Edith Rankin Memorial United Church, Kingston Ontario

The family that spends the day together stays together. Presumably, at least, that’s the theory behind declaring the third Monday in February a holiday in Ontario. Unless it’s to keep up with the Joneses south of the border who get to take a day off to wax ecstatic over their dead presidents. The thought of Canadians contriving a day to honour past or – heaven forbid! – present prime ministers is just too scary to contemplate. So let’s hear it for the family instead.

Trouble is, the “family” needs more than a day to take care of it. As Waltonesque as Family Day hype may try to be, families are just as apt to channel the Simpsons. Or worse. Families have it tough in a world where those elusive “family values” have to cut it against the forces of consumerism, individualism, economic mayhem and God knows what else is hell-bent to fracture the family into little pieces. The pressures on families are simply immense. When the idols of the age are scarcely known for their virtue, it’s a wonder that families manage to survive at all.

Kudos to families who survive poverty, sick kids, temper tantrums, adolescent angst, ageing parents, infidelities and a world that, by and large, couldn’t care less about family life.  Which is why we shouldn’t be too quick to dismiss the importance of faith as a matter of family well-being. I’m not naïve enough to believe that the family that prays together stays together. But communities of faith – at least, the best ones – accept us at our best and worst, support our efforts to keep our heads when all about us are losing theirs, and point to a Holy Mystery at the heart of things that forgives, loves and sustains us in the best and worst of times. Sort of like family.

The new eminences Timothy Michael Dalton (New York) and Thomas Collins (Toronto) have their work cut out for them as they call for a renewed sense of spiritual values to withstand the erosive forces of our secular society. At a deep level, families probably know that, too. It will take more than day to help families find the resources they need to strengthen and sustain them. But the next time they rush past a church on their way to the mall or the hockey rink or the hundred other things that might offer them the world while they lose their souls, they might do well to think about dropping in. And if they end up making themselves at home in the heart of God, they might really have reasons to celebrate.

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Valentine’s Day doesn’t do much for me. Okay, so sue me. It’s not that there isn’t a bit of romance left in the old geezer`. Au contraire. My beloved still lights up a room when she enters it and still makes the old ticker go pitty-pat. It’s just that twisting Cupid’s arrow every February 14 to ask mothers, fathers, sons, daughters, grandkids, schoolmates and any number of other assorted acquaintances to “be my Valentine” seems a bit over the top if you ask me. Maybe even a tad creepy. And even for those of us who reserve our demonstrations of affection for our “one and only”,  methinks it takes more than an annual binge of stale chocolates and a dozen roses to nurture a love that lasts a lifetime.

Having officiated at more weddings than I can count and having witnessed too often how marriages made in heaven can end up feeling like hell on earth, I can attest that “love, sweet love” is not for sissies. Sentiment and good intentions do not create a thick enough paste to hold two hearts together. Relationships that make it know that romance is best accompanied by plenty of hard work. Lifetime lovers have learned how to affirm, respect and enjoy each other, to fight fair, forgive always and laugh much. Most of them have the scars to prove it.  But such scars are badges of courage, devotion, determination and deep contentment. Love that lasts a lifetime isn’t renewed on Valentine’s Day but every day and not even heaven can help lovers who plight their troth with their fingers crossed.

The ancient poet Virgil recalled “falling in love” for the first time when he had just turned twelve years old. “How I fell in love!” he wrote. “How a strange madness swept me away!” Or how did Shakespeare put it? “We that are true lovers run into strange capers.”  Yes, true love will do that to us.  So, okay, on second thought, let the cards and chocolates and roses be our attempts at a little indulgence directed at the one who has stolen our hearts. But only if our hearts are prepared to go the distance and share the heavy lifting.  My Valentine has put up with me for 25 years which says something about her capacity to love. So, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go buy a card. And be thankful that we still have a lifetime left for strange capers.

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In October 2010 the United Nations declared that the first week of February might be well used as “World Interfaith Harmony Week.”  How’s that working out so far? We probably shouldn’t knock it until we’ve tried it, but it seems to me our work is cut out for us. Among Christians, Protestants and Roman Catholics still won’t break bread together. The religious right think the rest of us are going to hell in a handcart and can hardly wait for us to get there while the religious left can’t figure out what it is it’s trying to figure out and could die in the waiting room. Among Jews, ultra-Orthodox spit on not so Orthodox little girls while secular Jews squabble with each other about where to draw lines in the sand. Shiite and Sunni Muslins glare or shoot at each other more than they glare or shoot at anybody else. If these fine folks can’t play nice in their own sand boxes, how on earth are they supposed to get along with one another? Moses, Jesus and Mohammed must all be turning in their graves.

