After more than half a century of social activism – the highlight of it being a decade as diocesan Social Justice and Advocacy consultant – I’ve come to realize that the best thing I can do both for myself and for the world is to slow down.

It’s not an easy thing to do. The need for change in our society is as urgent as ever. So many concerns call out to our conscience for action: poverty, homelessness, the climate crisis, development aid cuts by government that will hurt our developing world neighbours. And yet, I’ve seen, in myself and with other activists, that if we approach activism with nothing but a burning sense of urgency, we risk burning out quickly.

Powerful forces in our culture also make it tough to slow down. Modern technology enables people to reach us – and us to reach them – 24/7. We’re continually bombarded by messages and media from morning to night that anesthetize, overwhelm and distract us

There’s also a deeper issue at play here. Why do we often feel threatened or uncomfortable by a quieter, more reflective life? Is it because when we slow down our real inner issues begin to surface – issues that often are painful?

Trappist monk and mystic Thomas Merton put his finger on the nub of the issue: “There is a pervasive form of contemporary violence to which the idealist most easily succumbs: activism and overwork. To allow oneself to be carried away by a multitude of conflicting concerns, to surrender to too many demands, to commit oneself to too many projects, to want to help everyone in everything, is to succumb to violence. The frenzy of our activism neutralizes our work for peace. It destroys our inner capacity for peace. It destroys the fruitfulness of our own work, because it kills the root of inner wisdom which makes work fruitful.”

The key point made by Merton is the need for “inner wisdom,” a vital element of our lives as people of faith. Rest is actually a faith-based tool paving the way for spiritual renewal. We need look no further than the life of Jesus, who balanced prayerful contemplation with action in his life. Jesus made a point of spending time alone in nature and in prayer when people around him were clamouring for him to preach and to heal the sick. Jesus even managed to fall asleep in a boat during the middle of a storm. His example is one we can strive to emulate, reminding us that we need time to think, to ponder and to pray.

Yet it’s not easy to resist “the cult of busyness,” especially within the Church. I found I got caught up in it while working for the diocese. In hindsight, I worked too much – even though I loved the job, especially working with so many faith-filled Anglicans. My hunch is that overwork, often disguised as devotion, runs rampant in the Church, and not just the Anglican Church. I heard a story of an American Christian leader who reached a point of exhaustion after years of hard work and decided to retire. After retiring, he cut back sharply on his activities. Later he met church colleagues for a visit. One said to him, “I guess you’re as busy as ever in your retirement, right?”  The man replied, “No, I’m not busy at all.” Silence filled the room. He wasn’t following the script.

Slowing down is not something we can master overnight. But there are small steps we can take towards a calmer, more balanced life. One is to turn off our devices for certain stretches of each day, and definitely before going to bed. We can enrich our Sabbath observance by taking a break from the news on Sunday, unless there’s a truly compelling reason to tune in. Another is to spend more time outside enjoying creation, in an unhurried and uninterrupted way.

Slowing down is not withdrawal from the world, but a way of loving it more faithfully.

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How about this one: resolving to become a more holy person?

That goal was likely not top of mind for you when thinking about resolutions. But perhaps it should be. We are always challenged by God to go deeper in our faith and our spirituality – to strive for holiness, the state or quality of being holy, sacred or sanctified.

Yet many of us don’t really believe that we’re capable of attaining holiness, of sanctity. On one level, that’s understandable. We’ve tended to put well-known holy people of faith onto a kind of pedestal, as “plaster saints” that the rest of us could not possibly match in our own lives. As well, the models of sanctity we’ve been given have tended to emphasize a world-denying ascetism, an other-worldly way of being, when we need examples of holy discipline and commitment in service to the world and in solidarity with those who are suffering. Holiness does not mean perfection or withdrawal from the world, but rather a wholeness lived in relationship and responsibility.

This does not have to involve heroic action, as we sometimes think, but the disciplined practice of noticing where God is already present in ordinary encounters. It can include focused listening and staying present to suffering rather than turning away or allowing oneself to be interrupted.

