A SOBER SECOND THOUGHT

Hanns F Skoutajan

“Go Sens, Go!” the popular cheer of the fans of the Ottawa Senators NHL hockey team, has taken on a new political poignancy and relevance. This is especially so as the Supreme Court of Canada is conducting hearings into the nature and purpose of the Red Chamber. Given our present political situation I feel it is incumbent on me to add my voice to those addressing the matter of senate reform or abolition. 

 

The drama of Mike Duffy ( is he now growing spuds in his home province?), Pamela Wallin, (no shy little prairie maid,) and Patrick Brazeau, (is he taking boxing lessons again?) have riveted  the attention of Canadians from coast to coast. Mike Duffy’s oratorical skills have left the public  as well as his senate partners and all politicians  breathless. Since his historical speech, in which he reiterated that, “....and there is more!”  Canadians including our prime minister have sat on the edge of their chairs. What has he up his toga besides a lot of flesh?

The senate has a long history  which in our country may or may not come to an end  in the near future. The word senator comes from the Latin senex which means old man. Old age has often been identifies  with wisdom, though  the present scenario has cast some doubt on this assumption.

In Rome it was considered  that decision making was best performed by the older and experienced leaders. Indeed in many societies, for instance in aboriginal communities, elders are held in high esteem and always consulted. This also holds true for the churches. In  the Roman Catholic Church there are few young cardinals. In Protestant denominations the role of elder is pivotal  in the governance of the church.

In Canada the senate is considered to be a court of sober second thought. Legislation passed by parliament  is sent to the red chamber for careful consideration. The senate, like the House of Commons, has committees where bills are discussed before they are brought before the full chamber for a vote. A majority in the senate can overturn such legislation and send it back to the House. 

The senate is meant to be an independent body although they are appointed by the prime minister who mostly picks them from his own party. Their life-time tenure might assure that they can survive the government that appointed them.

 

As a court of sober second thought this body is of great value to the country. Their independence, however, has been much questioned. Indeed, just as in parliament they sit according to party affiliation and tend to reflect  the policies of him who has appointed them. In this system much of their independence  and wisdom has been put in question. At present the senate is composed of a majority of Conservatives,  of Liberal leftovers from a previous government and the occasional independent. New Democrats, the Bloc and Greens, either by their own choice or circumstance,  have no representatives in the senate.  Harper during his term in power has endeavoured to paint the red chamber blue.

To-day, everyone from the prime minister down  feel  that there is a disfunction in the Upper House, no doubt about it. Stephen Harper has called on the senate to reform itself while New Democrats and others such as the premier of Saskatchewan, a Conservative, call for the abolition of the senate altogether.  However, that may be easier said than done. 

The question that Canadians confront is whether the senate can reform itself . Is the parliamentary ruling party, especially the prime minister, prepared to allow a chamber whose second thoughts may be contrary to his opinions? Can the senate be liberated from party politics and be free and independent? We await the advice of the Supreme Court.

To the west of the capital city, near Kanata, Canada’s first planned city, there is a huge sports complex known as the Canadian Tire Centre. It is the venue for many battles on ice between teams of the National Hockey League and others. Ottawa citizens largely cheer for their home team, The Senators. However, on their jerseys is emblazoned a crest with  a stylized picture of  a Roman centurion, not a senator, as the name would suggest. 

Those Roman legions were a tough force that held the empire together. They were despatched “on the double” to any hotspots on the well known Roman roads. It was those centurions who supervised the execution of Jesus, a convicted rebel, who also guarded his final resting place from grave robbers , albeit unsuccessfully. They were also the force that levelled Jerusalem including its magnificent temple in AD 70 and ended Jewish life in that troublesome country until the present time.

It would seem to me that our hockey team would be better identified  by these battle hardened soldiers than senators in Rome or Ottawa. Roman senators wore long white togas which are totally inappropriate for battles on land or ice, though back-stabbing is not out of the question then or now. 

