The Longevity of Churches

Remarks from the celebration of the 125th anniversary of the founding of the First Icelandic Unitarian Society of Winnipeg delivered at the commemorative service held at First Unitarian Universalist Church of Winnipeg on Sunday, January 31, 2016. (Part 2 of 4)

Now, notwithstanding their social importance throughout human history, the study of congregations as a sociological phenomenon is only a little more than half a century old and the notion that congregations are institutions with something to learn from other human institutions, and with something to contribute in return, is not much more than a century old. So, when this congregation was founded, there were no real guidebooks about how to do so, other than the various denominations’ rules of polity and manuals of discipline. A familiarity with received traditions, the observation of neighbouring congregations’ practices, and the mentorship of wise – and sometimes not so wise – elders were the foundation upon which missionaries went about organizing new congregations. Beyond that, they had to rely on their own ingenuity and chutzpah – although no Christian missionary would have had any idea what chutzpah was, let alone that they possessed it.

First Icelandic Unitarian Church confirmation class
from 100 years ago. The minister is Rev. Rögnvaldur
Pétursson and the two young men in the centre went
on to become ministers – Rev. Philip M. Petursson
and Rev. H.I.S. (Ingi) Borgford.

By the time I was actively engaged in church work, there was a vast literature on the nature of congregational life and a wide array of training programs aimed at guiding would-be new congregation organizers in their task, the name “missionary” having long since fallen out of favour among religious liberals. One of the striking assertions I remember hearing, having been the beneficiary of a quarter century of study, was that the average life expectancy of a Protestant congregation in North America was about 76 years – more or less the same longevity as the average North American person. Not only that, but we were told that the life cycle of the typical congregation was remarkably similar to that of a human being – they tended to reach their adult size by the time they were a quarter century old, they often experienced something akin to a mid-life crisis in their 40s or 50s, and their decline and demise often came on rapidly in their later years. And specific studies of congregations with ethnic foundations – like ours – revealed that few survive to the end of the third generation – that is, few outlast the grandchildren of their founders.

Like all sweeping generalizations, observations about statistically average congregations can be as misleading as they are illuminating, but I offer them up to reinforce an obvious but noteworthy point: this congregation is uncommonly old, which is to say that it has already outlived the average congregation by half a century. It has survived and prospered. And this is a testimony to the faithfulness, resilience, and ingenuity of successive generations of members and friends who have helped it to flourish. This is not an average congregation, it is an exceptional one – remarkable for its longevity, to be sure, but remarkable primarily for the qualities that enabled its longevity: a clear but evolving sense of mission, resilience in weathering the inevitable conflicts and challenges that all human communities face, a willingness to reach across the social divides that stifle growth, and a capacity to change without compromising its core values.

Planting Unitarianism Among the Icelanders of Winnipeg

Remarks from the celebration of the 125th anniversary of the founding of the First Icelandic Unitarian Society of Winnipeg delivered at the commemorative service held at First Unitarian Universalist Church of Winnipeg on Sunday, January 31, 2016. (Part 1 of 4)

Looking over the memorabilia from past anniversaries, I discovered that there were eight sermons or addresses – the Icelandic word ræða can mean either – delivered at the congregation’s 25th anniversary celebration, which may explain why the event lasted for three hours; there were four sermons at the 50th anniversary, two sermons at the 75th anniversary, and one sermon shared by two preachers at the 100th anniversary. And today, there will be one sermon in two movements. If my projections are correct and, should you happen to be around for the sesquicentennial – the 150th anniversary – it is my prediction that either there will be one sermon in four parts or else no sermon at all. You heard it here first.

When this congregation marked its 50th anniversary in 1941, our young minister at the time, Philip Petursson, said, “Nobody knows – or can remotely guess – what the world may be like a year from today or five years from now. Even the oldest landmarks may vanish. The ideas and customs and traditions and institutions that now seem to us most stable may be overturned and destroyed and forgotten. It sometimes seems as though the one certain thing about life is that it is uncertain, the one safe prophecy that tomorrow will be so unlike the present that it cannot possibly be foretold. The one safeguard in such a world,” he continued, “is a strong, positive religious faith – a deep-rooted conviction that this universe is more than the battleground of blind, dark, ruthless forces, where the only thing that counts is brute force and the only arbiter of human destiny is sheer accident. Over and against any such pitiless view of life,” he said, the liberal religious person “sets [a] daring affirmation that reason is potentially stronger than chaos, the human dream of an ideal world as real and powerful as the law of gravitation, that justice is not an idle and pathetic illusion, truth no mere will-o’-the-wisp, the ultimate victory of love over hatred, of goodwill over selfish and cruel impulses, of the divine over the brute within the soul … is as certain as that tomorrow’s sun will rise or that two and two make four.”

