On Not Being Prematurely Disappointed

On any given Monday out at the jail, anywhere from 25-40 percent of the guys who come out to the chapels are indigenous. Given that they make up around 6-7 percent of the Alberta population, that’s some bad math. Actually, “bad” is not a strong enough word. It’s heartbreaking. And it’s angry making. And it’s frustrating. And it’s demoralizing. And… well, pick your adjective. It’s not good. It is a reality that should not be.

Today is the fifth annual National Day for Truth and Reconciliation. There will be plenty of nice words from politicians, plenty of solemn ceremonies, plenty of flags and orange shirts and opportunities to learn. There will be endless reminders of all the work that is yet to be done and the promise of more dollars and programs and “awareness” initiatives. I have sat through many of these speeches, heard many of these promises, participated in many ceremonies and hearings, and written many words about Canada’s historical mistreatment of indigenous people and what a better future might look like. Long time readers of this blog will know that this is not an abstract or theoretical exercise for me as I have young adult Ojibwe kids. I desperately want a better future for them and for those who come after them.

I’ve been thinking about those two words a lot today. “Truth” and “Reconciliation.” The meaning of both depends on who’s using them, of course. “The truth” is so easily and obviously weaponized by the left and the right these days, one despairs of even trying to say anything about it. People—including indigenous people—disagree about how the story should be told, even if nearly everyone acknowledges that the residential school system did enormous damage which continues to manifest in the present (not least in the jail). And “reconciliation?” How would we know if such a thing had happened? Is it even possible? Permissible? Desirable?

During prayer time last Monday, I looked around the circle. It was a big group, and it was the usual 25-40 percent indigenous men. Most were very young. I asked what we could pray for. One young indigenous man said, “That people would see us as human beings, even though we’re in here.” Another simply looked down and said, “Forgiveness. For the things that we’ve done. The things that have been done to us. And the things we need to forgive ourselves for.” No matter what colour the skin, all the heads nodded at that.

I’ve been thinking today about those two prayer requests from two young indigenous men. I’m undoubtedly taking some liberties, but I wonder if there are some lessons that could be extrapolated to our political reality more broadly.

That people would see us as human beings. I think that whatever the future may hold here in Canada, it must include this vital truth. Indigenous people are, first and foremost, human beings like anyone else. They are not avatars for progressive guilt or virtue; they are not obstacles to economic development. They are not a paternalistic government portfolio, some perpetual “other” doomed to forever be separate from “other Canadians.” My daughter used to say, whenever someone asked her to talk about her “indigenous identity,” “I see myself as a person and a child of God first.”

Forgiveness for the things we’ve done, the things done to us, and the ways in which we need to forgive ourselves. If reconciliation is to ever be more than a word that we drag out every September or a week’s worth of cultural programming and education (all of which can play a vital role), forgiveness will have be part of the equation. This is a risky thing for someone like me to say, I know. But the guys I talk to on Mondays know very well that if any relationship that means something to them is to be repaired, forgiveness must be extended in those three directions. Actual reconciliation is impossible without it.

Forgiveness is an intensely personal journey and it happens on multiple timelines. It can be incremental and partial. It can ask more of us over time and is nobody’s right to demand on behalf of someone else. Forgiveness is something entirely separate from redress for past injustices, which is a separate conversation. But we cannot do without it. From the large-scale actions of governments and churches to the smaller scale level of personal relationships, we live in a world where we hurt each other. All. The. Time. This is what it means to be human. It doesn’t excuse it, doesn’t justify it, doesn’t make it any less painful or wrong or unjust. But in a world where we hurt and are hurt by each other constantly, there is indeed, to quote the late Desmond Tutu, “no future without forgiveness.”

A few months ago, I was at a Catholic retreat centre and a speaker said something I haven’t forgotten. I’ve taped it up right beside where my computer sits in my church study, so I have to see it often throughout the day. I don’t know the source of the quote, but she said, “A cynic is prematurely disappointed in the future. A Christian sees the world as Christ sees it, which is to say, as redeemable.”

It’s very easy to walk out of the jail every Monday and be prematurely disappointed in the future—for the guys I see every week or for the dysfunctional and toxic social, structural, and familial realities that lead them there. It’s very easy to look at Canadian political reality and be prematurely disappointed in the future. It’s not at all hard to imagine another half century or more of the status quo. It’s very easy to imagine endless money and good will circling the drain and making little change.

Today—and most days, and around many issues—I am trying to be a Christian instead of a cynic. I am trying to see the world and all of its inhabitants and issues, its inconvenient truths and it’s self-serving lies, its damnable sins and its unjust suffering, as redeemable.