Please, Pray for your Pastor. Or Don't.

So, I got one of those messages on Social Media the other day… they come around from time to time:  Pray for Your Pastor.

And then it goes on to list some terrible statistics (without attribution).

97% of pastors have been betrayed, falsely accused or hurt by their friends

70% of pastors battle depression

7,000 churches close each year

1,500 pastors quit each month

10% will retire a pastor

80% of pastors feel discouraged

94% of pastor’s families feel the pressure of  ministry

78%  of pastor’s have no close friends

90% of pastors report working 55-75 hours per week.

And so apparently, we need your prayers.

Let me begin by commenting on how much I am bothered by statistics without attribution.  Was this survey done in 2014 or 1345? How large was the sample?  Was it across Denominations or were only the leaders of the Latvian Orthodox Church included?  But enough of that... let's assume that the numbers reflect a reality for many pastors/leaders in the mainline churches of North America

Let me also say that there are pastors, ministers, priest and other clergy who have been badly treated by systems that often seem un-caring, congregations that are fickle, and some generally rotten people out there in the world.   

But to claim a special burden because we are pastors only serves to exacerbate the problem of clergy isolation as it encourages us to believe that the world is out to get us.

Look at the numbers closely and wonder how many of  those same numbers might also apply to teachers… betrayed, depressed, under pressure, working 55 hours a week or more… given a degree but no job, made redundant every year because cut backs don’t allow more hiring, shown little respect by the public and targets of the hostility of many a parent who just doesn't understand  that their kid is nasty and not that bright.

Let’s wonder about accountants who get called at home by clients who need answers, audits and forms done right now!!  Never mind dealing with an uncaring CRA that changes rules and regulations at whim.

Nurses who face cuts backs, depression, long hours and unsympathetic work places.

Retail workers whose place of employment folds without warning.  

I have friends with PhDs who can’t get full time appropriately remunerated work – I’ll bet that  leads to discouragement, depression, pressure on the family and makes it hard to keep close friends.

Let’s take almost any profession… and  recognize that there is very little job security in 2015.  Very few people will retire in the job that they started in their thirties; very few people will avoid “betrayal” in life or work; everybody feels discouraged from time to time and the families of nearly all working adults feel the pressure of the work/career of the parent or spouse.

No close friends?  Is that really the churches fault?  Maybe the problem is that you’re working 75 hours a week… Don’t!

You see many of us, in a desire to be everything to everybody; to feel valued and loved ,will bend over backwards to please everybody in our ministry… and that is a formula for burn-out and self-destruction, whether you are in ministry or shoe sales; a cleric or an office worker.  At least pastors get to talk about setting boundaries, even if they don't or find it difficult to apply them. 

Let me suggest a few other things peculiar to pastors that others might wish they could include in their work/call/vocation/contract

1.       People line up every week to tell you what a good job you did – even if you didn’t.

2.      When someone dies, you know what to do… you actually have a role to play while others are stuck in their grief with nothing to do

3.      You get invited to a lot of wedding receptions: Free Food and Bar!

4.      You are invited into fascinating conversations on a regular basis and don’t have continually comment on the performance of the Blue Jays or new season of House of Cards

5.      You can take a break to play the piano during the work day and people respect  that you are being creative.

6.      During the work week you get to help the homeless, visit the sick, support young people and engage in Social Justice… while everybody else has to do those things in whatever time they can spare away from work and family obligations.

7.      People think that you work about 75 hours a week so usually leave you alone the weeks before and after Easter and Christmas (that’s almost a whole month).

8.      You get 7 weeks away from work every year and your employer pays for it.

9.      The church pays your phone bill.

10.   As you remind others, you are reminded daily that God is with you and that you are not in any of this alone.

11.  Every week your efforts are made real in music, word and art.  For me, that sure beats selling cars.

12.  Pension.  Yeah… we may complain about it – but we get one… I know millions who wish that they did, too.

For me, all in all, being a pastor is a pretty good deal.   It is hard at times and I suspect that most people couldn't do what I do on a full time basis – but I knew that when I responded to my sense of call.  I knew that my weekends would be forever ruined, I would not often get to go away to the cottage spontaneously; I knew that I would often see people at their worst and not be protected from pettiness and power mongering; I knew that strangers would occasionally blame me for God and all of the church’s failings; I knew that I would spend a great deal of time with people who are dying and/or grieving;  and I knew that I would change jobs half a dozen times before I got my pension  (apparently the generation just entering the work force now can expect to have no fewer than 15 jobs before they retire… in keeping with the inspiration for this post, I will offer NO attribution.)

I’m not saying that pastors don’t have a right to complain, many of them do, but insecurity, difficulty and struggle are not unique features to the pastors role… they are the realities for many (even most) people.  

