Postmortem 56

 Gentle Reader, I cannot remember the name of the song that was played this morning on the radio, but I did feel prompted to contact the host of the program.  Here is an excerpt from my text: 

 "I can't remember the name of the Bosanova sung by the girl from Ipanema, but I found it evocative in a way I wasn't expecting.  As I listened I thought how this is so the music of the privileged Brazilian middle class, a country that has some of the most egregious social inequality in the Americas.  The music comes across to me as a kind of mildly toxic soporific, as a way of soothing with soma so that one needn't think of the horrors and many tragedies that mark the lives of so many Brazilians, such as would never be admitted into the lovely cocktail lounges where this music is often played.  This makes me think of how we listen to music.  What is it we are hearing, and with what part of us are we listening? ... 

I haven't been to Brazil, but I have spent a lot of time in Colombia, a country with very similar problems and issues to Brazil.  Many middle class Colombians are afraid of the poor and homeless, and believe they are all violent criminals.  I remember my first visit to Bogotá, when a friend and some of his extended family were hosting me and giving me a tour of the city, in a car, of course.  We were in a poor neighbourhood near downtown Bogotá, and they insisted that we keep the windows rolled up because of the street beggars, whom they feared.  I don't know if they really posed that great a threat.  I thought that, rather, they have been so stigmatized by poverty that this middle class fear was just part of what they have to bear with.  I was feeling more troubled and embarrassed by the fear of my friends, than by the poor beggars outside the car. 

When I returned to Colombia in February, I was riding in my friend, Alonso's, car and he was kind enough to not keep the windows up when two different fathers carrying their young children in their arms came to ask us for help..."

Of course I have also written about the Venezuelan refugee family on the sidewalk in Madrid Cundinamarca, near Bogotá, and how much their situation touched and affected me.  And the two mothers carrying their babies in their arms, begging near a restaurant we had just eaten at in a posh neighbourhood of Medellín.

I am actually thinking of doing volunteer work in Medellín.  I have no idea how this would look, or when I'm returning there.  I do feel very strongly that having got a taste of the social inequality and the people this hurts in Colombia, I would like to learn more about the people themselves.  To learn from them.  I really wonder if there would be some kind of work or some redemptive role that a Canadian of a certain age could perform there.  Nor am I really convinced that I would be much help to anyone there.  I really see myself as occupying the seat of the unlearned, and maybe that's the best way to approach this.  

Any ideas, Gentle Reader?

Postmortem 55

I seem to be moving into a new phase of life.  Everyone seems to be moving into a new phase of life.  This pandemic affects everyone, of course.   I'm trying to think of what has changed in my life since covid 19.  Quite a lot.  I work from home, and in some ways it really feels like I am working less, in other ways, like I'm working more, because now it is all the harder to separate work from home, though the phone is always turned off, so that gives me some illusion of privacy.

Until just this past week, it was impossible to meet any friends in a coffee shop because they were all closed except for takeout, but yesterday for the first time since I left Costa Rica in March I could sit in a café with a friend.  Mostly, I visit with people online, Skype or messenger, and I am actually spending a lot more time communicating with friends now than ever before.

I no longer attend church, and we already know about my dramatic exodus from the Anglican Church.   Otherwise, nothing much seems to be happening.  I seem to care more about other people.  I always have cared for other people, but since my visit to Colombia last February this experience of love for others seems to have magnified exponentially. 

Otherwise, nothing seems much different.  We are still the same people except I think we are also experiencing more of just how vulnerable we are.  As if vulnerability were something bad and to be ashamed of or embarrassed about, like having a nail-biting habit, or being a voyeur, or a supporter of the Conservative Party of Canada.

I believe that being vulnerable is good.  In fact, it is essential to our long-term survival and well-being.  You see, darlings, becoming vulnerable means also acquiring humility.  Without humility, we are not going to learn, we are not going to open our lives to new people or new experiences, and thus we do not grow and we really start to lose our human viability.  I have seen this happen to others, and it is sad, sad, so sad.  I have at times seen it happen to me, and I found it terrifying. 

Living in uncertain times has really ripped our lives open.  This is good, because now we can really start to get on with this very serious business of really learning to be human beings.  And hopefully we will find enough joy in this serious business to not want to give it up on becoming truly human. 