The second building of the First Icelandic Unitarian
Church of Winnipeg, dedicated in 1905.

The anniversary celebration was held in June of that year, after the regular church year had come to a close. These words were especially powerful when you remember that the world was at war and the conflict wasn’t going particularly well. The congregation’s leaders weren’t entirely certain that it was even appropriate to hold a celebration, given everything that was going on. So the tone of the anniversary was more solemn than celebratory. But the anniversary was marked.

Philip spoke of paying tribute to the pioneers who had “labored and sacrificed” to plant and maintain Unitarianism in this city, encouraging freedom of thought, so that the fruits of our faith would be embodied in lives of character and purpose. And they really had sacrificed because identifying as a Unitarian in those days was not without consequences – especially if you happened to be an immigrant.

The thirty-six people who gathered on February 1st, 1891 to establish the First Icelandic Unitarian Society of Winnipeg under the leadership of Björn Pétursson and Jennie McCaine Peterson were indeed pioneers. In defining their purpose as a congregation, their bond of union affirmed: “In truth and in the spirit of Jesus of Nazareth, we unite for the service of God and men.” While those words might raise eyebrows among some Unitarian Universalists today, they were, in the context of their time, a radically simple and inclusive affirmation. Notwithstanding their invocation of Jesus, few outside the congregation considered them to be Christians and, in a time when such things mattered, this meant that their “otherness” was on display for all to see. A couple of dozen others joined the initial 36 as charter members.

Together, they laboured on in following a new pathway in religion while striving to build bridges to their neighbours. The built a small wooden chapel at the corner of Sherbrook Street and Pacific Avenue, which they dubbed “Unity Hall,” and it became a gathering place not only for Unitarians, but also for other groups that had trouble finding a place to meet, such as the Winnipeg Secular Association.

During its first decade, the congregation’s membership fluctuated between 60 and 80, although attendance was always much greater – sometimes reaching a few hundred – and they persevered, attracting the interest of some bright, young individuals who aimed to make a difference in the world. 

John Harvard and the Public Good

John Harvard’s voice permeated the home where I grew up, even though he never set foot in it. When he was at CJOB, my mother listened to his open-line show; when he was at CBC, my father watched him on 24 Hours. I was on hand for both. As a youngster, he struck me as confrontational – and I suppose he was, but not like the melodramatic posturing that we see on the cable news these days. As a journalist, he asked hard questions and he expected straight answers from the people he interviewed. He was well-informed, insightful, unflappable, and direct. And he had an intuitive sense that helped him discern when people were bluffing, which generally triggered him to push them a little harder.

I didn’t meet him in person until 1988, when he ran for Parliament the first time. He called me at home to ask for my support, tossing off a few words in Icelandic – perhaps the only ones he could come up with – before introducing himself and saying that he was seeking the Liberal nomination in my part of the city. In those days, I was “between parties” and I was happy to support his candidacy after he convinced me that he was the progressive with the best chance of winning that year. In time, I continued to gravitate leftward, but I still admired John’s devoted public service, his willingness to work hard for his constituents, and his progressive viewpoints.

I was pleased when he was named Lieutenant Governor of Manitoba in 2004, although I briefly wondered about how easy he would find it to move from the rough and tumble of partisan politics in the nation’s capital to the ceremonial responsibilities of the viceregal office back home in Manitoba. He flourished in the new role, which focused more on celebrating the values that bind us together as a society. The ritual and ceremony suited him. And his relationship to the province’s Icelandic community deepened.

John Harvard and Stefan Jonasson in 2014.

During his years in Government House, we had a few opportunities to discuss religion and, once he was free of the constraints of office, we had occasion to speak again about politics and public policy in a more robust manner. John was remarkably stoic about his own disappointments, sufferings, and personal tragedies; he once remarked in conversation, “Why not me? Why should I be spared life’s inevitable misfortune?” Yet he savoured life and he was genuinely concerned about the needs of others and desirous of building the kind of society in which human misery is minimized, while human freedom is enhanced. He held his political views passionately.

