Political dirt and quantum theology

My head is full of politics today, and not in a good way. I listened to Rick Santorum blasting Obama for being a "snob" for saying that 'every child should be able to go to University'. What unadulterated crap! Such wilful misunderstanding as part of the political process demeans the whole enterprise.

And it isn't any better north of the USA/Canada border. Our current government is trying to avoid dealing with the accusation that its minions used "robophone calls" to misdirect senior voters on our last election day, so they wouldn't be able to get to their appropriate polling station! Of course, PM Harper has self righteously crowed that unless the opposition can show him proof that his people were actually involved, these are "just allegations." Shades of Gordon Liddy and the Watergate! The possibility that our government got itself elected by means of such underhanded means makes me wonder why we even think we live in a democratic country. This sounds like Syria!

So I'm depressed. I guess I'm naive enough to think that the political process should involve honour and dignity and concern for the people who elected you. Instead, the whole thing seems to be about raw power, gotten which ever way you can; legal, illegal, above board or underhanded. How can we ever encourage young people to get involved in government without also transmitting to them the notion that the reason for being in government is to make money at the expense of any good for the populace?

Looking at this stuff is such a bummer after the exalted reading I have been doing about the spirituality and theological meaning of quantum physics. Such an elegant and transparent way of understand God and the ways in which God (whatever you call God) unfolds reality. Reading O'Murchu's take on this material, I see the absolute wisdom of the stance of Progressive Christians: do not tolerate statements or concepts of God and the religious quest that are made against a backdrop of 17th century cosmology, rather than against the backdrop of the most current understanding of the nature of reality. The evolutionary process is God working; the evolutionary process is God, the Ultimate, the Ground of Being, as Tillich said, so many decades ago. My internal response to this approach is one of profound awe. I am a part of the universe, made (as someone wrote) "of stardust." Being grasped by these concepts is not the same as being able to explain or outline them for another. It's quite likely that, if any one reads these wrds, they'll think I've lost my mind, or strayed a bit ovr the edge of whatever reality I live in.

Nonetheless, it is heady stuff, and provides a way to hold the Christian understanding of life in a context of integrity with today, rather than having to bend one's mind around the 17th and 18th century world that lies behind so many of the intellectual statements of 'the faith of our fathers and mothers.' A good place to stop, since I cannot think of how to elucidate this for others yet. Another day…

How many degrees?

I was trawling through Facebook late last evening, and noticed I had a long list of faces that are currently not "Friends," but who are connected to me through as few as four common Friends, and as many as fifteen common Friends. It started me reflecting on the whole 'six degrees of separation' business. All these people who have relationships with many people that I know, but have no relationship with me! Looked at from one perspective, that could add to my sense of aloneness in the world. Fro another angle, I am reminded that my little world, though it sometimes feels empty, is really crowded with folk just over the horizon!

The current weather encourages this kind of pondering. For virtually the first time this winter, we have what may develop into a full-blown blizzard! There is wind (40-50kph), there is flying snow (light currently), and the temperature is pushing down toward -10°C. My favorite kind of Manitoba day, here in Alberta!!!! The streets are quite empty. Only one foolish soul at the end of the block is industriously shoveling for all he is worth. (Of course, he'll have to do it again in two hours). Myself, on the other hand, is doing no such thing. I am hoping that by tomorrow morning, I'll have the fun of firing up the snow-thrower and blast everything white off my driveway and sidewalk with a minimum of effort. Of course, in my usual compulsive way, I was up and on the street walking 3 1/2 Km in the dark! I even persuaded Beatrix to come along.

Snowstorms are beautiful, unless you happen to be in a potentially lethal situation, as; in a car, stuck in the snow, dressed for a party rather than a tramp in the country. In many ways, they take me back to my younger days - childhood, really - when mountains of snow meant great play structures, and proper gear kept you warm, Of course, by the time you had wrestled in the snow for an hour, everything was pretty wet. But I like things that take me back. I walked in the burgeoning storm this morning, and I'm quite sure I'll plow through the deep snow to walk tomorrow morning. Doing that, I can recall the faces of my childhood friends, the kids I played with in the snow. Looking out the window just now, I so no neighbourhood children outside in the weather. Times change, and I suppose we do as well. At least as far as what is appropriate play weather for kids. There is a part of me that wants to ring a neighbour's doorbell and ask if the kids can come out to play. But that would be too crazy, don't you think…?

