Edith Rankin Memorial United Church, Kingston Ontario

Apparently Conrad Black did not enjoy his time in the slammer all that much. I don’t often find myself in agreement with his disgraced lordship, but his multi-syllabic critique of life behind bars is on the mark. It’s not simply that he found  the jailhouse food below his culinary standards but that he soon discovered how little is accomplished by “doin’ time” in the big house.  Crime prevention? Miscreants don’t expect to get caught. Rehabilitation? How odd that we call it CorrectionsCanada. Prisons, especially federal ones, are schools for crime and, odds are, when someone emerges from behind bars a better person it’s because of relationships or, to a lesser degree, programs that can more efficiently and economically emerge in a church basement than in a penitentiary. Religion, at least, has more experience with penitence than governments!

About all that remains to justify our current penal system is punishment. “Don’t do the crime if you can’t do the time.” Arguably, society needs places to isolate the likes of Paul Bernardo, Russell Williams, Michael Rafferty and felons whom even the lowest common denominator of common sense would deem incorrigible. But many and probably most offenses and offenders are better dealt with by programs in crime prevention, poverty reduction, education and, when criminal codes are violated and lines are crossed, restorative justice. Certainly, it flies in the face of most of the evidence from both sides of the 49^th parallel for the Harper Establishment to be so fixated on longer sentences and bigger prisons. And, if it’s punishment we seek to fit the crime, the likes of Conrad Black might be more inclined towards penitence if he had to pay the price where it hurt the most, i.e., in his wallet!

Which brings me to the announced closure of the Kingston Pen. I confess to mixed feelings here. It’s a dreadful place housing some of the worst offenders in Canadian society. Maybe Kingstonians should be glad to be rid of it and its looming toxic presence. But I’ve yet to hear Corrections Canada offer a plausible alternative to its sadly needful services that Kingston has spent decades learning how to provide with considerable know-how.  As it stands, neither the closing ofKingston’s Prison Farm nor the sentence handed down to Kingston Penitentiary fit the federal government’s alleged “tough on crime” agenda much less a more effective and economical overhaul of both our justice and penal systems. Personally, I’d put more stock in church basements. But if KP is not going to receive a last minute pardon, how about turning it in to a waterfront park? Then, at least, we could enter those gates with thanksgiving and finally find something redemptive and redeemable behind those walls.

Think of it as giving the prison a break.

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Excuse me if I don’t get all syrupy about Mothers’ Day. I’m no big fan of Fathers’ Day either but I’ll whinge about that another time. Now, don’t get me wrong. I’m all for mothers. Where would be, after all, without them? I can’t think of a tougher job and the pay leaves a bit to be desired, too. My own mother turns 90 this summer and while her three offspring obviously didn’t shorten her life, I’m sure there were times we gave it our best (or worst) try.

My gripe with Mothers’ Day is partly the fact that there’s far more in it for Hallmark than for dear old Mom. Schmaltz rings up the cash register more than it strengthens any remnant of the umbilical cord. Blessed ties that bind us to our mothers (or any one else) require more than cards and candy. They have to do with relationships bred and nurtured in trust, respect, understanding and attentiveness. Which is mutual, by the way. Truth be known, some kids grow up with “mother issues” for good reason. Hallmark’s choice of cards seems a bit skimpy when it comes to mothers who have been emotionally absent or domineering or interfering or worse. And all the June Cleaver hype around Mothers’ Day leaves women who choose not to be mothers and women who yearn to be mothers but can’t out in the cold.

If there’s still some merit left in honouring our mothers (and fathers), here’s an idea. Instead of an annual binge to assuage the guilt of those of us who are disconnected from our moms or worry that our moms haven’t received their due, what say mothers and the fruit of their wombs actually had a conversation with one another.  A relationship. Learned what hurts and what heals. What matters and what doesn’t. From the beginning. That way, maybe Old Mother Hubbard in her shoe full of children or in the retirement home with fading memories would have, not just a day, but a lifetime to celebrate.

