Stands on the Rock (Peter) and the other followers of Creator Sets Free (Jesus) were all gathered there. (First Nations Version: An Indigenous Translation of the New Testament) And so we are gathered here. It is so, so, so good to finally be gathered together in one place. It is so good to be in a familiar space that we have not occupied since 2019. It is so good to hear the buzz and chatter of Anglicans gathering in the crush court and gathering around tables and meeting new friends and seeing old friends. It is wonderful to hear Anglicans singing again in harmony and in unison, and not in muffled, semi-muted tones online.

It is wonderful to be able to gather. Chaplains from independent schools, from hospitals, lay readers, lay leaders, deacons, priests, leaders in parishes large and small, from the four corners of this diocese, from the Kawarthas to Mississauga, from Penetanguishene to Brighton. To be able to be in this space. We have longed to be in each other’s presence. And in the name of Jesus Christ, welcome.

Bienvenue, bienvenida, bienvenido, ben vindos, Tawow, huānyíng. All of the languages of the planet of the Earth are also gathered in this place. We may be confined by the borders of a diocese, but we actually come from all over the planet. And we bring our unique gifts, our unique customs, our unique languages and perspectives, and we gather on this traditional land with deep humility, always conscious, as we heard in the land acknowledgement just a few minutes ago, of how our colonial ways of the past – and our colonial ways that persist in the present – continue to bring harm and alienation and hurt to so many. And that we are summoned as collections of communities, together in this diocese, to sow harmony and reconciliation in the name of Jesus Christ.

We come as parishes, some with very long memories – 1797, St. James Cathedral – and some that are just getting started – Church of the Holy Wisdom, 2021. And all the dates in between. One of the great joys of being a bishop is visiting different communities every Sunday and to mark important anniversaries in the life of the community. It’s wonderful to go into a community celebrating an anniversary and to hear the stories of the past and the present. To hear from members of the community who will tell you that they were there for the first service in a portable or in somebody’s home. Or that they are linked to a family that traces its roots all the way back to the beginning of a parish that streams into the past many, many generations. Or those who are just starting to belong to a community, who speak glowingly about how their lives are being transformed, and how their lives are being literally saved by their faith.

When I go to celebrate anniversaries, an image that I like to place in the midst of a community is to have them imagine if the walls of your church could speak. The stories that they might tell. Imagine if the pews and the kneelers could speak of the prayers that had been uttered heavenward. Or collecting all of the clergy who in time, in their own way, have broken open the Word, have joined hands in matrimony, buried the dead, poured water on baptism and broken bread and poured out wine and invited a community to step into a sacramental way of living. Imagine the deacons, who have, in their own ways, pointed and proclaimed the gospel and uttered in God’s name the invitation to serve the most vulnerable among us. And lay leaders and lay members who in their everyday life say yes to the Kingdom and the realm of God by living out their baptismal covenant. We bring them with us in this space. The communities of which you are a part are here at this Synod with you and with us.

Standing on the beach

In his book Imagining the Kingdom: How Worship Works, James Smith says, “We live into the stories that absorb us. We become the characters that captivate us. Then our actions become kind of a script. Unconsciously we are drawn in through our imagination.” One of the scripts that has captured our imagination over the last 15 months or so is chapter 21 of the Gospel of John. A perfect reading that invites us through a time of COVID to stand on a new threshold on the beach, looking to the future. Of a community that is drawn by God in Jesus, resurrected to new life, that summons us into a future. And so I base this charge back in this same text and using the First Nations version.

In its telling, it brings the story to life with new imagery. Creator Sets Free revealed himself by the Lake of the Circle of Nations, and by the lake also known as the Rolling Waters, this way. In the text, we are told that not all of the disciples were present; only seven, in fact, are named. Some are missing. In the same way, when we gather, we are conscious that there are some members of this Synod who have been longtime members of Synod who are missing, who are not with us. Some who have died, some who have moved on, some who have let go. And we are conscious of the contribution that they have brought to the wider community of Anglicans in this diocese.

In the same way, congregations that have made choices since our last gathering in person, some to close and some to amalgamate to create something new. And we remember that their presence is missed in this room. St. James, Lisle. St. John, Harwood. St. Mark, Warsaw. St. Luke, Dixie South. St. Ninian, St. John the Divine, St. Peter, Scarborough to become Church of the Holy Wisdom. Christ Church, Norwood. Christ Church, Omemee. St. Stephen, Maple. St. Leonard. We remember the faithful witness of gathered communities over a stretch of time that have contributed to the life in their context and to our wider lives, too.

Stands on the Rock (Peter) says, “I’m going fishing.” And the others said, “We’ll go with you.” And they pushed their canoe onto the lake. And they worked all night long under the light of the moon and the stars. And they threw their nets, and they gathered them in. Empty.

We know something of the experience of feeling empty over the last three years of COVID, of emptying out our buildings, of emptying out the streets in our communities, of emptying out our places of employment, of emptying out our schools, of emptying out our stores. We have lived the length of time on empty.

A couple of weeks ago, I had the joy of celebrating a new ministry, the beginning of a new ministry at St. Matthew, Oriole. It was a wonderful event for the whole community and for Sherri Goliski. At the end of the service, a few of us were standing in the worship space, and I looked down on the ground and there on the carpet was an arrow. And there was another one over here and another one over there, a reminder of what it took to take direction to get to the table in the three-year period. Sherri said, “You know, we lifted the tape from that arrow. But the sun faded the rest of the carpet.” And it has left an indelible stamp in the carpet itself, in the same way that the experience has left an indelible mark on us, the likes of which we haven’t yet fully comprehended.