Our Anglican tradition has included holiness movements that emphasized spiritual transformation and “Christian perfection” (freedom from sin) through a “second blessing” experience, stemming from John Wesley’s teachings, focusing on God’s nearness and on personal encounters with God. To live a holy life, one should cultivate a relationship with God through prayer, scripture and obedience to the core teachings of our faith. But perhaps we can expand our thinking about holiness for our lives. “Christian holiness in our age means more than ever the awareness of our common responsibility to cooperate with the mysterious designs of God for the human race.” Trappist monk Thomas Merton wrote those words more than 60 years ago in his slim but insightful book Life and Holiness. Yet they remain powerfully relevant today.

Note that he mentions “our common responsibility” when discussing holiness. This stretches the concept beyond an individual pursuit of holiness in terms of seeking perfection. Seen in that light, we can be inspired by holy people immersed in the worlds of literature, art, political struggle and everyday life who provide a witness of holiness in a world that many of us consider to be far from holy. They can serve as role models for lived holiness in a society increasingly fractured along political, social and economic lines.

Examples of such people that spring to mind for me include my friend David, a successful realtor who has turned his energy to providing affordable housing. Sustained by a deep faith, he’s been involved with numerous non-profit housing ventures in recent decades. When a shelter in a nearby community was recently threatened with closure, he offered to financially support any landlord willing to offer a room to people turned away by the shelter.

Another person I’d consider holy is a woman named Sheila, who works tirelessly with marginalized people in my community of Peterborough to develop a community hub to help them meet basic needs, as well as the provision of tiny homes for the homeless despite opposition from the powers that be. She’s endured insulting behaviour at city council meetings while advocating for homeless individuals. Yet Sheila carries on at age 85. What keeps her going? I sense that she is illuminated by a source beyond herself, by a divine Light within herself that she expresses as a Quaker.

When I feel discouraged about the state of the world, I draw inspiration from David, Sheila and others who embody a holiness marked by steadfastness, courage and solidarity. From them I’ve learned that holiness is not about dramatic moments but about staying rooted in God’s love, justice and hope over the long arc of a life.

Life in Christ means growth and development towards wholeness – a word that is close to holiness. How can you strive towards holiness this year? What shape will that take in your daily life and routines?

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The conference was held virtually on Oct. 18 and attracted about 100 Anglicans from across the diocese who learned from a keynote speaker who addressed participants from his homeland, Brazil. Workshops included education and action strategies about reconciliation with First Nations, welcoming homeless people, the basic income movement, community land trusts, and the Communion Forest movement.

The Rev. Dr. Rodrigo Espiuca from our companion diocese of Brasilia wove together a powerful keynote address around the theme of hope, rooting the Church’s social justice ministry in scripture. Dr. Espiuca is a lawyer working in human rights law, as well as overseeing the Brazilian church’s advocacy work and its Communion Forest efforts.

Hope often seems like a luxury, he noted, especially at a time when we face various crises. We are all invited to live in a hope that transcends the circumstances, he said. We are not alone, and we are called to act as agents of hope in our communities.

He cited the example of Abraham, whose faith enabled God’s promise to be fulfilled (Romans 4). “We as Christian people cannot forget the great work Christ makes in our lives through his resurrection,” he said. “We are, brothers and sisters, those who give birth to the resurrection. Resurrection is a school of the Lord, a continuous learning that educates us and reorders us to new life in Christ.”

The companion relationship between the Diocese of Toronto and the Diocese of Brasilia is a sign of resurrection, he said. Other Anglicans from the Diocese of Brasilia joined Dr. Espiuca at the conference, including Bishop Mauricio Andrade.

Dr. Espiuca outlined various ways of making hope real in our lives, and the lives of people in our communities. Hope is an act of resistance that enables us to fight for a more just world, he said. He cited a feminist theologian who said that “to hope is to make space for silenced voices,” such as those of women, gay and lesbian people, and others.

Hope is very much a communal activity, he said, referencing Abraham’s hope as not only involving him personally, but also his family and descendants (Romans 4:18). He cited a Brazilian program to assist people with HIV/AIDS as an example of how the Church works to sustain hope and create safe spaces for people who feel marginalized.

“Jesus shapes our spirituality” he said, and is the model we should strive to follow, in his suffering and resurrection.

Conference participants lauded Dr. Espiuca for his address. Josephine Irving was “thrilled and challenged” by his remarks. The Rev. Canon Andrea Budgey appreciated the range of ways in which we can pursue resurrection.

