He was a giant of a man who rode a Harley-Davidson. He was a giant of a man who
was a high school dropout but went on to receive two Honorary Doctor of Divinity
degrees, and one Honorary Doctor of Laws degree. He was a giant of a man who was
CEO of Yonge Street Mission for 23 years, transforming it into one of the
leading urban ministries in North America. Rick Tobias, a giant of a man, died
on May 18 at the end of a protracted time living with cancer.
My friendship with Rick goes back to 2005 when I needed someone to talk to the
diaconate candidates in St. Augustine’s Seminary formation program about their
calling to ministry. When I asked around, the one name that consistently came up
was that of Rick Tobias, usually followed by, “If you can get him, he is the
best.”
Indeed, he was. His talks on “A Compassionate Understanding and Response to
Poverty” and “The Meaning of Poverty in Scripture” threw down the gauntlet to
all in the room. “There are about 1,000 references in Scripture to the poor,” he
said, “and another 2,000 verses that speak about justice and injustice and their
impact on people. Three thousand verses is about equal in content to the whole
of the gospels.” He would punctuate these facts by saying, “Justice ain’t
political, it’s Biblical!” Then he would quote from Micah 6:8, “What does
the Lord require of you but to do justice and to love kindness, and to walk
humbly with your God?”
Even though Rick never described himself as an academic, saying that he was a
practitioner not an academic, the depth of his understanding of Scripture came
from a wisdom born of contemplation and listening to the poor. As he completed
his talk, he paused, and with a prophetic warning said, “The Church will never
be dynamic again until it takes seriously the plight of the poor.”
His follow-up discussion question revealed both his understanding, and hope for
the diaconate: “How can I employ my office as deacon to lead my Church and the
community towards a better understanding of, and response to, this city’s poor?”
He understood what a deacon is about; not to look divine in a dalmatic, but to
prophetically lead the Church and the city to take seriously the plight of the
poor.
Rick continued to be my mentor in ministry. In 2006, when I was thinking of
starting a ministry of presence on streets once described as, “A patch of
inner-city Toronto plagued by crack addicts, drug-dealers and low-rent sex trade
workers,” Rick was the first person I called. He was always generous with his
time, and he said, “Come on over, it sounds interesting.”
When you were in Rick’s presence, you felt you were the most important person in
the world, and indeed at that moment you were. He listened carefully, sat back,
and as he always did, took a moment to respond. But when he responded, he had a
way of lifting a simple question or idea to a higher plane. “I think you should
do it,” he said. “Everyone needs a friend, and that is the hardest thing for the
addicts and the people on the street to find. Just be their friend.”
My final meeting with Rick, three weeks before he died, was a time of grace. I
met him and another giant of inner-city ministry, Dion Oxford. We sat in Dion’s
back garden, sipping fine Scotch whisky which Rick had brought, and reminiscing
in thanksgiving for the opportunities we have received to be blessed by the poor
of our city. We shared our memories of retreating to the island of Iona off the
west coast of Scotland, to be with the international ecumenical community
working for justice and peace. And of course, we reflected on how our wives,
each in their unique way, has lived out their own ministry of service to the
poor among us.
Rick’s vision and lifetime of service are reflected in one of his quotes in the
memorial service booklette: “Embrace and inclusion, for me, represent the
highest manifestation of our aspiration to be a just society. We can do many
things to pursue that aspiration, but for me the acid test of justice actualized
is embrace. Do we belong to each other? Are we a people together? Are we
inclusive?”
Finally, I echo the words of the farewell Soweto Gospel hymn at Rick’s memorial
service: “Lay down my brother, lay down and take your rest. I wanna lay your
head, upon your Saviour’s breast. I love you, but Jesus loves you best. I bid
you goodnight, goodnight. I bid you goodnight, my brother, goodnight.”
(Kinghorn is a deacon in the Archdiocese of Toronto.)