Brothers and sisters…

This afternoon, I caught the tail end of a CBC broadcast of radio documentary entitled "Brothers and Sisters." That set me to thinking about my own life state. I am an only child. I always have been an only child. I know that sounds silly, but the operative word there is "only." There are many advantages to being an only child. You get all the attention from parents. You don't have to share toys, or space. I suppose in some ways, you get "spoiled." As I have lived my life, I found each advantage to also be a liability. Getting all the attention means that when something goes wrong, there's only one person to blame: me. That meant that I got used to feeling responsible for everything negative that happens. And I still do that, internally. If there's something wrong, perhaps it's my fault, or I should have done something about it.

Not having to share means that you never learn how to connect with another around shared tasks, toys or anything. It teaches you how to be alone. Later, that contributes to feeling lonely a lot of the time, even when you choose to be alone. It's what I know best: being alone with my thoughts.

As I grew up, I made a few friends.But not many. I find it difficult to make friends. It's like there's very little room in my psyche for other people. I think over the course of these many years that I may have made perhaps six friends…maybe seven. But not more. People that I know and like and whose company I enjoy I do not necessarily consider "friends." There are many things about myself that I wouldn't share with them.

I learned about brothers and sisters watching my children grow up. Much of the time it was with amazement that I observe their interaction, the way they could fight and then be buddies five minutes later. They trusted one another. Three of them are good friends to this very day, well into their middle age. That makes me feel really good, although I can't take much credit for it. They have been my teachers when it comes o sibling things.

This past autumn my eldest daughter and I traveled together to Scotland for almost two weeks. I have always felt very close to her, and this travel experience was the closest thing I have ever experienced to having a sister. We are adult friends now, and traveled together with little friction. It was probably the very best part of making that journey into my cultural past, sharing it with her.

When I see my children together, which is seldom now, I feel very deeply 'warm' inside, and at the same time, a bit envious. I would have loved to have a brother or a sister. Of course, they would have had to be somewhat unlike me, or sparks would have flown all the time! I suppose I think of "sister" in terms of my own daughters; "brothers" in terms of my son. They are such fine people. I have to face the possibility that a sibling of mine wouldn't have been any finer than me, and God knows I'm aware that isn't too fine!

As it stands, the friend I considered closest to a brother died over a year ago. I mourn Vincent to this day. I have little expectation that I will find another to fill his place. Perhaps I need to work on lowering my expectation of "friends?" The, at least, I wouldn't feel so alone so much of the time.

Bad language

I swear a lot. My language is sprinkled with four letter words most of the time when I am alone. Of course, I moderate this in public settings - I am enough of a hypocrite to protect my reputation just a little bit! Driving through south Scotland this past autumn, I had occasion to vent my spleen quite freely, as we got lost a lot on day one of the drive.

You may wonder where this came from, or how I tolerate it, being "a man of the cloth"? Well, first of all, remember that I was a child, a youth and a man before I was a man of the cloth. And also remember that I was raised in a decidedly working class, blue collar community. Salty language was the language of my youth. Through most of my adult - professional - life, I kept this aspect of my inner self under wraps. Again, hypocrisy and discretion in the service of image, held sway.

But now I am "an old man," and amazingly, I feel closer to my roots than at any time of my life. I suppose I spent a lot of years attempting to escape my roots, or at least cover them over with the rich loam of middle class existence. But, increasingly, I am just a boy from the part of the city where no middle class people wanted their kids to go. It was deemed "too tough." Even today, there is a Facebook page entitled, "I'm from Transcona, and I ain't trash." The reputation and the low self-image hangs on, you see, "even unto the third and fourth generation," as the Bible says.

Colourful language, or foul language, if you prefer, is a sign of  poor education, and the lack of an appropriate vocabulary to express oneself. But you can see - or read - that I have reasonable language skills. A good cover for a blue collar boy with an inferiority complex. Clearly, I don't HAVE to express myself that way. So why do it?

I have pondered that a lot recently, even as stomped around the house, swearing at the idiotic actions of our Federal government. My mind was drawn back to something I learned in University English class, way back in the 50's. The language of the Romans, Latin, introduced Latin names for basic, four letter, Anglo Saxon terms. A return the Anglo-Saxon language is a return to the most basic level of my language roots. "Excrement" becomes "s**t" ( I don't what's appropriate in blogs. I have no need to annoy the language police). "Intercourse" becomes "f**k." "Posterior" becomes "a*s." You get the point. The early founders of the English language didn't mince words, or letters, in expressing themselves.  In my approaching dotage, I applaud this grounded language, this earthy expression of human activity and description. I am a man of the earth, a peasant, not an aristocrat. Sometimes I wish I was an aristocrat! Some of my friends are aristocrats, and I'd like to be one of them, sometimes. I can do "aristocrat" in short bursts, but it's tiring. I'm a peasant, and that's the truth. So be careful if you offend me. I might get p***ed off, and kick your a**s, or call you a f**khead, or a t**d. To me, that would be a good deal more satisfying than telling you that your "comments were uncalled for, and your language unacceptable to me. And I feel demeaned by your description of my behaviour." Nuff said, a**hole.