The Rev. Leigh Kern, the diocese’s Right Relations Officer, led a workshop on reconciliation in which she urged participants to think about how they could work to achieve the Truth and Reconciliation Commission’s 94 Calls to Action, a decade after their release. She noted that 80 per cent of people living on the streets of Toronto identify as Indigenous. “People who were displaced (by settlers) continue to be homeless. What a crime.” Ms. Kern presented a wealth of resources for learning about progress on the Calls to Action, including calls directed at churches.

The key role of community was highlighted in a workshop about encampment theology, led by the Rev. Canon Maggie Helwig, incumbent of St. Stephen in-the-Fields, Toronto, where a long-time encampment of homeless people was broken up by the City of Toronto. As Genesis says, it’s not good for people to be alone – yet the shelter system isolates people by not allowing them to have visitors and in other ways, she said. She gained so much from the homeless community at her church, who became her friends, she said. “The church is really lonely now.”

The concept of a basic income in Canada has gained support, but as Sheila Regehr, facilitator of a workshop on this topic acknowledged, we’re in a “tough political moment” in terms of gaining government support for it. Ms. Regehr is the chair of the Basic Income Canada Network.

She noted how the need for income support is greater than ever. A recent survey of homeless people revealed that 80 per cent said lack of income was the main reason they were unhoused. Participants at the conference affirmed the desperate conditions many are in. The Rev. Susan Spicer said her parish, St. Luke, Peterborough, began a foodbank program to benefit 25 households, but now more than 80 households take part.

Ms. Regehr countered arguments often given against basic income – specifically, that it will encourage laziness and is unaffordable. She noted that Ontario’s Basic Income Pilot project, held from 2017-2019, supported entrepreneurship, child-raising and volunteer work. The Canada Emergency Response Benefit enacted to provide ongoing incomes to Canadians during COVID-19 affirmed that government can act, if the political will and public support are there.

A workshop on the theology and practice of planting trees, led by members of the Bishop’s Committee on Creation Care, attracted people from across the GTA and beyond. Tree planting efforts have already begun at St. John, Ida and St. Hilary, Cooksville. Planting trees connects us to our primal vocation, which is to care for creation, participants heard. One of the facilitators, the Rev. Paige Souter, emphasized how Jesus said to Nicodemus that God loves the cosmos, so that all of creation is being redeemed, not just humans. (John 3:16-17)

Other workshops focused on community land trusts and on how churches can support housing and shelter in their neighbourhoods, despite community opposition.

Think twice before taking a bite

What’s it actually like to be a temporary foreign worker in Canada, doing the hard labour that most Canadians shy away from?

Outreach and advocacy conference participants got a taste of that through an interactive theatrical presentation called Harvest Justice: Twice the Speed of Lightning. Presented by Mixed Company Theatre, which uses theatre as a tool for social change, the drama depicted the plight of migrant workers from Mexico and Jamaica who are packed into cramped and unsanitary bunkhouses, often enduring unsafe working conditions, abusive treatment and loneliness. Threats of deportation make it hard for workers to stand up for their rights. Meanwhile, workers must pay into Canada’s employment insurance system but can’t collect benefits.

In the play, a Guatemalan arrives in Canada, eager to work and earn what he thinks will be a healthy wage, only to discover that various charges take a big bite out of his paycheque, while he encounters harsh treatment from his boss. Disillusionment sets in. “They give us the jobs Canadians won’t or more likely can’t do,” he says bitterly.

After seeing the play, participants were invited to discuss the issues or play out how they might bring about positive change. Post-play discussion buzzed with comments and action suggestions. The current program “is like indentured labour, right in our midst,” said Tina Conlon, whose first job in Canada involved working as a domestic. “You are exploited because you are desperate,” added the Rev. Claudette Taylor, a deacon.

Elin Goulden, the diocese’s Social Justice and Advocacy consultant, said the situation challenges us to raise our voices through advocacy. “Migrant workers should have the same rights as any worker in Canada,” she said. Our faith calls on us to respond, she added, referring to Leviticus 19:33-34: “When a foreigner resides among you in your land, do not mistreat them. The foreigner residing among you must be treated as your native-born.”

Ms. Goulden noted that General Synod last summer adopted a resolution on advocacy for migrant workers.

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It’s such an ingrained element of our faith, of our Christian DNA, that it’s all too easy to let it slide over our thinking and our souls, almost ignored.