It’s all enough to give religion a bad name and dampen any hope for interfaith harmony. There is, to be sure, good and bad religion just as there is good and bad medicine. Religion per se is not the problem. You don’t have to be religious to make a mess of things. You just have to be greedy or desperate or arrogant or ignorant and take the best of your religious traditions and twist them into the worst of human behaviour.  The disharmony that seems to give the world a case of the constant jitters may not be that people are too religious, but that we are not religious enough! The word “religion” means “re-connect”.  At the heart of all good religious yearning is the desire for compassion and justice and the desire to be “connected” to the Holy Mystery that seeks the Well Being of all creatures great and small. That’s the common thread that links all religious impulses and aspirations. It’s not the lowest common denominator that unites us, but the highest.

I’m not sure a week at the beginning of February is enough to get our full attention about just how high the stakes are if we don’t start harmonizing around these core common values of compassion and justice. But unless we at least start humming, the only chants we’ll hear from the ruins of the playground will be “My god can whup your god.” And that’s long after God has already left to find somewhere else to play.

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In his annual communications message issued last week, Pope Benedict XVI asked the world to pipe down. I’m not always, or even often, in agreement with His Holiness, but on this one I gladly concur. We’re always chattering, tweeting, texting and generally ramping up the volume. Buds grafted to our ears stream music – or what passes for it – from gizmos that hold a thousand of our favourite tunes. The chattering classes and talking heads are forever telling us what to think about everything from the global economy to spicing up our love life. And much of the din always seems to be angry about something.  We live in a world that can’t stand the silence and yet the noise is giving the planet a colossal headache.

The loss of any notion of “Sabbath” has deprived of us at least one day in seven to turn down the volume and calm the clamour. More’s the pity. But, surely, that’s all the more reason to find or make the time for occasional periods of quiet whether for meditation or simply to give our ears a break. In counselling and conflict mediation sessions, the yelling needs to stop before Wisdom can get a word in edgewise. After all, the universe may have begun with a big bang, but the first words from the Creator were not “Let there be noise” but “Let there be light.”

I make my living talking and writing and probably add more to the noise pollution than I care to admit. But I’ve also learned that silence can, indeed, be golden. Sometimes, when I have the good sense to shut up, it makes it possible for myself and others to hear “the still small voice of calm.”  When the poet Donne pleaded “For God’s sake, hold your tongue and let me love,” he was definitely on to something.  On Saturday, March 31, between 8:30 p.m. and 9:30 p.m., we’ll be asked once again to turn off lights and appliances in homes and businesses to honour Earth Hour, a gesture intended to raise our consciousness about climate change. Hmmm. I wonder what it would mean for the earth if we could also find an hour to hush the racket. Speak only in whispers. At the very least, use only our “inside voice.”  It might not bring about world peace, but the world might catch an inkling that the sound of silence is a prelude to shouts of jubilation.

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Sometimes you don’t know whether to laugh or cry.  The global economy is on life support making things rather tough for the most vulnerable in our society while too many CEO’s pocket megabucks in salaries and bonuses. Go figure. You can die in the waiting rooms of our hospitals because the government can’t find money for adequate health care and you can cough up $17000 for a ticket on the sidelines of the Super Bowl. Huh? Some extreme Jihadists think the world would be better off if the rest of us infidels were blown to smithereens. A few so-called Ultra-Orthodox Jews want to make the world a better place by spitting on 8-year old girls and insisting women all move to the back of the bus. Whacky Christian fundamentalists south of the border think the world would be a better place if everybody voted for a mediocre bezillionaire or a loud-mouthed philanderer. Nobody can make this stuff up!  And Canadians can always boast that we have Don Cherry as an icon of the true north strong and free. Lord, have mercy!

It helps me appreciate the Book of Jonah. A lot of folks don’t seem to realize that this little tract is a spoof. It’s filled with hyperbole and exaggeration and biting comic satire.  The genius who wrote it was lampooning just about everybody who had lost all perspective. Jonah himself is a pathetic excuse for a prophet of compassion and justice. Cowardly one moment, all sizzle and no steak the next. Far more interested in his own self-righteousness than God’s amazing grace. No wonder that big fish couldn’t stomach him! The wicked Ninevites turn out to be pushovers for God’s TLC. Even the animals prance around in sackcloth to help bring down the mighty from their thrones and lift up those of low degree. In a world that seems to have lost its mind, the Book of Jonah uses belly laughs to help us look at ourselves and get a grip on the real world where too many people don’t seem to “know their right hand from their left, and also much cattle.”

The way the world is is no laughing matter. But if we all learned to get over ourselves, from the greatest to the least, cherish and protect the life of all creatures great and small,  the world might really be a better place. With a little perspective, tears of sorrow might even become tears of joy and everybody on God’s good earth could live happily ever after. Including the cattle.

