Have I ever mentioned-

-I love my girlfriend?

Of making books there is no end...

A friend of mine asked me to put together a list of what I consider "must read" books in the field of theology. Some are heavy and academic, some are mystical and devotional; they have all shaped my life dramatically. I know there's probably years of reading here, but its well worth it. I'd love to talk to anyone who's read some of these.
___________________________

St. Augustine, De Trinitate: Self proclaimed his most important work, this writing was absolutely critical in the development of Western Trinitarian theology.

St. Augustine, City of God: This is another foundational book that deals with many theological questions of the day and focuses particularily on Church-State issues and the relationship between Christianity and Roman culture.

St. Anselm, Cur Deus Homo: Probably the most significant theologian in between Augustine and Aquinas, this work is Very important in understanding the development of the legal nature of Western theologies of the Atonement.

St. Thomas Aquinas, Summa Theologica: Massive as it is, you have to have some Aquinas in your diet. I would suggest you especially try to look at the Secunda secudea pars and the Tertia pars (Volume 2 part 2, and Volume 3). His work is still the backbone of most Catholic thought. His style is unique in that he almost arrives at the orthodox position by showing how 4-5 other positions are subtley heretical. You can find the entire Summa online.

Martin Luther, The Large Catechism: If for no other reason you have to read some Luther just for the comedic value of listening to him rant about the pope. His writing style is extremely polemical but it certainly is essential to study his contribution to the Reformation, one which continues to be felt today among both Lutherans and Catholics. This Cathechism will give you a good look at a lot of different topics and is not too long. Its on the internet too.

John Calvin, Institutes of the Christian Religion: Again its lengthy, but its the standard of Reformed theology. The best sections are Book 2 and Book 3. Calvin has a reputation for being a little depressing and dry, but the Institues are spiritually rich and pastoral and a pleasure to read even f you don't agree with them completely. This can also be found easily online.

Desiderius Erasmus, Praise of Folly: A satirical novel and apologetic work written by one of the key Christian figures of the renaissance era. Erasmus used to be called the "smartest man in Europe".

St. Ignatius of Loyola, The Spiritual Exercises: An intense 4 week process of deep contemplation, confession, and prayer; written by the founder of the Society of Jesus (the Jesuits).

St. John of the Cross, Dark Night of the Soul: The writings of John of the Cross are unsurpassed for mystical theology. The style may stretch you at first, but Dark Night is a must-read for anyone seriously concerned about growing spiritually.

G. K. Chesterton, Orthodoxy: The personal flavour with which Chesterton describes his own process of coming to faith is very captivating. While reading it there are points where a light goes off and you think, "how could anyone not believe all this?". This book still serves today as a profound witness to the Christian world view.

Soren Kierkegaard, Fear and Trembling: A long essay about Abraham and Isaac that is full of powerful insights. Against the moral rationalism of Hegel, and on the "strenght of the absurd", it ultimately provides an affirmation of individual self-determination.

Dietrich Bonhoeffer, The Cost of Discipleship: A serious and sober look at the price paid by God for our forgiveness (no cheap grace), and the obligation we bear in response to it. "When Christ calls a man, he bids him come and die"

Paul Tillich, The Courage to Be: Another existential theologian, this book analyzes the different personality types and their responses to despair. His basic concern is how we can be truly human.

Karl Barth, Church Dogmatics: While I am not really a big fan of Barth, he is a must read for any serious theologian. The portions of most importance are Vols. 2.2 and 4.1

Pierre Teilhard de Chardin, Christianity and Evolution: Thought provoking even if some of it is a bit too out there. Its not about the creation/evolution discussion but more about how the history of the universe is in a continual process of development towards a completion at the omega point (Christ).

Thomas Merton, The Seven Storey Mountain: The best auto-biography I've read. Merton is amazing and this is a great look into his soul. Read as much as you can by him (especially Thoughts in Solitude and Seeds of Contemplation), but start with this.

