Depending on traffic, Ramallah is at least a half-hour drive north of Jerusalem. The two cities, separated by checkpoints and the notorious Wall, stand in stark contrast to one another. In Jerusalem, Haredi Jews stroll the sidewalks. Billboards and shop signs are in Hebrew. Many roads, while exceptionally congested, are wide enough to accommodate multiple lanes. In Ramallah, however, Arabic is ubiquitous. Jews are rarely, if ever, seen. The terrain is hilly, streets are narrower, and motorists make liberal use of their horns. Many women wear a hijab. Hagop Djernazian, a Sabeel staff member who accompanied us for the day, remarked that Ramallah is culturally and topographically a smaller version of Amman, Jordan.

We arrived at St. Andrew’s Church, located at the end of a short easy-to-miss alley. The parish is led by Father Fadi Diab, a courageous priest who played a major role in the writing of the 2009 Kairos Palestine Document – an impassioned ecumenical call for an end to Israel’s illegal occupation. In August 2022, Israeli forces raided St. Andrew’s and the adjacent Al Haq human rights organization. Father Fadi’s strong pastoral presence helped the congregation remain resolute in the aftermath of this attack.

Once inside the church, we made our way into the nave, a modest space framed by stone walls, with the chancel archway stunningly decorated to simulate a cave entrance. Beside the chancel steps, a small organ was played by a man with an infectious smile who welcomed us warmly. Families trickled in, filling the pews from front to back in anticipation of Archbishop Hosam’s arrival. At the beginning of the service, Father Fadi invited Bishop Andrew to light the second candle of the Advent wreath – an experience that would, as he shared later in the evening, almost bring him to tears. The service proceeded in Arabic, in a simple but reverent manner, with familiar rhythms and hymn tunes that allowed us to follow along easily.

Archbishop Hosam, whose formidable stature belies his gentle and gracious disposition, rose to deliver his homily. Speaking in Arabic for several minutes, he concluded with a word in English. Focusing his attention on the gospel, he drew a strong connection between John the Baptist’s prophetic witness and the Advent theme of peace. We must, he insisted, embrace John’s prophetic call and be agents and ambassadors of peace. That is how we will “prepare the way of the Lord” and “make his paths straight.”

The climax of the service was the Eucharist, with everyone – including a toddler who had been running up and down the centre aisle – eagerly lining up to receive the sacrament. The consecrated bread was not the dry, tasteless little discs that are so common in our diocese. Instead, the archbishop broke off generous pieces of a freshly baked loaf, dipping them himself in the chalice and then offering them to all communicants. During this time, communion hymns were sung joyfully and resoundingly. Despite living under oppressive occupation, these Christians showed an unmistakable depth of faith and perseverance.

After the service, some of us were privileged to meet parishioners Sami and Lulu Nasir. Their daughter Layan, age 25, has been in and out of “administrative detention” since 2021 and currently languishes (along with thousands of other Palestinians) in an Israeli prison, for no justifiable reason. Her case has received international attention, prompting several archbishops to demand her immediate release. Layan’s parents are prevented from making any contact with her. As Lulu tearfully shared with us the impact of this ordeal, I was unable to contain my own emotions. It was a profoundly unsettling moment for me that powerfully evoked the oft-recited intercession “for prisoners and captives, and for their safety, health, and salvation.”

The heaviness of that moment temporarily gave way to a wonderfully catered dinner in the parish hall. We were then ushered into a side room for a meeting with Archbishop Hosam. He shared with us some of his own work and the grim challenges facing Anglicans in Palestine, especially in the wake of Oct. 7. At the conclusion of the meeting, we laid hands on the archbishop as Bishop Andrew offered a prayer and blessing. Archbishop Hosam responded by praying for us and blessing our work.

Before departing for Jerusalem, we joined Archbishop Hosam for the blessing and dedication of a newly renovated facility that will provide affordable housing for women moving to Ramallah for employment opportunities. As we toured the building, I lingered in the small chapel. Through the window directly behind the altar, large water storage tanks were clearly visible – an arresting reminder of the water shortages that Palestinians endure. Israel controls 85% of the water in the Holy Land, selling the remaining 15% to Palestinians.

The drive back to Jerusalem was much longer because of an interminable check-point line – again, another reality that suffocates Palestinian movement. It gave me much time to ponder the day, both the dismal and the joyful elements. Above all, I was astonished by the tenacity of faith and undeterred confidence that we witnessed among these Christians of Ramallah.

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On the surface, the distinction between ecumenism and interfaith ministry seems clear. Take, first, ecumenism. At its first assembly, convened in Amsterdam in 1948, the World Council of Churches adopted a resolution that identified its member churches as those who “acknowledge Jesus Christ as God and saviour” and “find their unity in him.” The resolution went on to declare, “They do not have to create their unity; it is the gift of God. But they know that it is their duty to make common cause in the search for the expression of that unity in life and work.”