Casting our net

Cast your net on the other side, the right side. We cast our net in COVID in new and creative ways. When the churches emptied out, we went online and we tried new skills, as awkward as we could, used our best audio-visual skills, tried to sound like CBC – that didn’t work. Tried other narrators – that didn’t work, either. We learned to visit in a parking lot or in a park or in somebody’s front yard. We learned to deal with the horrors and the hurt of losing so many people, especially in long-term care homes. And we deal with the long-term legacy that has affected our mental health, especially amongst our young and our elderly, and the effects of long-term COVID. We still have not wrestled with all that has happened to us, and yet we also cast the net, I would say, by being more honest with each other. More vulnerable with each other. Of having different kinds of conversations at clericus. Different kinds of conversations at parish council. Different kinds of conversations amongst friends and family and around the table of the College of Bishops.

Suddenly you can imagine that net being filled with 153 fish. And it is John who says, “It is the Lord.”

There have been moments in the last three years when we, as communities large and small, wondered if COVID would ever end. And there have been moments when, if you’re anything like me, running on empty, still having the sense that somehow it is God’s voice that whispers to us again and again: “Peace. Be still and know. It is the Lord.”

It is the Lord who has brought us to this moment in time. We have not done this all on our own. It is Jesus who has summoned us and the Holy Spirit who has bound us together. As the disciples were hauling in 153 fish, the Diocese of Toronto has been hauling in 202 congregations up back onto the beach to dry out. Like Peter, many of us have felt sodden. Burned out, tired, crackly. We have felt so tired as members of the laity, as wardens, as treasurers, as clergy, who have held the thing together seemingly forever. And now as we come back onto the beach, we sort through our congregations, and some of them are smaller and some of them are the same size and some of at them are bigger, praise God. And some people are missing, but new people are coming. And it is specifically in this moment that we have asked ourselves to enter into a visioning process.

Casting visions

The other bishops will tell you, as I tell you, that over the last number of months as we go through and we visit parishes, there is a lightness and a gladness that is slowly but surely beginning to return. I don’t think we’ve quite figured out the Peace yet. Never really sure what we do now with the Peace. Do we shake hands? Do we keep bowing? Do we hug? It’s a little like adolescents at the school dance. Haven’t quite figured it out. It takes a while to get your land legs back.

But it’s the perfect time, as a whole community, to cast visions and seek how God is calling us. And we are so grateful to all of our consultants. To Canon Ian Alexander, to Dean Peter Elliott, to Dr. Anita Gittens, ODT. To Dr. Kathleen Johnson and to our steering committee, so wonderfully led by the Rev. Dr. Alison Falby and Dave Toycen, ODT.

Listening takes discipline. It’s not easy to listen. In August of 1993, our then-primate, Archbishop Michael Peers, was invited to the National Native Convocation in Minaki. And he was given really strict instructions to listen to the stories and the legacy of hurt and abuse at Residential Schools. He would be given an opportunity to speak at the end. And Archbishop Michael once said that was one of the most helpful instructions to be given. Because when we think we’re listening, we’re actually formulating our response. But when we allow ourselves to listen, we are absorbed into the telling. And the absorption in the telling would lead to an apology that would set a course for all of us as we move into the future, knowing that we are agents of change and reconciliation.

In the same way as you have participated in this listening process with us, on this journey of casting the net, we bring now images and a report of what it is that has been heard, in the same way that Peter in our reading was invited into a listening process with Jesus after breakfast. I find it wonderful, the way they tell the story. The Creator Sets Free used the family name that was given to him, One Who Hears (Simon). One Who Hears. Those who have ears, hear. Seven times it appears in the gospels, eight times in the Book of Revelation. When we have ears, hear. Sometimes you have to be asked not once, not twice, but three times. Tend. Feed. Feed.

Some of us in this room are parts of communities who have heard the hunger pangs in our communities. Like St. Paul on-the-Hill in Pickering that started a food bank in 1990 and watch the use of that food bank go up exponentially – 7,800 members in 2012, 14,000 in 2021, over 20,000 in 2022. One hundred families, 150 seniors in Flemington Park enjoy free fresh produce that is grown at the Common Table Farm at Our Saviour in Don Mills. Just two examples of communities in the diocese who hear the hunger pangs in their communities and respond with love. Love equals food, food equals love. Do you love me? Do you love me? Do you love me?

It takes a while for One Who Hears, Peter, Stands on the Rock, to read and to listen between the lines. Some would say, as theologians, that we go back to that moment before the crucifixion, when Peter would deny Jesus three times. It is a sewing and amending of an old relationship and a moment of forgiveness. Yup. But I like the interpretation of Dr. Caroline Lewis, who says it’s a waking-up moment for Peter to understand who he really is, what his identity is in the resurrected Lord, as a follower and as a disciple. It’s Jesus saying, “Peter, it’s your turn to stand on the rock.”

Spiritual renewal

The same is asked of us. It’s one thing for us to say to our circle of family and friends, “I go to church.” It’s another to say to a circle of family and friends, “I’m really involved at a church. I go to this thing called Synod. How do you spell that?” It’s quite another thing to say, “I am a follower of Jesus. I am a disciple of Jesus Christ.”