Heaven knows where we are going...we´ll know we're there!

Postmortem 54

It is hard not to get super neurotic during a pandemic.  While two women really went out of their way to safe distance themselves from me, on a trail in Stanley Park, no one around and lots of fresh air circulating...well when they made themselves so piss delicate neurasthenic and absolutely terrified of getting sick and dying, I simply quipped as I passed them, "I just held my breath, we're all going to live, so chill!"  I imagine they felt only gravely and mortally insulted that a stranger would speak so frankly to them, and well, too bad, they deserved it, they needed it, and I trust in the long-run that it'll be to their benefit. 

The fact of the matter is, we are perfectly safe outside, and the safe-distancing is only required indoors, or in crowded public spaces.  Likewise those idiots who wear hospital masks everywhere.  I even see people in single-occupancy vehicles, windows rolled up, bravely sporting their medical masks, as though someone had just gone inside their precious Mercedes or BMW and openly sneezed and coughed everywhere.

Um...darlings, those masks are not going to protect you.  They do protect me from your germs, but my germs are still going to flow in behind your protective coverings.  I do wear a bandana on my lower face if I am going into a fairly crowded store, but for the protection of other people, since it's going to do piss-all for keeping me alive.

Then there were the two women who tried to safe distance from me a few minutes later, but they seemed more concerned than frightened, so I remarked to them, "We're outside, we're going to live."  And fortunately they both had a sense of humour and we were all laughing about it and I also admitted to them that I also get neurotic about it. 

On the other hand.  I don't want to put myself at risk either, and occasionally, I do find myself in rather delicate situations.  The other day, I was walking by the Dr. Peter Centre for people living with AIDS and one of the residents, an aboriginal man in a wheelchair, asked if I could help push him up the ramp.  I reluctantly refused, because it would have put me too close to him for safe distancing and I didn't want to put either of us at risk.  He seemed to have comprehension challenges, and I don't think he really got it, so I offered instead to go to the door and summon staff for help.  Fortunately, a friend of his appeared right away and helped him, though also to their mutual risk. 

I do know that under different circumstances, I would have helped him, because I have done this for others in the past.  For this reason, I particularly resent this pandemic for how difficult it makes us to properly care for one another.

All for today, Gentle Reader...

Postmortem 53

I began to reconsider my participation in the Anglican Church over last Christmas, when for the second year in a row, no one did anything to reach out to me.  It was when the acting priest said that if I was feeling super depressed again on Christmas Day then I should go to hospital emergency where they would put me on enough medications to help see me through without harming myself.   Not one single parishioner who was going to be around for Christmas would even consider texting with me on email or even a phone call on Christmas Day.  I was not expecting a dinner invitation, I would have been content with simply a visit in a coffee shop.

And they still don't believe they are selfish. 

That was the first domino.

Just after Christmas I asked a particularly wealthy couple in the church if they would like to do coffee with me sometime before I went on my trip six weeks later.  They came up with excuse after lame excuse, and I came to the conclusion that their expressions of friendship had been little more than a hypocritical sham and I would likely be better off without them.  Sad, rather, because I was hoping to see if we could somehow bridge the gap between us since, as I said, they are wealthy and I was hoping we could come to understand each other better.  Apparently not interested.

That was the second domino

Six weeks later I was on my way to Colombia, where I would be staying with a friend whom I knew only following over a year of visits on Skype for language exchange.  He did not even profess to be a Christian.  He would not even think of accepting any money from me for staying with him for the next three weeks, though I still tried to pay for my share of food.  He could not think of enough to do for me, was always available and always happy to share and explore his country with me.  We became like family to each other, and we still are like family.

Domino number three

From my friend in Colombia I received the kind of treatment that I have always tried to give to others, such as was completely absent in my church full of selfish entitled middle class privilege.  But their lovely West Side homes are their castles, and their idea of Christian community doesn't appear to extend beyond church services and parish meetings.

Then Jesus tore my heart open as I became overwhelmed with love for the suffering poor that I met in Colombia.  I knew that my being a Christian meant living as Christ and his Apostles, my life completely consecrated to his service and through the service of suffering humanity.  I felt vulnerable, alive, more alive than I had felt in many long years.

That was domino number four.