Waiting…

It's been more difficult to start this blog today than at any time before, and I've  been pondering the reason. The other day I talked about being asked to help a young couple plan a memorial for the wife, who is terminally ill. The date was set for yesterday in the afternoon. About 90 minutes before we were to leave for their home, the husband phoned. "Setback," he said. His spouse had fallen ill, her platelet count was dangerously low. That meant a trip to the hospital, and an undetermined time to be spent there while the staff laboured to correct the dangerous situation. Setback indeed. More like another brush with death. He would call us to re-schedule when "things settled down."

It's now more than 24 hours later, and he has not called. Of course, that could simply mean that between children and work, he's too busy. Or, it could mean something very much worse…who knows. In the meantime, I hold them up to the Divine and ask for care for them. And I wait, but not patiently or peacefully. My problem, not theirs.

I have been reflecting off and on all day how fragile life is when you draw close to its edge. In the twinkling of an eye, she could be gone. Or I could be gone! As I think this, I recall that the woman with the illness-unto-death lives her life fully in each moment, wisely. That's really all she's got. And she has become my teacher, for really, that's all I've got too. I might live another ten years, or fifteen. Or I could drop tomorrow, tonight. So I enjoyed the sun on my face as I walked, even though the wind had a bite. Not enough to take away the sun. And I was blessed. I finished  book this afternoon, in the midst of the gentle hubbub of Tim Horton's. Another blessing. And another book awaits me.

Walking, I thought about the people I love, who love me (I think), and I smiled again. I am profoundly gifted, even while I struggle to figure out what my life is for, now that I rarely work. I read, and I learn, and I try to remember what these wise teachers tell me every day. I prepare meals, knowing that work is a gift to my beloved, who would scramble to eat if I was not here. I support her with food, and with more as well.

Enough for now. Other thoughts cloud my mind, to be written in other places for other people. Another day…

Being en-faithed

Today turned out to be a good day. At worship, I read the scriptures, and made 2 Kings live! I spent the afternoon alone, so I looked up the Hubble telescope website (http://hubblesite.org/) and looked at pictures taken of deep space, and I mean deep space! Planets being born, planets dying, creation continuing to happen. Profound spiritual nurture, watching evolution at work.

My own faith was fed this weekend by reading two books: Evolutionary Faith by Diarmid O'Murchu, and Bruce Sanguin's Darwin, Divinity and the Dance of the Cosmos. These books are wonderful for the believer who can't accept the notion of a "literal and inerrant and infallible" Bible, and who need a different way to understand the Word of God about creation and the evolutionary process.

So today my faith has been bolstered, lifted, given wings and a song. Great stuff. For tomorrow I will need it. Tomorrow Beatrix and I meet with a young couple - not past their thirties - who face a death together. She is the dying one, slowly or quickly, but inexorably. Leukemia is a quiet enemy, an implacable for that just keeps marching in. The husband is the son of a childhood friend of mine. For that, and other reason I can think of, he reached out to us to help them plan together for a time of memorial for the mother of their two primary age girls.

Tomorrow will be listening time, time for 'knowing' who this woman is, who this man is, and what they need from us. We have had the chance she will not have, to live a whole life. How can she not be enraged, broken-hearted, to be defeated in her youthful prime by a wasting that will not cease?

I have come to this page tonight from watching Rita Dove, the American poet laureate, discussing poems from the twentieth century with Bill Moyers. The mother who is dying is a poet too, and I felt her presence in the intensity of the discussion that came from my TV. Somehow, Rita Dove's beauty and wisdom and liveliness gave me courage and energy for tomorrow's labour. May it be so.

Fussing

It's one of those Saturdays…you know, with a blank slate ahead of me. I know, some of you would LOVE one of those. I let myself sleep in this morning - till almost 7:00! Ate, then walked. Listened to Vic Toews on The House trying to justify his 'internet surveillance' bill.

I've been reading about the evolutionary process and its relationship to faith in God, the Divine, whatever. I live in a place where a minister said, quite publicly, "You can't believe in evolution and be a Christian." What crap. So I've been reading Diarmid O'Murchu (Evolutionary Faith), and Bruce Sanguin (Darwin, Divinity and the Dance of the Cosmos), and taking heart from these two. I got so internally exercised in the pool the other day when a friend said to me that 'evolution has been decisively proven impossible.' So I sat right down and wrote a column for the local rag trying to lay out the essence of O'Murchu's thesis, and offering to loan the book to anyone who wants to read it. That should yank the shorts of one or two of the local fundamentalist preachers. Hope I get hate mail!