We heard that again and again and again in this listening process: a deep desire that we deepen our spiritual renewal and our call to discipleship. And so as we stand on the beach in the Diocese of Toronto, an invitation to step into a season of renewal. A season when we come together in parishes and regional groups, in small groups and large groups, to pray, to be reconciled, to learn, to teach, to worship, to sing, in small groups and large groups. To be taught, to hear teachers from outside the diocese, within the diocese. To be tended and fed in our souls. And we have asked the Rev. Canon Dr. Judy Paulsen to be the coordinator of this Season of Renewal, and we will be forming a steering committee to get us started so that we begin after this Synod that takes us through to 2025.

We walked the road with Jesus. What you will hear in the presentation, I hope, from those who have been doing the listening process, a simplified little format that you can put in your hand, a handheld device almost like a compass, that reminds us of how we find our way home. In simple terms that remind us we are disciples of Jesus Christ, whose good news is the joy and the challenge at the heart of our common life. And we want to be able to hear from you your feedback and also to embrace this as we go.

Children & youth

We heard through our listening, or at least I did, a need and a deep desire to bolster our ministry amongst children and youth. As we change and orient ourselves again with areas and territories to make sure that the budget that we have for youth ministry in each of the areas is embedded in our budget for the diocese. To be able to encourage the creative use of resources like the Ignite program in Scarborough Deanery, where 13 parishes come to work together to pray and to bolster and to support our youth ministry. There are youth members in the room with us. Can I hear an Amen?

Creation care

What a wonderful telling in this gospel version. Piercing through the reading, you can hear creation, under the light of the moon and the stars. The sounds of the water lapping in the background, the sounds of water birds heard in the distance, the feeling of the warmth of the sun as it rises. A reminder to us that all that we do needs to bring creation not in the background, but into the foreground of everything that we do as servants of Christ. To take a page from the Gospel of Mark that says, “Proclaim good news to the whole of creation.” Not just to two-legged mammals, but the whole of creation, every creature, land, sea, water. To proclaim good news to watershed, to creeks, to lakes, to rivers, to valleys, to forests. For the sake of life, and for the seventh generation to come.

Anti-racism and addressing bias

I am grateful to Bishop Kevin, who has served as our Diversity Officer these last two years, and for the Bishop’s Committee on Intercultural Communities. And for those who have worked with Co: Culture Collective in designing a way and strategy forward in how we address issues of racism and bias in our community. And we will be working alongside Bishop Riscylla, who takes over as Diversity Officer, and also to hire a part-time staff person with the skills to help us enflesh this new strategy. It’s a small step, but it will grow as we strengthen together.

Planting new seeds and dreams

For 10 years, Dave Krause served as a consultant in Congregational Development, and now he becomes our Diocesan Missioner, working alongside the College of Bishops as well as Congregational Development in helping us to imagine new communities, new ways of gathering in worship, new ways of working in regions, new ways that God is calling us to plant seedlings of new communities that brings laughter, joy and possibility. Just ask Sarah.

Property and ministry

We’re delighted that Mac Moreau has come on as our director of Property Resources, and working with our executive director, Canon Rob Saffrey and the members of the Property Committee, putting into flesh the desires of Synod in being able to develop and redevelop our church properties for ministry on the frontline, whether that is housing or other developments that we need to address the issues that face us and challenge us as communities.

Brasilia

Later today you will be introduced to the bishop of the Diocese of Brasilia, Bishop Mauricio. He and I have been having conversations online about deepening our relationship and forming a companionship between our two dioceses. His flight was delayed because of the storm in Sao Paulo. He arrived at 5:35 this morning, didn’t sleep a wink on the plane. But he will be offering a workshop later today, and our guest speaker tonight. I’m looking very much forward to a deepening relationship together. We have one of the largest Lusophone communities in the world. And an opportunity for us to plant new community here in the Diocese of Toronto.

Letting go

“When you get older, someone else is going to dress you and take you where you don’t want to go.” Now I don’t know about you, but I understand that Jesus was telling Peter the death by which he would die. But I hear it a different way. It’s very difficult to give away and to let go. But to be a Good Shepherd and a good leader, you need to learn the art of giving it away in order to include and invite different perspectives, different points of view. To expand our episcopal leadership by having fewer bishops and engaging archdeacons and a canon administrator and to invite our regional deans to participate at a deeper level and to invite the whole community of every Anglican church in this diocese to learn the art of what it means to let go, to give permission and to invite others to take on. That’s not just for bishops to do, or archdeacons or regional deans. That’s for clergy, and it’s for matriarchs and for patriarchs, too. To make room. And there are going to be things that will happen in your parish that you probably won’t like very much. And it might make you feel a little uncomfortable, and you may learn a thing or two. And that’s OK.

As I’ve said many times before, Meister Eckhart, the long-ago mystic, said the soul grows by subtraction, not by addition. It is in letting go and encouraging others to become part of that the realm of God is made known in our midst.

Capital campaign

And one more thing that almost sends chills, or helps us break into hives as Anglicans, is this notion. When I imagine standing on this beach looking into the future, in helping to sustain ministry and to make the kinds of turns and changes that we need to, to help the most vulnerable communities among us and to strengthen the strongest, we need to engage in a capital campaign. That landed well. I know that’s hard, and I know asking for money is not an easy thing for Anglicans. But I also know that we continue to benefit from Our Faith-Our Hope. We are still able to seed vital ministry because of the last campaign. And this one is to be designed so that most of the funding remains in parishes to help at the frontline. I would invite you to engage in a feasibility study near the end of 2024 to imagine how God is calling us to build resources for ministry into the future.