I felt, during this trip completely submitted to Christ.  I felt that I was being called on this trip for his purposes.  Now, I know this stronger than ever.   I also stayed mostly away from church.  Not even when I was in Costa Rica for two and a half weeks following Colombia did I even enter a church building.  I was fine  without it.  Christ was present with me and I could love others freely and openly.  The Gospel had come alive in me, without help from the Christian institutions, and I knew that I was being taken in quite a new and different direction.

When I returned, the priest at St. Faith's seemed not at all interested in talking to me as I was seeking pastoral assistance.  I was also ignored by the archbishop.

Dominoes number five and six

In my desperation to be heard and receive pastoral assistance, I was blogging extensively about this, including written meditations on the Beatitudes of Jesus.  I was sending the links to the archbishop, the priest and a few others.  Still no answer.

That was the seventh domino.

Then the archbishop sent me a brief email asking that I stop sending these.  I refused because I would not tolerate being stonewalled.

That was the eighth domino.

A day later, I got an email from their lawyer.

That was the tenth domino.

I threatened to go public, contacted the CBC about this, and the cowards backed off.  Then I left the Anglican Church.

The End.

Or perhaps, the Beginning...

Postmortem 52

I imagine that some of you, Gentle Reader, must be already familiar with the tale of David and Goliath.  If you are, or have been Christian, of course you would know the story.,  If you happen to be a Biblical literal fundamentalist, then you are more than likely to believe that it is historical fact.  I wouldn't know, myself, given that as far as a lot of the Old Testament is concerned, you could call me a biblical agnostic.  But I still think there are pithy lessons and insights to be benefited from by reading these stories that are to be found throughout the Old Testament, the New Testament, and also the Apocrypha.  But we shall stay on topic, shall we, darlings?

David, as you know, was still a teenage boy when he confronted Goliath, the giant from the Philistines (those were not necessarily people who didn't appreciate art and culture by the way, they were the Phoenicians and other peoples who happened to live in what is now Palestine, Israel, Lebanon and Syria.  The Philistines and the Israelites did not like each other much.  This by the way was all going on at around three thousand years ago. 

Now David, a scrawny but handsome boy of around sixteen or seventeen or so, was armed only with a few stones and a leather sling for hurling them, while Goliath, likely four or five times the kid's size, was all decked out in armour and fighting swords.  Hardly an even match.  David had been offered armour and proper weapons, but they were too heavy and cumbersome for him, and he wanted to rely on his wits and agility, a decidedly less is more kind of approach.  David killed Goliath with his first stone that he hurled from his leather sling, then he took the giant's sword and cut off his head.

And this illustrates why I have repudiated the Anglican Church.  In order to fit in, to integrate with such a cumbersome religion that is so far from the very Christ that they purport to serve, I would have to accept the very cumbersome and suffocating baggage of said religion.  Like the armour and weapons that David rejected in order to fight in the way that best suited him.  So I now must go free, naked, into the wilderness, armed by my own frail and human vulnerability, by which alone I can truly and legitimately and honourably and effectively serve my Christ, my Lord and my Master, who became for me and for all the rest of you my darlings so naked, frail and vulnerable. 

Remember, Gentle Reader: our strength is made perfect in our weakness.

Postmortem 52

First, a word about my maternal grandfather.  We used to call him Charley.  He was born in 1889 of German immigrants from the Crimea in rural Saskatchewan, on a farm near Regina.  He was a very interesting man.  I remember him as being mischievous, playful, with a robust sense of humour and a razor sharp wit.  He was a wheat farmer, but under different circumstances and with different parents he might have done very well academically and professionally.  I remember him as being open minded and very curious and interested in the world.  I am a lot like my grandfather.

My grandfather used to enjoy teaching us card games, since on the prairie during the winter the short cold days and long cold nights were often passed, once the chores were done, playing cards.  This was before TV, and for a while, before radio.   He taught me how to play a particular version of rummy, called Michigan Rummy.  His idea was that you could pick up just one of the discarded cards, or you could pick up all of them.  It was fun, picking up. sometimes as many as twenty random cards that no one else wanted, and having to find and figure out whatever way I could play them.  This move would make you or it would break you.  You would find so many different runs and three of a kinds as to win hands down, or you would be saddled with so many unwanted singles and pairs as to have to count yourself out well after the others were already finished playing..