I wonder if it's the same for other elder and aging folk that political and theological issues exercise me more than they used to. I have fewer other concerns to occupy my mind, and I feel increasingly helpless to do anything about the issues, other than speak (rant!) I know at least one really old gentleman, nearing 92, who has become quite calm in the face of it all. "I'm not going to do anything about it. It's someone else's problem now." There are days when I wish I could feel and day that. But I'm certainly not there yet.

New restaurant opened in town the other day. We're going to try it tonight. Sounds high end, so I fear it won't make it. Most folks like BP - piles of fries and everything barbecued. Fingers crossed. Makes me wonder about the future of towns like this one. Under 7000 population, too many Dollar stores and Bargain Shops, where everything is Uber-cheap and cheaply made. Not enough  business other than oil patch, out-of-town stuff. Apart from groceries, people go everywhere else to shop. There are two small cities, 10-12000 just north and south of us. Death squeeze, it feels like. I wonder what (if anything) is the secret of encouraging these little places. I think, more viable and diverse business. How do you encourage them to come? The provincial health people closed 1/2 our hospital ( a beautiful building) for some administrative reason, and we are short a few doctors… See why I'd like to just calm down and walk away?

Well, that's today. Another walk and some coffee might help. And a talk with one of my kids. Bye.

Failure and Pain

Friday again, and an open day ahead of me. I have planned a meal, I have two good books to read, I've been for a 3 1/2 km walk, and Beatrix has shaved my head. Is it nap time yet?

I've pondering a chunk of my life that I thought I'd tell you about. For almost 30 years, I was a hospital chaplain, a teaching supervisor of pastoral care students and a family therapist - did some teaching there, too. I worked a lot in psychiatry and critical care, and for three memorable years, I was attached to the ALS clinic (Lou Gehrig's Disease). I was a very busy guy…pathologically busy, some would say.

As I walked yesterday, I was remembering the students I supervised over that long period. I have no idea how many there were. They would come for three months in the summer, or for  six months, art time over the winter. For a number of years I had stipended residents, who came for almost a full year. Many of them were very bright, deeply compassionate, and keen to learn the arts of listening an entering deeply into people's pain.

I all that time, I remember only two students who were major problems in my life, and with whom I feel like a failure. One was with me for the summer of 1979, the other I worked with in a post-retirement pastoral appointment four years ago.

The 1979 student was a recently retired Canadian Army Captain, entering into ministry as a second career. He was hard bitten and suspicious to the point of paranoia, and into power in a big way. Looking back, it was clear that he had never recovered from military life. Face to face, he would never disagree with me, or even challenge me in a group. His rational, when questioned? "A Captain never challenges a Colonel." The military model of authority was in his bones, and he never lost it. In informal student groups, he complained about me all the time, and spoke of me in very derogatory ways. But never once to my face. At the end of the unit, at evaluation time, when nothing was at stake, he was open.

"I care not a whit for your evaluation of me. I only want to know what the real staff had to say about me." That's how we parted. I have the sense that by now, he is a bishop somewhere, playing God and making some one's life miserable. As one of my old supervisors from the 70"s used to say, "I never laid a glove on him." Amen to that!

The second "difficult" student came into my life just a few years ago. He was assigned to the pastoral charge to which I was appointed for a one year stint. He was, and is, without doubt, one of the most gifted men I have met. Musically he is without parallel. He plays piano, and organ, composes and directs musical superbly. He is also incredibly charming. People tend to love him easily, and on occasion, he has taken advantage of that two push the relationship farther along. Twice married, twice divorced, with a number of affairs along the way. BUT… "he could talk the monkeys out of the trees," as one of my colleagues put it.

The dark part is that he is also very manipulative, and can become a bully when his charm doesn't work - which is seldom. Needless to say, the people on the pastoral charge loved him, and saw in him their long-term saviour. I was appointed year by year, and was ready to leave at the end of the appointment year (June), and they hoped he would be ordained and settled with them. During the year, as he was musical director for a local production, he fell in love with the director - a married woman with three almost grown children. Shortly they moved in together, blowing her family sky-high.

In my evaluation of him, I logged every single of his gifts and successes, but also commented on the change in his personal life.His rage was frightening. I set about to stop his ordination, having learned  a good deal more about his past. The sum total of the picture is that I felt this man was  a "soft" sociopath, a person who will go to great lengths to get his way, with little or no concern about who gets hurt along the way. Of course, being a marvellous performer, and swam through to ordination and settlement without a major hitch. He is still in the same community, and they still love him. But I feel confident that one day, the bubble will burst, and trouble will ensue.