Deep gratitude

But I must say, more than anything, I feel deep, deep, deep gratitude for being here in this space with you. And I am grateful for all those who have worked with me over these last number of years, especially the College of Bishops. To my colleagues Riscylla and Kevin, for your deep gifts and hard work at a time of transition, taking on way more than you could ever ask or imagine. To our archdeacons and our canon administrator taking on a whole new role. To our executive director, Rob Saffrey. To all of the staff at 135 Adelaide. To Mary Conliffe and Jenn Bolender King, who organize and keep me organized and remind me of my purpose. It’s good to be reminded. For every cleric in this room, for every lay leader in our parishes, deep and profound gratitude for the sacrifices you have made to help us get to this point in time. And finally, just a word of deep gratitude to my wife, Mary. For standing with me through the good and the hard, and always bringing such deep joy and reminding me of the call that we are all summoned to.

So, as they would say in the First Nations Version, let’s hit the road with Jesus. Amen.

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Following the example of Bishop Selwyn of New Zealand, who invited lay delegates to attend his clergy visitation in 1851, Bishop John Strachan asked the clergy of the Diocese of Toronto to do likewise for the visitation in October 1853. Once gathered, Bishop Strachan declared the assembly to be a Synod. The first of its kind in the Anglican Communion.

The next time you are in St. James Cathedral, I invite you to take a moment and stand at the foot of the chancel step and face the altar. Look to the left, at the first stained glass window in the nave. The bottom portion of the window commemorates this first “unconventional” Synod. Bishop Strachan presides as the delegates, both clergy and lay, gather round. The scene takes place at Holy Trinity, Trinity Square. It was a momentous occasion, when decision-making, planning and the work of the diocese became the shared endeavour of clergy and laity. Episcopally led and synodically governed would become a reality 168 years ago.

Still standing at the foot of the chancel step, now look to the right. The first window in the nave depicts the Day of Pentecost. In beautiful hues of yellow, gold, green and blue, the scene captures the moment when tongues as of fire came to rest on each of the disciples. Alight with the power of the Holy Spirit, the followers of Jesus would break out into the streets of Jerusalem to become instruments of grace and love. The Church would come to life in a new way.

This November, we will convene the 160th regular session of Synod for the Diocese of Toronto. This time, it will be in an unconventional way – online, a first for our diocese. Some of us love gathering for Synod and others not so much. I happen to enjoy Synod. I enjoy seeing my friends and colleagues. I enjoy sharing a table with a parish from a different part of the diocese. I relish the cluster of conversations that happen around display tables, by the coffee stand and around the bar. I enjoy the formal dinner, the debates on relevant issues and the thoughtful engagement of ideas. And yes, I agree, there are moments that are a bit, well, dry. Yet these moments matter somehow, too. I will miss gathering in person this year. And yet, I am deeply grateful for the opportunity to assemble virtually in these precarious times.

The stained-glass windows on the right and on the left in the nave of the cathedral remind me that we should never take Synod for granted. It is a critically important gathering of the Church. The juxtaposition of these two seminal scenes in our church history also remind me that our gathering is to be steeped in worship and praise. We gather in humility. We draw together to honour one another in a spirit of Christian love. We have opportunity to look back and give thanks to God for bringing us safely to this moment in time. We have the occasion to address issues that are pertinent to our times: climate change, poverty and lack of affordable housing, reconciliation with our Indigenous siblings, supporting congregations and leaders through this pandemic.

We have come this far along the way through trouble and lockdown by being vigilant and doing our part alongside other front-line workers. Deeper still, we arrive together knowing that we are never alone. God our creator, Jesus our Saviour and the Holy Spirit our inspirer call us to look to tomorrow with confidence and hope, just like our biblical ancestors did before us.

The LORD is a stronghold for the oppressed, a stronghold in times of trouble. (Psalm 9.9)

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I have vivid memories of our family hitting the road for vacation in July each year. The old blue Pontiac station wagon with parents, four kids and the dog would point in the direction of PEI, Nova Scotia or Quebec City. As a youngster, the thrill of the road trip usually lasted about an hour and then the chorus of calls would come from the back seat… Are we there yet?

And from the front came the measured response… Soon.

Long before hand-held devices, video screens or even FM radio, there were colouring books, card games and puzzles to occupy the kids as the car sped down the highway. Yet these paled in comparison to sitting in the window seat. The coveted window seat had to be shared amongst the four of us, an hour on and an hour off. From the widow seat, you could see the world pass by: rocks and trees, towns and road signs. From the window seat, you could count the Volkswagen Beetles, notice out-of-province licence plates, and prompt truck drivers to blow their horns.

And yet even then, the trip seemed impossibly long. The chorus of, are we there yet, would shift to: Can we stop? I have to go to the bathroom! The dog needs to go… Sometimes the interminable nature of the trip would cause us to turn on each other… You’re sitting on my side! Stop poking me! Mom, he’s making faces at me… am not!