Although I hold politicians in higher regard than most people do these days, I have always been critical of those public figures (a distinct minority, I believe) who seem incapable of distinguishing between private interests and the public good. As a journalist, as an elected official, as lieutenant governor, and as a private citizen, John Harvard had a clear understanding of the public good and a deep commitment to serving it, even at the expense of his personal interests. When he did something in public life, he did it because he believed it was truly in the public interest. We can ask no more from those who hold public office.

As Lieutenant Governor of Manitoba, he received a personal coat of arms along with the office. It features the Golden Boy as its crest, one of the iconic symbols of the province, and a seemingly abstract shield, supported by two sandhill cranes standing on a field of wheat. On the shield, according to the Public Register of Arms, “the alternately coloured segments meeting in the centre refer to diversity and multiculturalism. They can be seen as coming together, but also as reaching out, thus alluding to His Honour’s commitment … to helping those otherwise forgotten. The circle can refer to a round table, indicative of equality and involvement of all. The twelve segments are those of the hours of a clock, showing that watching time was vital in His Honour’s original career as a radio journalist. The symbolism of time also connects to His Honour’s interest in studying history.” Beneath the coat of arms is the motto that was granted to John Harvard: “Support the Public Good.”

The John Harvard I saw from afar, and of whom I occasionally caught a closer glimpse, lived by that motto. We didn’t always agree, but I never once had occasion to wonder whether his efforts were guided by his sincere estimate of the public good. They were. And we are all the better for it.


This post originally appeared as an editorial in Lögberg-Heimskringla, the Icelandic community newspaper, on February 1, 2016.

The first Icelandic Unitarian congregation founded 125 years ago

The First Icelandic Unitarian Society of Winnipeg was established on February 1, 1891 at the city's Progressive Society Hall, where its founding minister, Rev. Björn Pétursson, had been conducting services for nearly a year. Björn had been a member of the Althing in Iceland and he was the first settler at Sandy Bar in the Manitoba’s New Iceland colony. The congregation’s first president was Jón E. Eldon, editor of Heimskringla, and he was succeeded by Jón Ólafsson, another prominent journalist. The first Unitarian congregation among the Icelandic immigrants in North America, this was also the first Canadian Unitarian congregation west of Hamilton, Ontario.

Rev. Björn Pétursson (1826-1893)

The groundwork for the new congregation began to be laid in 1886, when Björn Pétursson, a 59-year-old Icelandic immigrant who had been in North America for about a decade, read an advertisement for the Post Office Mission, an early Unitarian outreach effort. He sent away for materials and received a reply from Jennie McCaine, who was the general secretary of the mission in St. Paul, Minnesota. Over the course of the summer and early autumn, Björn devoured the materials Jennie had sent him and, in mid-October, he wrote to her, saying, “I am fully satisfied that I belong to your church, heart and soul. ... I recognize in the Unitarian movement the reformation I have long hoped for and expected and should be glad to get a chance to promote the same among my countrymen …”

The son of a minister, Björn had been expelled from the theological school in Reykjavík for leading a student rebellion. After more than twenty years as a farmer in the east of Iceland, he joined the westward migration of Icelanders to Manitoba, accompanied by his first wife and their children. They claimed land at Sandy Bar, near Riverton, and later moved to Dakota Territory, where he was a founding member of the Icelandic Cultural Society, an association of freethinkers, patterned on the Ethical Culture movement of Felix Adler. Björn was well liked by those who knew him, although he did not shy away from controversy.

Towards the end of 1886, Jennie set out to secure funding to establish a mission among the Icelandic immigrants. She also arranged for Björn to attend the annual meeting of the Minnesota Unitarian Conference that year, when it was held in St. Cloud, and she made his acquaintance there. By then a widower, he was evidently much more charming, trustworthy, and inspiring than she had even imagined. In time, religion led to romance and the two of them were married in Winnipeg on March 11, 1890 – the same month that Björn began conducting Unitarian services in the city.

If Björn was the natural spokesperson, it was Jennie who was the organizational genius behind the mission. Together, they organized the First Icelandic Unitarian Society of Winnipeg on February 1, 1891 with 60 charter members. Björn was the reluctant minister of the new congregation, for he had hoped to recruit the noteworthy Icelandic minister and poet Matthías Jochumsson to serve instead, but this dream was not to be.

