every take-a-penny-leave-a-penny tray at depanneurs and other businesses and never leave a penny: by donating these out-of-mint coins to charity you will be helping the government remove them from circulation, which is a valuable social service.

-panhandle on streets in front of churches you do not attend right before they have services: giving money to the poor is a mitzvah and you will be providing a valuable religious service.

-if your purse breaks, fix it with duct tape instead of replacing it, and give the money you save to the church: redefining fashion as ‘vintage’ rather than ‘garbage’ is a valuable environmental service (here at Walking Along the Way, we care about the environment).

-declare Sunday a lunch-free zone so that you’ll be happy if you eat lunch but not devastated if you don’t: give the money you would have spent to the church, and consider that you’re engaging in valuable health services (and may end up looking fashionably thin!).

-as a last-ditch measure, become a prostitute and give some of the money to the church. You can then preach a sermon entitled “The Things I Was Forced to Do to Pay My Tithe to Jesus.” Also, in times past, reforming prostitutes was considered one of the goals of priestly ministry, so you’ll be doing a valuable Christian service by giving your pastor the opportunity to revive that practice.


*if you can find 1 person who actually found these tips helpful, you owe me a quarter. For the church.