How this affects me is simple. The man remains enraged with me and with the fact that he could not sweet talk me into overlooking his shortcomings. His revenge has been to paint me in terrible ways to the congregation, to undermine my character and my work. He has been so successful at this, that when I encounter locals from that community, they "can't see me," and refuse to speak to me. I gather this is typical behaviour from a sociopathic personality.

In many ways this has been one of the prime learning experiences of my life, unfortunately coming too late for me to make much use of it as a teacher. And it has been painful. I sometimes wonder if there was any way that I could have dealt with the situation better. But of course I am thinking of "how to avoid the pain." Which isn't the real point. The real point is, how does one protect an institution or a community from a person with such great skill at setting people up for pain?

I'm sure that any teacher who reads this will be able to think of at least one student who caused them grief, even endless grief. My heart goes out to you.

"Stuff"

I live on what might be called a "typical suburban street" in a small town in Alberta, Canada. Each house (approx. 2600 sq.ft. on the main floor) faces the street with a two car garage. There are many vehicles parked on the street. Could be any town in Canada except that there are too many trucks. This is the oil patch, after all. What is remarkable to me is that each short driveway sports at least one, often two vehicles, parked outside in the weather. Imagine: temperatures as high as 33° C in summer, as low as -35° C in winter, and your $60000 truck sits outside in front of a spacious two-vehicle garage! Sounds crazy, doesn't it. What could account for such a practice?

The short answer: "stuff."The random collection of toys, appliances, adult toys (ATVs and snowmobiles, canoes and snowblowers) and everything else that won't fit in the house. The expensive vehicles sit out and endure the weather! "Stuff" has been unpacked and described thoroughly by the comedian/social critic George Carlin, he of the scatalogical vocabulary. He tells us that North Americans not only collect fat around the waistline, but also around the house. We soon become so burdened by our "stuff"that we have to move to larger quarters just to accomodate all our possessions. There is a house in my general neighborhood with a large yard and a double garage, with five derelict cars taking up all the driveway space as well as part of the yard! Does Jed Clampett live there? (Remember 'The Beverley Hillbillys'?)

I can self-righteously claim that we can get both our vehicles inside our garage (see my halo?). However, books do have a tendency to breed and multiply in my home. The prospect of moving fills me with dread. Will I pay someone to move all this "stuff," or try and sort through and weed out some of it? When I was a young man, I thought of moving as an exciting adventure, new frontiers to cross, new experiences to be had! Today, it's packing and unpacking and paying the tarriff that dominates in my mind.

There's more to it than that, I'm afraid. At some point, as possessions proliferate, the things I own begin to own me. Decisions, even major life decisions, have to factor in 'what will I do with all this "stuff"?' It becomes a spiritual problem in many cases. I may want to take or volunteer in  faraway place for a time. But then there's all this "stuff" to be considered.Will I store it? Taking it is not an option; giving it away is rarely considered. "Stuff" comes to rule my life.

I am never more conscious of this than when I watch the migration of the desperately poor through the desert to a refugee camp, without possessions and even without food. How would my spirit survive if I had to walk away from all I "own"? Would I have any brains at all without my books?

What about you? Do you ever have thoughts like this? Does your "stuff" take up too much room in your life? Are you "owned" by what you possess? Think about it.

Who am I, today?

I'm actually a very shy person, and getting shy-er as I grow older. People who've known me a long time would doubt this, because I have a very good exterior extroverted persona. I can laugh and joke, play the clown, and interact with just about anyone. It's tiring, however, and afterward, I want to spend some time alone, with a book or a computer or the TV. I spend a lot of time alone now that I'm not working full time, or even much part time. I don't mind that, most of the time. I read or write or surf. I talk to myself internally and externally a lot of the time.

One of the features I appreciate about blogging is that I can put my ideas and feelings out on paper without being concerned about how that impacts other people. I can't imagine that many people would find my ideas interesting and stimulating. So I do this for myself. I am a "pretend" writer. The odd column for the local paper, a sermon now and then. That's it.

Recently, I have been connecting with a young mother who is progressing (?) slowly toward the end of her life with leukemia. She has known about this, and been dealing with it for just over a year. She is a professional woman, very articulate, intelligent and extremely knowledgeable about her disease. Her online Journal is detailed, informative, emotionally powerful…and exhausting to read. This isn't a negative for me. I feel closer to her feelings when I can feel the weight of her experience on my shoulders. Great for the mind, heavy for the heart. Her friends respond to her with support and care. It's a beautiful arrangement. Not perfect, but good in its own way.

