There is something profoundly human about sitting around a fire.
Long before there were parish halls, committee meetings, or coffee hours featuring ambitious quantities of squares and muffins, human beings gathered around firelight.
Stories were shared there.
Wisdom was passed down there.
People learned how to belong to one another there.
And perhaps that is why campfires still feel strangely holy.
Now, I should admit that I have never entirely mastered the practical art of campfire management.
There are people who can light a fire with astonishing competence using little more than two twigs and what appears to be positive thinking.
I am not one of those people.
My own approach generally involves a certain amount of trial and error, mild embarrassment, and eventually seeking assistance from someone who “just happens to have done this before.”
Grace abounds.
But once the fire is finally going, something beautiful begins to happen.
People slow down.
Conversation deepens.
Silence becomes comfortable.
The endless hurry of ordinary life softens slightly around the edges.
And sitting there around the fire, listening and sharing stories together, one remembers something important:
Healing often begins not with speaking first…
…but with listening.
Now, as the Church continues walking the long and necessary road of healing and reconciliation with Indigenous peoples, I think this lesson matters enormously.
Because reconciliation is not something we accomplish quickly through statements alone.
It begins through relationship.
A few weeks ago, our parish was deeply blessed to welcome The Most Rev. Chris Harper, National Indigenous Archbishop, for a Sunday morning forum discussion.
Archbishop Chris shared many powerful insights that morning — so many, in fact, that weeks later I still find myself quietly unpacking things he said.
But one particular story has remained especially with me.
He spoke about visiting a congregation where someone asked a parishioner why he was coming.
When the person explained that Archbishop Chris would be speaking about healing and reconciliation, the response came quite casually:
“Oh. We did that in our church two weeks ago.”
And there was something deeply revealing in that response.
It carried the strange assumption that healing and reconciliation might somehow be completed in a single gathering.
A program attended.
A discussion held.
A box checked.
As though relationships wounded over generations could somehow be restored between coffee hour and lunch.
And as the day went on, I found myself thinking about a conversation I had only recently shared with my niece Alice.
She had gotten herself into rather significant trouble with her mother.
Words had been spoken.
Feelings had been hurt.
And, as so often happens in families, things had reached the point where no one could simply pretend nothing had happened.
Later, when I had some quiet time alone with her, we spoke honestly together.
And I remember saying to her:
“Alice, when relationships are damaged, no matter how much people love one another, rebuilding trust takes time. Healing takes work. It takes listening. It takes patience. Trust has to be rebuilt slowly, from the ground up.”
And afterward I realized how deeply that same truth applies to the work of reconciliation between Indigenous and non-Indigenous communities.
Because reconciliation is not a moment.
It is relationship.
And relationships wounded deeply over long periods of history are not restored quickly simply because we wish them to be.
Healing requires truth.
Humility.
Listening.
Presence.
It requires learning how to remain in conversation even when the work becomes uncomfortable or slow.
Which, perhaps, brings us once again back to the image of sitting around the fire.
Because healing rarely happens through hurried declarations.
More often, it begins slowly:
through stories shared,
silence honoured,
trust patiently rebuilt,
and people willing to remain together long enough for relationships to begin healing again.
Through humility.
Through learning.
Through the willingness to sit together long enough to truly hear one another’s stories.
And stories matter.
They carry pain.
Memory.
Identity.
They teach us where people have been wounded and where hope still remains alive.
Now, for many years, the Church has not always listened well.
That truth must be spoken honestly.
There have been deep harms inflicted upon Indigenous communities, particularly through the history of residential schools and the destructive assumption that one culture could somehow erase another in the name of God.
No amount of discomfort in acknowledging that truth changes the necessity of facing it faithfully.
And yet, alongside repentance, there must also be relationship.
Real relationship.
Not merely programs or statements, but friendships, shared conversations, and the patient work of learning how to walk together differently.
Which brings us back, perhaps unexpectedly, to the campfire.
Because around a fire, people do not usually shout over one another.
They listen.
They tell stories.
They laugh.
They grow quiet.
And somewhere in that shared space, community slowly begins to form.
Now, I have been deeply blessed over the years by Indigenous friends and colleagues whose wisdom, spirituality, humour, and generosity have shaped my own faith in ways I can scarcely measure.
One of the things I have learned most clearly from many Indigenous communities is the sacred importance of attentiveness.
To the land.
To elders.
To story.
To silence.
Modern culture often rushes past these things.
But reconciliation requires us to slow down enough to listen again.
And perhaps that is part of the Gospel work before the Church in this season.
Not simply speaking reconciliation…
…but practicing it.
Around tables.
In conversations.
In worship.
In friendships.
Learning again how to sit together with humility and grace.
Because the Kingdom of God has always been about restoring relationships.
Between humanity and God.
Between neighbours.
Between peoples long divided by fear, injustice, or misunderstanding.
And perhaps the Spirit is still teaching us how to gather around the fire together once more.
Listening.
Learning.
Healing.
One story at a time.
Alleluia.
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Companion Prayer
God of truth and healing,
Teach us to listen with humility and compassion.
Give us courage to face painful histories honestly,
wisdom to seek reconciliation faithfully,
and hearts willing to walk together in peace.
Help your Church become a place
where healing, justice, and friendship may grow.
And as we share stories, silence, and sacred space together,
draw us closer to one another
and closer to you.
Amen.