Soon, construction of a chapel to house the young congregation was underway on the northeast corner of Sherbrook Street and Pacific Avenue. By the beginning of December in 1892, the building was fully enclosed and the congregation was furnishing the interior. The first service was held on Christmas, which fell on a Sunday that year. It was a small chapel: a wooden building, twenty-eight feet by fifty-four feet, along with a 300 square foot annex to serve as an auxiliary meeting room. It was plainly furnished and could seat 250 people. An appeal to American Unitarian churches raised $1,284, just $16 short of the mortgage, which was settled before the congregation occupied the building.

Jennie McCaine Peterson (1838-1918)

The new church was christened “Unity Hall” and it was Björn’s and Jennie’s vision that it would be a community centre and not simply a place of worship. It was anticipated that the church would be used for a wide variety of purposes, both sacred and secular. So it was: the Winnipeg Secular Association met regularly at Unity Hall and Jennie often spoke before this group of freethinkers.

Looking back on the early years, we would now say that Björn and Jennie shared the ministry, although it was Björn who could speak directly to this immigrant congregation. However, Jennie preached increasingly for Björn as his health deteriorated during the last year of his life. Björn died a little more than two and a half years after the congregation was founded, but Jennie continued the ministry (assisted by translators) until the middle of 1894, when Rev. Magnús J. Skaptason arrived in Winnipeg to assume the leadership of the fledgling congregation.

Confident that the Unitarianism had been firmly planted among the Icelanders of Winnipeg, Jennie departed for St. Paul and, from there, she eventually made her way back to New England, where she died in 1918 at the age of 80. She kept in touch with former congregants and Björn’s family through faithful and regular correspondence, continuing to advocate for the Icelandic mission for the remainder of her days.

Fake Pedigrees and Online Genealogy

At last count, as many as seven subscribers to Ancestry​.com have now misappropriated my 6th-great-grandfather, Andreas Dippel of Leusel (1681-1743), as their own ancestor. And to add further insult, Ancestry keeps sending me “hints” linking my ancestor to these sloppy excuses for family trees.

I have serious concerns about the growing unreliability of the burgeoning member-generated family trees at Ancestry and other online genealogy sites, as stupid and careless “researchers” scavenge these platforms making specious connections to serious researchers’ work. Ancestry’s access to digitized versions of original records has been a wonderful boon to genealogy, but too many of the member-generated family trees are increasingly just rubbish. Fake pedigrees are on the rise.

I have found that, in my family’s case, most of the ancestor pilfering has involved the German branch of the family. Beyond laziness and sloppiness on the part of dilettantes, several other factors seem to influence why my German line seems more vulnerable than others. The sheer number of North Americans with German ancestry means that there are large numbers of people looking for connections, most with little or no knowledge of German history, geography, or language. German vital records have been historically more localized than other Western European countries, which has meant that it’s important to know exact villages and the religious profession of one’s ancestors to access primary records. German naming customs, where a person’s “call name” was often not the same as their first name, leads to confusion and the anglicization of names only adds to that confusion. And the tenacity of family myths about “what happened at Ellis Island” (or other ports of entry) frequently sets people off on the wrong foot at the very beginning of their search.

Ancestry’s television advertising only adds to the problem by making genealogical research seem easy and magical, rather than the serious, careful, and oftentimes difficult work that it really is. Like any area of study, dilettantism spoils the result.

The back of the Reformed (now Evangelical) Church at Leusel, Hessen, the birthplace of Andreas Dippel (1681-1743).

The Strike Felt Round the World

Iceland has been at the forefront of the struggle for gender equality for more than a century. It was 100 years ago, this past June, when Icelandic women received the right to vote in national elections and Icelandic immigrants and their descendants were instrumental in winning the same right for women in Manitoba a little more than six months later. We are proudly marking the centennial of these twin achievements on both sides of the sea. But the right to vote represents only one step on the road to gender equality and, notwithstanding the great strides that have been made, we have not yet arrived at our desired destination.