Thus there are two suggestions that I wish to leave with you.  The first is that they change the name of the hockey team to anything but senators. The second is  to liberate  the senate from party control or if impossible do away with them altogether. Undoubtedly the latter may deprive our system of governance of a source sober second thought although we don’t seem to have much of that now. A fat chance on both accounts. 

SQ  13/11/2013

More writings can be found at MYQUEST        

REMEMBER!

Hanns F Skoutajan

I know its time for Remembrance because my wife after rummaging in her dresser drawer has found her favourite lapel badge. It is a black square  with a white dove carrying a palm branch in its beak. The message on the badge says : To Remember is to End All War. Humanity has had much time to remember the horrors and wastage of war.

I have recently been immersing myself in Margaret MacMillan’s tome  with the title , The War that Ended  Peace: The Road to 1914. It is a  recent book, out just in time for this season of the year. It calls to mind  that it is now 100 years  since the European powers  prepared for the Great War. I don’t know what was so “great” about it , except that thousands upon thousands of soldiers perished on its battlefields. Pilgrims still flock to the military cemeteries of Belgium and France to get some sense of the sacrifices committed by both sides in the wars of the 20th century.  Thousands more bore the marks of the war throughout their lives. In one of my congregations I ministered to a gentleman as he suffered and finally died of  emphysema having been exposed to mustard gas in “The Great One”.

As a child growing up in prewar Czechoslovakia it was not unusual to see men on crutches, blind or legless, victims of “the war to end all war.” I was well aware of the ravages of man’s inhumanity to man. 

In my book The Road to Peace: Memories and Reflections Along the Way I reflected on an incident in the spring of 1938.

“The shadow of an aircraft like a dark cross floated across the valley. It moved slowly for it was a World War 1 vintage machine, a double decker whose engine produced a sputtering sound. We heard it long before we saw it approach  the military encampment that housed various units of the Czech army on exercises just north of my hometown  not far from the German border.

My mother and I, along with many other people had taken our places on the grassy slope  overlooking the valley. We had come to see something of the military might of this  modern army, albeit in 1930 terms. 

The German border, our enemy, was not far up in the hills where I had learned to ski. Times were tense as Hitler turned up his rhetoric calling on the unification of all Germans which meant the surrender of the Sudetenland of Czechosloivakia to which Britain and France acceded at Munich in Septenber 1938.  

The public had been invited to come and observe the military exercises from the vantage point of the surrounding hills. Below us on the football field were rows upon rows of dark green tents and beyond that the military equipment, horse drawn gun carriages, even several tanks and armoured cars and other accoutrements of war. For me, admittedly a bit of a timid child, there was something ominous about this “death-dealing” array of power.”

What impressed me most,  ... well, alright, scared me, was that one airplane cruising over the encampment. It made my skin crawl, as it, like an evil omen, a shadowy cross, presaged war. This picture has lived with me all those years and I have been eternally grateful that my parents and I managed to escape to another continent and avoided that war altogether.

Following The Great War there came a respite of 20 years . I have a cartoon  that pictures death in the form of a skeleton astride a bass drum which he is beating vigorously and announcing, “..... and after a brief intermission we shall be back for more of the show.”

The Second World War was certainly different with many more battlefields besides the ones in Europe’s east and west and south, but also Africa and the Pacific. Civilian casualties in the Great War were relatively few compared to the Second War in which cities in Britain and Germany were set alight, to say nothing of the bombing of Hiroshima and Nagasaki.

Each year our veterans march and stand solemnly at the cenotaph in Ottawa and most other cities and towns across the country. We gather to “Remember” and to pray that wars might cease. 

Reading Macmillan’s book I learned that in the decades before the war there were many statesmen who disparaged of the efficacy of war - it was too expensive they believed. Today, however, in his book Dirty Wars: The World is a Battlefield, Jermy Scahill writes about the privatization of war. Dick Cheney, then defense secretary and later as Vice President  in the Bush government, strove to privatize as much of the military as possible as a way of creating another barrier to civilian oversight. War and war production was not unaffordable but good business for large corporations producing military equipment. That administration and its acolytes believed war and war production was supremely profitable as long as the taxpayer was sufficiently scared to pay the bill. In our own country we need only think of the jet fighters that our government was willing to spend billions of the citizens’ dollars to acquire. For what purpose is a fair question.