Gustavo Gutierrez, A Theology of Liberation: Prophetic and timely, you need to read Gutierrez straight for yourself rather than just getting caught up in the fact that he's popular and its cool these days for intellectuals to care about the poor.

Jean Vanier, Becomming Human: The founder of L'Arch, Vanier's theological insight into people with developmental and intellectual disability is beautiful and revolutionary.

Karl Rahner, Foundations of Christian Faith: The most important Catholic theologian of the 20th Century and my personal favorite. This is a good accessible read and touches on the important themes of Rahner's thought.

Bernard Lonergan, Verbum: The most important Catholic philosopher of the 20th Century. If Mike didn't put him on your philosophy reading list he should have. You can also look at his book Insight as a good trancendental Thomist epistemology.

Jurgen Moltmann, The Crucified God: I find Moltmann's ideas to be some of the most stimulating of the late 20th Century Protestant theologians. His insights into the incarnation will probably be the most influential in the future. See also his Theology of Hope.

Robert Webber, Ancient-Future Faith: Webber is a specialist in the theology of worship. This book talks about how and why things like liturgy and sacraments and the church year are becomming increasingly attractive to evangelicals who have been starved for these things.

"Why don't you just become Catholic?"

Hmmm... good question. Its one I've been asked several times, and I've felt the force of it particularily strongly as I've heard it a couple times again recently. I'm not even sure I have a firm answer just yet, but here are my scattered thoughts on the subject to this point:

Fortunately many Christians these days are beginning to get over denominationalism and are becomming more an more comfortable with considering people of different Church traditions as equally part of God's people. Though not entirely, the days of determining if someone gets to go to heaven by listening to the vocabulary they use when they pray or which hymns they sing are for the most part behind us. There is even some room being allowed for consideration that even those who do not explicitly profess faith or respond to God in the typical "Christian" way may also mysteriously be in touch with true revelation and the grace of Jesus Christ. It has become increasingly acceptable to myself and many others that God's Holy Spirit can even work through what is true among other religions, pointing the Muslim or the Buddhist towards the Gospel as the fulfillment of their spiritual longings much the same way that Judaism was directed towards revealing Christ in a prepatory way.

Because of this, it has become possible for me to see all people as having recieved different degrees of divine revelation, and to understand that there are corresponding requirements of response by each individual based on the revelation they have recieved. In other words, we are held accountable for what we know. Therefore, for example, someone who knows God through seeing his power and love in created nature, or through what they correctly understand of his ways through Hinduism, has a different level of response required of them than say someone like me who has grown up in Evangelical Protestant Christianity and will have the benifit of 10+ years of theological education. The same holds true between myself and someone who is a devout Roman Catholic. We are all held accountable in different - avoiding words of quantitative classification such as "higher" or "lower" - ways. Now where this comes into play in regards to why I havn't become Catholic is that although I have studied Catholicism and love and appreciate a very great deal of it, I do not feel as though I have had the unavoidable tug within my spirit that you hear about from such one time Protestant intellectuals such as G. K. Chesterton or John Henry Newman who have progressed towards the fold of Catholicism later in their lives. For lack of a more accurate term, I have not had a "conversion experience" - I, as of yet, do not believe I have been called to accountability as a Catholic.