It turns out young children have very little capacity to understand distance and time; they have no points of reference. It’s only with the frequency of trips that we begin to recognize how to name where we are by the landmarks we see on the way: the gas station where we always stop, the Big Apple, the provincial boundary, the island bridge. What young children do understand is the power of a story. Stories have a way of grounding, comforting and settling them so they can sleep at night, face an anxious moment or soothe a hurt. Stories make meaning and give bearings. And are adults really any different?

From the window seat, we have journeyed the familiar way of the cross. We have faced the landmarks of Holy Week that etch the soul – not as passive travellers but as active participants. Palm branches and donkey, bread and wine, betrayal and arrest, trial and cries of crucify him, hanging him from a tree, piercing his side, vinegar and insult, earthquake and torn temple veil.

How could we possibly think that turning on him like we turn on each other would make things better, would settle the score, would have the last word on Friday? How come we keep falling for the same old lie that death is the end of the story. It is not! Because on Sunday, on the third day, in the garden, he comes back. Life returns. As the story goes:

Early on the first day of the week, while it was still dark, Mary Magdalene came to the tomb and saw that the stone had been removed from the tomb.

“Woman, why are you weeping? Whom are you looking for?” Supposing him to be the gardener, she said to him, “Sir, if you have carried him away, tell me where you have laid him, and I will take him away.”  Jesus said to her, “Mary!”

On Sunday in the garden, our story begins again. On Sunday – we know not how – Jesus is raised from the dead. On Sunday, the disciples come out of lockdown. Peace is restored, forgiveness is offered, love wins. On Sunday, the grief of Friday is wiped away with a word… ALLELUIA! The Lord is risen indeed!

Trust and hope are planted once again in the human soul like a seed that falls into the earth and sprouts into new life. In the garden, life begins again. We begin once more. For as St. Paul would remind us: For I am convinced that neither death nor life, neither angels nor demons, neither the present nor the future, nor any powers, neither height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God that is in Christ Jesus our Lord.

And neither can pandemic.

From the back seat we ask…. Are we there yet?

And from the front seat we hear… Soon.

More than anything, we long to return, to hit the road, to break out. We pine to worship in person, dine in a restaurant, go back to school. We have come so far on the way. With the arrival of vaccines comes a deep hope that even with the approach of the third wave, the distance yet to travel is lessened. With the fortitude, the patience and the discipline honed by the year we have come through, life will return.

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This Lent feels different, however. The Lenten Fast came early to our home this year. Mary and I decided to participate in our own version of Dry Feb, by abstaining from alcohol for the month. We invited our circle of friends to offer recipes for alcohol-free mocktails for us to try. We would rate the recipes at the end of February and choose our favourite. A donation would then be made to a charity of the winner’s choice, equal to the value of what we might have spent on alcohol. I won’t tell you how much that was! Part way through February, we decided to extend the practice of fasting by participating in A Fast for the Earth: Lent 2021. The Fast resource created by Dr. Sylvia Keesmaat and the members of the Bishop’s Committee on Creation Care is available on our website.

The resource invites us to be mindful, soulful and deeply aware of the footprint we are leaving behind as we tread this life. What better time to do so than during a global pandemic. Navigating our lives during this time has been very difficult. Social distancing, living through lockdown and staying home has helped to flatten the curve and save lives. Many of us have made the necessary adjustments and we work from home. And yet at the same time, many have lost their employment, suffered economic hardship and struggled with mental health issues and the effects of domestic violence. Being mindful and deeply aware of the plight of our neighbour as we pass through this time is critical. After all, like it or not, we are on the threshold of a paradigm shift, for the sake of the whole creation.

Scientists are using this time of pandemic to measure the effects of lockdown on the environment. And the benefits are noticeable. The reduction in air, water and noise pollution levels has had a beneficial effect on ecological restoration. As industries and transportation have shut down, there has been a drop in greenhouse gas emissions. It was reported that levels of air pollution in New York were reduced by nearly 50 per cent because of the measures taken to control the virus. It was estimated that levels of NO2 and CO2 emissions were cut in half in China during the lockdown. Nitrogen dioxide is emitted from burning fossil fuels, the biggest culprit being motor vehicle exhaust. Across Ontario, the level of NO2 demonstrated a reduction from 4.5 ppb to 1 ppb.

Week by week, A Fast for the Earth: Lent 2021 invites us to curb our appetites, watch our consumption, manage our waste, preserve resources, loose the bonds of injustice and unplug for the sake of the earth. The global climate crisis compels us to change. Dwelling during this pandemic proves that we can change. For the sake of all life, we must do our part – together. By being intentional and prayerful in our choices, old patterns will fade so that new life will come. It’s the promise of Easter, and that same promise rests with you and me. As St. Paul reminds us: Moreover, if the Spirit of the one who raised Jesus from the dead lives in you, the one who raised Christ from the dead will also make your mortal bodies alive through his Spirit who lives in you. (Romans 8.11)

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At the tender age of 91, Margaret Keenan turns to the future with a sense of newfound hope. She looks to re-connect. With the turn of a page of the calendar, we bid adieu to 2020. It was a year like no other. It was a year shaped by pandemic and our response to it. We learned quickly how to live on our own. We learned to adapt, to physical distance, to Zoom and livestream. We closed the doors of our churches, opened them and closed them again. We grappled with what it means to gather and commune remotely. We observed a eucharistic fast and dwelled in the Word. We learned to receive Communion spiritually. We tried to flatten the curve in the attempt to keep each other safe. We made it through one wave and braced ourselves for the second.

