{"id":68103,"date":"2015-12-28T12:00:10","date_gmt":"2015-12-28T12:00:10","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.transcend.org\/tms\/?p=68103"},"modified":"2015-12-27T16:17:59","modified_gmt":"2015-12-27T16:17:59","slug":"duty-to-warn-nativity-rev-kevin-annett-and-the-little-matter-of-aboriginal-genocide","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.transcend.org\/tms\/2015\/12\/duty-to-warn-nativity-rev-kevin-annett-and-the-little-matter-of-aboriginal-genocide\/","title":{"rendered":"Duty to Warn \u2013 Nativity: Rev Kevin Annett and the \u201cLittle Matter of Aboriginal Genocide\u201d"},"content":{"rendered":"

\"unrepentant<\/a><\/p>\n

“A good and decent man, who saw wrong and tried to right it, saw suffering and tried to heal it, saw war and tried to stop it.” \u2013 <\/em>Ted Kennedy, eulogizing his assassinated brother Bobby in 1968.<\/em><\/p>\n

One of the most meaningful Christmas stories that I have ever read came from my friend from Vancouver, Canada, Reverend Kevin Annett. His story is titled \u201cNativity\u201d and is printed further below.<\/p>\n

The \u201clittle matter of genocide\u201d, about which the United States of America shares considerable guilt, is the century-long history of abuse, rape and murder of tens of thousands of Canada\u2019s aboriginal children in church-run Indian residential schools (known as mission schools in the US), a subject on which Kevin is an acknowledged world expert.<\/p>\n

Annett has authored two books on the subject and has also co-produced an award-winning documentary film entitled \u201cUnrepentant\u201d. (It is viewable for free at:<\/p>\n

httpv:\/\/www.youtube.com\/watch?v=88k2imkGIFA.).<\/p>\n

The film (and a short book by the same name) documents the history of the Canadian genocide of aboriginal children and also the shameful character assassination that was perpetrated against Annett, whose marriage, family and ministry were trashed when he refused to keep quiet about his church\u2019s criminal activities.<\/p>\n

Early in his ministry at a church in Port Alberni, British Columbia, Rev Annett uncovered details of a secret land deal\u00a0involving stolen native land that was negotiated between his United Church of Canada [UCC \u2013 no relation to the United Church of Christ here in the US]) church, the\u00a0provincial government, and church-funder MacMillan-Bloedel Ltd. When he appropriately confronted the church with the evidence, he was summarily fired (without cause) and shortly thereafter expelled from the UCC without due process.<\/p>\n

Below is a summary paragraph from Annett\u2019s father (author William Annett), which summarizes some of the background information that makes the \u201cNativity\u201d story more understandable.<\/p>\n

\u201cImagine what happens when a church minister in a small Vancouver Island community decides to blow the whistle on criminal activity extending over a century among all the churches of Canada, the government of Canada, the Royal Canadian Mounted Police, the Attorney General of British Columbia, MacMillan Bloedel, the largest forestry company in that Province, and it’s blushing parent, the Weyerhaeuser Company of Seattle, all thinking that it would be nice if Reverend Kevin Annett were quietly blown away. Which they did, quite effectively, trashing his life, his family and his livelihood.<\/p>\n

\u201cOf course there was also the mainstream Canadian media and the Canadian public, who have been, as usual, fast asleep on the subject of anything indigenous or genocidal for the past 20 years since the whistle was first blown.<\/p>\n

\u201cBut the story also has to deal with a little defrocked shepherd boy\/pastor who has the most lethal, long range, accurate weapon on earth, The Truth, which is especially potent when it hits us in the middle of the forehead.\u201d<\/p>\n

Here is the moving story of Rev Annett\u2019s last Christmas (1995) at Saint Andrew\u2019s United Church at Port Alberni, British Columbia. With the recent Canadian election deposing the Conservative Party government of Stephen Harper (who had gone to great lengths to cover-up and whitewash the painful history of the genocide), there is some small hope that the painful documentable truths will finally come out and be acknowledged by the involved institutions. If that happens there may be realized the potential of true reconciliation, which has so far been denied to the many suffering generations of victims, their families and their progeny.<\/p>\n

Nativity<\/strong><\/p>\n

By Reverend Kevin D. Annett<\/em><\/p>\n

The last Christmas we were all together hangs over memory like the fog did that year in the Alberni valley. It was a time of gathering, two years and more of labor summoning so many together where once there were but a few. And it was a time of ending.<\/p>\n

The church stewards had warned me to expect an overflow crowd at the Christmas Eve service, and like overgrown elves they had busied themselves around the building, stringing wires and sound systems in the cold auditorium kept that way to save money. The snows had come early, and our food bank was already depleted.<\/p>\n