A second reason that I have remained in my tradition is that I have long believed that switching denominations is a deeply serious business. The consumer mentality that has arisen which tells us that if you don't like the Baptist Church you go to just head down the block and go to the Pentacostal one is a dangerous one. In my opinion, the only reason you should leave a Church is because you have moved geographically, or because it has fallen so seriously into heretical teaching and practice and all your best efforts at bringing reform have been exhausted. As a long time adherant of the Christian and Missionary Alliance Church, the son of two parents who have both worked in a pastoral role in this denomination, an attendee of the Alliance Bible College and Seminary, and one who has himself worked in a pastoral role within this Church, I believe I owe something in this community. I do not agree with absolutely everything the Alliance teaches nor do I always perfectly resonate with their style of worship or philosophy of ministry. However, God has blessed this Church and continues to do so and I care about seeing that continue and working from the inside to bring about some of the changes I feel are in need rather than just giving up on it selfishly and going somewhere else on a whim. It would be more harmful to my family and friends and the greater Alliance community I am a part of to see me leave over a few minor issues that are hardly of critical doctrinal or moral failure. It would be a slap in the face. It is not worth causing offense just because I happen to really like the style or worship or the spiritual flavour of Catholicism. The better course of action is to commit to my denomination, appreciate its strenghts, and become involved in working on its weaknesses. This is my calling.

So there you have a rough sketch answer, subject to revision as all true theological convictions should be.

Peace

Still

I am the harm that you inflict
I am your brilliance and frustration
I’m the nuclear bombs if they're to hit
I am your immaturity and your indignance
I am your misfits and your praised
I am your doubt and your conviction
I am your charity and your rape
I am your grasping and expectations

I see you averting your glances
I see you cheering on the war
I see you ignoring your children
And I love you still, and I love you still

I am your joy and your regret
I am your fury and your elation
I am your yearning and your sweat
I am your faithless and your religion

I see you altering history
I see you abusing the land
I see you and your selective amnesia
And I love you still, and I love you still

I am your tragedy and your fortune
I am your crisis and delight
I am your prophets and your profits
I am your art I am your vice
I am your death and your decision
I am your passion and your plight
I am your sickness and convalescence
I am your weapons and your life

I see you holding your grudges
I see you gunning them down
I see you silencing your sisters
And I love you still, and I love you still
I see you lie to you country
I see you forcing them out
I see you blaming each other
And I love you still, and I love you still

The Bar Across the Street

This is a very short story I wrote a couple years ago and just recently edited again. Thought people might like to read it.

***

So then what happens is: There's nothing. And I mean nothing. Tending bar Friday nights at Belluci's across the way from the college; trying to get the Honda started in the wind chill; watching the Leafs lose to Jersey on TSN.

I said to Bellucci, not that there was anything in it for me, but I said to Bellucci something like: "Why don't you change the name of this broke-dick place and get some college kids in here to drink beer? Get some music in the box instead of this Kim Mitchell trash. Put a pinball machine or something in the corner. Show something pay-per-view for Chrisakes! They got thirty thousand kids across the street looking for a pitcher of Becks and a Radiohead record and you got this third string Anne Murray knockoff in the corner with a fingers-on-the-chalkboard voice."

So then, when Bellucci hears enough, he goes: "Take a hike," which means get gone fast and don't come back. When you know Bellucci three minutes, you know how to read between the lines.

"Pack it in your kazoo," is my reply as I unhook my poncho from the nub and hit the door. With Bellucci, it's safer to read insults from long distance, or refrain altogether. Big as he is, you can't tell where the fat leaves off and the muscles begin.

"I'm leavin'," I said as I stopped by the open door.

He turned. His face fell slack. His jaw dropped and his mouth sunk open in mock surprise. "T'row a party for yourself."

That was the last time I saw him - until later when I had to ask him for my job back.

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Weinrhoder got rich somehow, trading fat-backs and rat-tails on the commodity exchange. He'd buy them when nobody wanted them and sell the rights when the scarcity set in. He sits around the bar a lot and sucks on limes that I float for him in a glass of gin. He says this is the only country in the world where you can get on a train and leave town without checking in with the authorities. "It's still possible to become a millionaire here," he says, "as long as you don't file any taxes." He bores the shit out of me really, except that I figure if a dumbass like him can make it, there's still some hope for me.