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If there’s an ounce of truth to the legend, the biggest whopper George Washington ever told was when he insisted he couldn’t tell one! Forget the fact that he was both a general and a politician, he was human. Somewhere I came across a bit of research that concluded we fudge the truth dozens of times a day. “How are you?” “I’m fine.”  These are social niceties that aren’t the slightest bit interested in the truth and relieved that we don’t tell it. The cashier at the checkout counter doesn’t care about either our bellyaches or our heartaches, so the little white lie simply moves things along. Discretion (which may simply be a weasel word for “deception”) is, perhaps, the better of valour on rare occasions and most of us have mastered it rather well.

What is troublesome is that we seem to have made virtue out of a culture of deception. As shameful as it is that, according to The Toronto Star, some police officers perjure themselves on the witness stand (Gee, you think?), the last thing our adversarial justice system encourages is telling “the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth.”  The whole truth, after all, could mess up the win-loss ration of attorneys for both sides! We’ve come to expect honourable members of parliament to spin the truth until it makes us dizzy and we hardly blink when cabinet ministers “mislead” the House either in the interests of national security or their own perks and privileges. Reality TV shows simply aren’t, “new and improved” usually isn’t and the dog almost never eats our kids’ homework. But sometimes it just seems easier to go with the fabrications than deal with the “tangled web we weave when first we practice to deceive.”

Mark Twain may have been right when he mused that there are “lies, damned lies and statistics.”  Be that as it may, we should worry when they become the norm rather than the exception.  We should be concerned that “truth has fallen in the public squares” not to mention its twitching if not rotting corpse in courtrooms, boardrooms, classrooms and bedrooms. The truth isn’t always pretty and sometimes it can hurt like hell. But I don’t think Jesus was kidding when he said that “the truth will make you free.” With practice, we might even discover that there really are ways to speak (and hear!) the truth in love. To tell the truth, it would be a breath of fresh air on Parliament Hill, the witness stand and at the kitchen table. We might still tell the cashier at the checkout counter we’re fine when we’re not, but once we recover the knack of being truthful, we might feel finer than we thought.

Honest to God.

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“Let me tell you about the very rich. They are different from you and me.” (F. Scott Fitzgerald).  You think? While I know a lot of folks who make more money than I do, I admit I don’t know any really, really rich people. I must hang out in different circles.  But I assume the rich put their pants on one leg at a time the same as I do. They have good and not-so-good relationships, worry about stuff, brush their teeth, get haemorrhoids, pass gas and more or less share the same human conditions as the rest of us. They also die and take no more out of the world than they brought in. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust and all that. The only difference I can see is that they, while they live and breathe, they  have more money than the rest of us which means they have more decisions to make about what on earth to do with it.

Here’s a thought – they could ante up more on behalf of the public good from which it would seem they have benefited rather well. Kudos to the wealthy who have amassed their fortunes through hard work and know-how. But I’ll wager most of their wealth has been accumulated with a little help from investors, workers and consumers who toil and purchase in lower snack brackets. The truly self-made man, or woman, is simply a myth.

Now I’m sure a lot of rich folks are very charitable. I’ve no doubt that the Bill Gates Foundation does a lot of good and, besides, it’s tax deductible. Speaking of which, them as have can afford to pay more taxes than them as have not. In Ontario, 78% of the polled public think it wouldn’t hurt those who earn more than $500,000 annually to pay higher taxes. I agree, but then, like most of those 78%, I earn less than that. A lot less. But, shucks, what’s a person earning more than half a mil going to do with all that money?  Buy more stuff probably which may, perhaps, help the global economy, at least that portion of it that already pockets more than $500,000 each year.  But I earn a mere fraction of that and already have too much stuff.  Certainly more than I need. I can’t imagine that forking over a few extra tax dollars will deprive those raking in the big bucks of life’s necessities. Besides, odds are they can afford enough lawyers and accountants to shield them from ever having to line up at the food bank.

We all gripe about how and where our tax dollars are spent and often with good reason. Holding governments accountable for its stewardship of the public purse is the responsibility of all our citizens regardless of their annual income. But “from those to whom more has been given, more shall be required.”  The rich will still have more left over than the rest of us which, I suppose, is why they’re different.  I don’t begrudge them or covet their fortunes one little bit. I just think they can and should contribute to the public good according to their means.

It’s simply something I learned in Sunday School.

