In a very rural church that I worked in, I developed a pattern which I called "notice of motion." A comment was often made about churches like this that a decision would be made in a meeting, and then, out in the parking lot or during visits the next few days, the issue would be talked over and the decision overturned.

As I got to know the community, I understood the reasons why this happened.

First, not every voice was heard in the meeting. No one wanted to argue in the face of the minister. Some were naturally quiet. If the meeting was run by the rules, some were not sure how to fit their opinion in. Leaning on the truck outside, they could voice their thoughts clearly.

Second, the elders were not at the meeting. The younger folks had been elected to the board to do the active work. The old folks no longer wanted to come out to night meetings. They were not opposed to new ideas, but they wanted to make sure that their heritage was honoured in the new things that were done.

What I did with what I called "notice of motion" was to say: at our next meeting, I think we need to discuss this issue. This is why I think we need to discuss it. I am not sure which direction to go, but this is my suggestion. I want you to think about it. And I want you to talk to Aunt Martha, Uncle Jim, everyone who you think cares about the church and this issue in particular. Any quick questions or thoughts? Then, let's get to the next item of business.

What I did with this was to affirm that the decision would be made at a meeting, but also acknowledged that they needed time to talk casually about it and to check with the people who were not present.

There was one other piece of background to this congregation. At one time in rural Canada, there needed to be a school and a church within horse and buggy distance from every farm. The schools closed first, moving to central schools in each town. In the sixties, the United Church saw how many churches there still were and followed a similar model. Not all the country churches were closed, but the number was cut by two thirds. The governing structure announced which ones would close.

The church I served in the early nineties was told, "You will close." The people said, "No." The governing structure shrugged and said, "You will not have a minister." That was fine with the people. They ran a Sunday school from May to the Christmas recital. They managed the cemetery and held funerals. They had a yearly anniversary service.

Twenty-five years later, they paired up with a nearby church to share a minister. The governing body acknowledged that the congregation still existed. They hired a student.

When that student was coming up for ordination, the two congregations decided they could handle a full-time minister and asked for the student to stay. A different governing body sent that student our west and gave them me. Again, they found that the governing structures did not honour them.

This story came to mind this week as I heard complaints about the rail protests. I heard people claim they couldn't understand what the problem was out in Wet'suwet'in. And I heard that the properly elected chiefs had more authority than traditional ones.

The process of election was imposed by an outside governing structure that did not respect the traditions of the community. There is a colonial history that marginalizes voices, and that history leads to mistrust. Some elders are not present in the decision-making process.

I would not say that a simple "notice of motion" process would fix this. I would say that the conditions for real dialogue are hard to put in place. It takes work. It takes an acknowledgement of the real history so that people believe they are being listened to.

Everyone learns from experience. Remember Oka? Indigenous people across our country remember all too well. They have learned that if they don't protest firmly, they won't be listened to. It is going to take time and a commitment to set in place a real process of dialogue. And the traditional leaders and elders have to be taken seriously even if it happens on a protest line.

Cathy Hird lives on the shore of Georgian Bay.