For those of you in and around the downtown core of Ottawa,
we hope you will hear the tolling of the Cathedral bell every morning at 9 am.

The bell is our message that we continue to be here for you, and those close to you—that you are not alone. The bell brings a message of hope and prayer for an end to this situation with a minimum of illnesss, pain and loss. We are here and available to you by phone (please do leave a message) at 613.236.9149 or by email at info@ottawacathedral.ca

Additional messages and opportunities to share in prayers and worship are available on our Facebook page at  https://www.facebook.com/christchurchcathedralottawa/

We hope it brings you some comfort and that others may share the message.

Leads of cathedral groups and many individuals throughout the community have been making it a priority to check in with those closest to them, but also to others they know less well, or don't really know at all.

Individuals and groups are coming together over the phone, online through Skype, Facebook and Facetime, Zoom and Google Hangouts. Who knew you could share thoughts and prayers, read together, sing hymns and favorite tunes and even play bridge or share a pot luck meal, all virtually online.

Thank you to everyone who has touched the life of someone else today and please keep it up. It makes a difference.

We are being taught to see that being in communion with one another really matters. That caring for one another breaks down isolation, that compassion feels better than fear, and that our lives are only truly safe in God’s hands.

A Reflection by the Very Reverend Shane Parker   
1 Samuel (16:1-13), Psalm 23, Ephesians (5:8-14), John 9:1-41

I was given a small pamphlet from the Society of Friends (known as Quakers) when I returned to school to study theology. It contained “A Conversation with Henry Nouwen” who was a Dutch theologian, psychologist, and author. Nouwen described a good seminary experience, in a spiritual sense, as “unlearning” what you think you know about God in order to become an “articulate not-knower.”  

He said students of theology should “become more and more overwhelmed and awed by the mystery of God, so finally they become more silent and thus more able to listen.”  

When Samuel went to Jesse to find which one of his sons God wanted him to anoint, he found himself facing a difficult choice. The oldest seven sons of Jesse were striking men, and Samuel felt sure one of them would be the one chosen to become king, but God spoke to him and said, "the Lord does not see as mortals see; they look on the outward appearance, but the Lord looks on the heart."  

Samuel had to unlearn the normal expectations of what a king might look like in order to see as God sees—and only then was he able to choose a person after God’s own heart: David, the eighth and youngest, smallest son of Jessie.  

Sometimes, when our sense of things is disrupted or shaken up, we see more clearly and act more wisely.  

Imagine you are the unnamed blind person in the Gospel reading today. Before Jesus came along, you lived in a predictable way, in a world made familiar to you by touch, smell, and sounds, and a daily routine of going to the same place to beg. You had grown accustomed to being on the margins, with little expectation that anything would change, making your way to and from your home each day, finding comfort in the smallness of your world.  

Then one day you hear an unfamiliar voice, and realize people are talking about you, like some kind of object or curiosity. Before you know it the unfamiliar voice comes close to you, and you feel an unfamiliar energy. Suddenly, he is spreading some kind of gritty paste on your eyelids and you open your eyes to the utterly unfamiliar sensation of sight. You have no point of reference: touch and smells and sounds are now attached to visual textures, shapes, faces, and objects.  

Your world has been disrupted and shaken up. You crave the margins you had lived in, the predictable pace of your life before this intrusion, the routines that felt safe and familiar.   As people keep asking what happened, and why, and who did this, you search for answers. Nothing has prepared you for this. You do your best to offer an explanation, but no one is satisfied. Eventually you are cast away from everything you knew—and only then you meet the one who opened your eyes: you see Jesus. You see light and life.  

As you read this reflection you are not in a familiar pew, watching the movements of clergy, choir, readers, servers, and chalice bearers as the Eucharist is celebrated. There isn’t the familiar smell of candles and coffee, the sounds of organ and voices, the taste of bread and wine, the gentle warmth of communion, the fellowship with friends in the hall.  

It feels like our world has been disrupted and shaken up in these early pandemic days. Things that seemed so simple—like shaking hands, standing close, eating in a restaurant, going to church—are not happening. It feels too unfamiliar, too different.  

We are being taught to unlearn what we think is important. We are being taught to unlearn what we think really matters and what we think we can rely on.  

We are being taught to see that being in communion with one another really matters. That caring for one another breaks down isolation, that compassion feels better than fear, and that our lives are only truly safe in God’s hands. 

The expectation of what life is supposed to feel like has fallen away in these days of suspensions, cancellations, isolation, and fear—and we find ourselves looking into the eyes of Jesus, who is saying: Yes, all of this is happening, and I am with you in the best and worst of it; and you will find comfort and strength in the midst of it all if you see and act from your heart of love. You are children of light: love one another as I have loved you.  

May the God of endless love, steadfast hope, and calming peace give us strength and compassion as this season in the life of our world unfolds. Amen.