To switch gears for a moment…. I am trying to write a column for our local paper about the need to "update" the Christian faith so it speaks to the contemporary mind and heart, in language that is current rather than ancient. I'm finding it hard work, mostly because I'm not as 'contemporary' as I'd like to think. I'm "here," but I'm ancient. I have to work within the boundaries of my own limitations. I'm trying to do the novelist thing: feel my way into the character and speak as he/she would speak. Or in this case, hear. I suspect I'm in for a few drafts. I might even get the courage to log the thing in here, to see if anyone responds. Or perhaps not. I'm writing for myself, not for others to tell me what they think about what I say.

Anyway…enough for this morning. To anyone who's reading: happy Valentine's Day. I hope you have someone to love you. I do, and I feel very fortunate. (Wow! No spelling mistakes! A first!)

Creation thoughtsv on a Sunday afternoon

Started reading a book of eco-theology, an approach that reminds us that we are a part of the creation around us, that we don't stand apart from it. We are also reminded that "God," or whatever you are used to calling that Force, is to be found in and through all of created nature. Look into the face of a newborn…God is to be seen. Stand under a leafy tree and listen to the rustle…God is to be heard. Of course, all these "things" are not God. But God is the force that holds them together that gives them uniqueness, that breathes life into them.

Eco-theology reinforces the idea that humans are not the centre of creation, not the masters of creation, not the "owners" of it, so to speak. We are but a part of it, and without the created world around us, we would be unable to live.All of which makes matters of the environment more than just "concerns" for humans. When we are talking about 'environment,' we are talking about our home, the place where we live, the house and property we depend on to support our life. All of which makes matters of the environment much more personal and urgent. If the environment - the oceans, the air quality, the lives of species - is beginning to go down the toilet, then we'd best be worried. That's our place they're talking about.

The Church of which I am a part recently issued an updated Statement of Faith. In part, it reads, 

"…So God created the universe

           and with it the possibility of being and relating. 

God tends the universe, 

           mending the broken and reconciling the estranged. 

God enlivens the universe, 

           guiding all things toward harmony with their Source."

What I read here reminds me that "environmental concerns" have to do with our own personal extended body. If we allow the world, our home, to be degraded beyond usefulness, then we are sacrificing our own "body," the organism in which and through which we live; the only way that we can live!

Conflicts about pipelines and dwindling fish stocks, and winters without snow and melting ice caps are conflicts involving our -selves, the spaces and pieces through which we have our life.

Beginning to think this way is so personal, like wondering if my infected foot will heal, or my liver cancer will kill me, or my fading eyesight will leave me blind. Wow! A whole new angle from which to ponder "environment!"

Up with teachers!

Been a hectic two days. Spent one of them reading the online Journal of a young woman, wife of a friend, who is in the final stages of a year long battle with Leukemia. Exhausting to read, and I can't imagine how exhausting to live. More about that another day.

Last evening I happened to be listening to a phone in radio program about the Education component of our province's latest budget, delivered yesterday. Inevitably, the talk turned to teachers, and what a spoiled, overpaid, under worked lot they are. Some of the views were strong on opinion, and very short on accurate information.

My ex-wife was a teacher, and my son is a teacher. Both of them were/are typical of the teachers that I know: committed, passionate and hard-working to the point of over-achievement. I'm sure there are teachers in any system who"come at nine, leave at three." But I've only met one, and he's not in any way typical.

My son, for example, would not be free of school in summer until the middle of July, when all his year-end paperwork was done. He was back in the building August 15 to start preparing September classes. Some spring times, he developed pneumonia because of the exhaustion he was experiencing. People who bitch about teachers have never followed one for a day. Try it…you won't like it, and you'll be glad when it's finally over, when the last paper is marked at 9:50 in the evening.

Teachers aren't perfect, but the last time I looked, neither are their critics, and neither am I…(yet!). So I say, UP WITH TEACHERS! Without them, our kids would never make it in the real world. They would have fewer role models to follow in life, and they wouldn't learn how to learn.

This past week in our local paper, a grade twelve student paid tribute to her Social teachers, who -
she says - helped to bring her up. And one of them is taking a group of grade twelve students to Europe this summer to visit world War One graves. Each student has a soldiers name, and has researched him thoroughly. The grave they visit will be of someone they "know" as best you can, a century later. I ant that teacher, and any other like him to be held in highest esteem, and given lots of respect and support. They do what many parents couldn't do, or wouldn't do. AMEN.

Readers, anyone?

I read a lot. One of the benefits of being "retired…sort of." I pick up a lot of information…most of which I forget quickly. I like it when I have liturgical work to do. Then I can use what I read to write.