So, please, pray for you pastor…

and your  Check Out Clerk

Store Manager

Assistant Manager

Officer Worker

Restaurant server

Teacher

Principal

Mechanic

Nurse

Paramedic

Police officer

Firefighter

Accountant

Retailer

Small business owner

IBM Project Manager

Musician

Actor

GM Worker

Social worker

Politician

Aesthetician

Butter and Egg man  (there’s a profession that’s disappearing)

You get the picture:  Pray for us all. 

I'm a Racist

I’m a racist.

I know that I haven’t written anything in ages (busy church, busy life) and that such a statement is a bit of a harsh way back into conversation with folks… but it needed to be said.

I am a racist.

I don’t want to be.

I don’t mean to be.

But the truth is that  words sound wiser in my ears when they come from a voice that sounds like my Grandfather.  

I listen more closely when the face sharing the message reminds me of my Grandmother.  

I tend towards foods that remind me of my Great Grandmother or the culinary heritage of my ancestors. 

I dance better to the rhythms of my childhood.  

My favourite games are the ones that I played with my parents.

Things that remind me of my childhood make me feel safe and comfortable.  

And all of these things make me tend toward my “Tribe” and similar “Tribes”.   I laugh at Irish jokes because I recognize the references and I will often think that other jokes aren't as funny because I am less familiar with their references and rhythms.   

I understand and support solutions that come from my cultural heritage and sound familiar to me.  I know that the best way to fix something is to find a good clever and strong man who will enforce his will for justice on the bad man.  I've learned that from my cultural reading list that begins with the Odyssey, carries on through our “Victory” in World War II and is found in movies like Dirty Harry and The Avengers.   I've been taught by well-meaning people that I should aspire to being good, clever and strong so that I can apply my solution to people’s problems and in that way, love them and make the world better.

That kind of tribalism makes me a racist and a bigot.

Not because I think that other races, cultures or groups are lesser – but because I simply do not give them equal weight when it comes time to listening, embracing or acting.  “Their” way just seems so backward. I give power and privilege to the familiar... sort of an "old boys network" of procedures and ethics. 

I am a cisgendered, heterosexual, man in his early fifties, descended from Irish and Scottish immigrants,  employed full time, and in a stable domestic relationship.  All of which speaks of privilege. (just to be clear, I also cheer for Toronto Sports teams, so it’s not like I’ve got everything going my way).  There are some in the same or similar cohort who want to deny the privilege that we have – but I suspect that much like climate change, we say we don’t believe it simply because we don’t know how to deal with the implications or how to make things better.  One cannot look at the evidence and rationally deny the existence of Climate Change or Racism.

 Yes, I have heard that “white men” can’t get jobs because they all go to “minorities.  (Please note, those who crow this sentiment and include women in the group “minorities” – women are actually in majority, so you are the minority seeking work.)  I have never experienced my person as a liability in finding employment.  I did lose an election once because, apparently, they were looking for a younger voice. That’s not unfair… that was a preference expressed by an informed majority.

I have the privilege of travelling and I have never been held up by airport officials with the exception of one extra baggage check during which the security officers were polite and apologized for taking up my time.

I have been questioned, detained investigated by police.  They have always taken my word when asked to explain myself, always treated me with polite respect, even when one officer thought that I was trying to be uncooperative. 

When I offer assistance to a stranger in the street, it is nearly always accepted and received with thanks.

When I am confused or lost in public, people are always helpful.

Now, all of this could be because of my striking good looks and obviously winning personality… 

or, more likely, it could be that in Toronto 2015, my cohort is in very good standing.  We are not terrorists, anarchists, bitches, immigrants, freeloader, petty criminals, violent thugs, or stupid outsiders – as least as far as public perception goes.

So, why am I dumping this on you, gentle reader?

For the past week or so, I've been stunned into shocked silence by the Earthquake that has devastated Katmandu and I have been equally stunned and shocked by the death of Freddie Gray and the ensuing public demonstrations.  I've sent some money to Nepal to aid in the relief… but I’m not sure what to do for Baltimore.

Except recognize the deep problem and try to at least be less of a contributor. 

What happened in Baltimore and continues to happen in cities and towns across North America is a result of racism. Like Climate Change: I know it, you know it… we just don’t know what to do, so we deny it, or simply shut up.

So, I may not be in time to stop the next black man or child from being assaulted, abused or murdered by the authoritarian system that I support (at least tacitly) – but maybe, I can start to do something that might save the somebody 150 people down the line.  I've

got to start somewhere.

I start by acknowledging that I tend to the familiar and I am most comfortable in my “tribe” – be it defined by race, culture, economics, gender, sexuality, age or something else.  And I commit myself to broadening – to opening up my tribe.  I do that by listening… by following… by praying…

I commit to not so much using my privilege as letting it go.  The world keeps offering me privilege and every time that I fix things “my way”, I get to be the hero and the power and privilege stay with me. Others are invited to look on in gratitude.   I need to let that go and NOT fix everything, but listen to other voices, support solutions that may not make immediate sense to me… I need to hear the voices and respect the opinions of those who are oppressed – rather than comparing their oppression to mine or denying their painful reality.   

