Presented by Rebecca Mancini & Greg Kennedy
Published June 2024
Part One: Lament
Rebecca: The birds they sang at the break of day
Greg: “Start again”, I heard them say
Rebecca: “Don’t dwell on what is passed away”
Greg: Or what is yet to be.
R: Think of the difference between “dwelling in” and “dwelling on”. To dwell in means to inhabit, to abide, to make home, to reside.
G: To “dwell on” means to ruminate, to be absorbed by, to obsess over.
R: Could it be that the more we “dwell on” the less able we are to “dwell in”?
G: Don’t dwell on what is passed away.
R: How do we not lose ourselves in what is passed away? Looking at the world around us today, it is easy to be overwhelmed by grief: we have less than 6 years to halt the process of a warming planet; wars are raging as the colonial project is perpetuated; there is a growing gap between people who have resources and those who do not; the politics of competing interests are being played out while people and other living beings die. The world we see today does not offer the same possibilities that it did a generation ago. When the issues are this large, how do we even comprehend how to respond?
G: The losses we as individuals and as communities have sustained are huge and at the same time often hidden. Or at least that’s how our hearts register them. Often it hurts too much to face them, so we deflect our awareness elsewhere. Homelessness is a shame, but at least my neighborhood is relatively sheltered. Climate change is real, of course, but forest fires burn a long way off from the Tri-Cities, even if their smoke can dull our sky. How easy it is to normalize the unthinkable.
R: After deflection often comes “dwelling on”, the plague of anxiety over (and over) the precious things that have been stolen, be them a job, a loved one, a feeling of safety, a prosperous prospect for the future. It is easy to stay in this spot, to build our walls, and to create an idea of otherness that distances us. And we do this because we hurt, because we are trying to sooth the ache we feel. It is a natural human spot to be, but when we let ourselves retreat within our walls, our hearts harden.
G: “Dwelling on” condemns us to the surface; we fear too much to let ourselves sink down into our molten core where burns our energy for action. Eco-activist Joanna Macy says, “the heart that breaks open can contain the whole universe”. That means to inhabit our broken hearts is truly to dwell in the universe. Sitting with our sorrow, listening to its sobs, embracing its afflictions are first steps to coming home to a place grown alien and frightful. Paradoxically, dwelling in the love that gives birth to grief pulls us out of the damaging isolation that results from dwelling on the bruised skin of our searing losses. An in-dwelt grief can be home to action.
R. Nigerian thought leader Bayo Akomolafe says, grief can be our chrysalis, our cocoon that we dwell in, where we can ask questions prompted by the pain, where we realize this interconnectedness with all life. From this chrysalis, our grief and outrage can give us energy, compassion and determination as we emerge to find a new way forward.
Part Two: Courage
G: I can’t run no more with this lawless crowd
R: While killers in high places say their prayers out loud
G: Well they’ve summoned up they’ve summoned up a thundercloud
R: They’re going to hear from me.
G: Nothing says paradox better than silence. Silence can be the voiceless sound of complicity, of resignation to wrong that fears reprisals or reductions of comforts. Silent acquiescence to the status quo can choke out the scream in us that rises in our throats at the sight of what turns our moral stomachs. Wherever power suppresses, silence sides with the center, not with the margins. This is where the thundercloud needs summoning. This is where they—those high-placed killers of people, Earth, harmony, wellbeing, goodness and imagination—need to hear from us.
R: The root of the word courage comes from the Latin word for heart: cor. To act with courage is an act of the heart. That is to say, when our hearts are broken open, when we recognize our solidarity together as life on this earth, courage is to act despite the despair, fear and anxiety. It is to make a conscious choice to engage with what is before us.
Each of us can make this choice, but courage grows in meaning when we have courage together. To have courage to address the great changes before us, we will need to be unified. That doesn’t mean that we will always agree, but we will need to hold deep listening, transparency, understanding, compassion and commitment to work together despite our differences. This is not token listening and saying “we hear you” and then doing what we originally thought. It is allowing ourselves to be changed by the listening and committing to finding a path forward together.
How do we do hold this courage together when our paths feel so divergent? The intentional silence of reflection can help us find our inner strength. This is not to be confused with the silence of complicity that comes when we are so overwhelmed and overstimulated. We seek silence that strengthens our capacity to act with courage.
