Going back to Church!

I lived in Ottawa fair almost three years at the vy end of the 80's - twenty-three years ago, to be exact. It turned out to be a not-so-happy time for me vocationally. Promises had been made to entice me to move east, and they were not being kept. I was frustrated and disappointed. Beatrix was not having an easy time of it at work, either. she was a social worker in those days, and it was a difficult field to enter as a stranger. Ottawa is a great city for " who you know".

One ray of happiness in our joint lives was the congregation we chose as our church home - First United Church. The congregation had been on the brink of closing when a youngish, newly ordained minister - Sharon Moon - was settled there. Her mandate was to make the place live, or close it. By the time we arrived, it was definitely beginning to live in a big way. There were old timers there, and students from the universities, people of some means, and poor people, people with professions, and unemployed people. It was an open place, a comfortable place, a place with a missin and purpose that was profoundly Christian without being terribly religious.

I recall the evening of a committee meeting, when one of our number, a member of the New Zealand consular staff, admitted at the close of the meeting that today was er birthday, and pulled a bottle champagne out of her bag! We all had a celebratory glass wither before going off home. The minister an a group at a near-by drug rehab centre, and congregational members played basketball with the residents every Friday Evening. The clients came to worship on Sunday morning, sometimes even reading the scriptures, in biker leathers! It was home to us.

Yesterday morning,Jennifer and returned to Firqst to worship there. They are in a different venue - sharing beautiful space with an Anglican congregation. Many of the older folk that had known are gone, really GONE. But some familiar faces were there, and remembered us! Lots of younger faces as well, and children. Worship was led by a lay person, and the music director. It was worship in song, with fresh hymns which we enthusiastically learned with the help of a smal but competent choir. The spirit was the same as I had felt it all those years ago. I felt truly at home, for the first time in quite awhile in church. I sobbed like a child. It was wonderful!

Beatrix and I will return in October to celebrate our 25th wedding anniversary. Part of that weekend will be a visit to First United, to experience being at home again in the spirit of the United Church, which we both love, and in which we both minister I can hardly wait!

A Tourist

I am visiting haunts that were familiar to me twenty-five years ago, when I lived in this city. In many ways, it is very strange to walk the streets that I walked then. They haven't changed a lot...until I encounter something different than I remember. oh! There has been a change!

Of course, I see no familiar faces. Any that I knew then are forever young in my memory. But they have aged twenty-five years...as have I. The blending of the amiliar with the new and different is disconcerting and a bit disorienting.I gravitate toward those things that are unchanged, such as the House of Commons. A venerable building, Its precincts remain largely the same. Of course, all the faces are different. when I came here previously, Stanley Knowles still sat at his privileged seat at the centre table, surveying the scene as he had for decades when he was a sitting member. Parliament was his life, virtually his only life, and a generous and compassionate government allowed him this special seat of honour within the House, but not of the House.

I am tempted to return to the House one more time, not during the Question Period. I do hunger for the sparkling debate that can occur in Paliament, but rarely does. These days of partisan bickering, of endlessly recalling the sins of "the other guys," is tedious and petty, and reveals the shallowness and meanness of the present majority, so keen to cast blame, so eager to bend the rules to suit their purposes. Perhaps it was ever thus.

The National Gallery is new to me. I have never considered myself a connaisure of art, or even an appreciator of art, so I avoided the Gallery in past visits. This time, I discovered The Clock, an ingenious installation which travels the clock in ral time, with interwoven clips from movies of every age. I also discovered the Library, an oasis of calm in which to read and think, as well as the bookstore (could I avoid a bookstore?).Books on art are way over my head, out of my range, and away from my concern and my knowledge, so I stayed there nay long enough to purchase a gift.

The streets continue to fascinate me. Tired and jaded civil servants, stylish students and gawking tourists (myself ncluded). I could walk them all day, or as long as knees hold out, which so far is good enough! today is blustery and cool, so walking will be warming. I will be a tourist for yet another day, waiting to. On next with grandsons. Tomorrow, for sure!

Question Period

Today I went to the House of Commons, something I have been promising myself for. While.I there in time for Question Period. This is a 45 minute time slot in the afternoon when Opposition members can pepper the government ministers with unions related to government policies or actions. The name of the game is "embarrass the bastards, catch them off gird, make them look bad...really bad."

Inmany ways, it's like the opening of a mixed martial arts bout. The government t enters the Mae in a defensive mode, tiring to guess who will be attacked first. Questions begin to be hurled across the floor, one at a time. The minister being questioned attempts to respond, while opposition members chatter, and hoot, and are shushed by the Speakermof the Ouse, whose task is to monitor procedure and decorum. The government member's answer I rounding applauded by his or her colleagues, and booed by the opposition benches. Periodically,the topic is changed and other opposition party members have an opportunity to raise a question.

As in mixed martial arts, punch is thrown...and parried. A kick is launched...and blocked. The advantage swings from side to side, the insults are cheered and booed, the fighters re bloodied and bruised...or not It's a daily ritual when the house is in session, ostensibly giving the Opposition an opportunit to control the agenda for a limited period of time. It's a time honored tradition in the parliamentary system of government. But...