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Probably the most “sacred text” in Canada today is the Charter of Rights and Freedoms. Although the Harper government  is less than enamoured with this magna carta and has no plans to recognize the 30^th anniversary of the Charter’s enshrinement in our repatriated Constitution on Tuesday, April 17, 80% of Canadians hold the Charter in very high regard.  Although Liberal PM Pierre Elliott Trudeau, with the non-partisan support of the likes of Bill Davis (PC) and Roy Romanow (NDP), was the chief architect of the Charter, it shouldn’t be forgotten that Conservative PM John Diefenbaker introduced the Bill of Rights which presaged it as long ago as 1960.  He had been a passionate advocate of these rights for decades and, for all its shortcomings in bringing about legal and lasting change, the Bill may have been “Dief’s” crowning achievement.

The Charter may be known best for helping lawyers pay their mortgages and confounding judges at critical times, but it has significantly changed the Canadian ethos in its advancement of the rights of women, aboriginals, English and French minorities, gays, refugees and many others. By empowering citizens, the Charter has denied unrestrained power to governments, police departments and work places. There is probably no Canadian who has not been affected by it in some way.

Of course, like all credos, the Charter isn’t perfect and can be subject to manipulation and abuse. The rights of the individual can breed an excessive individualism that devalues the importance of community.  Frivolous Charter appeals can clog the justice system so that “justice” itself becomes moot. Asserting one’s rights as the greatest good can forget that citizenship is also a privilege and carries with it some important responsibilities for the benefit of all.

But the Charter is a constant reminder that a free and just society won’t tolerate bullying from government offices or corporate back rooms any more than we should tolerate it in the hockey rink or on the school playground. If it empowers ordinary folks to speak truth to power, count me among the 80% of Canadians who are glad we have it. The Charter’s 30^th anniversary deserves to be celebrated, if not in the PMO, than by the rest of us.

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Yeah, I’ve still got mine around somewhere. You know, the Smurf-sized Gideon New Testament (mine was maroon) with the Ten Commandments and the Psalms appended in the back. I think some guy showed up in my school one day and handed them out. I never read it. For one thing, I had a “real bible” at home with everything in it including the naughty parts. And besides – I don’t remember why now – we were supposed to be suspicious of “those Gideons” for some reason or another. Maybe it had something to do with one of them occasionally showing up as cheap pulpit supply when our minister was “gallivanting off” and “going on and on way too long.” At least that’s what my mother said.

I’m a lot older, albeit only a tad wiser now but, as far as I know, the Gideons are a decent bunch. I’m not aware of them doing any harm and they may even do a bit of good. Yes, I’ve heard of desperate or distraught individuals who’ve found Jesus in a hotel room. Well, Jesus wasn’t actually in the hotel room hiding in the closet, but you know what I mean. Somebody discovered a Gideon bible in the bedside table and things were never the same after that. Whatever your religious inclination or lack thereof, you might have to admit that whiling away a lonely evening at the Holiday Inn leafing through Leviticus is better for your soul than watching a porn flick.

Apparently the folks on the Bluewater School Board up near Owen Sound and points north have decided, along with some other school districts across Canada, that distributing bibles and other religious materials is a no-no in a secular school system. Exit the Gideons. Frankly, I agree. Religious literature is certainly influential enough in society that any well-educated person does well to be familiar with it and, yes, the role of Christianity and its sacred texts in shaping the Canadian context deserves to be understood. But Christian literature merits no preferential treatment in our multi-cultural and multi-religious society. The Bible – or the Qur’an for that matter – is a set of insider notes for the faithful. So here’s the thing. The faithful might do better to become familiar with their own sacred stories rather than send hate mail to school trustees. Were they to curl up some evening with a Gideon bible for company, they might find some things in there that frowned upon such uncharitable activity.

”The B-I-B-L-E, yes, that’s the book for me.”  But maybe not for everybody, even though I highly recommend it. Especially to those who claim its significance and authority. They just might discover that Jesus loves not only them but people who don’t read it. The Bible tells them so, right?