Ian McKay and Jamie Swift in their book Warrior Nation: Rebranding in an Age of Anxiety write “Once known for peace-keeping, Canada is becoming a militarized nation whose apostles - the ‘new warriors’ - are fighting to shift public opinion.” 

Linda McQuaig commenting on this book  writes that, “With our federal government determined to glorify war and eradicate our enduring attachment to Canada as a promoter of peace, this engaging and highly readable book alerts us to what’s at stake  - the very soul of our nation.” Can we afford to be so changed?

In my mind I can still see and hear that lone aircraft  trailing its black cross over the valley .... and the world to come. Dare we remember  and strive for Peace and end all war?

SQ 07/11/2013 

DEFENDER OF THE FAITH

Hanns F Skoutajan

Pictures of the christening of the young Prince George have raised in me memories of the times when I, like the Archbishop of Canterbury last Wednesday, took babes in my arms, touched them with water and baptised them “In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit.”

The Globe and Mail (October 24)  commented that, “falling birth rates  and rising secularism have meant that fewer people are going to church and fewer children are being baptised across nearly all Christian denominations.”

The baptism  of baby George at the 16th century chapel of St. James Palace had particular significance . Some within the church hoped  that this act  by the Duke and Duchess of Cambridge and all the royal family would once again set a trend, which they have often done in many other respects,  and encourage a return to the church and its beautiful rituals. It might but I doubt it in the long term. 

I always enjoyed my role in this ancient ceremony of the church. It has also been observed  that I had a quietening affect on the young subjects. I scarcely ever remember a “burn out” at the font. 

Indeed, on one occasion I discussed with the parents  how we might handle the logistics  of the sacrament with their child who “made strange” with anybody except the mother and had no compunction about expressing his feelings vociferously. He had good lungs. Our decision was to allow the baby to rest in his mother’s arms during the ceremony.

All went very well so that when the time came his mother surrendered her charge to my arms , and nothing happened. He looked at me with some puzzlement but I wondered what would happen when I sprinkled water on his head. But once again “ all was quiet on the western front.”

It was my custom after baptism to carry the child down the aisle and back. Once again there was no objection on his part. When I returned the child to the parents they stood there in total disbelief at what had transpired so peacefully.

It seemed that a corner had been turned and I take no responsibility or credit for this change. Nor did the child henceforth “make strange” with others. I am happy to say that he has now graduated from university without making much of a fuss.

Within the churches the sacrament of baptism has been much discussed. The most noted Protestant theologian of the past century, Professor Karl Barth of Basel, Switzerland, did not believe in infant baptism but advocated that only when candidates are old enough to understand and decide for themselves should baptism take place . He was not a Baptist but a Reformed theologian.

I myself was not baptised until I was 24 years of age and well on my way to ordination as a minister of the United Church of Canada. How could this happen? Both my parents had left their respective churches before I was born, my mother the Roman Catholic Church because it seemed too archaic for her time, and father the Lutheran Church because it was too German nationalistic when that really mattered. Thus I was never baptised. Only after coming to Canada and attending Sunday School with my friends was I drafted into the communicants or church membership class. It was simply assumed that we had all been “watered down” and thus were duly confirmed. 

Later as a theological student I began to think about this omission. I discussed the matter with a fellow student, a professor/mentor  and the minister of a local congregation whom I highly respected. We decided that although my eternal salvation was not in jeopardy I should nevertheless undergo the rite. Thus on a Saturday morning in an empty sanctuary but in the presence of a few friends the deed was accomplished and I was regularized, so to speak. 