If the ons and daughters of the sitting members were to act this way in a classroom, or even on. Playground, there would be "consequences." Grounding would be a possibility, a stern warning a certainty. At school, a detention might b forthcoming, or even a visit to the principal's office.(Do people still get sent there, as I was?) Rude behavior aside, , Question Period is important, because it is one small way that majority governments can be called to account, can be made accountable before the whole country, because you can bet that the media catches every word spoken and reports both good and bad responses in the daily news.Minister rise and fall by their performance in Question Period, even if it is rude and childish in its execution.

think of all the places where a question period experience would be useful and helpful. After a sermo, for one place, or after a particularly outrageous statement by a parent, or a neighbor. Now nd the, wives launch a question period at their spouses, and children at their parents. Probably not often enough do we speak the questions that we harbor internally. We re SO polite! Until we re we from the person who has made the outrageous statement. Then e start complaining. Perhaps Question Period is the more honest way to go. You speak, you mug give n account of yourself, your inaccuracies lifted up, your untruths exposed.

Perhaps we don't appreciate Question Period because it is a 'bout' too threatening to us. Afrer all, a kick in the head, or a pinch in the gut, is not to be sneezed at!

Walking with Suits

I always enjoy walking. The last few days, I have been walking in Ottawa, our capital city. Walking in Ottawa is always an "experience." In Ottawa, there are many suits. My daughter lives just a few blocks from the Prime Minister's residence, although not on Sussex Drive.[Before I leave, I plan to stoll past the Official Residence and give it the Finger. That's all the Greeting I need to give!

So far, I have asked to two grandsons, and one old friend. I have spent two lovely afternoons reading in the Planet Cafe, watching all the students share their lives with one another. I walked home thy afternoon through an area full of drugged out folks and dealers, definitely NOT the suit zone! Plans are afoot to visit the National Gallery of Art, and the House of Commons.I'm steeling myself for this latter, as I expect the question period to be like a gathering of grade six boys on a lay ground, shouting insults at each other. If he children of tese elected officials behaved tis way, they would be housed for days!

Having lived in this city Twenty years ago, I remember that beneath the veneer of government and bureaucracy, this is rally an old sawmill town, built on a swamp, which accounts forthe terriblehu humidity. In the summer, the atmosphere is stifling, not ulimesome of the government bureaucracy.

spending time with Jennifer and her partner Jose is very pleasant, and just what I was hoping for.We will attend the gallery together, and eat it n Jennfer's birthday on May 11. This is a great vacation for me!

Since arriving,I have been reading Jan Wong's memoir, Out of The Blue. This book chronicles her descent into a deep depression, precipitated by the violent response to her account of the Dawson College shooting, some years ago. Not only was the public response from Quebecers violent, but her employer, the revered Globe and Mail newspaper, refused to to support her, but n the end, fired her. In the book, she is very open about her own r ratio. Ad very candid about the paper's shoddy treatment of her. In the process of preparing this book - which she had t publish herself, as the toronto establishment circled the wagons to shut her out - she researched the topic of depression very thoroughly. As a a result, this is one f the best books on depression that I have ever read. I will be sharing it with you over the next few weeks. To check it out for yourself, go to www.janwong.ca. More n this anon. right now, I deed a nap.

With a voice of singing

Neither of my parents were musical in any way, so I grew up with almost no music in my life. An exception was our daily listening to The Happy Gang, a noon hour CBC program starring Bert Pearl, Eddie Allen, Blaine Mathe and Bobby Gimby. Lots of jumping music there!

Music came into my life with my first wife, Joan. From a very musical family, Joan introduced me to the classics, to opera, and to fine music generally. It was one of the many gifts she brought to our relationship. As a result of this gain in my experience, I came to experience fine music as 'soul food.'

Last evening, Beatrix and I travelled to Stettler, Alberta - a one hour drive - to hear and see the University of Alberta Mixed Chorus and Hand bell Choir perform. Although the gathering of University students seemed large to me, only about half the chorus was there because of summer jobs, studying, etc. They sang religious music, classics, show tunes,  a folk song, and the U of A's official song.

As I say and let these beautiful sounds wash over me, I became aware of how long it has been since I heard and experienced good choral music. I also became aware of how much I miss this experience, and how much I felt 'fed' by these young people and their joyous and profound singing.

Of course, I couldn't help but reflect on the way music contributes to the soul-satisfaction of the worship experience, and how arid worship can be without the contribution of good music, especially choral music. The human voice is an instrument, and we use it far too often to argue, persuade, disagree and complain, and not often enough to lift the spirit with melody and expression.

I came away from the evening with a resolve to seek out and experience good choral music whenever and wherever I can. Too much of the music that surrounds my rural community is trite, homey, and rhythmic. Nothing wrong with any of it, it simply doesn't touch my soul the way it seems to touch many other people. Clearly, if I want the experience I crave, I will have to seek it out and go to it; it isn't likely to come to me where I am. Of course, I can turn to the many CDs of choral music that are in my home. Not the same as watching the bliss on young faces as they meld together in song, but much better than nothing at all. My message to day - for myself, if for no one else - is "seek and you shall find" the choirs, the choral groups, the voices, that I need to nourish and enrich my internal soul experience.