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Okay, so I’m glad they raised $200,000 for cancer research. And, sure, a lot of it was theatre, mostly of the absurd. But the boxing debut between Liberal MP Justin Trudeau (his daddy’s pirouettes were more entertaining) and Conservative Senator Patrick Brazeau (I had a real job at his age) was not a pretty sight. The churlish verbal pugilism in Parliament is tiresome enough without watching grown men – statesmen both, allegedly – slap each other silly to amuse the masses. I admit I’m no fan of boxing, mixed martial arts and other gladiatorial contests that rejoice whenever one combatant bloodies the other just for fun. We rightly fuss about the concussion risks in hockey, football and, apparently, even in women’s water polo! But hammering one another senseless in a boxing ring is okay as long as contenders have trained well and, sometimes, wear helmets. Go figure.

Medical concerns aside, blow-by-blow “last man (or woman) standing” contests appeal to the worst in our nature. Parents send their youngsters to their rooms insisting “we don’t hit in this house” while Don Cherry makes virtue out of blood on the ice and we pretend “cancer can be beaten” by a couple of politicians who mix both metaphors and motives.  Surely our society riddled with violence, beset by bullying and embarrassed by hooliganism because somebody’s team loses (or wins!) a game deserves nobler heroes and role models than whoever can land the hardest punch.

It’s Holy Week for the world’s Christians.  A week filled with a story x-rated for scenes of violence.  All because a man of peace who “turned his cheek to his smiters” insisted that both the religion and the politics of his day were no match for the evils around them. The abuse of privilege and the arrogance of power simply made things worse. Not much, it seems, has changed in 2000 years. While we cheer for blood, love still waits to woo us back into its corner where the courage to make a real difference in the world takes off its glove and holds out its hands to offer us the gift of a Better Way.

If my preference for non-violence makes me a wuss, so be it. But if I have to knock the stuffing out of somebody just to impress my granddaughter I’m the better man, count me out.

On the other hand, if I end up getting a bit bloodied standing in Jesus’ corner, I hope I have both the guts and the grace for the world to count me in.

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No, shucks, darn, I wasn’t at the NDP national leadership convention. Mind you, it was probably just as noisy, just as idealistic and maybe even just as controversial where I was. I spent the weekend at a retreat with 50 plus teenagers who were considering professing their faith in a rite some of us call “Confirmation.”  Imagine that! Dozens of teenagers pondering whether or not they might like to hitch their wagon to a star that shines a little brighter than the latest American Idol and wondering if the faith they profess might actually make a difference in the world. Like the NDP convention, the group I was hanging out with leaned in varying degrees to the left but included  firm believers, doubters, seekers, mavericks, leaders, followers and a few who came for the snacks. A handful may decide they’d rather sleep in on Sunday mornings, but most, I think, will get down on their knees one bright Sunday this spring and say “Ì believe.”  They won’t believe everything, of course.  Partly because some things are simply unbelievable and partly because their faith, like that of most people, is a work in progress. But as that great Archbishop of another era, William Temple, liked to say, they will “give as much of themselves as they know to as much of Christ as they know” and see where the adventure leads them.

As for what the kids learned on the weekend, they can speak for themselves. They do and they will. But here’s what I learned. For one thing, I learned what it feels like to be the oldest person in the room. There were several other adults present but I had more than a few years on all of them. Man, oh, man, are teenagers active! And loud. And smart. And idealistic. And outspoken. And respectful. And courageous. And independent. And hungry (all the time). And creative. And curious. And cynical. And hopeful. And passionate. They care about the environment and justice and poverty and relationships.  They are very big on relationships. They insist that matters of faith make sense and won’t be sold a bill of goods just because somebody long ago and far away saw either God or the world in a certain way. My knees creaked when I sat on the floor or took part in a few of their free time activities. It’ll be good to sleep again! But I discovered I liked them a lot and enjoyed their company immensely. I even stopped feeling sorry for my geezeritis when one of the other adults, easily 20 years my junior sat beside me at supper and said, “Man! Do I feel old!”  “Get used to it,” I said grinning from ear to ear.

Okay, so these teens don’t have to pay the bills or worry about mortgage payments, plugged toilets and pension security. The school of hard knocks and life in a grown-up world might, indeed, take the wind out of some of their sails. But I left the weekend feeling pretty good about putting the future of both the church and the world in their hands. And more determined than ever to try to make sure that the future we elders hand over to them isn’t too damaged for them to make the most of it.

Oh, yeah. One of the teens from my own church showed me how to use my new Blackberry.  Way cool!