To my mind and in the thinking of my rather theologically progressive denomination, baptism doesn’t do anything to the eternal destiny of the soul.  Having just read Son of A Certain Woman by the quintessential Newfoundland writer Wayne Johnston, I was made aware of the pressure some have undergone to submit to baptism for the rescue of their souls from eternal damnation and thus to gain entry to the realm of the blessed departed and the divinity itself albeit after a time of purgation.  It also gained Browny Points for the persuaders.

I believe that this rite is rather an acknowledgement that the individual at any age  is a member of the family and household of God. 

The baptism, or christening as Anglicans prefer to call it, has a particular significance. Prince George, as future king, if indeed the monarchy still persists, will become Defender of the Faith and Supreme Governor of the Church of England, a mighty responsibility for any shoulders.

In a day and age when many, if not most, by word and deed affirm that “God is dead” does it much matter who defends the faith? We have become more like the ancient Romans and Greeks who worshipped many gods.  The Apostle Paul on visiting Athens said the following , “ As I passed by, and beheld  your devotions, I found an altar with this inscription ‘To The Unknown God’..., him I declare unto you.” (Acts 17 : 23) Like those people of long ago we worship many gods, among them  Mercury , a god who specialized in communication, and dare I suggest for our time god of the Internet, in whom we invest much time, money and trust.

It is my hope that the future King George will defend faith in a God not only of the Church of England or any other denomination or religion but the God of Love and Peace and Justice in the very difficult times that lie ahead for all humankind. 

God bless young George and all his family.

SQ 24/10/2013

Other writings may be found at MYQUEST     

THEN AND NOW

Hanns F Skoutajan

“Parting is such sweet sorrow.”  Having done lots of parting and perhaps not enough partying I can well attest to the truth of this adage.  I have experienced both the sweetness and the sorrow that is so much a part of living.

But I have also met some who have never experienced ‘the move.’ In my former congregations there were always some who had been born and lived and died in the same community. I particularly recall two spinster sisters who had never left the ancestral home or each other. I marvelled, envied and pitied them.

True enough, they had seen change  in all around them, saw their community metamorphose from a small incestuous hamlet to a commuter community. It was gradually populated by newcomers who wanted changes  - utilities that were totally lacking in the earlier lifetime of these women. 

Their outhouse still stood, somewhat rakishly, in the backyard of their property. On the kitchen counter rested a small pump that had supplied wonderful water from a well  down below. It was no longer in use but remained as a kind of memorial to an older way of life. Parting with pump and outhouse, was it a sweet sorrow?

One of their weekly outings was to the funeral home up-street “to visit the dead,” as they referred to this ritual. They had after all been their contemporaries with whom they had grown up, gone to school, all eight grades, met daily at the general store and the postoffice to get a few pieces of mail but also to exchange neighbourhood gossip. They never missed going to church, though I often wondered what they made of my progressive theology . 

The newcomers had little knowledge of those “good old days.” It was a sad occasion when the village cop, who had also grown up in this community, was traded for the services of the OPP, which doubtless was more efficient but who were strangers who didn’t know the territory or its history. 

The two siblings lived to a ripe old age and their departure came only months apart. Their house was sold, then demolished, to be replaced by one of those modern bungalows with plastic sidings. Children played in the driveway, also new. A basketball hoop hung over the garage door but a clothesline was missing out back. TV dishes came and went. 

I have always enjoyed the study of history. Invariably it is the account of partings and arrivals, a tale of sweetness and sorrow and of course the excitement of discovery as well as the terror of war. In my lifetime I have experienced the sorrow of walking from my childhood home with a backpack and a small suitcase clinging to the hand of my mother. There was nothing sweet about our departure for an unknown future. As the train pulled out of the station I took careful note of the cracks in the concrete of the platform and wondered if and when I would walk on them again.

Those two venerable elderly citizens of small town Ontario had no comprehension of my story. Leaving home and kindred was totally out of the realm of their experience or imagination. Our lives were worlds apart.