A Committed Life

I’ve been reading A Thousand Farewells by Nalah Ayed. Well, reading is the wrong word. I’ve been immersed in it. This memoir of her years as a Tele-journalist for the CBC in the Middle East is both riveting and devouring. Ms. Ayed was 32 when she is dropped into Iraq, just before “Bush’s War” (the Iraqi term for it) begins. She is new, untested, and incredibly courageous. She learns her craft amid falling shells and social chaos. The writing is so intense that one becomes tied in knots following her through the horrific scenes that make up life in Iraq and Lebanon.

Nalah Ayed was born in Winnipeg of Palestinian parents, raised in St. Boniface until the age of seven. At that point, her family returned to a refugee camp in Jordan, where all their family lived. This place was “home” for displaced Palestinians. There she lived until the age of thirteen, when her family returned to Winnipeg, where she completed her education and joined the CBC. Being an Arab-speaker was one of the gifts Ms. Ayed brings to investigation and reporting. The story of her almost-decade long life among the victims of a Western war is illuminating and heart-rending.

I came away from this experience with two overwhelming feelings. The first relates to Nalah herself. How traumatized is she from the last years of her relatively young life? How long will it take her to recover from that experience? The parent in me wants to surround her with a safe place and lots of care, so she can heal.

The second feeling that floods me is the awareness that we – that I – know nothing about hardship and disruption, no matter how difficult my – your – life is, it couldn’t possibly match the day-to-day struggle of the Middle Eastern person overwhelmed with war and chaos.

Lifting my eyes from Ayed’s writing, I find myself looking around me a normal North American life, and think: “This is heaven compared with how the Middle Eastern world lives. And we – the western world – are major contributors to their corporate life of misery.”

At this point, I have no idea how to respond to this book, apart from feeling awe at this woman’s courage and ability, and at the cost she has paid to keep us informed of what is happening in Iraq, in Lebanon, and Egypt. She has been there in the midst of war, and revolution, and utter desolation, making it possible – making it necessary – for us to become aware of that world, in which our nation is involved.

Ms. Ayed has given her youth to sharing this chaotic world with the West, and is only now beginning to live her life in our world, trying to re-enter a life she stepped away from to become a set of eyes on chaos.

It is at once heartening and sobering to realize that there are young professionals eager and willing to risk their lives to share fact and truth with a world increasingly confused by “spin.” I celebrate this woman’s career, and wish peace and happiness in the rest of her life.

Regrets

Watched another interesting Martin Sheen movie the other night: Stella Days. The story revolves around an older Irish priest, banished to a cold and dark and conservative village because he complained about his treatment while scholar in Rome. As with most Martin Sheen's movies, it is not only interesting, but pushes the viewer to reflect on a major…or poignant…life issue. In this case, it has to do with regrets. Father Barry has a number of regrets, among them, speaking out and thus being the cause of his 'demotion' to rural Ireland. He longs to finish his thesis in lordly Rome.

That got me thinking about regrets in my own life, and the role played by 'paths not taken' along the way. As one moves deeper into the seventies of life, one's perspective on those oaths gets clearer  in the distance. I regret, for example, moving directly from school to University, and from University to Seminary. I wish, in retrospect, that I'd the foresight and courage to step away and go somewhere else for an experience. That possibility struck me most forcibly in 2001 when we were in Turkey. I loved Turkey - Istanbul and the Ilhara valley in Cappodocia particularly. What a different experience that would bee for a 20 year old! How would that have changed my life? Just getting there would have changed my life! To become the person who would make that break would have made me a totally different person.

I regret not moving back to the north as a minister when I was a bit more mature than in 1959m at 26. Of course it would have been much more difficult with a family, and with a spouse who was so totally tied to "home" in Winnipeg. Not that I was much different. Moving to Alberta seemed like a Great Leap to me!

Leaving my first marriage was a very hard choice, but I have no regrets about that choice. I have regrets about some of the consequences of that choice. The impact on my children is one area where i have regrets. They suffered, and I suffer now from that suffering. But the initial choice? I had to do it, after months of struggle. The cost of remaining would have been too costly for me, personally. 

I regret that I didn't 'break the rules' more often as an adolescent. I mean the BIG rules. I was such a straight-line-walker. I have a hunch that at least some of that comes from being an 'only' child, and thus dependent for approval only on parents - and only on one parent, for the six years of the war when my father was away. Looking back, and reflecting on the lives my own kids, I can see that I felt 'without support' when it came to choices. I really don't don't know if that support was any help to my kids in making choices, and most of the time, they appeared to be straight-line-walkers as well. I guess I just don't know…but I imagine. I am now much more intentional about choices, although, to be fair, the choices are not very radical or costly. I say what I think more often, and I write what I think very often. I am clearly not done with this line of thought. "More anon", as Grandma Black used to say…