I like mysteries - PD James, Ian Rankin, Peter Robinson, Lee Curtis…different styles for different days. I read odd histories, like the expansion of the early church eastward in the second century, or the story of a particularly tricky military situation in the Balkans in the 90's. Theologically, I read Marcus Borg and Dom Crossan, and recently, Diarmid O'Murchu, another brilliant Irishman. I like science as it's presented in Discover magazine, and current Canadian literature as it comes in Walrus. Or Alberta literature and politics (other than Conservative) in Alberta Views.

You can see that I am a privileged man! Only problem is, I live in an area where few people share my reading habits, so I have almost no one to talk to about this stuff. One of my dreams is that some of you (if there are any of you) who read this blog, will sometimes respond to my comments and opinions, or question me. I will enthusiastically respond, like a puppy looking for a treat! And if you read, I'm interested in what you read as well. New ideas of a mind not yet totally dithered, and needing stimulation. Try me!

Coming Home

Almost two and a half years ago, the church of my denomination (United Church of Canada) in the town just north of us was burned to the ground as the handiwork of an arsonist. The pastor is a woman I have known since her teen years. As you can imagine, the congregation was swamped with rage and grief, but undertook a process of restorative justice with the young arsonist. They went through agonizing months of planning, dreaming, and working to rebuild their church home.

In the process, they discovered the generosity of other churches in the town (Wetaskiwin, Alberta). They were invited. and used, nine different venues for worship and programming over the next twenty-two months. The Christians of the community opened their congregational homes to the UCC folk, who never missed a Sunday's worship.

This morning, the congregation held their first service in the new church building. It was a "welcome home" service, which encouraged people to wander the building, leaving messages of support and welcome in each part of the building. The excitement and joy was mixed with tears of sadness and remembrance…and finally relief, that they were at last "home."

I regularly have that feeling when I have been away on business, or even on vacation, and  finally set foot in the place I call "home." Home is made up of a number of factors. There is, of course, the physical space, the place. There is also the people who are there, whose presence makes home real for us. Ruth, the pastor, was both welcom-er and welcom-ee this morning. It was a blessed time, a moving time, a time of reflection and of joy. It was also a time that reminded us that such joy and homecoming can only occur after "home" has been missed, or lost. In this case, coming home followed upon intense pain and loss, and was cathartic for many people who have been part of that congregation for years, even decades.

Look around your home; what would hurt most if it were taken away? How could you replace it? How would you respond to the loss? What would it take for you to recover from that loss? Take a moment to reflect and then to be grateful for the homes that you have in your life: where you live, where you worship, where other loved ones live.

Slothful Saturday

Slow morning. Bummed out to hear that Caterpillar has shut down a plant in London, ON, and moved it to Indiana because the state passed anti-untion laws, and Cat can hired workers for peanuts. Big lift for shareholders, death march for workers.

Apart from that, the sun is shining and I'm off to meet with a wedding couple, planning for a wedding in Aigust 2013. Talk about advance planning!

Shopping today for a three year old. Hard to remember that far back, into another age when my kids were three. Thankn heaven this kid loves reading and books. Always a winner.

This is one of those days when spouse goes one way, and me another. Thank God for Fido phones with free calling between phones. We have to connect somehow before dinner time tonight!

It amazes me that this woman, whom I married just a few months ago, it seems, will be married to me 25 years in October!! We both stand there with our mouths open and say, "Nooooooo, really?" I guess that's good, isn't it. Plans are afoot for the celebration. Just us, but enjoyable.

Well, as my ex-mother-in-law used to say, "More anon…"

Getting Focused

I stare at the screen…mind, a blank. Is it the Friday syndrome? Perhaps it's just that not to much has happened to me in the last twenty-four hours. My life has periods like that: boring. My attention wanders, and I can't even read for a very long time. Angry Birds becomes my challenging limit.

I managed to get my juices flowing last evening by sitting down to write to my MP. He's a smiling and compliant back-bencher, who rises to make scripted comments every once in awhile, mostly for the benefit of the folks at home. They recruited him young - late 30' - and he'll be there for another twenty years, the way our constituency votes. A havk is what he is, a party hack, guaranteed a very fat pension while he votes on "pension reform" for the rest of us. (Pension reform means cutting bck the age for Old Age Supplement from 65 to 67 years. Future plans will cut the Canada Pension Plan benefits.)

Ah, there, the blood is flowing now, and the mind is focused. These days i have no trouble getting exercised aboit politics provincially or federally. I grew ro maturity in a time when compassion and concern for the disadvantaged and youth was much higher on the political agenda than today. Oh, I'm sure the more liberal governments of the past had their share of corruption and self-serving actions. But today's majority in our Commons is narrow minded and mean spirited in the extreme. The concern for those down the ladder is so manifestly NOT there! And it troubles me a lot. I live in a part of the country that benefits BIG TIME from the Tar sands boom, and the only concern is that the rich flow of cash (6 figures for people with very little education) continue. Huge support for pipelines south and west. No apparent awareness of the dangers inherent in passing lines through sensitive wilderness, near prime aquifers.

