I am now heading home to Ottawa after what has been a very special time indeed. It is still taking a while to process it all, so different has it been from anything else I have ever experienced. On one level, it has been a process of getting used to the practicalities of what it means to be a priest: while I had previously done isolated supply work, this was something on another scale – just over two weeks as de facto parish priest for two thriving, but very different communities. At another level, there was the inculturation into the Church of Canada’s North and its Dene communities in particular – a world unknown even to many Canadians. While it has not always been easy, this has been a time of both growth and deep consolation for me and I would gladly be back in a heartbeat.
When I last came through this way, on my way to Déljne (Where the Waters Flow) on the Sahtú (Great Bear Lake – named for its shape), I had no idea what to expect. I was met by the gentle and unflappable Bishop Hagemoen, and put up at the retreat centre on the shores of the beautiful Trappers Lake – run by Sr Mary Lee from the US. She is a practical and ever-thoughtful Felician nun who was just celebrating her triumph over Canadian Immigration, with the arrival of her papers.
The flight in was on a twin-prop Beechcraft. Flying in, with my heart and bag in my throat, gave me a sense of the vast lonelinesses of the North and made me realise the trust people needed to have in each other and God to cope with the practical remoteness many of them face.
I was met at the airport by Gina Bayha. She is a stalwart of the community and of the church. A nurse by profession, she is also a first-class organiser who had set up the Christmas decorations and lights in the Church pretty much solo, all while looking after an elderly mother and two small and extremely energetic grandchildren. The next person I met was Fr John Tritschler, a priest from British Columbia who, despite being well into his 70s, does the rounds of the Sahtú communities for a good part of the year.
The other pillar of the church community who came that first night was Helena Tucho, a teacher originally from England, who came bearing home made baking, overflowing welcomes and sound orientation tips and advice for the new ring-in priest from down South. They, and a number of the Elders, welcomed me, gave me a sense of the way the place worked and also helped me with the multitude of things that needed doing (from organising water for the house to helping set up for Masses).
Within the next couple of days, I started meeting others and getting a sense of the rhythm and history of the community. The first (misleading) impression to hit me was one of silence. There are very few vehicles on the street although the whine of skidoos (snowmobiles) sometimes features on the edge of hearing. Beneath the silence, however, I discovered that Dél??ne is a very close knit place, bonded together by overlapping ties of culture, tradition and faith. Virtually all of the citizens are indigenous Dene people. Nobalewa (traditional tipis in which meat and fish are cured and cooked) tower in most gardens. An overwhelming majority speak their traditional language – related to Na-Dene languages down the length of North America, going down even to the Apache on the Mexican border.
The number of Dene speakers is gradually falling, though, which is a source of great sadness and fear for a people justifiably concerned to protect its history, culture and identity. As a result, the community is putting a great deal of effort into bolstering knowledge of its language and culture – especially amongst the young. This has been helped by a tradition of four Prophets (who taught between the 40s and 90s) and whose teaching and memory (as well as far more ancient ancestral traditions) is kept alive by the current generation of elders and the community at large.
The house of the first prophet, ?ehtseo Aya, has been rebuilt and his preserved effects kept there as a monument and meeting place. I felt a great warmth and consolation praying there (even though the house was unheated.) The prophets' faith, and that of their people, is a very traditional Catholicism (rosaries, long queues for Confession before Mass and regular Eucharist are major features of the community spirituality) which nevertheless remains deeply alive to, and inculturated in, Dene history, concepts, culture and law.
I suspect that the teaching of the prophets and the preservation of language and culture go a long way towards explaining why Délne has been one of the first communities here to set up a working self-government. This is despite the scourges of alcohol, drugs and other social problems which exist in Délne as they do in other places which have suffered discrimination and hurt. It certainly seems that a clear cultural and language identity and the role of the elders (and government which incorporates them) in reaching out to the youth help to reduce pressures leading to addiction.
Still, as I got about, I discovered that many families I spoke to had experienced tragedy of one kind or another. Despite this and the fact that many people seemed outwardly reserved at first, I soon came to see that there is a real sense of warmth and shared responsibility which fills the community and makes them rally around to share both the good and the bad. Everyone’s doors are always open to each other, food hunted or fished by one family is shared with the community and both rejoicing and grieving are deeply communal and collective acts.
The Dene Law, long predating the arrival of the missionaries (but reinforced by Christianity), says “?elehgho?ts’edé?o? gha” (Love each other as much as possible) and I was filled with the real sense that people still see each other, not as atomised individuals, but as a single body to be taken care of. I lost count of the number of times I received unsolicited gifts of food or other acts of kindness which clearly flowed from the heart.
This sense of common good is essential to a community which still derives much of its nourishment from the land (in a very harsh environment) in the form of hunting and fishing. As to the environment, it gave me an early demonstration of what it could do when annoyed. The first couple of days after I got there, the wind came howling over the massive bare expanse of the lake, bringing frost, misery and a whopping minus 45 windchill with it. (This was working off a not-really-toasty minus 33 degree baseline.)