Zeidel is a weight lifter for Barbell City, down three blocks. He'll show you how to ride the stationary bicycle and how to row on the rowing machine. They pay him for this with a cardboard, computerized check from the home office, which I take from him on Friday nights and turn it into about twenty bottles of Lite beer from Miller, and then I give him the change. He told me how, although he is Jewish himself, he questions the Jew. "Too much emphasis on the affairs of the mind," he says, "to the neglect of the body. A healthy body and a healthy mind are one and the same. To neglect the body is to squander a valuable inheritance. Kill the body and you kill the head."

He told me the only thing he hates more than a phony intellectual is an underdeveloped pair of biceps or a man who didn't know where his next meal was coming from.

"Damn right," I told him, pretending to be listening. "I think you touched on something there." He tries to be friendly but on Friday nights, I started wearing long-sleeved shirts.

"What some of these stick-necked intellectuals need is a good beating," he said to me one night. I'm not an intellectual but when I'm working behind the bar, and everybody gets really drunko, I could be mistaken for one, and I'm truly on the cusp of being a stick-neck, so now I hang down the other end of the bar when he comes in, visiting only when he bangs his empties on the hardwood.

Craven owns the copy-shop across the street. "I'm sick of dealing with the public," he says. "I'm sick of all the mealy-mouthed mutts who want something for nothing. One day I'll set a match to the whole frieken' thing. I don't care if the whole goddamned block burns down."

Loughlin drives one of those beverage trucks. One night when Rev. Jesse Jackson comes on TV, Loughlin takes his hi-ball glass and heaves it at the screen and cracks the goddamned thing. Everybody ducks like it was a bullet until they realize it's just Loughlin again. "I hate that sonofabitch," he says. "Don't worry, I'll pay for the damages."

Mr. Gwynne is a banker. Branch manager. Steps in, has a few. Brings in a girl friend from the bank now and then because everbody in here could care less. Told me his wife goes to Colorado in the winter and Miami in the summer because she loves the intensity of the seasons. I used to give him the odd short beer like on the house, when Bellucci was gone of course. We talked politics: Pine Ridge, El Salvador, third world debt relief, the usual BS. I'd Soften him up, let him sound important. Then I bang on him for a loan. All I wanted was half decent car, not a loft in Yorkville.

"You think I could get me a car loan?" I ask him. "I can get it anywhere, but I figure, you're a customer, I'll throw you the business."

"Oh, no, no," he says. "I don't handle that stuff, I don't do anything under half a million, and even then, only to corporations, business loans."

I told him, "Loan me half a million, I'll give you back four hundred ninety-five right there at the table." I only need a used shit-box that starts up in the winter.

"Wish I could, my boy," he says. "It's just not my department."

Later, I see him downtown one day, squeezing his fat ass out of an twelve-year-old Chevvie and I realize he's broker than I am. From then on, he pays for his own drinks and I give him the cold shoulder. One Friday night when Zeidel is good and drunked-up, I'll whisper in his ear that that guy Gwynne down the end of the bar thinks you're a fag.

Stephen floats in on weekends to listen to the fingers-on-the-chalkboard voice. He's into interior design and I think he's got his eye on Freddie the piano player. Stephen wears those tight slacks and a Byron short, close at the waist, and billowy in the sleeve. One Friday he asks me if I want to go on a Sunday picnic with him in his restored MG. I told Bellucci: "Get rid of these gayblades or pretty soon they'll be dancing naked on the bar. And that includes Freddie."

Bellucci says Freddie is an artist and he comes cheap. Stephen drinks Marguerites and pays cash. "Besides, he's a fashion designer, that don't make him a queer."

"Maybe," I tell him, "he'll write this place up in Better Bars and Gardens."

Bellucci teaches some sort of real estate course two nights a week at some community centre up the road. He snuck in there through somebody he knows when nobody was looking. I guess it proves he does have that degree from Seneca like he says, but it forebodes bad times for his students. If the kids' parents ever for a look at Bellucci's expertise in real estate, they'd send their punks into the army for training, like in the old days.