As you can see, I get passionate. I think the point that helps me get excited is that our leaders appear to care so little what we say, that they don't hear us - well, they don't listen. Anyway, we have a Provincial election upcoming before June, so there should be opportunities to make our voices (my voice) heard.

Weird Winter

This morning, when I ser off on my early AM walk - we're talking 5 AM here - the temoerature was about -8° Celcius, which is perhaps 10 or 12 F. A mild day, by our prairie standards. The whole winter has been really strange…climate change strange. Normally we get a few WEEKS of weather that it sub -30°. That is quite normal. As well, there are usually winter storms - wind with some snow flyong. A few of these are true blizzrds. (To qualify as a blizzard, the wind must be stronger than 40 km per hr, there must be heavy snow falling and blowing virtually horizontally, obstructing vision seriously, and the temperature must be below -4° Celcius.) This year we've had one sn]mall stprm, and a BIT of snow. Many days have been above 0 Celcius, meaning above 32° Fahrenheit. While this pleasant, it is not normal, and makes me wonder what April will bring…or May. Will we have -30° then? Will I need my snowblower fired up to uncover the tulips?

In this rural area, there are quite a number of farm folk who strenuously object to the idea of global warming. They simply refuse to "believe" it - as though it was an act of faith. We jus don't talk about it any more. They simply enjoy the warmth and hope for the best.

If you think that is strange, then you need to take a good look at my outlook. I'm a native of Winnipeg in Manitoba. If you check out a map, you'll find that to be a loooooong way north of Minneapolis. Winnipeg is famous for long and bitter winters. Huge blizzards and crushing cold (-45° C is quite possible two or three times each winter for a day or two.) What is strange about me is that I LOVE this koind of weather! I am all tricked out with an arctice parka, a balaclava face mask, thermal mitts, and big boots. I do my 4 K walk in the morning, no matter what the weather is! I take a kind of manic and perverse joy in braving the elements and NT being subdued by them. Anyone else out there a weather nut? Be in touch.

Vrooom, vrooom!

I live in a land of trucks. The Canadian Oil patch is truck country. My long, suburban block sports 26 three-quarter ton trucks, all with oversized wheels, off-road tires and four wheel drive. Most of them are spotless, never having been driven off any road, anywhere. Trucks are a sign of manliness. I've seen a few with leather sacks hanging off the trailer hitch, containing two large ball-bearings. "This guy has real balls!"

Virtually every truck on my street has 'Command Start.' On winter mornings, this allows the owner to stumble out of bed, start the car with a remote, then have a leisurely shower, dress and eat breakfast before gearing up and get off to work. All the while, the eight cylinder diesel or gas engine is grumbling away in the cold, sending up clouds of exhaust. Some mornings, when I return hoe from my five AM walk in the dark, there are dozen such vehicles pouring out emmisions! My next door neighbor set a record of sorts the other morning: his vehicle idled for 65 minutes before he drove off.

Nearby cities are in the process of implementing idling by-laws. Out here in cow country? Not a chance. I recall when I worked at the Health Sciences Centre in Winnipeg, it was discovered that the poor air quality in one section of the facility was based on the fact that the unloading dock for supply trucks was just below the air intake for the whole building!

In the dear deaddays beyond recall when I ran a dozen miles before breakfast, I recall one morning running along Kenaston Avenue in Winnipeg, a major artery into the west end downtown. The traffic was heavy and the wind was from the west. I was on the east side of the road, and I had to stop moving, and then get away, because I couldn't get enough oxygen to keep running.

I suppose that living in a rural area allows people to think that truck emissions are no big deal, that our air is pure and clean. When you throw in the odor from the cattle auctions down town, and the hog farms to the north of us, you cannot mistake the fact that we live in a land suffocating under air pollution.

I have no idea what to do about this. I wrestle with the option of talking to my neighbour about his truck, or of writing a letter to the Editor of the local paper. That seems pretty feeble, however. I actually have no faith that our town council would give the problem five minutes. Most of them have oil in their blood, and wouldn't see a problem! I imagine folk in every urban centre feels the same way. I wonder how they get their municipal authorities to take the local pollution issue seriously? Perhaps I should start with the car dealers: how long does it actually take for the engine of a Ford F-150 to warm to a safely running temperature at -25°? Would it take 45 minutes for the cab to be warm enough for the driver to work in his shirtsleeves, rather than his parka? Hmmmm. It's a thought.