Ecumenism is the work that different churches undertake to visibly manifest their unity. This does not mean that churches aspire to eliminate all their differences, ultimately becoming a single global church. Instead, ecumenism involves different churches strengthening relationships between themselves, facilitating cooperation on joint projects, reaching consensus on theological statements, and striving for mutual recognition and acceptance of each other’s ministries, such that clergy from one church are able to officiate sacramentally in another. An example of this is the 2001 Waterloo Declaration that brought the Anglican Church of Canada and the Evangelical Lutheran Church in Canada into full communion.

If that describes ecumenism, then interfaith ministry would seem to be something quite different. From the patristic era until the 20^th century, the doctrinal phrase extra Ecclesiam nulla salus (“outside the Church is no salvation”) determined how most Christians related to those of other faith traditions. The imperative of evangelization and baptism was the chief motivating factor in such relationships. But the upshot has been largely disastrous: harmful roots of Christian self-superiority have set in, the depths of which churches today are only beginning to fathom. Consider the enduring genocidal impact of the Indian Residential Schools, which Canadian churches operated to “civilize and Christianize” Indigenous children, “killing the Indian in the child.”

Since the Second Vatican Council (1962-1965), the exclusivist theology behind the phrase extra Ecclesiam nulla salus has fallen under criticism, even as calls for a “new evangelization” have been raised. An important outcome of the council—the effects of which have impacted Anglicanism considerably—has been a call to dialogue with other faith traditions. Without dialogue, the inevitable alternative, as history has demonstrated time and again, is violence. Interfaith ministry is thus best understood as a form of peacemaking. It has to do with Christians reaching out to their neighbours of other faith traditions, to learn from them and understand them better, and to help them understand more clearly who Christians are without any ulterior intentions of proselytism. Even more, it involves cooperating on joint projects, fostering friendships and living side by side in peace.

If all that is helpful in grasping the distinction between ecumenism and interfaith ministry, in recent years the lines have become blurry. Case in point: in 1987 the Roman Catholic Archdiocese of Toronto established its ecumenical and interfaith affairs office. Ecumenism and interfaith ministry, while distinct, were pursued separately in the same office. That changed in 2020 when Archbishop Thomas Collins established two departments: an office for interreligious dialogue and an office for promoting Christian unity and religious relations with Judaism. This development marked a deliberate attempt to expand the work of ecumenism to include reconciliation with Jews. It also complicated the relationship between ecumenism and interfaith ministry.

Bringing together ecumenism and Christian reconciliation with Jews surely makes good theological sense, and Anglican dioceses would do well to pursue a similar tack. On one level, as St. Paul argues, “the gifts and the calling of God are irrevocable” (Romans 11:29). Jews participate in salvation, even when they are loyal to their own faith tradition and do not confess Jesus Christ as God and saviour. But on another level, Judaism remains its own faith tradition, distinguished from Christianity as much as from Islam, Hinduism, Buddhism and other faiths. The quest for reconciliation with Jews is rightly an extension of ecumenism, but churches must also pursue relations with Jews that affirm the distinct integrity of Judaism. This is a point where ecumenism and interfaith ministry collide, even overlap.

There are those who argue that this overlap pertains only to Christian-Jewish relations, for Christian existence itself is altogether dependent on Judaism. But Christians and Jews are not the only “People of the Book”: Islam rounds out the Abrahamic tradition. In the document Nostra aetate, an important declaration of the Second Vatican Council, Muslims are esteemed because they “adore the one God.” The declaration then calls on Christians and Muslims “to work sincerely for mutual understanding.” This language opens the door for relations with Muslims that are an extension of ecumenism, in much the same way that reconciliation with Jews is a deepening of the ecumenical task.

Does the overlap of ecumenism and interfaith ministry extend beyond the Abrahamic tradition? Might Christians discover ways to relate ecumenically to Sikhs, Hindus, Buddhists and people of other so-called Dharmic faiths? The answer really depends on how much mutual understanding is first achieved through interfaith ministry. In the course of careful listening, deep learning and friendship building, Christians may find that assumed differences on major issues of belief and practice are mere misunderstandings. In the end, perhaps Christians stand in more theological agreement with, say, Buddhists than is typically acknowledged.

If this is so, then the importance of interfaith ministry cannot be overstated. It is a ministry that beckons all dioceses, parishes and individuals. The call is to each of us. As we reach out to our neighbours of other faiths, learn from them and extend our own hospitality, we might discover that we are verging ever closer to the work of ecumenism. Perhaps Jesus’ prayer “that they may all be one” (John 17:21) can be heard in our time as a prayer for the whole world in all its religious multiplicity.

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