But maybe it’s more powerful than we think.

On a bitterly cold winter night, I put out my trash and recycling for pickup the next day. Before heading inside, I glanced down the street. A huge apartment-sized recycling bin was slowly coming down the street. I looked more closely and saw a man behind it, pushing the bin forward metre by painful metre. Nearby, a woman sifted through recycling boxes in front of homes.

In my affluent Peterborough neighbourhood, one person’s trash is another person’s rent or food money. Several people, including one or two individuals in wheelchairs, regularly cruise our neighbourhood before garbage day, hoping to find wine or beer bottles and cans they can return for cash.

But never had I seen someone pushing a colossal recycling bin down the street in the hope of earning a few dollars. I rushed into my garage, retrieved some wine bottles, then ran over to the man with the bin. When I reached him, I expected him to appear exhausted and grim. Not at all. Both the man and his partner greeted me with warm grins and deepfelt thanks. We chatted briefly, and then they went back to work.

I stepped into my warm, comfortable home, feeling good about helping someone in need. However, I was keenly aware it was only a Band-Aid action. It did nothing to address the fact that in this wealthy nation, so many are living on the edge of survival.

Then I thought some more – about how my tiny action took place alongside countless other acts of love. Our individual acts are connected to the power of God at work in us. God invites our participation in this grand collective enterprise of renewing our broken world.

Seen in this light, a simple act of charity, like giving a few wine bottles, takes on greater significance.

Yet my conscience still gnaws at me about this situation. As winter approaches, I don’t want my neighbour forced to do hard labour on cold nights to earn a few dollars to make ends meet. I don’t want other neighbours to line up outside on frigid winter mornings at our local food bank, three hours before it opens, to make sure they receive food before supplies run out.

Putting love into action can seem like a mammoth, if not impossible, challenge. We have the most amazing role model to inspire us in the life and actions of Jesus, who came to show us a new way of being in the world. He broke through boundaries of status, ethnicity and physical neighbourhoods. His version of loving your neighbour was truly radical, to the point of loving his enemies, not just those who were easy to love.

We’re called to root our inner being in love (see Ephesians 3:14-19). This is a lifelong journey of opening our souls to the love with which God has embraced us.

That immense love can extend beyond our souls to inspire a decisive difference in our outward actions. We are entering the season of urgent appeals from community agencies imploring us to donate to provide turkeys, toys and much more for low-income families and individuals facing a bleak Christmas. It is shocking that two million Canadian households rely on food bank handouts to eat. And equally shocking that most of us have become numb to this grim reality.

The words of Martin Luther King Jr. ring home: “True compassion is more than flinging a coin to a beggar; it understands that an edifice which produces beggars needs restructuring. A true revolution of values will look uneasily on the glaring contrast of poverty and wealth.”

Responding to our neighbours in need is an essential act of love. Yet, as Dr. King suggests, is not God challenging us to stretch our understanding about love beyond the dimension of individual charity? Can we not live out “political love” as well, and tackle the root causes of poverty so that all are able to live in dignity? 

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Yet as I write this, lawns across much of our diocese are parched, gardens and crops are withering under drought, and a brutal heat wave has made summer a season to endure, not enjoy, for much of the time. Beyond our diocese, trees are literally aflame across large regions of Canada as wildfires rage.

Walking across lawns burnt brown, with withered grass crunchy underfoot, I’ve watched shrubs and trees shrivelling in the heat, as though the land itself has become something unrecognizable. It’s profoundly unsettling. I can only imagine how much worse it’s been for people forced to flee their homes due to wildfires, wondering if they’ll even have a home to return to, as thousands of Canadians had to do this summer.

It’s easy to sink into a bleak mood when what we have known all our lives seems transformed for the worse, and not just our land and climate, but much more. Canada’s economic future looks uncertain as the impact of tariffs takes hold. Anxiety easily arises when we ponder what the future may hold.

Uncertainty affects our Anglican faith community as well. Across Canada many parishes face aging and shrinking congregations, although our own diocese shows some more encouraging signs, as reported in last month’s issue of The Anglican.

We can draw strength from the hope found in this month’s scripture passage from Lamentations (3:19-26), a book about the grief Jeremiah and God’s people felt after Jerusalem had been destroyed by the Babylonians. The Jews faced exile and suffering, yet God promised to stay faithful to them, even if they were no longer in the promised land. God’s love never runs out.