G: It takes courage to keep silent. This is the other end of the paradox. Not just challenging, silence can be downright uncomfortable, especially if it opens up space for listening to things we’d rather at times not hear. Such as our breaking hearts. Such as our conscience. Silence can make us squirm. In these instances, only brave souls can remain silent. When all the distractions fall away; when the habitual inner prattle that insulates us from reality goes still; when we dare to sit in the company of others without advice, comment, judgement, or authority; when we recognize that my worth is no greater or lesser than yours, then a courageous silence can take hold. From this clearing can grow the clarity of insight needed to speak out boldly and compassionately. Silence of this kind has nothing to do with complicity and quietism. It speaks loudly of solidarity. Here’s yet another angle of the paradox. Few things contain the power of a silence deeply, authentically observed together. At the same time, nothing is more fragile, for any single member of the group can easily shatter it. Fragility itself gives silence its power.
G: Already we’ve heard much tonight that begs for courageous listening. We’ll enter now as one into the paradoxes of silence. Just for a minute, let’s be brave quietly together in the midst of sorrow, anger, disappointment and incomprehension. In solidarity, for justice, with truth we sit now in silence.
Part Three: Determined Hope
G: You can add up the parts but you won’t have the sum
R: You can strike up the march, there is no drum
G: Every heart, every heart to love will come
R: But like a refugee
G: On all fronts, the threats around us require total mobilization. Perhaps more urgently than at any other time in the past, we need a unified effort of resolve, bravery and sacrifice to defend life from lethal political, economic and ecological violence. But this worldwide campaign can’t be militarized. There is no drum of war behind the march we must strike. We can’t obey the commands of hatred, fear and lust for conquest. Love must mobilize us. Like refugees, stripped of flags, nations and other items of division, our hearts, bodies and minds must come together to love the world into peace and shared wellbeing.
R: To move through the grief, to find the courage, we need to recognize that hope is not a feeling and it is not a tangible thing. It is a choice we make that propels us to a future idea, it comes across in the gritty determination to say we can do better for ourselves, for our community, for our planet. Christiana Figueres calls this Stubborn Optimism. Even when the system challenges feel so complex, when the barriers feel insurmountable, we commit to taking the necessary and complicated steps.
We commit to taking care, to make the choice to not turn away, to act with intention and to infuse our systems with compassion. History is full of examples of communities of people deciding to embrace stubborn optimism and acting this mindset. This is the only way that we are going to shift our systems and frameworks on a large enough scale that we can build a regenerative future that cares for all life on this earth equally.
Tonight, we have heard stories from people who are taking courage and taking care, and we can find clues in these stories about practical steps we can take.
G: We come together as community to play, to paint, to sing, to dance, to create and support expressions of spirit that glue us together.
R: We ensure that everyone has a place in community, even if we don’t always agree with how they live their lives, with their beliefs, with what it means to us personally as we make room for others. We commit to not cause harm to each other while doing this.
G: We ensure that everyone has the resources – homes, food, clothing, medical care, community – that they need to make dignified life possible.
R: We engage with new practices, technologies and ways to live in harmony with Earth. We understand that all life on this planet is interconnected and that which harms another being, also harms me.
G: We engage and question the systems around us calling those who benefit from them to compassion, solidarity and justice.
R: We commit to democratic action together, to allowing ourselves to disagree while also keeping actively engaged with the conversations and decisions about our future.
We could have invited hundreds of people to share their stories and art tonight. Good and real things are happening in our community and there are incredible reasons to hope, but we must continue to strike up the march. Imagine what is possible if we act together with care, courage, compassion, with gritty determination and stubborn optimism. This care comes from each of us, making the decision where we stand, where we live, where we work, where we play, where we dream. At every point in our day, we can decide to do this.
G: Embracing imperfection, we take collective steps forward to create new ways of being. So we celebrate our shared successes. When we fail in compassion we beg forgiveness. We don’t forget what we’re called to do: ring the bells of grief, courage, hope. We take care of the many living cracks who let light in. Despite the dirty air, despite our hoarse voices, despite our straining lungs, we vow never to stop singing.
Greg Kennedy, Executive Director of the Ignatius Jesuit Centre in Guelph, speaking at the 35th Mayors’ Dinner. The goals of the Ignatius Jesuit Centre are to foster an ecological way of life for the healing of the world, nurturing a deeper spirituality in people, leading to inner freedom, promoting the production of local sustainable food and providing a welcoming space for individual and communal discernment, and education.