And in this, I will begin to open my eyes, my ears and my heart to others.. I will open up my tribe so that one day, I just might recognize everyone as a brother or sister; might agree, disagree, struggle, collaborate in active love, not privileged charity… and maybe, I will recognize that a revolution is possible (as soon as we stop calling them all rioters).

Maybe one day, I will help my government take the needs of First Nations seriously.

Maybe one day, I will help my community be open to immigration.

Maybe one day, I will help my neighbour recognize that brilliant and free people do wear a hijab.

Maybe one day, I will be against violence without having to choose sides. 

Maybe one day, a bad police officer will be arrested immediately and we won't need to consider his or her colour

Maybe one day, I will be informed by the wisdom of elders that weren't at family dinners.

Maybe one day, I will be changed by you...

These thoughts are far from complete… but then, so am I.   But I’m working on it… And for those who might wonder if there’s anything religious in this… it is Jesus, who eats with tax collectors and Samaritans, who reminds me that I need to open up my understanding of tribe and it is a loving God who give me hope that we might all recognize our shared humanity and truly be brothers and sisters to one another. 

No Sex Ed, please... we're from Ontario!

Just thinking off the top of my head… about a new sex education curriculum in Ontario.

7 points...  Which are not necessarily the views of my Church, my congregation or even the majority of my friends (although they might be).  Just me thinking with a keyboard in front of me...

1.      It is the duty of the opposition to “oppose” programs and policies put forth by the Government, so I have no problem with the Tories pushing back.  However, opposition should be free of personal attacks.  I will note that the most blatant bit of attack innuendo blew up in MPP McNaughton’s face.  McNaughton:  “it’s not the premier of Ontario’s job — especially Kathleen Wynne — to tell parents what is age-appropriate for their children.”  

Wynne: “What is it that especially disqualifies me for the job that I’m doing? Is it that I’m a woman? Is it that I’m a mother? Is it that I have a master’s of education? Is it that I was a school council chair? Is it that I was the minister of education?” Wynne said in the house, staring down the Tory MPP.

2.       Families should be consulted on changes in curriculum.  However, there is also a time for experts to weigh in and be respected for their expertise.   I have heard more than one person talk about the “Gay Agenda” and the power of suggestion that will make our children “choose” to be gay.  These people are not experts.  I refuse to believe in a “Gay Agenda” mostly because most of my friends in the LGBTQ community can’t agree on anything… from whom to vote for, to theology, public transportation and whether or not Neil Patrick Harris was a good or terrible Oscar Host.   

      And as for sexuality and expression of self, how is that we are still talking about choice?  You do not choose to be a Lesbian, you simply are… it might take time for you to authentically express yourself because of the pressure put on you to conform to a certain “norm” within the community (or family), but you don’t choose to be gay.  Personally, with my love of Musical Theatre, women’s shoes, Judy Garland and Cher, my long association with the Antique business and career in the United Church, do you think that I CHOSE to be heterosexual?   It is who I am, and no amount of "persuasion" is going to change that.  We are who we are… and it’s the people who can’t seem to grasp this reality that underlie the need for a new curriculum.   Maybe, if we were able to broaden or eliminate the definition of “Normal” we could save a lot of very good people a lot pain and suffering.

3.       I've heard it said that we shouldn't allow the State to be in charge of something so personal and important as Sex Education.  I agree completely – that’s why I have never supported prayer in school.  If it is important to you, then pray with your children, don’t leave it to Mr. Weatherby to provide spiritual guidance to your children over the school P.A. system.   If you don’t like the Ontario Sex Education curriculum, then opt out and do a better job at home – that is an option. Take it.

   

However, there are great many parents who do not have the time, the skill or the inclination to take up this task responsibly, so someone’s got to do it – as a matter of public health, at least.

4.       I've heard it said that Grade Three is too young an age to hear about homosexuality.  Really?  

      "But my friend Timmy has two Dads and Rachel has two Moms… and I think that Johnny’s Mom used to be a Dad…  "  

      Should we simply tell them not to worry their pretty little heads over such puzzles until they’re older?  

      

      And never mind the kids who come from Cisgendered Heterosexual parents, what about the kids who come from the variety of family constructs that include same sex couples… should we keep them away from show and tell, force them to make Father’s Day Cards from their Moms and just keep them quiet until they’re old enough to understand the songs of Cole Porter?   I assume that most children, by the time they are in Grade Three, have been exposed to television and probably the internet.  So, they are seeing Tide commercials with gay couples, television shows and characters that present different expressions of family and sexuality, they are meeting transgendered people in the world around them and through media; they might even have a transgendered minister!  We are already trying to explain to little Tiffany why “Anaconda” is not a good choice for the grade three talent show and why Daddy thinks that “Blurred Lines” is a terrible song.  This new curriculum isn't trying to shape the world, it is trying to keep up and prepare our children to live in it happily and responsibly.