We can count on God’s faithfulness – but we need to realize that how that faithfulness takes shape in our lives could well be different from what we expect or hope for. As our new primate, Archbishop Shane Parker, has reminded us, “We live in a different time today.” It’s not always easy to accept how radically different a time it is.

Our personal lives are also often full of change and transition. We are creatures of habit and find comfort in routines and the familiar, so adjusting to new realities can feel daunting. Significant changes often leave us feeling a loss of control, uncertain and fearful of what lies ahead.

We find strength in realizing that we are co-creators of the future with God, drawing inspiration from God’s faithfulness, even in dark times. Change is not an interruption to our journey as followers of Jesus; it is central to it. We are being transformed into more than we have been, although that transformation often unfolds more slowly than we would like.

Resilience can also help us persevere through tough times. My brother John’s health has declined sharply during recent months due to cancer and emphysema. His mobility is very limited, and even breathing is difficult at times, yet his spirits remain remarkably upbeat. How does he manage that? He shows resilience by acknowledging his new reality and striving to make the best of it. Just as important is the support of the community. Friends and neighbours stay in close touch with John, offering companionship and help with practical needs. One cooks a delicious dinner for John almost every night. That person is isolated due to mental health challenges. John befriended him years ago. It’s a beautiful example of how community transforms lives during seasons of hardship.

We have so much to learn from those who face drastic changes in their lives, their own parched summers, and adapt to them with grace and sometimes even emerge stronger than before.

The trees can also offer us a life lesson. As they let go of their leaves during autumn, they can show us how to let go of our fear. To be patient during what can feel like death. Buried in that bleakness, however, are the seeds of spring. As Christians, we are people of hope, even in the darkest times.

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The United Nations has stated that loneliness and isolation pose a greater threat to human health than smoking. Britain’s national government even has a Minister for Loneliness.

Loneliness is a significant issue among Canadian youth. Research indicates that young people, particularly those aged 15 to 24, experience loneliness more often than older age groups. Social media and a lack of real-world social connections are among the reasons given.

It’s hard to convey the ache and pain of loneliness, but Catholic priest Fr. Ron Rolheiser captures its essence in his book, The Loneliness Factor: “We do not feel loneliness. We are loneliness.”

Solitude is a very different experience from loneliness. Yes, it also involves the sense of feeling alone; however, unlike loneliness, solitude is a restorative state. It’s the kind of aloneness in which we feel accompanied by our thoughts, by stillness or by God’s presence.

“I never found the companion that was so companionable as solitude,” Henry David Thoreau wrote during his time immersed in nature at Walden Pond. While Thoreau emphasized the personal joy of solitude, farmer, poet and social critic Wendell Berry suggests that solitude reconnects us with the wider web of life. He suggests that in “the wild places, where one is without human obligation… one’s inner voices become audible. The more coherent one becomes within oneself as a creature, the more fully one enters into the communion of all creatures.”

Solitude is a vital element for a rich spiritual life. Jesus was not afraid to be alone. Scriptural references outline how he made time to be alone with God. He practiced the discipline of solitude daily throughout his life to commune with God, even as others clamored for his attention. For example, after healing many people while on a preaching tour in Galilee, he got up very early the next morning and went to a deserted place to pray (Mark 1:32-39). A more well-known example involves the 40 days Jesus spent in the desert to prepare for his public ministry, engaging in prayer, fasting and spiritual testing. The desert setting provided a space for solitude and reflection, allowing Jesus to deepen his relationship with God and prepare for the challenges ahead.

A physical setting where one is alone with God can help open our souls to the divine presence. I still reflect on the retreats I took decades ago at monasteries in Oka, Quebec and Gethsemane, Kentucky, and how those experiences of profound and holy silence played a pivotal role in my spiritual formation.

Not all of us have access to monasteries or retreat centres, but even a corner of an apartment or home can be a sacred space.

We shouldn’t minimize the deep ache of loneliness. It is a wound that many bear, often invisibly. Solitude does not always erase that ache, but it may offer us a way to befriend it. When chosen with intention, solitude becomes a meeting place where we bring our longing into communion with God and allow even our loneliness to be met with gentleness and grace.