I can only imagine this pile of mashed potatoes teaching somebody about floating mortgages, prime rates, equity-income ratios, etcetera, when he not only doesn't own a piece of real estate himself after forty-six years on the earth, but is even four months behind in his rent on the bar, and (he brags about this part) he hasn't filed a tax return since '76. So much for higher education.

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So Bellucci takes off for Florida in February like every other bar-owner in the world. He goes down there to Lauderdale with his Bermuda shorts and thirty pairs of mid-calve socks, the shoes on his feet, three pairs of underwear, one blue Izod shirt, one green Izod shirt, one "Bellucci's Bar and Lounge" tee shirt and a green, plastic-peak half-hat with a band around the back.

He meets the other bar owners from New York, Boston, and Philadelphia and they bounce around the cocktail lounges with their shorts and their socks and their brown shoes. They throw around tips like a gang of Babe Ruths. The biggest tipper in the world was not John D. Rockefeller, he was a bar-owner with a load on. When he's up and around and sober, he won't give you the fuzz off a tennis ball, but put a shot of Jack Daniels in front of him with a beer chaser and he'll donate his liver and eyeballs to science. He'll leave a day's pay on the bar on the way to the next joint. Don't ask me why, that's just the way it is. It's tradition and the ginmill jockey who thinks he can do it differently is either new at the job or he will soon find himself a new occupation. It becomes clear to everybody that he doesn't belong.

Anyway, Bellucci does the wings of man and here I am, Undersecretary for Barroom Affairs, left in charge. Face the Nation. Shit-face the nation. The Honda's fuel pump is shot, and the exhaust system finally rotted its way into Japanese heaven. It's parked up at Yonge and Finch with a flat left rear. I think it has finally lost its will to live. It shows no interest and fails to recognize me. The headlights and grill are covered with frozen mud and somebody snapped off the aerial. One windshield wiper is in the up position, the other is gone altogether. Bleak city is the ditty. At this point, a smart guy realizes that bad as it is, it could be worse. You never know when there might be a new Terror Alert.

So, while Bellucci is gone, I devise a little merchandising ploy to put the place on the map. The method I'm not prepared to reveal because I'm truthfully thinking of taking this concept public and franchising it again and again around the world. International. Five days didn't go by from its inception to the point where there were lines of people literally out into the street trying to get in. Even the regulars, Weinrhoder, Zeidel, Craven, they can't get in anymore. It's too packed.

When Bellucci comes back from sun city, he can't believe his Italian eyeballs. He shoulders his way in, bull that he is, by bogarting his way past the people in front of the line. He muscles his way to the bar and ends up with his head between these two cougers who do Amaretto and are here almost constantly since about two days after my innovation, my master-stroke. Donald Trump would probably like to talk to me about this.

Bellucci, with his arms around these two old babes, leans up real close to the bar where he can get my attention. His eyes are wide and white, his nostrils flaring with excitement.

"Kid," he hollers, "this is incredible. There must be two hundred people crammed in here and another two hundred and fifty outside tryin' to get in. It's a zoo. I love it!"

"Go home," I tell him, loudly. "Give me one more week and I'll have this place floating. I haven't even started with my marketing. This place will be more famous than the Lido. 426-5050? Don't make me lose my chain of thought."

"No, no," he hollers. "You do it. You do it, kid."

"I can't have nobody bothering me," I tell him. "You go home. Come back in a week."

"Right," he says. "Right, I'm goin'." He looks square at the two women, one to the other. He's got a grin on his face like the cat who swallowed the canary.

"Are you ladies enjoying yourselves?" he shouts.

"Oh, yes," says one. "We adore this place."

"Great, great," squeals Bellucci. "I love it."

People are clamoring up and down the bar for drinks. Others are fighting their way from ten deep to get to the mahogany. "This is the owner," I say to the ladies.