5.       This fall, the majority of university under-grad admissions, will have been born in 1997.   

      Think about that for a moment… 1997.   

      Remember, just the other day when Farrah Fawcett was drunk on David Lettermen?  

      Or when Lady Di, died??  

      That was 1997.    

      Since then, same sex marriage (better known as “Equal Marriage”) has become law in Ontario and later, Canada… some believe that was the end of the battle and everything is fine now for Gays and Lesbians… but reported violence against gay and lesbian teens is higher now than it was in 1997; on line bullying of those who might identify themselves as belonging to the LGBTQ community is a horrible phenomenon that we didn't imagine in the pre-FaceBook world.   We need a curriculum that addresses the reality and needs of 2015, not one that still dwells in the late 1990s, even if that does seem like “just yesterday”.

6.       In the past couple of years, whether it’s students of dentistry or frosh-hazing University Seniors, we have seen myriad examples of our education system failing to effectively teach respect for others and for ourselves; we have failed to empower people to say “No” confidently and for others to hear “No” as a viable answer to a proffered question, not a rejection of a them as a whole person.  We will only overcome a "Rape" culture, if we can nurture a "Consent" culture, this curriculum at least recognizes the terms.    

      This curriculum is not perfect; it will not fix all of our woes, but if it educates just one person to the reality that being a lesbian is not a “choice”;  that there is no secret cabal of Gay people pushing an agenda on our society… if it provides on child a moment of relief when he realizes that he is not a freak for feeling the way that he does… if it invites any of our diverse community into a better relationship with an “other”… if it helps to create an environment where we can be who we are and be in respectful, joyful relationships with others…if it keeps one kid from "sexting" a friend...  then it is an improvement over the existing program and I am glad to embrace it.

7.       Finally… it is true that I no longer have children in the system that will be affected by this new curriculum – but I do live in community and those children who are in school today ARE my children: They are and will be my neighbours, my leaders and my care-givers as I get older – so, I have an important investment.

Oh… and for those who think that we should be teaching Math not Masturbation to teens... trust me, they've already made the decision and no curriculum is going to change that. 

Not much of a team player....

21 Coptic Christians were apparently beheaded by ISIS.

This is horrific.

Please, make no mistake, I am offended and disgusted and devastated by these deaths and I am seething with anger at ISIS.   A great number of people that I know on Facebook and elsewhere have posted their outrage and anger.  Many of them have appealed to me directly because these are Coptic Christians who have been killed, as if I should be particularly offended because they are Christians.

Please, dear friends, do not take offence:  I don’t care that they are Christians.  I care that they are human beings who have been slaughtered.

For me, being a Christian isn't about being in a club or on a team.  It is the way that I have found God through Jesus Christ and recognized the sacredness of life and my responsibility to all of creation.  The Kingdom of God is NOT an option.

For me, recognizing Jesus as the Son of God, is not my way of saying that my God is better than yours or saying that my conduit to God is WAY more important than yours because he is the “SON” of God.   By calling Jesus the son of God, I recognize that God is immanent in the human experience, not distant; by calling Jesus the son of God, I attest to the fact that I don’t NEED any other revelation, it is complete for me.  By calling Jesus the Christ, I acknowledge that he is the one anointed to reveal God, to bring salvation to (at least) me.   I don’t need to deny your access or reference to God. 

So, I am outraged that 21 Coptic Christians have died at the hands if ISIS terrorists.  I am also outraged that Islamist Extremists have also target Hindus and Baha’i and Buddhists and Jews and Atheists.  I am outraged that Islamist Terrorists have killed MORE Muslims than any other single group... strangely many of us seem to be able to ignore the slaughter of those with whom we do NOT share a creed or tradition.   

Killing is people is wrong.  We all know that.  As a Christian, I know that and I’m given guidance and support as I try to honour that sacredness in others.  But please… don’t tell me that I should care more about certain people because we often share a creed… let me be outraged, angered, grieved and distraught because human beings have been senselessly murdered…. And let me be inspired and directed by my faith to make the world, not more “Christian”, but more compassionate and humane for everyone. 

End of my rant...  God bless those who have died and their families and communities. 

Heterodoxy, maybe even Heresy to start the New Year!

The church newsletter went out yesterday... much to my surprise, I have already received numerous requests for a copy of my "Notes from Norm"  Something seems to have hit a chord with my folks... and so, not just because I am too lazy to send copies to all who ask, but also because maybe there's somebody reading my blog for whom this might also strike a chord. 

or not. 

Also, I haven't blogged in over 6 weeks... and I really should have written something. 