Through solitude, we create space for God’s presence, speaking and listening to God and simply loving him and being loved. We let go of the noise of modern life, with its incessant demands and interruptions. Solitude allows the Spirit of God to interject his thoughts and desires into our souls.

Re-thinking the value of solitude can help us rediscover its deep spiritual value and how it can form part of a response to loneliness. As Mary Alban Bouchard notes in her book Overcoming Loneliness Together: A Christian Response, “loneliness is in fact something with which we may not only become at ease but may actually embrace and turn into a friend.” In doing so, we don’t reject loneliness; we transform our relationship to it. In solitude, we remember that even in our most private hours, we are never truly alone.

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But what if we move beyond a narrow focus on the resurrection and instead contemplate the full implications of Jesus’ life and ministry? In particular, can his life offer some lessons for our current context, especially if we focus on Jesus’ humanity?

It’s easy to overlook the similarities between Jesus’ life and times and ours, and how Jesus participated in our common humanity. First, Jesus had four brothers—James, Joses, Judas and Simon – as well as sisters who are not named (Mark 6:3), so it’s very likely that Jesus helped at home with caring for his siblings, which might explain how comfortable he was with children during his ministry.

As the son of a carpenter who passed on his trade, Jesus was very familiar with the world of hard work. In a society where most land was owned by the Romans and their aristocratic associates, Jesus’ family probably did some small-scale farming or kept a large garden to help feed the family. Many of the parables, such as the parables of the sower and of the mustard seed (Mark 4:1-34), indicate that Jesus knew about farming practices.

Jesus shared in the other challenges of everyday life that many others in his society also faced. Like them, Jesus had to get around on foot, in a largely harsh, hot desert land.

Another similarity between Jesus’ life and ours is that he experienced the full range of human emotions, even if he experienced them in different circumstances from us. During the crucifixion, Jesus experienced intense physical pain, emotional agony and a profound sense of abandonment, culminating in the cry, “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” (Matthew 27:46).

Jesus experienced strong emotions at other times as well. We’re familiar with the anger he felt when expelling the merchants and money changers from the temple (Matthew 21:12-13). He could also be troubled and deeply moved, such as with Mary of Bethany’s grief over Lazarus (John 11:33). He was anxious at other times, and he even wept (John 11:35).

It’s significant that God became a human not among the upper-class elite of his time but as a member of the lower class, among people living under an enemy occupation. Jesus then chose other people from the working class of that society, such as fishermen and a tax collector, to become part of his counter-cultural movement, one that aimed to turn that oppressive society upside down. Confronting Roman military occupation was an act of immense courage and faith.

Could we be called to do likewise? That is, to show similar courage and faith in responding to the challenges we face in our society, instead of feeling powerless and pessimistic about our capacity to effect change?

Theologian Walter Brueggemann notes in his poem “On Reading Samuel:”

In a flash, it may dawn on us:
You call and designate people like us, your agents.
Kingdoms rage…and we are called;
Empires tremble…and we are designated…
Us vulnerable, frail, anxious, your people.

What an invitation!

It’s an invitation that can give us fresh hope at a time when many of us are not feeling hopeful but rather discouraged and disempowered, given the political and economic turmoil of our times.

The more we accept the humanity of Jesus and that he experienced a gamut of emotions, as most of us do, the more we can identify with him. His teachings, and their potential to empower us to take on the challenges before us, become even more compelling.

Reflecting on the kind of life Jesus led enables us to see that God became human through Jesus in order to show us how to live. He modeled a way of being that can enable us to rise above our human fears and frailties. Jesus shows us that there is much more to being human than the everyday circumstances in which we find ourselves. That’s an important lesson in these anxious times.

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This is the prayer Mother Teresa spoke during her 50-year period of dryness with God, a dryness that went unknown to others except for her spiritual director. Public knowledge of doubting faith wasn’t offered until after her death.

Mother Teresa didn’t want to publicize her struggle with doubt and disbelief, for understandable reasons. She was the face of a Christian ministry that was saving lives. She would have been keenly aware that doubt is not seen in a positive light by many Christians.

But I am grateful that her testimony of faith in question can be shared with us today, because to some extent many of us experience this same feeling at some point – maybe only for a short time, maybe for longer than we would ever care to admit.