"How nice," says one, the smaller one with glasses. "We're here all the time, every chance we get. Your bartender is a wonderful young man."

"The best," screams Bellucci. "The best!" He's smiling like a whale, his lower jaw open, his bottom teeth exposed, his tonsils dancing like Astaire and Rogers.

"We've been coming here for over a week," says the gray-haired, fatter one. "And he hasn't charged us for a drink yet."

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So then what happens is: There's nothing. And I mean nothing. I said to Bellucci, not that there was anything in it for me, but I said to Bellucci something like: "Get bent." This is after he fires me. I told him too, don't think I'm going to do the Billy Martin thing where you hire me back and forth every time you get in a jam. Once I leave, that's it."

"Take a royal hike," say Bellucci. "I'll put my size 11 so far up your ass, the inside of your head will smell like leather."

That's the way he feels about it. Enough said. Some guys are afraid to spend a little money in the interest of promoting their business. Johnson's Floor Wax spends about twenty million a year getting their name in front of the public. Bellucci's brain curdles at the thought of a few shots that don't immediately translate into coin of the realm. That is why Johnson's are waxing the shit out of the western world and Bellucci is all out of roach spray.

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Three days into the off-season and Zeidel and Loughlin catch up to me. "Let's go," they say. "We're takin' you out for a few pops."

"Oh, what's the use," I say. "Everything falls apart. That's the way it goes. It's entropy. It's Einstein. It's the quantum factor."

"Your ass is the quantum factor," says Zeidel. "All of a sudden you're a smart guy?"

"Hell no," says I, lying. "It's just that everything I got is broke, including me."

"Hey," says Loughlin, "you're with us, you don't go to your pocket. There's people waiting for us."

Before you know it, we're across from the college and I'm being dragged into Bellucci's. Craven is there in the corner. With Weinrhoder. And Gwynne. The big tub of whaleshit, the owner himself, is there, sitting at the same table, the wrong way on a chair with his eggplant forearms crossed over the top. He's lecturing them like he's John Kenneth Galbraith.

"Here he is," says Weinrhoder.

"Bring him over here," says Craven.

"Sit him in the chair," goes Bellucci.

"We thought we was a friend of yours," says Zeidel from behind, where he's got his claws dug into my trapezoids.

"You are," I say.

"You ran out on us," says Gwynne. "I told you I can't give you a loan. It's the bank, it's not me."

"I didn't run out on nobody," I say. "I was three feet in front of a size 11. That's not running out. That's self preservation!"

"So what are you gonna do?" asks Loughlin.

"Live in my car. Lose a lot of weight. Get my goddamned MBA and get done with it. Don't worry about me. Two years and I'm on Bay Street."

"Bay Street, your ass," says Zeidel.

"It's like this," says Craven. "Mr. Bellucci and us, we got an understanding. You don't work here, we don't drink here. And that's not Woody Allen talking. Who's talking is five right-down-to-the-wire alcoholics. Mr. Bellucci here, he sees you in a new light. He wants to give you your job back. Like a manager's assistant while you go to school."

I look at Bellucci square-on. "That right, fat-man?"

He hesitates five seconds to get his Italian temper back in the box. His eyes open up wide and he starts to chew on his tongue. "I'd like to have you back, kid. It's not that these guys spend a few hundred a week in here, neither. You got good ideas; you just get carried away a little. Just ask me before you do something crazy next time. By the way, if you do get to Bay Street, try calling the boss a fat man, see if he's as nice as me."

"You guys are all right," I say. "It's nice to be wanted."

And it is. Yeah, it can hold you back from a lot of things you should be doing, but when you add up all the columns, what the hell else is there in this short, narrow little life that makes a lot more sense than that? What?

santa maria!

Let me establish two points of information before I tell this story. First you should know that for the summer of 2004 I have a gig as a glorified janitor at an wealthy suburban Church. You know the kind - with either mint green or fushia upholstery and accents. This gives me a unique persective on North American Evangelicalism because I get to see what rich Christians consider garbage.