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Whether it’s the stand-up comic who makes us laugh until our sides ache or the class clown who used to crack us up in school, some folks are simply a riot.  They are hilarious. But some riots are no laughing matter.  People who take to the streets in Athens or Damascus or Kandahar have serious matters on their mind. Political or economic oppression is nothing to joke about. Burning sacred texts is an act of great insensitivity, if not stupidity, and, while vengefully taking to the streets in murderous retaliation for doing so probably makes the God to whom those texts point weep in both dismay and dread, the rioters at least are protesting matters of great significance to them. Last year’s G20 riots in Toronto may have gone over the top here and there, but the protesters’ concerns for global economic justice were not trivial and the police responses were far out of proportion to the real and legitimate issues at stake. Students protesting tuition hikes in la belle province at least care about something more than their next keg party. While the fizz may have gone out of the soda of the Occupy Movement, the protesters were giving voice to matters of consequence.  Last summer’s protests in Kingston,Ontario, over the closing of prison farms for the sake of a political agenda that flies in the face of the proven benefits of the farms’ value were meritorious acts of consciousness raising. Better by far than drunken students creating havoc at a Homecoming Weekend!

Riotous behaviour that leads to violence and unwarranted destruction is probably questionable under almost any circumstances. But civil disobedience has a long and honourable history for which the civil rights movement, women’s rights, the wretchedness of unjust wars and many other valiant causes can be grateful. What I fail to get, however, is how the greater good is remotely benefited by ransacking a city because your team loses a hockey game (Vancouver) or by honouring a saint with a day fuelled by an excess of green beer and other dubious pharmaceuticals (London).  Such immature and self-indulgent hooliganism not only shames the participants but debases more principled expressions of social protest. Small wonder Mark Twain once quipped that “man [sic!] is the only animal that blushes, or needs to.”

Jesus once went on a rampage to challenge the distorted values of a time and place that had lost its  soul. The Apostle Paul was accused of starting a riot when he showed up in town with a good news story that “turned the world upside-down.”  There is a place for bold protest, including civil disobedience, against the principalities and powers and other evils we deplore,   But, for heaven’s sake and earth’s too, let there be some moral method in our madness and let’s be sure when we meet and vigorously resist the enemy, we’re not simply staring at ourselves.

Otherwise, it’s not funny.

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I’ve been off the grid for a couple of weeks. A miserable bout of the shingles finally got the better of me two weeks ago and last week I was doing my best to pursue my recovery at an all-inclusive resort inSt Lucia. If the shingles was as close as I ever again care to come to Lenten self-pity in the wilderness of my own discontent, the week in sun and sand was, indeed, good for both body and soul. Hardly an example of Lenten self-deprivation, I confess, but a time of renewal nonetheless. This week, many families are taking advantage of the school break to indulge is some R & R themselves. It’s a much needed reprieve from the strangest of winters and a chance to garner some resources for the final march to springtime days when the world seems new again.

Those of us spiritually conditioned to plod through the season of Lent practicing the rigors of prayer and fasting might have to engage in some theological contortionism to justify the excesses available at all-inclusive resorts and the extravagance of a family week at Disneyworld; but then again, maybe taking advantage of whatever is good for the soul is precisely the discipline that Lent invites us to undertake. That’s not to suggest that when Jesus said we do not live by bread alone he intended us to make a habit of fine French cuisine and drinks that are served with little umbrellas in them! But part of the discipline that makes any of us fit for the often rigorous adventure of following in Jesus’ footsteps is the practice of self-care. Occasionally turning aside from daily routines, commitments and challenges is essential for catching our breath so that we can “take up the cross” again, as it were, and invest our lives more fully in attitudes and actions that are good not only for what ails ourselves but the rest of the world as well. Call it theological rationalization for my week of Lenten indulgence if you will, but I feel more inclined to resume my prayer and fasting after a week’s rest. Besides, nobody ever said you can’t pray with a tan!

Making a just and compassionate difference in the world is difficult and never-ending work. Lenten devotion can help prepare us for the task but it is not required of us that we spend forty days and forty nights being grim. If a getaway week of self-indulgence or family fun provides renewed strength for the journey, then go for it, I say. The world will still be there when we return.

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