As a result, when the sun came out for a brief sightseeing tour a couple of days later and the mercury hit a snug minus 21, I realised that people were serious when they said “Oh Father, you’ve brought the warm weather with you!” (The sub-Arctic has its compensations, though. Several times, on going home from church of an evening, I could only stop and gasp as I saw the eerily beautiful Northern Lights (aurora borealis) hanging in the air like ghostly green curtains rippling across the heavens’ stage.)
Aside from the perils of the climate, communal solidarity has been tested in a difficult history. Back in the 40s and 50s some of the community (kept in the dark as to the risks) worked unprotected in and around the uranium mines out of which the Hiroshima bomb was forged, leading to a string of illnesses and deaths. Later, when the mines closed, people had to develop new livelihoods and many went back to hunting and fishing.
Since the 70s the community has been struggling for self-government and the new structures were finally set up in 2016. It now serves as a model for the communities round about which are themselves negotiating self-government agreements and has added tourism (mostly for US hunters and fishers) to its bow. There is a huge pride in the new autonomy arrangement and, from what I saw at least, a vast will to make it work on all sides. Now, however, there are new threats: people are frightened because the caribou (one of the main sources of livelihood – every part is used by the Dene) have not migrated into the arms of the hunters (due, it seems, to warming of the Lake preventing their annual passage across it). The fate of the caribou was on everyone’s lips when I was there and is a major concern of the new Government.
Probably the biggest shock of all was caused when an elder and member of the community died in tragic circumstances just before Christmas Eve. I did what I could providing prayer and support, which was appreciated by the family. More, though, I was deeply moved by the community response – support, prayers, outreach to the family and love. The Dene Law says to be happy at all times, and while that could sound like "confected joy", what I saw instead was speeches of solidarity from elders and a moving drum dance of healing and spirit-lifting.
The community followed with several days of “hand games” (traditional games where one team attempts to hide objects in their hands, and the other to guess their location – all to an hypnotic rhythm provided by chanting teams of drummers). Amid the real excitement of the games, I was filled with a sense of quiet solidarity – of coming together to grieve, but without being crushed. I felt a deep consolation in this sense of priesthood as partnership, of helping the community to fulfil its desires, to draw together, seek healing and be itself in union with God.
Organising the funeral, however, made me aware of the point where one has to leave things in the hands of God. Since the runway where I was now staying was blocked, and Fr John’s plane fogbound, it was left to one of the Elders to preside. While I was worried about leaving the community without a priest for the funeral, everyone else took the vicissitudes pretty much in their stride: “Welcome to the North”, was the general view. It made me realise that I still have a way to go in that trust in Divine Providence which leaves things to happen as they will.
Aside from the Elders, the Church is a major feature of life. Sunday and Christmas Masses were packed, usually preceded by a full rosary, and I was almost overwhelmed with the numbers of people coming to confession beforehand. I had a strong sense of my priesthood as something facilitating, not dominating, a community whose thirst for Christ and desire for someone to celebrate the sacraments with them was almost palpable. While weekday Masses were not well-attended, the crowds from Sunday Mass usually flowed over into the Parish Centre with tea, coffee and lunch afterwards.
The Prayers of the Faithful were very moving, with people writing out their intentions with fulsome explanations, all of which were read from the ambo. This, of course, means that Mass tends to take a while, since the Gospel and homily would get translations (as well as paraphrases, glosses. addenda and additions!) in Sahtú Got’ine. I felt a deep sense of bonding with this community which shares its life and its love with all who work with and in it. That said, while I enjoyed my time ministering there, I did feel that, over the longer term, the absence of community if I were to minister there for months or years on end would affect me acutely.
I got a slightly different Northern vibe visiting the community of Tulit’a, which I did for my last few days. Again, the people were warm and welcoming but two major factors were different. Firstly, Tulit’a is served by a redoubtable Felician sister, Sr Celeste. It was she who hosted me in the presbytery. We had a floor each to ourselves and great conversations around the kitchen table. Over the last forty years, she has set up a preschool, and (aside from celebrating Mass and other reserved Sacraments) done most of what you would expect from a parish priest.
As I watched her move among the people and saw her close bond with the people, I was deeply touched by this sister from Toronto who had become the face of the Church for thousands. She showed me what it really meant to be a pastoral presence in the North. It is her shoulder on which grown men cry and families confide their secrets and she who would laugh and celebrate with the community, open her house, cook for them and provide a refuge from the storm (whether physical or spiritual). Of course, some things could not be fended off, even by the unsinkable Sr Celeste. The first night I was there the central heating died – giving a whole new meaning to “Northern Exposure” (indoors yet!)
Tulit’a is different in other ways, too. It has a much greater diversity of cultures than Délne. While this allows for a wonderful slew of variety, it also means that the structures of Elders and traditional institutions which the people of Délne have been able to map straight onto their new local government were not quite as clear (to me, at least). Many fewer people speak Dene and the process of self government is not as far progressed as it is in Dél??ne. Nevertheless, I saw the same generosity there and the same open heartedness to strangers.
When the time came for me to pack for home and I came back to Trappers Lake and Sr Lee’s generous hospitality, I had a lump in my throat. I will miss this extraordinary world with
its hardy, wonderful and close-knit people and really hope to come back while I am here.