Secondly, I am desperately in love with Sacramental Theology. Basically that means I like my Christianity soaked and dripping with liturgy, ritual, sybolism and tradition. Because of this, I have a very high view of the significance of the Eucharist (Communion as we usually call it to avoid sounding too Catholic). While I know the casual manner in which these acts are treated by many evangelical churches is for the most part harmless and well intentioned, we've gotten out of control when people begin to detest communion because it means they have to stay an extra 15 minutes in the service on Sunday morning and that the roast might go dry or they'll miss their Tee-time. I do my best not to be critical (at least not mean spirited) and to derive as much meaning as I can from the way we do Communion, while supplementing with the occasional trip to placate myself when the need arises. Of course, sadly, I can't participate in the Catholic Eucharist, but just seeing other people do it is usually enough to satisfy me.

These things established, imagine my horror when I walked in to change the garbage bins in the Church on Monday morning after a Communion Sunday. Trays and trays full of unused stoned wheat thins - the crackers broken for the sins of the world - the body of Christ, given for you - just dumped in the trash. I'll admit I crossed myself and considered doing my duty in line with Canonical practice by eating the reserve, but there were just too many.

I tell this story with a bit of tongue in cheek. I know the Zwinglian theology behind it and that the Alliance Church comes by it innocently. I don't think Jesus will be too mad about it in the long run. But, shouldn't it give us pause to rethink what we are doing when we participate in the Lord's Supper? We don't all have to believe in transubstantiation, but shouldn't there be a middle ground somewhere? Surely, if anything, this one act should be given some special consideration and not just put on the same level as the extra bulletins we printed being run through the paper shredder. Christ gave us the Sacrament of his body and blood for a reason. It is special. It is a source of connection to the grace of God that we don't recieve by other means. If it isn't, why do we do it? Just because Jesus said we have to? I hope our love of Christ is bigger than that.

Just some good natured thoughts - not a Temple clearing.



Peace be with you.

filles folles

While the event you are about to hear described took place several weeks ago now, rest assured it is definately blog worthy. It has most of the unbelievable elements of the opening scene of a cheesy porn movie, and yet took place in the real life of a mild mannered budding theologian on his way home from Church.

I was riding home on the subway after a night of work at Bayview Glen Alliance Church in North Toronto. As is frequently the case, I was making use of the 20 minutes of travel time by reading a good book. On this occasion it was the venerable German Jesuit Herr Karl Rahner, PhD DPhil. As my eyes scanned a section dealing with transcendental revelation, my ears were perked by a female voice in the seat next to me saying "are you going out tonight?". I looked up to see that this girl, rather attractive in her early 20s with a slight accent, was accompanied by two others of similar description. Thinking they must be speaking to someone else, I glanced back down at my page. Again the voice, but this time "hey.. we're just trying to be nice.. people in Toronto are so rude". She's talking to me? "Oh um.. sorry.. I didn't realize you were talking to me.. no, i'm going home.. I just finished work". One of the companions, the one on the left, chimed in for the first time, "where do you live?". "Downtown.. near the UofT" I answered. This time it was the companion on the right's turn, "do you go there?". "I do, yes". Back to the first girl in the middle again, "what do you study". At this point I'm beginning to feel like I'm being interviewed for something, and I rarely perform well in interviews. Also, I often dread the question "what do you study" because when my answer is "theology" it usually means a very awkward few minutes of conversation ahead of me. This occasion was no different - in fact, it will no doubt go on record as the most memorable and uncomfortable of all. A few questions go back and forth and it turns out that these three young ladies are Catholic girls from Montreal. They "have their beliefs" but "don't follow them that closely". It becomes Obvious that the extent of their understanding of what it means to study theology consists of "so you don't get to have sex". I tell them I'm not going to be a priest so I am allowed, but it really is too late - these girls have something to play with now and they decide to run with it. "So, are you a virgin?" they ask. I know, I'm supposed to be ashamed of it but I answered them truthfully anyway, "yes, I am". The ladies are in full stride now, making a game of it - lets get the little virgin priest boy hot under the collar. As if it wasn't bad enough, their next question puts it over the top. "Are you gay?". My answer is a fairly confident "no", but they persist. "Well, if you've never f*cked a girl, how do you know you're not gay?". I attempt to mumble out something about sexual orientation being defined by more than the act of intercourse, but I wasn't in top debating form at the time due to the fact that my jaw was still on the floor. Then, the coup de gras, "we have condoms with us... and we're headed to a party at this hotel on Yonge and Bloor... you should come join us". Fortunately, on this occasion at least, I have a pretty low self esteem. This allows me to assume that there was no way these girls are serious and that they are just doing this to mess with me and amuse themselves so I manage to turn down their proposition relatively cool and unshaken.