We learned to wear masks, everywhere. We leaned on curb-side pickup, Amazon and Netflix. We lived at home, worked from home, went to school at home. We mixed business attire with pajama bottoms. Some of us grew beards and let our hair grow (well some of us, anyway). And we reached out to neighbouring parishes and pooled our resources to support one another in these unprecedented times.

At the same time, issues of concern, need and alarm surfaced. We were confronted once again by the sin of racism in the aftermath of the killing of George Floyd. We were awakened to the reality that so many in our society live in poverty, struggle with precarious housing and food insecurity. We were roused by the needs of so many who struggle with anxiety, depression and other mental health issues. And we grappled with how to respond to the rising incidents of domestic abuse.

As we step into 2021, we welcome the possibility of putting COVID-19 to the side with the advent of a vaccine. We share in Margaret Keenan’s hope for a return to a life that we miss. At the same time, I hope that we will not squander the lessons that we learned together in 2020. I pray that we will not lose our 2020 vision, the sharpness or clarity of seeing at a distance. We learned in 2020 how to be vulnerable, resilient and tenacious. We made promises together. We pledged to serve our elders more carefully. We promised to put down racism in all its forms in our churches and communities. We told ourselves that we would raise up the poor and seal the cracks in our social structures through which so many have fallen. And we have to do our part in healing creation and lowering our carbon footprint.

With the turn of the calendar, I am conscious that almost half of my episcopacy thus far has been served in pandemic. This time is shaping me deeply. To this time, we are each called to bear witness to the faith that is in us. Like the Magi, we find our bearings from the heavens; like the Shepherds, we are guided by angels and wend our way back to the fields from Bethlehem.

Just like Margaret Keenan, or Sarah and Abraham, we do not allow age or fatigue to diminish the hope that we are called to live into every day. For a Child has been born for us, who is Christ the Lord.

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Perhaps you also know what it’s like to wait in the emerg during a pandemic. My mother needed to go to the hospital not very long ago. My father, older brother Brent and I went with her, only to be told at the door that two of us would have to wait outside – pandemic protocols. The weather was pleasant and we found a bench upon which we could sit. And there we waited. It would take almost nine hours before my mother was seen by a doctor. It was a particularly busy day.

To pass the time, my father, brother and I took turns sitting with mom, keeping her company, chatting about this or that or nothing at all. Nine hours gives you time to think, reflect, hope, worry and pray… a lot. It also gives you time to talk with other folks who are going through the same thing.

At first, talking in the emerg is like breaking the unspoken rule of not talking in an elevator or on the subway. It is understood that you are supposed to keep to yourself. But once you’re past that, you can learn something about the toddler with an ear ache, the man who fell off his bike and broke his clavicle, the woman needing some stitches or the fellow with a broken hand. For a few short hours of your life, perfect strangers gather randomly looking for the same thing: a healing hand.

Somewhere around hour four or so, I could tell that my mother was feeling the effects of staying too long in the air conditioning of the hospital. Are you cold, mom? I asked. Yes, she replied, a little bit. I wondered what I might do. We had not planned our visit very well. Then I remembered it. I went to the car, and there it was on the back seat. Just a few days earlier, it was sitting on my desk, a gift from one of our parishes in the diocese.

I wrapped it around my mother’s shoulders. As she held the delicately woven green and blue material in her hand, she looked at me and said, I know what this is, it’s a prayer shawl.

That’s right, mom, I said, it’s a prayer shawl from St. Stephen’s church in Maple. The shawl never left her side. Wherever she went, so did the shawl. It offered more than just warmth. It gave her a little shelter from fear, worry, and anxiety, a covering of hope and the promise of presence.

In this season of gratitude, I am grateful for all frontline workers, in particular the volunteers, staff, nurses and doctors who serve in our hospitals and clinics every day. For teachers, professors, and staff in our schools, colleges and universities who gather in the classroom to impart learning. I am grateful for our bishops, priests, deacons, musicians, lay leaders and volunteers who have worked so hard to open our church buildings so that the community of faith might gather. And I am grateful for the prayerful hands that wove a shawl that made a difference. Thanks be to God.

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One of my escapes while living in the state of self-isolation has been our garden. Outside our kitchen window is a lilac tree. Since the middle of March, I have watched with joy the tree come to life, small buds slowly sprouting, pushing through the end of what seems a lifeless branch. One branch taps the window when the wind is blowing – an invitation, of sorts, to notice that life is returning in the garden. The brown wilted leaves left behind by autumn are letting go to green shoots poking up through the surface of the earth. The rains of April soaked the soil in preparation for May flowers. The garden reminds us that our nature is not to stay inside, cooped up and self-isolated forever.

And what is true of our own nature is true of the Church, too. For 50 days after the resurrection appearances, the early Church remained, as instructed, in isolation. Wait for the promise that the Father is sending to you. You will receive the power of the Holy Spirit, Jesus said to them. They waited, prayed, watched and prepared for the day when they could break into the world like the bud on what seems a lifeless branch. We hear about the day in the book of Acts, chapter 2. And suddenly from heaven there came a sound like the rush of a violent wind, and it filled the entire house where they were sitting. Divided tongues, as of fire, appeared among them, and a tongue rested on each of them. All of them were filled with the Holy Spirit and began to speak in other languages, as the Spirit gave them ability. Out into the streets they went, breaking into the world to tell out their souls the greatness of the Lord. No fear, no hesitation, no second thoughts – out they went like they couldn’t wait. Like being given the all-clear after 50 days of self-isolation. Can you picture that?