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If the Almighty had placed a wager on Tim Tebow’s piety to get the Denver Broncos to the NFL finals, somewhere the Devil’s bookie is grinning from ear to ear! Not that I think the Maker of Heaven and Earth has time for football. Or cares all that much who wins the Super Bowl.  But there was enough hoopla there for awhile about theDenver quarterback’s miracle comebacks that it got me wondering: when it comes to a lot of things, just whose side God is on anyway?

If you follow the comedy (or is it a tragedy?) known as the Republican primaries south of the border, God seems to be securely nestled in the pocket of each of the contenders. Squirming, I suspect, to get out and breathe some fresh air. Mind you, whether we’re chanting “God blessAmerica”, “God save the Queen”, “Allah Akbar” or simply “Bless me and my house,” there’s a tendency to co-opt the Holy Mystery to our causes, concerns and enterprises. As a pastor, even whenever I hear the heart-wrenching “why did this happen to me,” it’s hard to miss the sub-text that God was supposed to deliver a big win and didn’t. It’s not easy to “tebow” after a loss.

Trying to figure out whose side God is on in the game of life or why the wicked prosper or why bad things happen to good people is probably too hefty a matter to probe in a Monday morning blog. Lord knows I have no answers. All I know is that stuff happens. And while I’m never presumptuous enough to think God is on my side, I have learned to trust that God is at my side. Sometimes to comfort and console, sometimes to cheer and sometimes to challenge and correct. And if, in the larger scheme of things, I sense a divine preference for the underdog, for the poor, the oppressed, the powerless, the bullied, the forgotten and the meek, I’m simply taking my cues from the best wisdom of all religious traditions, i.e., that God hankers after a humanity that does justly, loves tenderly and walks humbly.

As Tiny Tim put it: “God bless us, everyone.”  Everyone, by all means. But if you expect God to load the dice for your favourite team, a political ideology, acing your algebra test, topping up your RSP’s or even singling you out for health and happiness, don’t bet on it. But if it’s true – and I think it is – that God is at work for good in everything together with those who love God and work for God’s purposes, then you can still drop down on one knee and give thanks. If you’re still in the game, you’re a winner.

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I don’t usually travel the 401 by myself. On visits to family and friends, my beloved is usually with me and we get to enjoy some precious uninterrupted time together.  Last week I traveled fromKingston to Guelphand back in order to officiate at the funeral of a friend. Since herself was smitten by a bug, I drove solo. Listened to the CBC for awhile and then the Comedy Channel. Both became a bit repetitive after awhile. Mentally reviewed my notes for the funeral. Thought about all kinds of stuff. It’s amazing what goes through your mind for 7 or 8 hours alone on an open road.

Actually the road wasn’t that open nor was I really alone. It’s the 401 after all! I wondered about that. Who were all these people? Where were they going? What were they leaving behind? The constant stream of semis, of course, and vans with company logos were presumably schlepping goods and services somewhere. The back windows of some cars and station wagons showed some packages with bits of Christmas wrapping paper still attached. I figured they were families returning from extended holiday visits or maybe ferrying students back to college and university. But what of the others, especially those also traveling alone? Were they, too, heading to a funeral somewhere? Or a new job? Were they on errands of mercy or mischief?  Were they angry, sad, joyful, worried, confident, desperate, hopeful? Was I sharing the road with any felons? Celebrities? Saints?  Anybody I know? Were some of them merely going nowhere in particular? Did any of them have a date with destiny? Was anyone waiting for their arrival or their return?  All I know is that my anonymous fellow travellers and I shared the road.

Somewhere I read that there are only three important questions: “Who am I?” “Where am I going?” and “Who will go with me?”  They are questions about identity, purpose and relationships (community). Perhaps, before the year gets too old, they are questions worth pondering a bit. I baptized four little ones in church yesterday. Gave them each an identity as a child of God and follower of Jesus. A purpose, too, I hope, at least if our faith has any fibre in it. And some pretty neat travelling companions if you ask me.

I’m not saying that listening to the CBC or the Comedy Channel doesn’t help pass the time. But on life’s journey, it helps to know who you are, that you are headed somewhere and that you are not alone.

Something to think about as you travel along….

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Many, if not most, of us begin the year with at least a few good intentions. They usually have something to do with diet and exercise or some other form of self-improvement. Some may even cross their hearts and hope to die if they don’t recycle more, rein in their quick tempers, spend extra time with the kids, balance their chequebooks and remember to replace the toilet paper roll. Surveys report – and, mercy me, where would we be if
pollsters ever resolved to take fewer surveys? – that the shelf-life of most New Year’s resolutions is about two weeks! Four, maybe, if the resolvers have wills of iron. Since we’re often better at noticing the speck of lint on the character or virtue of others than the bale of cotton clinging to our own, odds are we’ll draw attention to the backsliding of our kith and kin before we run out of excuses for our own. I suppose if we all kept our resolutions to ourselves, nobody would notice our lapses, but that seems too much like the coward’s way out.