There’s another anniversary marking an important milestone in the quest for equality this year. It has been forty years since the women of Iceland made headlines around the world for their bold Women’s Day Off, something that is generally characterized as “the day the women of Iceland went on strike.” If you spend any time online, there’s a good chance you’ve received an email or have perhaps seen a Facebook post showing the huge crowd of women who gathered around Lækjartorg and Arnarhóll in midtown Reykjavík on October 24, 1975. I have been bombarded with messages from friends seeking to draw my attention to this historic event, as if it could have escaped my notice. I remember the “strike” vividly, if only because I can recall my mom teasing my dad about launching a sympathy strike of her own. It sticks in my head that dad made supper that day.

The United Nations had declared 1975 to be International Women’s Year. In Iceland, the strike was one of the events organized to mark the year, calling attention to inequality and demanding corrective action. It’s estimated that ninety percent of the country’s women took the day off – both at home and at the workplace – and somewhere between 25,000 and 30,000 women descended on the heart of Reykjavík, filling the streets and squares for as far as the eye could see. They called for fair pay, equal opportunity, improved child care, and world peace. The women sang, listened to speeches, and networked amongst themselves, while their husbands and fathers, sons and brothers dealt with the effects of their one-day absence. Women and men alike learned a lot that day.

Five years later, Vigdís Finnbogadóttir became the first woman in the world to be democratically elected as a head of state. Not long afterwards, Kvennalistinn (The Women’s List) was organized as a political party and it competed in both municipal and national elections, winning three seats in Alþingi in the 1983 election and doubling its numbers four years later. Iceland’s women weren’t turning back.

Today, Iceland has the smallest gender gap in the world, according to the Global Gender Gap Index, which gives the county a score of 0.8594, where 1.0 would indicate full equality. Women graduating from university significantly outnumber men and Iceland leads the world in the proportion of women in professional and technical occupations. Women’s participation in the labour force is in the top ten and the wage gap has shrunk to about 20 percent. High-quality child care is readily available and affordable, while household responsibilities are shared more equitably than in other countries. Finally, Icelandic women are more politically empowered than anywhere else. Yet, even with these measures of success, the aspirations of 1975 have not been fully achieved – Icelandic women are better off than elsewhere, but full equality has not yet been achieved. Forty years later, there’s still work to do, but Iceland’s experience and tangible progress still serve as an inspiration to women around the world who long for equality – and the men who stand with them as allies.

Party Unity

Lord, make me an instrument of party unity;
Where there is animosity, let me sow forbearance;
Where there is blame, forgiveness;
Where there is injury, reconciliation;
Where there is discord, harmony;
Where there is arrogance, humility;
Where there is hyperbole, temperate speech;
Where there is doubt, new confidence;
Where there is despair, abiding hope;
Where there is gloom, insight;
Where these is spin, genuine candour;
And where there is aimlessness,
the enduring vision of the cooperative commonwealth.

— "St. Francis the New Democrat"

A Modest Declaration of Independence

It was on the first day of December in 1918 that a small gathering of dignitaries and citizens assembled in front of Stjórnarráðhúsið (Government House) in Reykjavík to observe Iceland's formal declaration of sovereignty as a nation — an event known since then as Fullveldisdagurinn (Sovereignty Day or Independence Day). It was a pretty modest affair for the rebirth of a self-governing nation.

While 1944 is generally recognized as the year of Iceland's independence, and while June 17th is appropriately recognized as the country's National Day, that latter year and day marked the beginning of the Republic of Iceland — it was already an independent country. The achievement of Icelandic independence was a 99-year process that began with the reestablishment of the Alþing (Althing) in 1845 and culminated in the declaration of the Republic in 1944, but there were several other milestones along the way: the granting of a Constitution in 1874, Home Rule in 1904, and the recognition of Iceland's sovereignty in 1918.

In 1918, identical bills were introduced in the Danish Folketing and the Icelandic Alþing, the two countries' respective parliaments, which opened with the words: "Denmark and Iceland are free and autonomous nations, united under the same King." After both legislative bodies passed the bill, it was confirmed by a referendum of the Icelandic people on October 19, 1918. The ceremony declaring Iceland a sovereign and independent country on December 1st was a modest affair, owing to the impact of three natural calamities that year — the economic consequences of an unusually harsh winter the year before, the 24-day eruption of Mount Katla beginning on October 12, and the deadly influenza pandemic commonly known as the Spanish Flu. However modest it may have been, this day is a momentous one in the history of Iceland.

Fullveldisdagurinn 1918 – A solemn gathering in front of Stjórnarráðhúsið (Government House) on December 1, 1918, when Iceland's sovereignty as a nation was formally declared.