In a remote fishing village, the people became accustomed to the pounding of the heavy seas which imperiled every boat leaving their harbour, but they never could become accustomed to the deaths. The deaths of fishermen caught in the grip of an uncompromising ocean in the dead of night. 

It is wonderful the theology we learn in coffee shops.

When I started out on the Church on the Street, I gave little thought to some of the logistics of such a ministry apart from determining that it would be 8 p.m. onwards every Thursday evening.

Some nights it does not take long for the temperature to plummet. I don’t mean the thermometer, but the temperature of the street. 

Recently I found myself in the basement of a downtown church surrounded by a confirmation class of children, teachers and parents. The church sits in an area where the outreach of the Church on the Street is most challenging, and the class had responded to the call of Pope Francis in The Joy of the Gospel: “We cannot passively and calmly wait in our church buildings; we need to move from a passive ministry of mere conservation to a decidedly missionary pastoral mission.” 

There are few, if any, parishes in Toronto that had three shooting deaths in the first month of the year and followed them up with two more in the next few months. Add to this an epidemic of drug overdoses and a picture of lawlessness could emerge.