Who Is Not Here?

Who is not here, who should be here?” Bishop Susan posed this question during our diocesan anti-racism training in April. She asks us to look around our communities and notice not just who is present—but who is missing, and why. 

As we mark Pride Month, National Indigenous History Month, and World Refugee Day, many of the articles in this issue reflect on inclusion. But inclusion is more than something we name in June—it is something we practice—in our churches, our programs, and our everyday interactions. 

Lately, I’ve been hearing a common refrain from people in my life—especially those who are queer and trans, racialized, or living with visible and invisible disabilities: things don’t feel like they’re getting better. They feel harder. Less safe. 

A friend of mine, queer and autistic, left a community that described itself as inclusive after experiencing sensory distress in a class. When she asked for small, reasonable accommodations, she was told no. She was made to feel like the problem. What could have been a simple act of care by letting her step out without explanation, offering a heads-up in the future about the trigger, or allowing her to attend a program at a different time became a reason for exclusion. 

Others I know have faced different barriers. One person was advised to remove his photo from job applications because employers might make assumptions about his background. Another shared that colleagues in hiring roles were openly dismissing candidates based on where they were perceived to be from. A trans artist I know saw their work cut short before it had a chance to find its audience, after receiving less support than others from the start. 

These experiences may look different, but they carry the same message: you don’t quite belong here. 

And yet, these are often the very people who bring deep compassion, creativity, and faith into our communities.  

So again, the question: who is not here, who should be here? 

If we are serious about following Jesus and our baptismal calls—about loving our neighbours, seeking justice, and upholding the dignity of every person—then creating safe, inclusive spaces is not optional. It is urgent. 

That work doesn’t always begin with large programs. Sometimes it looks like small, intentional choices. Sometimes it’s being present, attending the diocesan Pride service, or the Trans Day of Remembrance Vigil. It could mean making space for someone to step out and return without drawing attention, offering a quiet or sensory-friendly area, or even a sensory-friendly service.  

Spend time examining how we welcome newcomers, participate in anti-racism training to learn how to identify racism, and address it. Familiarize yourself with unconscious bias and microaggressions through the training to recognize when you may have caused unintentional harm. Noticing whose voices are missing from leadership and decision-making. It means listening—really listening—when someone tells us what they need to feel safe and valued. 

We may not be able to meet every need perfectly. But we can be communities that are willing to learn, to adapt, and to try. 

Because the Church should be a place where people don’t have to ask if they belong—they know they do. 

For information on training available for anti-racism, micro-aggressions, and unconscious bias, or information on learning more about Indigenous history, and 2S-LGBTQIA+ inclusion, please contact Deirdre Pike, justice and outreach program consultant at [email protected] 

For information about disability inclusion, please contact Canon David Anderson, chair of the Disability Theology Committee, Kristen Jackson-Dockeray, children, youth, and family ministry coordinator, at [email protected], or Shannon MacKenzie, human resources coordinator, at [email protected].

To offer refugee sponsorship support, please contact Archdeacon Bill Mous at [email protected].