When I first heard about Mother Teresa’s struggle with her faith, I was shocked. I simply assumed that someone as devout as her – someone made a saint by the Roman Catholic Church – would have a rock-solid faith in God, and in His presence in our lives.

My response reflected a common belief that doubt is a kind of failing, even though the original disciples were not confident about what to do after the resurrection. The gospels tell us that they hear the news that Jesus has risen from the dead and don’t respond with soaring faith but instead lock themselves into a room because they are afraid of the Jewish leaders. Suddenly, Jesus is standing there among them. “Peace be with you,” he says. He shows them the wounds in his hands and his side. They are filled with joy. Jesus tells them, “As the Father has sent me, so I am sending you.” (John 20:19-21)

Jesus invites those who have followed him most closely for the past three years to step out of a place of fear, incredulity or disbelief and into a place of peace, joy and confidence.

However, Thomas, one of the disciples, isn’t there with the group on that first Easter Sunday. He doesn’t get his chance to see the risen Christ. And because of this, he is about to get a nickname that people still use today, calling him “Doubting Thomas.”

Thomas does not believe until Jesus appears before him and Thomas plunges his hands into Jesus’ broken flesh (John 20:24-29). Through that direct experience, Thomas is transformed. His intriguing story of incredulity and inquiry can also help us understand the way in which God responds to us in our doubts and fears.

Jesus replies to Thomas: “You believe because you have seen me. Blessed are those who believe without seeing me.” Because some of us are conditioned to see doubt as negative, we interpret Jesus’ words to Thomas as a rebuke. However, Jesus is simply stating a fact: Thomas saw and believed.

That demonstration of the power of direct experience can give us food for thought. I must confess that after more than half a century of social activism, I sometimes feel pessimistic about the impact I’ve made. The course of the world, with its serious woes, seems much the same as when I was young. Have I, and others, really made any difference?

But then I think about Thomas and how his direct experience with the Risen One made an enormous impact.

That underscores for me the value of taking action, no matter how small. Canada is poised on the brink of a federal election. It would be all too easy to accede to the prevailing mood of pessimism regarding politicians and the political process. To let the forces of doubt gain the upper hand. But the example of Thomas reminds us that when we take action, transformation can occur. Our hearts and our souls can experience rebirth. That has strengthened my resolve to work with others to raise creation care issues during the election campaign in my community.

In the midst of doubt, of disbelief, of waning hope and troubling thoughts, God is there with us, inviting us to sink our hands into the woundedness of this world. When we do so, we don’t merely improve the lives of our neighbours and the state of creation; we ourselves are transformed. We’re renewed and come to have hope that a different kind of world is indeed possible. We too can experience resurrection.

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A saint, based on the Latin word for “holy,” is a person recognized for a life of great virtue. They serve as excellent role models, teaching us how to live lives of goodness and generosity. Saints act as channels of God’s power and can interpret God and holiness for others.

My understanding of saints has changed tremendously from my days as a Roman Catholic child, when I believed that saints literally walked a metre or so above the Earth, as they were closer to heaven than the rest of us. The Catholic Church has a strong tradition of venerating saints and continues to formally recognize (or “canonize”) new saints, such as Oscar Romero, an archbishop in El Salvador known for his courageous advocacy for human rights and social justice during a time of political turmoil.

The commemoration of saints, people recognized as having lived holy lives, has always been a part of the Anglican tradition. As Anglicans we pray to “the communion of saints” in the Apostles’ Creed. We honour the memories of the saints, we recount their virtues and try to model our lives by their holy example.

Gregory of Nyssa, a fourth-century Roman Catholic prelate, is venerated as a saint in many Christian traditions, including Anglicanism. He was famous for his views on papal supremacy, his import of monastic principles into canon law (he was the first monk to ascend to the throne of St. Peter), and for his pursuit of anti-corruption reform within the Church.

St. Gregory’s Episcopal Church in San Francisco offers clues about how we might want to think about saints. It features a stunning 2,300 square foot mural that encircles the rotunda walls. Mural figures include saints that might be expected, including Old Testament figures such as Isaiah, David and Miriam, along with early saints such as Francis of Assisi and Teresa of Avila. But social activists such as labour leader Cesar Chavez and civil rights leader Martin Luther King Jr., both devout Christians, also grace the church walls.