So, as my way of multi-tasking, I offer this a response, inspiration and long over-due publication. (WOW, three things a once... if you include me hiding my head in shame for calling this multi-tasking, that's FOUR things at once. )

Without further delay:  

January 4^th, 2015.  It was the first Sunday of a New Year.  I was still recovering from my Man-Flu (formerly Man Cold) as well as the joy and efforts of Christmas at Jubilee and in the Seli family, which involved several extra services, events and a Christmas Dinner that would be the first meal cooked in my son’s new house and would gather my children, parents, sister, niece and nephew, father-in-law and two brother-in-law… as well as my son’s girlfriend who arrived from India three days before.  Did I mention that this was our first time meeting her? Did I mention the Man-Flu?    I mention all of these details perhaps as an excuse… either for what had already happened or what was about to happen. 

I arrived at Jubilee, eager, if not rested, to begin a New Year.  Our first New Year with Music Director Daniel, Drama Wonder Jennine and our ever exuberant intern Étienne.  I was looking forward to singing more Christmas Carols (after all the season extends beyond the day) and celebrating Communion.  There is something special about Communion on the first Sunday of a New Year.  For me, it is a balm to my soul and nerves that have been stretched over Christmas; it is a quiet moment when I sit at table with God and all of Creation and see  holy in the simple and mundane.  It is a moment for recognizing and embracing God’s presence and committing to carrying it with me through the year as it unfolds.

Well… I would love to show you a picture of the beautiful Communion set up that greeted me at 10:15 as I darted into the sanctuary to grab check something with Daniel before the service.

Somehow, in the joy and stress of Christmas time, I had not communicated my dedication to New Year’s Communion… I had not passed on my passion for the Sacrament… I had not requested or checked that Communion be set up for Sunday.  

There was nothing there.

I ran to the kitchen… nothing was being prepared.  I checked the Craft Room where Communion Supplies are stored… nothing was happening.  I checked again and discovered that we had NO bread… NO Grape Juice… and NObody to fix it.

I hung my head, decided to blame my Man-Flu and went back to my office.  I gathered Jennine and Étienne, told them the news and decreed that we would have Communion next week and simply skip over the Communion Prayers in the Order of Service.

It was Jennine who blurted, “Aw c’mon, we can do it!”

“We don’t have any bread” I explained.

“I have some Christmas Cake” said Jennine as she proferred a lovely Christstollen that Pat had given her for Christmas.  I looked at it… it was bread.  And dried fruit, marzipan and powdered sugar.. but I don’t what kind of bread Jesus had at the Last Supper, do you??

Étienne’s enthusiasm was instant (no shock) and Jennine set about to cut up the Christstollen while I found some Fruit Drink, broken cookies (in case we ran out of Christstollen)… prepared one tray of Fruit Drink in tiny cups, and unceremoniously put the proceeds of our efforts on the Communion Table along with our usual Cup and Plate.

As the service proceeded, I adapted the prayers and change the focus of the service so that we might recognize the order that God brings out of chaos; the hope when everything seems to be falling apart; the promise that God continues to act in the world and in our less than perfect lives.   It seemed to connect.

Of course, I would never want my Seminary, nor the folks that ordained me to see what transpired that cold January morning.  There was no elegance to the table, we did not have the “proper” elements for celebrating Communion – recalling that Jesus broke the bread and declared “This is my body broken for you” I snapped a chocolate chip cookie in twain and hoped that no one would laugh. As people received the “body” of Christ, Étienne reminded them that “Jesus is sweet”.   The Fruit Drink was ridiculously sweet and very, very bright.  As we had no extra servers, Jennine, Étienne and I served everybody as they came down in one line down the centre aisle, necessitating a fair bit of weaving, cutting around behind and in front and much less efficiency than our usual practice.  And some kids tried for seconds (some succeeded).

Not dignified.

Not orderly.

Probably not really official.

And yet… having only one tray of small cups, I watched many people choose to dip in the large cup, even if they would normally have taken a small cup, because they wanted to make sure that would be enough for everybody  (we had one small cup left after everybody had been served) – simple kindness.  I saw people being patient with each other as soft collisions necessarily took place.  I got engaged in discussion during coffee about whether what we had just done was Orthodox, Heterodox or Heresy… and I heard many people talking about the experience.  How often do we stop to talk about Communion??

But more than that, I felt the presence of God in our sanctuary that morning.  As badly as we did it; as heretical as our practice may have been… it was holy.

As we did our best; made do with what we had available, God was present to make up the difference.  What a great way to start the New Year!

It has struck me since that this is something that happens at Jubilee quite often: We take what we have, we put it out in our imperfect way to the community

               and God is present. 

At Community Table.

At Ulterior Worship

At Labyrinth Walks

At Bible Study

At Living the Questions Discussions

At Youth and Children’s programs

At Baptism and Communion.

As collect food and clothing for our brothers and sisters in need.

As we try to support our friends at Eva’s Place and the Massey Centre

As we try to welcome the stranger who comes through our doors for the first time.

In all that we do… God is present.