Have we not been doing the same in this time of imposed isolation and quarantine? Have we not been preparing, praying, watching and learning how to be the Church separated from each other? Have we not been learning again, or perhaps for the first time, what it means to be faithful when all that we are used to doing is taken for a time: touch, closeness, intimacy, three dimensions rather than just two. This time of seclusion has, I hope, also been a time of germination. We have been experimenting with new ways of reaching out and supporting one another. We have moved beyond our comfort zones to try new things, experiment and take risks for the sake of the gospel.

One day, the all-clear will be given. One day, we will be permitted to open our doors and break back into the world. One day, we will gather around the altar, break bread, pour out wine and speak shalom to one another with deep joy. And when that day finally comes, I pray that we will not lose what we have learned, what we have gleaned from this time of separation. I pray that this time of germination will deepen our collective resolve to be the Church. I pray that through our ministry others will hear the tapping at the window or door and know new life in Jesus Christ.

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In Year A of our liturgical rhythm, these are the characters that accompany us through the season of Lent. Their encounters with Jesus are a foretaste of what is to come on Easter Day. And these encounters would surely challenge their understanding of life, of themselves and of God. Questions like, who am I now, where am I going, what is my purpose, must have bubbled to the surface in these moments of change. We too ask these questions when striving to understand our place, our call, our vocation in this life.

We have four children in university and one in Grade 10. The number of occupants in our home expands and contracts throughout the year. At Thanksgiving, Christmas, Easter and during summer vacation, the number of pairs of shoes at the front door grows, as does the grocery bill. During the school term, it’s nice and quiet. We enjoy both times of plenty and times of calm. Our children are not only attending to scholastics, expanding their horizons, learning to live away from home – they are also striving to discover their own place, purpose and vocations.

When I was their age, I didn’t have a clear idea of what I wanted to do when I grew up. I had an inkling in about Grade 7 that priesthood might be for me, but that’s not something you talk about with your friends at that age. I kept it close. In Grade 12, we filled out a career aptitude test that would make recommendations for occupations to pursue. My classmates received recommendations to be lawyers, doctors, nuclear physicists, politicians and teachers. Me, I was told to consider being a bricklayer or a tugboat captain. What? That didn’t make much sense to me. Not to say that there is something wrong with being a bricklayer or a tugboat captain – these are worthy occupations. It’s just that to that point in my life I had spent no time in construction and barely a moment in a boat.

I went off to university to study biology because it was my highest mark in high school. I loved the sciences and imagined that by doing more in-depth education, something would stick. By third year, I knew that biology and chemistry, while interesting to me, were not my passions. All my friends were falling in love with their courses and finding their way, and I was losing mine. I tried environmental studies, economics, political science and even French history.

The turning point came through listening. I listened to friends and family who knew me well. I listened to my heart, my hunger, and I listened for God. By third year of my undergrad, I was praying again, a practice that I had left behind when I had left home. On a very cold winter night, I looked out my bedroom window upon the snowy and windswept field that reflected the state of my soul, and I prayed… Loving God, I have no idea what I am supposed to do, please, please, please…help me. That was a turning point for me. Through a series of serendipitous moments, I found myself going back to the idea of ordained ministry. This is the calling that makes my heart sing.

When I think about it now, that high school aptitude test did get it right. I spend much of my ministry tugging, pulling and guiding the Church that I serve to find secure passage, open water and safe harbour, like a tugboat captain. Laying down visions and dreams, mixing the mortar with prayer and faith to bind, to strengthen and build the Kingdom of God day after day after day, like a bricklayer, fills me with hope.

Jesus chose fishers and tax collectors, carpenters and tentmakers. He moved Nicodemus, the woman from Samaria, the man born blind and Lazarus to a deeper life of faith. And Jesus calls you and me through our baptism to use the gifts that God has given us to make more than a living. We are called to bring life to others, no matter what our vocation.

You may be one like many others wrestling with the idea of ordained ministry. Listen. Listen to your heart, listen to your hunger. Listen to those who know you well. Listen for God.

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Every four years or so, we add one day at the end of February so that our modern-day Gregorian calendar remains in alignment with the earth’s revolutions around the sun. It takes the earth about 365.242 days (365 days, five hours, 48 minutes and 45 seconds to be exact) to orbit the sun once. This is technically called a solar year. A solar year is measured from either the spring or fall equinox to the following one, or from the summer or the winter solstice to the one that follows.

Five hours, 48 minutes and 45 seconds doesn’t really seem like very much in the context of a whole year. However, if we didn’t add a leap day every four years, after only a century, our calendar would be out of synch by around 24 days. A missing six hours adds up over time.

Feb. 29 becomes a day of course correcting, of bringing things back into alignment, of synchronizing our earthly everyday lives with the heavens. In a similar way, Ash Wednesday summons us to stop, to correct our course, to take an accounting of our lives and find ways of immersing ourselves in the ancient means of recalibrating our souls. The branches of Palm Sunday, once waved in adulation and hope, are reduced on Wednesday to ash to remind us of the fragility of life, of our mortality, of our propensity to lose our footing and to wander away from God.