Another feature stands out: these saints are dancing, inspired by Gregory, who wrote: “Once there was a time when the whole rational creation formed a single dancing chorus looking upward to the one leader of this dance, and the harmony of motion that they learned from his law found its way into their dancing.” St. Gregory’s has taken this message to heart in its art—and in its worship, which includes the congregation joining hands and dancing. Some may view this as a flakey San Francisco vestige from the hippie era, but I found it deeply spiritual when I worshipped there.

Who are the people in your life whom you view as saintly, through their holiness and their lives of service? I think of a former colleague, a lawyer and Christian named John Olthuis, who worked tirelessly on behalf of First Nations across Canada for six decades, including numerous trips to Labrador to win justice for the Innu. John’s spirit was not ground down by the difficult work before him and the hardships he witnessed amongst First Nations people. Instead, like the dancing saints at St. Gregory’s, John emulated joy. He has danced his way through life. His life of service was recognized through an Order of Canada award two years ago.

Many Anglicans would regard South African Archbishop Desmond Tutu as a saint due to his immense efforts to promote human rights, and in particular to oppose South Africa’s former apartheid regime. Like my friend John, he too emulated joy. Many years ago I met him at a church service in Halifax. A long line of people waited patiently to shake hands with him. He greeted every person with warmth and enthusiasm. As the elderly lady in front of me shook hands with the archbishop, she told him that she’d just had a hip replacement.

“Then we must have a little dance,” replied Archbishop Tutu, with a twinkle in his eye. He let go of her hand, then danced before her in the middle of the nave. May we all seek to live out our faith with that spirit of joy and boldness.

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There is, of course, no difference between Dec. 31 and Jan. 1. However, there is something about the start of a new year that gives us the feeling of a fresh start and a new beginning. Setting and achieving goals can give us a sense of control over our lives and activate hope for a better life.

Common resolutions include self-improvement goals such as losing weight, perhaps by exercising more often or quitting smoking or drinking. Many Christians resolve to read the bible more often.

Our goals for the New Year can both include what we want for ourselves and what we seek for the world – how we can put the central biblical command to “love your neighbour” into action.

Scripture affirms the value of even small actions: “Whoever gives even a cup of cold water to one of these little ones in the name of a disciple – truly I tell you, none of these will lose their reward” (Matthew 10:42). Matthew 25 says that what we do for the imprisoned, the sick, the lonely, the destitute, we do for God. We either visit them and walk with them in their life journey – which means that we see their humanity – or we don’t. The choice is ours. But how we act matters. We can only affect so much, but we must do what we can. We have choices to make.

The message of Matthew 25 resonates with me because a few months ago I spent nearly a month in hospital after a bad fall led to two fractures. That injury and its repercussions involved the worst experience of my life. One thing that sustained me during this difficult time were the people who came to visit me, including a few from my church, who usually arrived with tasty food and good coffee. Their actions may seem modest, but they meant so much to me.

Many of us, including me, have spent much time during the past year “thinking big.” That is, thinking about major issues such as the climate crisis, growing numbers of Canadians reliant on foodbank handouts, a worsening housing crisis, rampant loneliness, and a divisive mood in our body politic. Perhaps as we think about the year ahead, this is a time for “thinking small” as much as “thinking big.” Rather than being overwhelmed by the world’s big picture, we can focus on things we can do in our own lives.

Something else that can guide our decision-making about resolutions, before zeroing in on any specific ones, is to ask ourselves a few basic questions. What do I really care about? How do I want to use my time? What do I feel God is calling me to do? The answers can help point the way ahead for us.

Rather than specific resolutions, you may wish to focus on a word that can help guide your actions in the coming year. It might be “yes”: yes, I will be willing to take on those projects I’ve been avoiding. Or “hope,” pledging to look for signs of hope and reflect a hopeful spirit rather than being caught up in the negative spirit that is common in society these days. These are just examples. There may be another word, such as surrender, fun, nature or something else that speaks to you.

When asked about New Year’s resolutions, some people respond with the answer, “I don’t make them anymore because I found that I never kept them.” On one level, that response is understandable. No one wants to live with a sense of failure. But maybe there’s a way around this dilemma. Why not develop and discuss your goals with a close friend or your spouse? Agree that you’ll check in with each other a few times in the coming year around your goals. That mutual support can make a big difference.

What will you seek to achieve in the coming year?

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