I would invite you to be similarly inspired and recognize that even though you don’t know what to do from time to time; even though you may not be perfect… you have the promise that God is present and will make up the difference.

Don’t know what to say to a friend who has lost a loved one?  You don’t have to an expert, offer what you have with sincerity… say the wrong thing if you must…but know that it doesn’t rest on you alone, like our January Communion, God will make up the difference.

Have a thought about God or a question about Jesus but don’t know how to phrase it? Don’t want to sound foolish or be wrong?  Remember the January Communion, say what you’re thinking and feeling, you don’t have to be a graduate theologian (nobody likes them anyway)  - dare to speak and let God make up the difference.

Afraid to take on a project or a task in the community, at work, at Jubilee?  You don’t have to be an Engineer or an experienced planner… offer your imperfect Christstollen and remember our January Communion and expect people to collide gently, respond politely and engage in the imperfection with love… and trust God to make up the difference.

What started out as a disaster and then became a great risk, proved to be a highlight of a New Year and a wonderful reminder of what happens when we do the best with what we have and trust in God to make up the difference…. Not just a Jubilee, but in life, as well.

Norm.

No doubt, there will be typos and errors of grammar in this - 

but I am trusting in you to overlook them… and God to make up the difference.

A Story for Christmas

Steve was getting ready for the Family Christmas... like always.

All of the cousins would be there: aunts, uncles; brother and sisters... Mother and Father, Grandmother and Grandfather...  husbands and wives of cousins, brother and sisters... a former sister in law who was divorced from his brother, but was still part of the family on Holiday Occasions (that wasn't awkward… except maybe for the new wife, the year that both John’s ex-wife and new wife made rum balls and everybody had to pretend the that new wife’s weren't better)

Oh, and naturally there would be 2 parrots, 4 parakeets, three cats, two dogs, little Tina’s Guinea pig (she takes it everywhere) and who knows? Maybe three French hens, two turtle doves and a partridge in a pear tree!

If he had his choice he would be one of the Lord’s of Leapin'... leapin' out of there!

It wasn't that he didn't love his family or enjoy Christmas... he did love his family: his sisters, his really successful and popular brother; his brother’s ex-wife and wife; his brothers in law – his mother and father... nearly ALL of the cousins (especially little Tina with the Guinea pig)  But it was a long drive to Ottawa, the weather was always a problem this time of year, the highway around Kingston was murder... and.. and..

Well, he wasn't.. he didn't...  well, measure up well.

He didn't have a good job.

He didn't have kids... he didn’t even have a partner.

He didn't know how to act. 

The gathering used to be at his Grandparents place, they had this big old house in Ottawa.  And everybody would dress up....  but Steve didn't have a whole suit and had only one tie... brown shoes.  Brother John, he wore a tux... and danced with the aunts...  They would gather in the Living Room around the grand piano and sing carols... and if you didn't want to sing you were expected to go to the kitchen or somewhere else to converse.  Steve knew the first verse to most carols; John was able to sing O Come All Ye Faithful in Latin:  Adeste Fideles (all the verses).  Most years, Steve was asked to leave because he clearly was more interested in talking than singing.  A song sheet might have helped!!!  And what’s so wrong about wanting to sing Frosty the Snowman?

Eventually the gathering moved to Steve’s parents place.  Brother John, who lived in town and worked for the government, did a lot to help getting everything ready; Steve’s sisters had made special food... Steve was coming from far away, so there wasn't much he could do. He offered to help pay the caterer but Mom and Dad just laughed... nicely... (but it was still laughter).  That year, Steve took his meager savings and invested it wisely: He rented a tux.  And he got one of the girls at work to teach him to dance (a little).  This year: New locale and a new Steve – he’d be suave like his brother and he’d make his old Aunts swoon when he invited them out onto the dance floor.  He showed up ready for a great evening...   he could smell the mulling spices wafting down to the street as he walked from his car to the house... careful not to slip and spoil his beautiful tuxedo... he imagined the surprised look on everybody’s faces as he entered the house.. “Steve!” as they took in the tux (and the haircut)

“Yes, Steve... Steve, Bond”

If only someone had told him that the change in venue also meant that everybody was invited to come in jeans, casual clothes and Christmas Sweaters... so that those less resourceful wouldn't feel peculiar....

But now, THIS year... this year would be different.

Steve could never measure up gift wise. His sisters would buy him clothes with labels that Steve couldn't read (which is how they often ended up in the wash with his jeans... never to be worn again).  Last year, his brother bought him a Flat Screen TV, apologizing that it was only 42 inches (15 inches bigger than his old one).  Steve got his sisters bath salts and a Simon and Garfunkel DVD for his brother.  The Concert in Central Park may have been 30 years ago, but it was still good.  And affordable.

Everybody loved their gifts... but Steve knew that they didn't compare... he was tired of being a Shepherd when everybody else was a Magi.

This year... Steve got a bonus at work: $3,000.

