Everyday Gratitude

It’s amazing to think back sixty-two years to the day when two little cells, one almost microscopic and the other certainly so, came together, and I began. For the first few weeks no one was aware of my presence. My mom and dad, though intimately involved, were unaware, and I was not conscious of anything happening, at least in the usual meaning of the term. In a few weeks my mom will experience the first indications of my existence within her, and she will begin to wonder, very tentatively at first. She will share her thoughts with Dad, and make plans to confirm her situation. But, by the time Dr. Moriarty tells her she is pregnant, it will be no surprise, at least to her.

As the weeks unfold Mom and Dad will share the news with others. My mother’s mom and Mom’s sisters, Margaret and Eleanor, will be told. – At this point my maternal grandfather had been dead for about five years. – Dad’s mom and dad, and his brother, Blair, and Blair’s wife, Maureen, will also learn of my existence. And my sister, Mary (born five years ago), and brother, Rick (born three year ago), will become vaguely aware that something is happening. But Susan (born less than a year ago) will not have to endure any awareness of me for some time yet.

At this point, mid May 1948, I’m about two months old. I have a tiny heart beating within me, two little eyes, and a tiny brain with tiny brainwaves. I’ll have bigger and better brainwaves in years to come, but these are the first, and pretty good for a little fellow about the size of an almond. I have arms and legs, and by mid June I’ll have all my parts.

Slowly the little community of family and friends will come to know of an addition to their numbers, but it will be another six months before they know very much. They will be able to anticipate my birth date, give or take a week, and perhaps learn of the names being considered. But they won’t know if I’m a boy or girl, or even how many I/we might be. They will plan for a new baby, or babies, and wait.

By December 12, when I am born, I will already have nine months behind me. Some of the most important events of my life will have already happened, and my most astounding period of physical development will be history. I will already be eternally indebted to my mother for the provision and protection she has given me, and to my family and community for the provision and protection they’ve given her.

And every day I live, from that day forward, will be another amazing gift of grace. I will be indebted to parents, family, friends, and a wide community, for virtually everything I gain and become. My body will be a gift to me. My culture, language, and all the opportunities I will have in life will also be gifts to me. How many things will I invent? How many ideas will have their origin in me? How many words, or even thoughts will I contribute? No, I will be part of the great mystery of life, community, grace. And even my enemies will contribute more to my development than they will ever know.

So, what will I bring? Maybe teaching, humour, comfort, or affection. Perhaps music, art, insight, or an odd perspective. But certainly a thankful heart; yes, gratitude for sure. At the beginning of my sixty-third year, as I look forward to my sixty-second birthday, I will count the days I have been blessed to live. And I will give thanks for each and every one, including the approximately 266 vital days at the very beginning; days we so often forget to count.

Back to the scene of the crime

Suzanne and I went to Victoria for a wedding last month. It wasn’t in a church, and I didn’t do the service, so I had a great time. Not that I mind churches or doing services, but the setting was a golf course, and very beautiful, and, lazy lout that I am, I always enjoy watching other people work. The music was done by members of the worship team from the church I used to pastor there, and they were great as usual. The bride and groom were lovely, the service was interesting (in a good way), the cake was sooooo cooooool (see picture) and made by some friends who make cakes for a living. We got to see a bunch of old friends, had a lovely breakfast, and I got to do the toast to the bride, so I still got to talk which is what all preachers love to do.

Way back, well before we were little boys and girls, Eddie Cantor sang a wonderful song called Makin’ Woopie. It’s funny, and quite daring for the time, though I’ve found so many daring songs from that era I’m beginning to wonder if the 1920s and 30s were not quite as timid as I imagine. “Weddings make a lot of people sad / but if you’re not the groom it’s not so bad”. How’s that for good old fashioned family values? Well, no one seemed too sad at this one, and even the groom seemed to be having a good time.

We also got to visit with our son, James, and his girlfriend, Julie, and go to church at The Forge, which is our old church rebooted (long story which I will be sharing over the next few months).