I spent the final two stops before my destination trying to pretend to read my theology text while the girls whispered that I probably thought they were the devil. I don't know who they were, but they're still "on the loose" - with all puns intended - so keep your wits about you boys.

Begin Again

On the advice of a couple good friends who have already embarked on the Blog enterprise, I have decided to jump into the fray. I remember the first time I heard of the idea of Blogging a year or so ago on some late afternoon 'get net savvy' type TV show, my first thought was "now all those pseudo-intellectual type guys who are wannabe writers will go around saying they're material has been published as a way to pick up girls". Now while i've never had much luck enticing the ladies with anything I do or say, I certainly am a pseudo-intellectual, so I guess I at least half fit the bill.

I study God for a living. (I know, I know, I can't believe they pay people to do that shit either but its true). Thus, many of my postings will probably be of an ecclesial nature: Either friendly ranting against my semi-FUNdamentalist Christian upbringing, or smitten remarks about post Vatican II Roman Catholicism. I used to fancy myself as one who had his ear to the ground on politics, art, music, and literature so there may be some of that too from time to time. And, I bleed the copper and blue of the Edmonton Oilers so I will rise and fall with them like the tides of my life (hockey and Christianity are intimately connected... ask me about it sometime). But, for my first entry, I thought it would be appropriate to recall a few things about the two aforementioned friends who inspired me to do this: Jeff C. M.D., and Sir Robbie J.

Jeff is my second longest serving friend. Our parents knew each other when the two of us were but toddlers. His Father is a gynocologist, his mother a benevolant dictator. While Jeff has 4 other siblings, I myself am an only child. They say only children develop fraternal bonds with one or two close friends. I would say Jeff is one of these. Although we've been geographically quite far apart now for 7-8 years, and neither of us are very good at keeping in touch, we always pick right up where we left off. In the future I will call on him to perform my coronary bipass surgery or blast away my kidney stones. In return, I don't know, maybe I'll baptize his kids into the One Holy Catholic and Apostolic Church. It all evens out, and we will always remain friends.

Robbie I have known I believe since the end of the 7th grade. I remeber playing lunchtime pickup basketball against him on the outside courts at Hillcrest Jr. High (home of the Mustangs), and we were both the biggest guys on our teams. I don't think I ever told him this but it was Pastor Paul Silcock who suggested Robbie and I become friends because we wanted to get him to come out to the Beulah Youth Group (damn Christians and their prostelytizing!). In spite of this, we did end up getting along very well and would go on to spend many an afternoon in Robbie's basement playing Super Nintendo, messing with the mind of our computer teacher Mr. Campsall, interacting with our special ed. friends EJ, Roy, and Keith, and trying to avoid being yelled at to get our "heads out of our asses" by our Football coach Mr. Belmont. I've always appreciated Robbie's adventerous side, his diversity of tastes, his ability to work hard, and his very evident concern for others.

So, thank you gents, and I'll see you in the days to come.