With my eldest daughter who was but five, I had walked to the church one morning in the week before yule, pondering the cold and the sermon, when I met the one who would pierce the fog that year for us. She stood patiently at the locked door, her brown eyes relaxing as we approached. Her bare hand gestured at me.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou\u2019re that minister, ain\u2019t you?\u201d she mumbled to me, as daughter Clare fell back and grabbed my hand.<\/p>\n

Before I could answer, the stranger smiled and nodded, and uttered with noticeable pleasure at her double entendre,<\/p>\n

\u201cThey say you give it out seven days a week!\u201d<\/p>\n

I smiled too, gripping Clare\u2019s hand reassuringly and replying, \u201cIf you mean food, we\u2019re a bit short, but you\u2019re welcome to whatever\u2019s left.\u201d<\/p>\n

She nodded again, and waited while I unlocked the door and picked up Clare, who was clinging to me by then.<\/p>\n

The basement was even more frigid than the outside, but the woman doffed her torn overcoat and sighed loudly as we approached the food bank locker.<\/p>\n

\u201cFor all the good it\u2019ll do \u2026\u201d she said, as I unlocked the pantry and surveyed the few cans and bags lying there.<\/p>\n

I turned and really looked at her for the first time. She was younger than she had sounded, but a dark, cancerous growth marred her upper lip, and a deep scar ran down her face and neck. Her eyes were kindness, and in that way, very aboriginal.<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m sorry there\u2019s not more \u2026\u201d I began, since back then I still saw things in terms of giving. But she shook her head, and instead of saying anything, she looked at Clare, and the two of them exchanged a smile for the first time.<\/p>\n

I stared, confused, at the cupboard so bare, and heard her finally utter,<\/p>\n

\u201cThem people in church, you know what they need?\u201d<\/p>\n

I set Clare down and shook my head.<\/p>\n

\u201cThey need Him. They sing about Him, and pretend they know Him, but hell, they wouldn\u2019t spot Him even if He came and bit \u2018em on their ass.\u201d<\/p>\n

I smiled at that one, and even dared a mild chuckle.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou doin\u2019 a Christmas play for the kids?\u201d she continued.<\/p>\n

\u201cYeah\u201d.<\/p>\n

\u201cI bet it\u2019s the usual bullshit with angels and shepherds, right?\u201d<\/p>\n

I nodded.<\/p>\n

\u201cThat don\u2019t mean nuthin\u2019 to those people. Why don\u2019t you do a story about \u2026 well, like, if He came to Port Alberni to be born, right now?\u201d<\/p>\n

I finally laughed, feeling very happy. She smiled too, walked over to the cupboard and picked up a small bag of rice. Donning her coat, she nodded her thanks, and said,<\/p>\n

\u201cMy bet is Him and Mary and Joseph, they\u2019d end up in the Petrocan garage, down River road. The owner there lets us sleep in the back sometimes.\u201d<\/p>\n

And then she was gone.<\/p>\n

I didn\u2019t try explaining the stranger to anyone, ever, or what her words had done to me. All I did was lock the food cupboard and lead Clare up to my office, where I cranked up the heat and set her to drawing. And then I sat at my desk and I wrote for the rest of the day.<\/p>\n

The kids in church were no problem at all. They got it, immediately. The Indians who dared to mingle in the pews that night with all the ponderous white people also took to the amateur performance like they had composed it themselves, and laughed with familiarity as the holy family was turned away first by the local cops, and then hotel owners, and finally by church after church after church.<\/p>\n

It was mostly the official Christians who were shocked into open-mouthed incredulity at the coming to life of something they thought they knew all about. As the children spoke their lines, I swear I saw parishioners jump and writhe like there were tacks scattered on the pews.<\/p>\n

\u201cJoe, I\u2019m getting ready to have this kid. You\u2019d better find us a place real friggin’ quick.\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m trying, Mary, but Jehovah! Nobody will answer their door! I guess it\u2019s \u2018cause we\u2019re low lifes.\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n

\u201cLook! There\u2019s a church up ahead. I bet they\u2019ll help us!\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n

If you believe the Bible, whoever He was loved to poke fun at his listeners and shock them out of their fog, and our play would have made him proud. As the eight-year old girl who played Mary pleaded fruitlessly for help from a kid adorned in oversized clerical garb, and was covered in scorn by the young \u201cpriest\u201d, I heard a sad moan rise from the congregation.<\/p>\n

But things took a turn when Mary and Joseph came upon an Indian, played by one of the aboriginal kids.<\/p>\n

\u201cSir, will you help us? My wife\u2019s going to have a baby \u2026\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n