We stayed with Suzanne’s sister and had a good visit. She has a son named Atticus (yes, just like Gregory Peck in To Kill a Mockingbird) and he is a 9 year old movie aficionado. We only had time to watch half a movie, Coraline, which we could have watched in 3D, but he prefers 2D. – A 9 year old purist. Whodathunkit? – But 2D was still pretty good. I did try too explain to him that 3D is actually 4D, and 2D is actually 3D, because movies, unlike photographs, also include the dimension of time. But he had no time for that nonsense, so I guess maybe he was right after all.

All of this is to say, we had a visit back to the scene of the crime. This is where we got crushed in ministry. Jesus said there’d be days like this (“Take up your cross and follow me” etc.), so we can’t pretend we weren’t warned, but it’s still hard. It’s been said that time heals all wounds, but that’s not strictly true. It’s the stuff you fill that time with: resting, forgiving, reflecting, doing new things, being loved and encouraged, and, in my case, blogging. It’s really getting on with your life that brings healing, but it’s also good to reflect on where you’ve been. And that’s what I’ll be doing over the next little while.

Each time we go back to Victoria it’s a little better. And the cherry blossoms in February help too.

And people say Stephen Harper has no sense of humour.

I must confess that when I first heard the suggestion that we consider changing “True patriot love in all thy sons command” back to the archaic original “true patriot love thou dost in us command”, they got me too. You just don’t expect to find irony in the Speech from the Throne. But I’m gratified to see that so many journalists are as gullible as I am. Admittedly, it’s a bit unfair to fool with people in the Throne Speech, since this parliamentary tradition has been the vehicle for so many stupid ideas in the past. But still, “...thou dost in us command”? I’m sure the slow motion replay will show that our beloved Governor General was trying not to laugh.

But, now that the door is open, how about seeing if we can get ahead of the wave on this thing? We’ve changed the wording half a dozen times in my lifetime, but the beast is still a veritable minefield of political incorrectness. Let’s fix this anthem once and for all.

O Canada! – That part’s all right; I think we can leave it. But it’s just about the only part that works.

Our home and native land! – What about all the new Canadians among us who cannot yet declare, with integrity, that this is their home? Must they be excluded? This will become their homeland in time, but making them feel invisible will not facilitate the process. And how many can honestly call Canada their “native land”? The aboriginal communities, of course, but that’s about it. So, how about “the country where we are”? It has an inclusive ring to it, and I think it fits the tune.

True patriot love in all thy sons command. – This is the current line in question, but “sons” is not the only sexist word here. “Patriot” comes from the Latin word “Father”, as opposed to “matriot”, I suppose, which would be from “mother”. And what’s with this “command” business? Pretty condescending, even patronizing (from Latin “father”). And we need a new word to rhyme with the revised previous line anyway.

With glowing hearts we see thee rise, / The True North strong and free! – Must we always be so insensitive? What of the visually impaired among us? Are we trying to offend? What do we gain by constantly reminding the differently abled of their differabledness?

From far and wide, / O Canada, we stand on guard for thee. – Here again, what of those who cannot stand? Are they, somehow, inferior Canadians? Would it be so hard for us to simply sing “we are on guard for thee”?

God keep our land glorious and free! – This line is only a few years old, but what on earth were we thinking? Atheists, agnostics, deists, polytheists; are these not full Canadians too? And what about the Christians, Jews, Moslems, etc., who are offended that the Deity is called upon in such a casual and thoughtless way. Must we start every ball game and high school assembly by placing “God” on the lips of countless people for whom it’s otherwise merely an expletive?

O Canada, we stand on guard for thee. / O Canada, we stand on guard for thee. – Do we really have to end by repeating this offensive line twice? Clearly the original was written to offend, but we can be better than this.

So, here is my suggestion. How about simply abolishing the words? We could just stand silently when O Canada is played, or sit if we prefer. And those among us who are particularly patriotic, or matriotic, could hum along if they so desired. This would make our anthem much easier to learn, non-authoritarian, inoffensive, and exactly the same in French and English.

Laughing Matters

Humour is a funny thing; it makes us laugh. And laughing lifts our spirits, humbles us, opens us up, and makes us vulnerable. Humour brings out the child in us, which, I suppose, is why we often call it “kidding”. It makes us more spontaneous, more receptive to novelty, and is, therefore, a powerful teaching tool, facilitating trust and deepening communication. This is why we often joke with strangers, and why we tease and “kid” with children.