Maybe not a lot to his brother... but a lot to him.

He thought about saving it...

He thought about paying off his student loans a little faster...

He thought about taking a little vacation...

He considered buying 1000 Lotto 649 Tickets...

But then he decided to buy presents for his family.

Presents like they bought him every year...

He went to the Shops at Don Mills and spent $300 on designer Vinegar for his sister, the wanna-be chef...

He bought a coat for his fashonista sister... at some Archaeology place that he’d never heard of... so it must be good.

He bought for his Mom and Dad... not sure what to get them, because up to now the only way he knew how to shop was to look for something in his price range, not something that might knock their socks off...  he wondered “WWJD”:  What would John do?... and as if channeling his brother, he bought his parents, his and her silk Pajamas and Velvet Robes.

And for John... his inspiration and his hero (his downfall and his nemesis)... his brother... an $800 bottle of wine! (you knew that John would be wine connoisseur).

Steve also managed to buy a few things for the cousins – a first for him – and spent a whole evening wrapping everything up perfectly.  Pink bows for the girls, Blue knots for the boys... and bubble wrap for the bottle..

The next morning he packed everything carefully and lovingly into his 2001 Corolla and started the drive to Ottawa... the smell of a Tim Horton’s Dark Chocolate filling the car... the sound of Christmas Carols filling his ears...and what surely must be “joy” filling his heart.

He would get to his parents about dinner time on Christmas Eve... time for a meal and then a Christmas Eve service with Mom and Dad... and the party on Christmas Day.

The party when he would finally fit in... he had the right clothes and nobody would look outside to see his car.  He knew the words to all the Christmas Carols (he had been practicing).  He would not be asking his aunts to dance, but he had gifts for them... gifts for the whole family... finally they would know how much he loved them... he would measure up... he would really be part of Christmas...

Driving along the 401, Steve saw a big pet shop in one of the malls... and was inspired.  He’d do something extra special that no one had ever thought to do before... he’d get something for little Tina’s Guinea pig... that’s love!  Remembering somebody’s pet... Brilliant.

He got off the highway, parked the car and all but skipped into PetSmart... checking the aisles until he found a tiny set of reindeer antlers, sized for a Guinea Pig.

Nothing says Christmas like a pet in plush antlers.

$11.95 and he was on his way...

Singing as he went out to his car...

Over by the lamp post..

Other lamp post.. 

Near the front of the store?  That can’t be right...

At the end of the row??

Steve looked for his car...  the one with an empty Tim Horton’s cup in the cup holder... the one with the Christmas Carols playing on the radio...  the one with $3,268 in gifts for everybody... the one with his salvation packed neatly in the trunk and back seat.

It was gone.

The police were too busy to come to the scene.

Mall security drove him to the Police Station.

Paper work was filled out...

Sad pathetic looks were exchanged... Sad tidings were in store...

There was no comfort... No joy... 

Steve caught a bus into Ottawa.

Got in around 2 in the morning.

Slipped into his parents’ house and dissolved into the guest room.

In the morning, he couldn't bear to face his parents... or watch the hordes descend upon the house for Christmas breakfast... Christmas lunch.... finally, Christmas Party and dinner...  so he slipped out and went to church (it was affordable).

God hated him.

He’s blown it.

He would never understand Christmas

He would never be able to express his love in a way that his family would understand.

He would never fit in...  he should have taken the bus back to Toronto instead of Ottawa.

Then he heard the Christmas Story...  the one that we hear every year about a pregnant unmarried teenage girl, some confused shepherds, unbelievable angels and foreign visitors called Magi...  he heard about people who didn't fit in... he heard about a journey that was dark and bumpy.... he heard about things going wrong... he heard about gifts...  he heard about God revealed in a small, vulnerable child....

He spent most of the day at church... not because he didn't want to go home, but because he wanted to hear the story again (he seemed unaware that there is a take home version of the story as well)...  but he did make it to the party.

And at the party, Steve didn't take his cue from the Magi... and he didn't take his cure from the Shepherds.... he knew that he didn't have the wardrobe to be an angel...  he, instead took his cue from the child, the baby... Jesus.   

Steve dared to be naked and vulnerable....   He told everybody his story...  he laughed and cried as he told it... so did they....   and then, he went around and embraced his family... each one, even Tina once she put down her Guinea Pig with the Reindeer Antlers (the one gift that was not lost) ... one at a time and he would whisper to each member of his family what made each of them so special to him... and then he told them, “I love you”

He would probably have years when he was a Shepherd at Christmas again... he might even get to be a Magi one of these years – but nothing would ever compare to the Christmas that Steve dared to take the story seriously and become Christ-like himself... naked and vulnerable.  For the first time – Steve finally “got” Christmas

Whoever you may be this Christmas – I wish you Christ-Child moments… and a very fulfilling, eye-opening,  heart-warming season.

Merry Christmas

What and Why I Remember

When I was 16, I met RJ Cringan. 