\u201cSure!\u201d <\/em>replied the native kid with gusto. \u201cI got a spot in a shed behind the gas station down the road. The owner lets us all sleep in there!\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n

And in a contrived scene of boxes and cans scattered where our communion table normally stood, Mary had her baby, as erstwhile homeless men with fake beards and a stray Rez dog looked on, and one of the witnesses urged Mary to keep her newborn quiet lest the Mounties hear his cries and bust everyone for vagrancy.<\/p>\n

Voices were subdued that night in the church hall over coffee, cookies and Christmas punch, and the normally dull gazes and banalities about the time of year were oddly absent. The Indians kept nodding and smiling at me, saying little, and not having to; and the kids were happy too, still in costume and playing with the local stray who had posed as the Rez dog in the performance that would always be talked about. It was the white congregants who seemed most pregnant that night, but they couldn\u2019t speak of it.<\/p>\n

It was one of my last services with them, and somehow they all knew it, since we had all entered the story by then. For a churchly Herod had already heard a rumor, and dispatched assassins to stop a birth, and me, even though it was already too late.<\/p>\n

My daughter Clare was not running and rolling with the other kids, but in her manner joined me quietly with her younger sister Elinor in tow. Our trio stood there, amidst the thoughtful looks and unspoken love, and person after person came to us and grasped our hands, or embraced us with glistening eyes. An aging Dutch woman named Omma van Beek struggled towards me in her walker and pressed her trembling lips on my cheek, and said something to me in her native tongue as the tears fell unashamedly from both of us.<\/p>\n

Later, when we were scattered and lost, I would remember that moment like no other, as if something in Omma\u2019s tears washed away all the filth and loss that were to follow. And perhaps that looming nightfall touched my heart just then, for I gave a shudder as I looked at my children, almost glimpsing the coming divorce, and I held my daughters close as if that would keep them safe and near to me forever.<\/p>\n

The snow was falling again as we left the darkened building, kissing us gently like it had done years before when as a baby, Clare had struggled with me on a toboggan through the deep drifts of my first charge in Pierson, Manitoba, on another Christmas Eve. The quiet flakes blessed us with memory, and settled in love on the whole of creation, even on the unmarked graves of children up at the old Indian residential school.<\/p>\n

The old Byzantine icon depicts Jesus as a baby, hugging his worried mother while she stares ahead into his bloody future: her eyes turned in grief to the viewer, yet his loving eyes seeking her, past the moment, past even his own death.<\/p>\n

The image may still hang in the basement of my church, where I left it.<\/p>\n

********************<\/p>\n

Kevin Annett was re-nominated for the Nobel Peace Prize in 2015. Messages for him can be left at <\/em>386-323-5774<\/a><\/em> (USA). His personal website is <\/em>www.KevinAnnett.com<\/a><\/em>.<\/em><\/p>\n

Kevin’s award winning documentary film Unrepentant<\/em><\/strong> can be viewed at<\/p>\n

httpv:\/\/www.youtube.com\/watch?v=88k2imkGIFA<\/u><\/p>\n

See also Dr Jennifer Wade\u2019s powerful testimony on the Kangeroo Court proceedings and the UCC cover-up, plus many documents establishing the facts of the case (Dr Wade is a co-founder of Amnesty International) can be found at:
\nhttpv:\/\/www.youtube.com\/watch?v=x5HKRJTfp7U<\/u><\/p>\n

See the evidence of the Canadian Genocide at www.hiddennolonger.com<\/a><\/u><\/strong> and at the website of The International Tribunal into Crimes of Church and State at www.itccs.org<\/strong><\/a>.<\/strong><\/p>\n

_________________________________<\/strong><\/p>\n

Dr Kohls is a retired physician who practiced holistic, non-drug, mental health care for the last decade of his family practice career. He now writes a weekly column for the Reader Weekly, an alternative newsweekly published in Duluth, Minnesota, USA. Many of Dr Kohls\u2019 columns are archived at <\/em>http:\/\/duluthreader.com\/articles\/categories\/200_Duty_to_Warn<\/em>.<\/em><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

One of the most meaningful Christmas stories that I have ever read came from my friend from Vancouver, Canada, Reverend Kevin Annett. His story is titled \u201cNativity\u201d and is printed further below. <\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":4,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[65],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-68103","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-anglo-america"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.transcend.org\/tms\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/68103","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.transcend.org\/tms\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.transcend.org\/tms\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.transcend.org\/tms\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/4"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.transcend.org\/tms\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=68103"}],"version-history":[{"count":0,"href":"https:\/\/www.transcend.org\/tms\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/68103\/revisions"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.transcend.org\/tms\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=68103"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.transcend.org\/tms\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=68103"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.transcend.org\/tms\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=68103"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}