I do not denigrate their lives. They had known departures, not theirs, but their neighbours, the boys, and some girls, who left to fight for “king and  country” in not one but two world wars, some of them never to return, a war that was fought thankfully far from their doors. They also knew the hardship of the depression when life was difficult and their income as seamstresses covered only the barest of necessities. 

They didn’t change, everyone in the community would vouch for that.  But life all around changed. Stubbornly resisting the new they were nevertheless swept along as with the periodic flooding of the nearby river. 

Today change is everywhere and constant.  My own neighbourhood is undergoing change  as modern dwellings, as much glass as brick, are replacing venerable gracious  old homes with “centre hall staircase and gumwood trim” as the realtor reminded prospective customers. A recent devastating fire on main street left room for a multi-story, mixed commercial and residential development that will change the street, hopefully for the positive. “The  village will never be the same,” is an oft repeated commentary of the locals. 

A week ago I wrote about the rediscovery of my treasure trove of old Geographical Journals (1938 - 48). One of the things that fascinates me is not only the black and white photos and accompanying articles but the ads that betray the way of life back 70 years ago. They also advocated change but from previous ways to a new and different future, one much to be desired, better cars and milder cigarettes. The whiskey is still the same. 

It seems that we are in race with time. What concerns me most is that my granddaughter, who will be subject to many and constant changes, may not have time to experience and savour the sweetness and sorrow that is so much a part of history.

I fear that we have become so preoccupied by change that we forget the past and miss its lessons. High expectations as well as a plethora of newfangled gadgets with short life expectancies, that each of us can’t afford not to have, have carried the day.  Old values and ways of life are forgotten or frowned upon. In no way do I advocate a return to the good old ways, which is of course an impossibility, but rather to learn from the past, blemishes and all.

The speed of life accelerates. The moon and  stars are no longer familiar sights in the night sky to be known by their constellations but are looked upon as destinations to be mined or even  visited. Some are buying one-way tickets to Mars with no prospect of a return. Sweet sorrow!

What I am pleading for is the fostering of a sense of time, its passage from the then to the now, and the patience to learn from what has gone before, its sweetness and its sorrows.

SQ 10/10/2013

Look to MYQUEST for previous stories.                  

OUR GEOGRAPHY - OUR HERITAGE

HANNS F SKOUTAJAN

A bundle of Geographicals, some three years accumulation of my favourite mag, provided me with a seat in the back of the truck. We were moving our few possessions to our new home about 100 miles east of Toronto in the summer of 1942. I was then 13 years of age and curious about my new homeland. Shortly after leaving the suburbs a light  drizzle descended on us and the driver arranged a rickety tarp over me and our meagre  possession.  It managed to keep us dry,  particularly my precious magazines.  

The Canadian Geographical Journal, as it was then called, was my favourite magazine from which I would not be parted by rain or snow. Over the years  since our arrival in Canada in April 1939 at Halifax’s famous Pier 21 after our flight from the Nazi scourge, the monthly editions have brought us a plethora of information and pictures about every part of our country but also of places beyond our shores.

We came by the Canadian Geographical Journal  in a novel way. Our group of families were settled on very marginal land on abandoned homesteads in northern Saskatchewan after freeing the German takeover of Czechoslovakia in 1939. People at the University of Toronto became interested in our plight. We were probably the first immigrants to receive second hand clothing from sympathetic people half a continent away.  The clothing was usually dumped in an empty granary to be picked over by our people. My mother acquired a very nice fur coat, muskrat I believe, in that way. 

One day, however, the shipment consisted of reading material. Our benefactors had properly surmised that ours were not only material but intellectual needs. We poured over the mound of books and mags like hungry ants. I salvaged a copy of Two Little Savages by Ernest Thompson Seton, a classic which dealt with a boy about my age who had contracted TB and for his recuperation was sent out to a farm to benefit from the fresh air. He befriended another boy and together they undertook many adventures. It also contained a good deal of nature and “Indian” lore . I learned how to make a bow and arrow and to identify a variety of wildlife. That copy still rests on a place of honour on my bookshelf. 