Bob. 

He was my music teacher. 

He called m leather lips because I could play the trumpet for hours on end… he taught me to write music, encouraged me to write a musical, made music a part of my life.

Bob volunteered for the infantry in 1943.  Realizing that it takes months to train a soldier, but years to train a musician – they decided to take this musician and have him play for the troops… and so he led the Rhythm Rodeo and toured the bases in Canada and the UK playing for the men and women in service.  

It was Bob who had me play the Last Post for the first time.  It was for a school Remembrance Day ceremony.  He wrote it out for me in his unique musician’s hand;  I have it with me to this day - not that I need it… but it connects me to him.

I think that’s one of the reasons that we wear the poppy: It connects us to those who have shaped our lives… in ways we recognize and in ways that we take for granted.

After I played the Last Post, being a teenager, I decided to jazz it up a little… playing in the Music Room by myself, I would a few riffs, flatten a couple of notes, improve the melody and give it a better finish..  Bob heard me playing and told me to stop.  He was almost angry.

“Leave it alone! It’s not meant to be show stopper… it’s meant to be simple… it’s meant to mourn… and honour.”  

I never fooled around with it ever again.  I always play it the way he taught me.

All me to present some thoughts around Remembrance Day in a similar vein.

Simple.

My father was born in 1939; he didn't go to war.

I have never been called to serve.

My children have never been called to serve.

To those who have served, “Thank You”.

That’s all any of us who wear a poppy want to say. “Thank You”

The vets who wear the poppy are saying “Thank You” to the soldiers who stood with them, those who fell in battle and those who made it home… Thank You for your sacrifice;  Thank You for standing with me.

The rest of us are saying “Thank you”  to the men and women who have served and are serving: The families at home who worry around the clock;  those who will always remember their child, husband, wife, sister, brother, parent in uniform, because it was the last time they saw them.  The men and women who stayed home and worked new jobs and extended hours to support the country in times of war.  The men and women who came back and didn't know how to fit back into civilian life; the men and women who helped others come “home” and fit in.

 Remembrance Day is a time to mourn.  We mourn those who didn't come home.

We mourn those who didn't get to take us fishing, or see us graduate, come to our wedding… those who might be forgotten if not for one day a year when we remember those who have served.

We mourn those who have come back from active service, but are not the same people who left…  the pain and burden they bear is so great… too much for us to understand, sometimes too much for them to handle.    

We mourn lost youth, because everyone who has served has spent some of their youth on all of us.

We gather on Remembrance day to honour.  I don’t mean that we gather to cheer on the soldiers,  wave the Canadian Flag in victory or glamourize war.  

Honour.  Not imagine or cheer; not celebrate "Canadian" victory.

Most veterans that I know are the biggest advocates for peace:  They don’t want us at war, they don’t want their children at war.  They went to war because their community asked them to go and there seemed to be no other way - but they lived and died in hope that we might find another way.  We honour them as we try to find another way.

Some call them heroes.  I don’t think that they are.    Hero is a term that comes from ancient Greek mythology in which there are Gods, Demi-Gods and Heroes.    Gods are… well, they’re gods.  Demi gods are half human half god and Heroes are the humans who aspire to be gods.     The men and women that I know, who have been to war, never aspired to be gods.  
They aspired to be sons and daughters, husbands and wives, parents and grandparents, comrades and buddies, neighbours and friends;  their greatest desire was to come home and make it possible for all of us to be sons and daughters, husbands and wives, parents and grandparents, comrades and buddies, neighbours and friends.

I believe this to be true of nearly every soldier under any and every flag.

For the past decade, I have been the bugler at an IBEW community Remembrance Day service.   Some wondered why I would play at an Electrical Workers Union instead of a local Legion. Well, to begin with, they asked me.  Secondly, I admire the work that they do having veterans share their stories with school children and Finally, I admire the fact that many years ago, they opened up their Remembrance Day to veterans of any war, under any flag.  It's about the men and women who have sacrificed, not about the winning of a war.  On Remembrance Day, we recognize that nobody "wins" in war. 

On Remembrance Day,  I think about my father in law, who enlisted because he wanted to fly planes…  he had no idea what it would really be like…and it was horrific.  But he stayed.  1939 to 1945.  He doesn't talk about it much.

I think about family that served in the Navy and Merchant Marine; the Great Uncle who floated I the English Chanel for 24 hours and only complained that he got water in his watch.

I think about the Veterans that I have come to know over the years, the stories that they've told me and sometimes told ONLY me… I think that about the stories that they didn't tell me…  

I think about the young man who asked me to bless his sunglasses on his way back for a second tour in Afghanistan… 

And I don’t try to complicate any of it with debate; I don’t try to fancy it up with politics, agendas or even white poppies.  I just take this time to be thankful and to honour those who have given so much, by striving to find a better way to justice than violence.   

It’s the least that I can do.