Tobias waxes prophetic, progressive
Rick Tobias's imposing stature, the regal sweep of his whitening hair and beard and the thickness and blackness of his Lebanese eyebrows hold authority.
I met Tobias, the CEO of Toronto's Yonge Street Mission, at Street Level, the fourth incarnation of a conference that draws Christian anti-poverty workers from across Canada. In the murk of a bar-room, I might have mistaken him for a biker gang chief, but here, surrounded by affectionate colleagues, this veteran of the war on poverty had the ethos of a generous godfather.
Tobias holds an honorary doctorate, hobnobs with politicians and has a voice that booms within the Church. But he chooses to exercise that influence on behalf of those on the margins—even laying it down in protest when others are denied.
I didn't know this when I met him, which is why I was completely unprepared for his closing remarks as he stood gravely at the lectern the final day of the conference.
As he began, his voice cracked under emotional weight of what he had to say.
He asked first, for everyone in the audience of 400 who was under the age of 40 to stand. When they had, he asked those who had been invited to speak at the conference to remain standing while the rest sat down. Only a few kept their feet.
Tobias then asked all the those of non-Europeans descent at the conference to stand, again requesting those who had spoken to remain standing. I counted three.
When he asked the women to stand, hundreds stood, and hundreds sat down again when those who hadn't shared the stage resumed their seats. Only two remained standing.
"There are brilliant women here, and I esteem you," Tobias said. "The Church has kept you silent too long. The Church desperately needs your voice; our walls of division have been too great."
He wasn't finished. "This group," Tobias said, "I will not ask to stand. This is not yet a safe place for you to stand. Those of you who are gay and lesbian, I know you are out there."
The room was silent.
By the time he had told us all about the day he accompanied a teenage girl to an abortion clinic, of offering to stand by a woman who had chosen to marry her girlfriend, of how he had twice declined ordination to protest the Church's stance toward women in leadership, the silence had swelled in the room like a giant, ominous balloon.
People exchanged glances or fixed their eyes on the carpet.
There is a foundational lie, in every time and place that justifies evil, said Tobias. "The lie is simply that some people are worth more than others."
Our calling as Christians is not to judge each other, but to contradict that lie, he said, because we cannot love the poor—those we so proudly claim to serve—better than we love each other.
"I could have introduced myself as someone who is addicted to food," he said. "Or addicted to work. What brokenness could I name that would cause you to say, 'I'm out of here'? And by what supreme arrogance would you make that decision?
"Our responsibility is to love each other across dividing lines—in the midst of theological, philosophical and moral disagreement," he said. "We must go home to love those who annoy us, who theologically and philosophically disagree with us."
To do this is to fulfill the greatest—the only—commandment: love God by loving each other. "There will be no legacy of justice if there is no legacy of love that overwhelms our dividing lines."
When he had finished speaking, we took communion—all of us. As I tasted those simple elements I was seized by Tobias' message of love that bridges our divisions with a bond stronger than any morality, doctrine or philosophy. I ate and drank with my sisters and brothers who no doubt held beliefs that differed from mine—each with our own form of brokenness and our own moral failings—and tears came to my eyes.
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