It’s not easy to keep our word these days, even to ourselves. Politicians are notorious role models for weaselling out of their promises. Guarantees too often aren’t and fine print can void a warranty faster than a paper shredder. Sometimes stuff simply happens and the best of intentions can hit the reefs of life’s uncertain waters.

New Year’s resolutions are not for the faint of heart.  But that doesn’t mean we shouldn’t try. An old prophet once stated the obvious, i.e. that what is good is to do justice, love kindness and walk humbly before God. Even baby steps towards those ends could
make a huge difference on Parliament Hill, at the shop or office, in the school
playground and at the kitchen table.  I’m not saying world peace will break out before Groundhog Day or that the global economy will right itself before we have to file our tax returns. But an “E” for effort will work more wonders for ourselves, our families and friends, even our enemies, than an “F” for failure. Practice may not make perfect, but it
should, at least, make us all a bit better than we are.

Excuse me. I think I left my gym socks lying on the bed room floor.

(And, by the way, Happy New Year!)

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Kudos to Ontario’s Lieutenant Governor David Onley and his wife Ruth Ann.  They used the word “Christmas” in their greetings this year. Twice.  Now, since we haven’t chatted about it, I have no idea why they did so. But I’m glad they did. Not because of any silly notion that Christians have to ramp up the rhetoric in order to “keep Christ in Christmas”.  Jesus himself, I suspect, would be bewildered by all the fuss some folks make about that and if Christians think they need to keep Christ anywhere it’s probably in the heart anyway.

Culturally speaking, the word “Christmas” has probably been stripped of any name brand religiosity in the same way Sault Saint Marie and Saint John no longer have folks quivering with spiritual delight or animosity every time they drive through these fair cities. There are lots of folks named Christopher and Christine who don’t say their prayers. And a rose by any other name, well, it’s still a rose.

Christmas is as good a name as any for this wonderful season that brightens our bleak mid-winter. It does not need to give the politically correct nightmares on Elm Street or make them believe in miracles on 34^th   Street.  Goodness knows that we can all use a little light in the dark and the world doesn’t have to show up for midnight mass to celebrate a season of hope, love, joy and peace. In our multi-cultural Canada, let’s welcome a rich variety of religious and cultural celebrations, by all means. But Christmas is stuck in our national consciousness enough to let the name stand without worrying that the person who wishes us a merry one  is about to drag us off to the nearest church for a seminar in Christology!

But, call it what you will, let the world keep Christmas in its own way. Christians on the other hand, might do well to keep it in theirs. If I read the old, old Story right, it has little to do with visions of sugar plums dancing in our heads and plenty to do with a vision of a world where the mighty and the meek each get a new perspective on things, peace and justice are not mere slogans, and joy to the world does not come with a gift receipt in
case we need to return it for something better. It comes all meanly wrapped in swaddling bands and takes our breath away. No matter what we call it.

Christmas. Whether it’s a season of good cheer, good will and good intentions or a celebration of Bethlehem’s Child, I wish you a merry one.

God bless us, everyone.

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I miss Andy Rooney. I really do.  His death at 92 last month has denied the world his usually witty and often contentious plethora of opinions on just about everything, whether trivial or profound. When I become an old curmudgeon — some kith and kin of my acquaintance might say “whaddya mean ‘When?’” – I plan to make Andy Rooney my role model.  The thing about Andy was that his opinions, for the most part, were informed ones. He never underestimated the importance of either knowledge or experience, the latter getting his preferential treatment in case of a tie.

Opinions informed by knowledge and experience have little in common with the trendy need to text, tweet, blog (this one is no exception!), post and otherwise opine the second anything faintly resembling a thought flutters in the recesses of consciousness. That plus the mundane and inane trivia that anyone with a camera phone and easy access to U-Tube deems of global interest and consequence make it increasingly difficult to dine on food for thought that isn’t akin to satisfying our hunger by sniffing an empty bag of potato chips.

People also confuse opinions with truth. In politics, theology, arts and entertainment – you name it – the postmodern age which invests authority in the inclinations of the individual has little regard for reasoned thought or experiential wisdom. While I don’t advocate handing the world over to a handful of experts – I worry about the hand that picks them! – I do think that picking political leaders, rescuing the planet from climatic destruction and even how we sift and sort through the way we try to love God and our neighbours could benefit from doing our homework before we throw in our two cents worth. In other words, before offering what’s on my mind, I better be sure that something is there.

I’ll give that some thought next time I post my weekly blog. I think Andy Rooney would agree.

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