It’s often been suggested that feminists and fundamentalists have no sense of humour, but this is quite untrue, at least about the feminists. Irina Dunn’s, comment, “A woman needs a man like a fish needs a bicycle”, is very funny. And it works in all the ways that humour is supposed to work. It makes its point and makes us smile at the same time. And it makes us vulnerable to a new idea. Funny how that works.

But humour’s also dangerous precisely because it’s so liberating. As every teacher and class clown knows, it’s hard to get control of people who are laughing. And if the clown can get the teacher laughing the insurrection is complete. So it’s the controller who has no sense of humour; she can’t afford one. It’s the controller who has to keep it serious; he’s afraid to smile. If there’s a Nazi joke book somewhere, it’s anonymous and very short. And the Stalinist book of humour is distributed by Gulag Publishing.

And this, I think, is one of God’s great problems. As Voltaire said, “God is a comedian playing to an audience too afraid to laugh.” And why are we afraid? Because too many of the god-folk among us: priests, nuns, rabbis, imams and pastors are controllers, and controllers make you afraid. These folk lead us to believe that God is no laughing matter, which is silly, of course, because everything that matters is a laughing matter. How else would we discover that what matters, matters?

But God is not a controller. If he were, he would never have created anything, and surely not apes, certainly not people, and undoubtedly not funny people. – Some controller-god-folk have suggested that George Carlin went to hell, but that just shows what sort of people they really are. How could a loving God do such a nasty thing to such a funny man as George, or to those poor folks in hell who really need to be afraid to laugh?

If you get what I’m getting at, click on Mr Deity . But, I warn you, if you're afraid to laugh this is going to be very scary.

There's no medal good enough for some things.

Well, the 2010 Olympic games were overdone, as these things always are, and now they’re simply over, done. The para Olympics will continue on the sites for a while, of course, but most of the media, athletes and fans have moved on. We’ve pretty much worn ourselves out higher-further-fastering, and it’s time for a break. But it will all be happening again, bigger and badder, in 878 days. At that point the scene will be London, England, and we will have an opportunity to sit back and be nicer about their problems than their media were about ours. It’s Canadian, and, if we must have an overriding national trait, niceness is nice.

And, even though this whole business does bring out the Grinch in me, and without recanting anything I said in my last post, it does seem right, or maybe nice, to point out some of the good things that happened over the past few weeks in Vancouver. I don’t mean winning, swaggering, chest beating or muscle flexing, but those other human things that always happen when people get together to do anything and “the better angels of our nature” show up, along with all the rest. They happen in war zones and peaceful villages, playgrounds and parliaments, development projects and disasters. They are the good blown into our lives by the illest of winds.

• When a young Georgian athlete, Nodar Kumaritashvili, dies on the luge track, suddenly the national masks slip a little and we’re mothers and fathers, sisters and brothers, in a loss that actually matters.

• When Joannie Rochette skates a bronze medal performance just a few days after her mother died, or Brian Burke manages the US hockey team to a silver medal two weeks after losing his son in a car accident, we realize that there’s just no flag raising, anthem singing, or medal awarding appropriate to that.

• And when a young singer, Nikki Yanofsky, has the grace and chutzpah, to sing O Canada as though it were a love song, or a figure skater, Johnny Weir, responds with grace and courage to nasty comments about his performance, there is something in us (that “better angel”) that rises up and reminds us that human nature can be beautiful, and perhaps even inspires us to be a little more beautiful a little more often.

• And there’s something inspiring, even in a hockey game, when you see the “bad guys” dig deep and battle back from a two goal deficit to tie the game with just 24 seconds to go. And then, of course, see the “good guys” battle back, after blowing the game, to win it in overtime. It’s enough to make you want to take all these medals out a get them bronzed. At times like these it’s really just fun to be here and human.

So, in the end, people got together and did some fun things in Vancouver. We won medals, set records, and even set records for winning medals. But the very best things we did are the sorts of things you don’t get a medal for. In fact, the really good things people do are so good that a medal would only be a distraction. These are the things that remind you that, though they’re used like nouns, athlete, winner, champion, medallist, are essentially adjectives. And human, though often an adjective, is essentially the noun. And sometimes it’s fun too.