In the busyness of our lives, of making ends meet, of working and raising families, of volunteer work and getting stuck in traffic, or lost in the latest Netflix series, it is easy to assume that all that matters is what is in front of us. And before long we can miss the numinous moments that call us back to reality and life.

In the Ash Wednesday liturgy, the presider summons the community to prepare to enter the season of Lent by saying these words: I invite you therefore, in the name of the Lord, to observe a holy Lent by self-examination, penitence, prayer, fasting, and almsgiving, and by reading and meditating on the word of God…

Lent becomes the one season in our Christian year when all is righted. And we celebrate our redemption through the death and resurrection of Jesus Christ. Through this Christian Passover, we gain more than just a day. We gain life itself.

This Lent, I encourage you and your parish to join me in participating in the Signs of Life program devised by Virginia Theological Seminary and the Society of St. John the Evangelist. Details about the program can be found at www.signsoflife.org. The Lenten program invites us to contemplate the themes of light, water, food, shelter and community – elements of everyday life that sustain us, and symbols too that permeate our worship and faith life through which Jesus is present in our lives, with the power to transform us. I will be hosting a conversation on the symbols each Tuesday evening in the month of March. The location of these gatherings will shift week to week throughout the diocese. I hope that you will consider joining me at the location closest to you. Let’s take this Lenten leap together.

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I always feel a little more sentimental in the fall; more hopeful and grateful too for the simplest of gifts and the myriad of blessings that I have received in the year. With the advent of the fall comes the need to put summer away – storing the garden furniture, turning the garden, raking the leaves and putting things to rest.

For the Anglican Church of Canada, this was quite a summer. A Tale of Two Cities, written by Charles Dickens, opens with the familiar phrase: “It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair, we had everything before us, we had nothing before us, we were all going direct to Heaven, we were all going direct the other way.”

Dickens could very well have been describing General Synod 2019. There were moments of light and darkness, of having everything and not much at all. There were times when it seemed we were all going directly to heaven and when it appeared we were all going directly the other way. The headlines in the newspapers and the coverage in the media captured some of what happened. However, it seems to me it will take time to sift through the leaves of GS 2019 a little longer to know what really took place there for those seven days in the summer of 2019.

There were times of great light and wisdom. We bade farewell and thank you to Archbishop Fred Hiltz, who served so faithfully. We welcomed Archbishop Linda Nicholls as our new Primate. We made great strides in supporting the self-determining Indigenous Church.

It was also a time for apology, by our Primate: “Tonight, I offer this apology for our cultural and spiritual arrogance toward all Indigenous Peoples – First Nations, Inuit and Métis – and the harm we inflicted on you…”

It was a time for the elders who were present to receive the apology: “This is an historic week in the life and future of our Church. We did it together! We are partners in change. It was our finest moment as a Church. As a fully recognized self-determining people within the Anglican Church of Canada, the Apology is timely in reinforcing that the Church is walking side-by-side with us as we continue our spiritual journey for healing.”

It was a time of incredulity and despair for many on the floor of Synod following the vote on second reading of the Marriage Canon. It was a time of upset no matter which way you cast your vote. I must say, though, even in that most difficult moment there was grace. After the vote, when the evening session closed and as the room emptied, the Diocese of Toronto’s delegates huddled together off to the side, in a collective group hug, to talk, weep and pray… and then I bought the first round! We were all hurting and yet we found solace together.

It was a time for apology again, this time by the House of Bishops following the vote on the second reading of the Marriage Canon: “We, members of the House of Bishops of the Anglican Church of Canada, see the pain and anguish inflicted on LGBTQ2S+ people, on members of the General Synod, across the Church, and in the world, as a result of the work and the vote on the matter of Canon 21, concerning marriage. We see your tears, we hear your cries, and we weep with you. We have caused deep hurt. We are profoundly sorry…”

What do I take with me from General Synod 2019? I take with me a deep sense of hope for a way forward on a great many issues, in particular on the issue of same-sex marriage. The Word to the Church, which General Synod overwhelmingly approved on July 12, holds before us affirmations of who we strive to be; Indigenous spiritual self-determination, diverse understandings of the existing canon, diverse understandings and teachings on marriage, our commitment to presume good faith and our commitment to stand together.

I take great hope in the statement from the House of Bishops: “We are walking together in a way which leaves room for individual dioceses and jurisdictions of our Church to proceed with same-sex marriage according to their contexts and convictions, sometimes described as ‘local option.’”

Since 2016, our diocese has lived by pastoral guidelines allowing for the marriage of same-sex couples. These guidelines will continue to be in place. As I stated in my video following General Synod, “If your parish feels called to offer marriage to same-sex couples, please follow, for now, the current guidelines, write to me, ask for permission, and I will grant it.”

In the weeks to come, I will be consulting with colleagues in the House of Bishops, clergy and lay leaders in our diocese and working closely with the College of Bishops to develop a more clearly defined understanding of what we mean by “local option.”

In the meantime, we have work to do reconciling with our Indigenous brothers and sisters. We have work to do in reconciling with our LGBTQ2S+ community and family members, who through the legislative process of General Synod experienced pain beyond words in such a personal and public way. We have work to do to ensure that those of us who hold to the traditional teaching of marriage have a cherished place in the Church.

Hope comes in the fall. It’s time to reflect, remember and look back. It’s time to pull things in, to tug things back, like drawing the harvest into the barn before the snow comes.

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