This soon became my way of life, from the age of eight.  Grabbing as much as I could, hang the consequences and to see what I could do with it.  My interests, and tastes in everything became almost alarmingly eclectic.  I didn't care.  For me, diversity became its own reward.  Or like the line from Leonard Cohen's song, Suzanne: "and she shows you where to look among the garbage and the flowers." 

This isn't quite the same thing as slumming, though I would suppose there are parallels, but the idea is to accept all resources and all things without judgment, which is to say, not without discernment.  There is beauty in everything.  There will be found hidden jewels and treasures in the unlikeliest places, if we are patient and if we have humility, because those will be the very jewels and treasures with the highest and most eternal value.  For example, isn't it rather ironic that the most expensive coffee is sourced from coffee beans picked out of the dung and shit of elephants and civet cats?

I have encountered incredible kindness and brilliance in some of the most unexpected places, from people unwanted and rejected by society, but whose lives still shone out in the surrounding darkness.  I remember when my mother died, and some of the greatest kindness, support and compassion that I received came from the very street punks and male and female survival sex workers, themselves unwanted and still barely young adults, that ostensibly were there for me to minister to them the love of Christ.  But Jesus filled and inhabited those same people whose lives were themselves a complete shipwreck and disaster,and I still feel the warm embrace of their friendship.  One of many reasons why I will never return to the Anglican Church.

I am not worried about when things get messy.  Life is messy. The very beauty of the universe is in its messiness, and has nothing at all  to do with a sterile Newtonian or Euclidean order, and everything to do with the random chaos that is its own organic order, birthed into existence by a God of love that will never be known, defined or tamed.  The same God who calls and claims us to dare to risk wandering into the mire and mess that is life, where the beauty and joy of the very universe is held in its very germ and nucleus.  All those random cards, and such random adventure, and such random, messy, imperfect and beautiful life, Gentle Reader!

Postmortem 51

I have been reviewing some of my travel journal from Colombia three months ago and I can best conclude that what I have been through since then has been a kind of reconversion.  I suppose it could be said that this has been my liberation from the church, in this case, Anglican.  I have gone over and over the issues, and I think it's time to give it a bit of a rest.

However...

I did have a conversation today with a friend who is very much in the Anglican Church and it is interesting how the simplest matters can betray class differences of privilege that really still do divide us.  I was asked if I was in solitary confinement and I could only choose three foods that I could eat, what would I choose.  I wasn't sure how to answer, so I deferred. My friend assumed that one would choose their favourite foods, things they would never get tired of.  I replied that I would be more interested in nutrition and health, so I would like my choices to be as healthy as possible  When I was asked if I wouldn't get tired of eating the same thing every day, I replied that if that was the only food I had to survive on then I could easily grow to enjoy it no matter how long I would have to eat it.  I would find it all absolutely delicious

It quickly became apparent that my friend has never had to really do without, and for that reason has always had a range of choices unknown to me when it comes to eating, even if this person really does believe that they have had to do without at times.  I have never had much in the way of choice, since being on a lower income has always limited my choice of food.  I have never gone hungry, and have always been well-nourished, but living on a low income has long taught me to give priority to economy, nutrition and utility when it comes to eating.  This has also turned me into a creative and better than average cook, because I have had to learn to make the best possible meals out of very little.    I have seldom been spoiled for choice when opening the fridge, but have always tried to make the best use out of my narrow range of food selections.  So, when I think of food, I don't think of the pleasure of eating, I think of nutrition. Pleasure always comes after, but come it does.

It is impossible to explain to someone who has never done without, who has never walked in your shoes, just how different our life perspectives and experiences are going to be, and I have learned to stop wasting my breath or energy at trying to educate the unteachable.  They are simply not going to get it.  And since the Anglican Church is almost exclusively made up of people who are blinded by and to their inborn privilege, I have opted to simply walk away and continue serving Christ in the poverty he has made so beautiful.

By the way, these are the three foods I would choose:  whole wheat bread, broccoli and a good aged cheese, either white cheddar or Asiago.  These are foods I eat every day, and because they are so good, nourishing, wholesome and simple, I never have and likely never will grow tired of eating them.