My father garnered several copies of the Canadian Geographical Journal . He had the audacity  to write to the editor to explain our impoverished circumstances but  also our interest in this new homeland. Soon afterward we received a bundle of back copies and a five year subscription gratis. When it ran out we subscribed and have continued to do so until this day, 75 years later.  

The  September 1939 edition carried an article and photos of the city of Warsaw, Poland . A few weeks later the German armies laid waste to this world-class city and its wonderful architecture. Luckily carefully secreted plans surfaced in the postwar years and the city was able to be restored to its prewar splendour.

During the war years the magazine brought information about Canada’s war effort. Among them was an article about the British Commonwealth Air Training Plan (July 1940). In those years  our country not only produced guns and tanks and aircraft but the soldiers to maintain and man them on the battlefields, on land, at sea and in the sky. Canadian industry built the famous Lancaster bomber among other war planes. I used that article for an essay which I had to write for Grade 6 at Regal Road Public School in Toronto  and then presented it as an “oral composition” to the class. So rich in information was my essay that my teacher took me aside and questioned me whether my father, still a foreign national, was a spy.

Following the war I was particularly interested in a story about Imperial Airways  that flew flying boats, the Caribou, Cabot and Golden Hind, as the first trans-atlantic mail and passenger service. Those huge four engined aircraft with ship shaped hulls to land and take-off  from  water, flew from the St. Lawrence River at Boucherville, east of Montreal to Southampton, Britain.

The magazine also carried stories about the development of Canada’s northland . I was enthralled by the pen and ink drawings of transportation on the Mackenzie and Coppermine Rivers  where barges were pulled manually by rope harnessed crews on shore.

This truly Canadian publication not only enriched our understanding of our new environment but also of the world. Its stunning photography, first in black and white and after the war in full colour, was truly a window on the world. I well remember my first viewing of the art of the Group of Seven in stunning colour on its pages.  

Recently we have had to do some downsizing of our possessions - too many books for sure - in the course of which I came upon a bundle of Geographicals which we had first acquired on our pioneer farm.  When I showed them to a friend he suggested that I list them on E Bay, where they would fetch a good price from a collector. I refused, they are priceless to me. I hope that my granddaughter will value this archival treasure as I do and recognize it as part of her personal heritage.

I sincerely hope that the Canadian Geographic will not fall to the economic hammer as have so many publications but continue to publish informative and colourful articles and pictures about this land and our global environment and history. 

Thanks Canadian Geographical Journal  and your more recent incarnation the Canadian Geographic. As they are wont to say in Ole Limey, “Carry on Canada!.”

SQ 0410/2013

                 

IF MUSIC BE THE FOOD OF LOVE...

Hanns F Skoutajan

“And he plays the piano good,

like a real piano player should:

Horowitz, hear, hear!”

It wasn’t Vladimir Horowitz, (1903 - 1989) who “ tinkled the ivories”  at Southminster United Church last Wednesday noon, but Mauro Bertoli, a young Italian born  pianist. He played on the beautiful Heintzman, a 9 foot concert grand, built in 1905 that for many years was the stage grand at the venerable Massey Hall in downtown Toronto. Indeed, years ago Horowitz himself had played this very instrument.

Roland Graham, the organist and choirmaster of Southminster United Church in Old Ottawa South (Bank Street and the Rideau Canal), and if I dare say, “impresario,” has initiated and directed Doors Open for Music at Southminster, a Wednesday noon-hour series begun earlier this year. This fall it will comprise 11 concerts that are affordable to all, a freewill offering at the door will be appreciated.

Bartoli who has a long list of accomplishments is presently Artist-in-Residence at Carleton University. He, at an early age, has acquired an international reputation that spans his homeland, Latin America, the United Sates and Canada.

His presentation on Wednesday in my estimation rivals any piano concert that I have attended. It was a wide-ranging repertoire  from Johannes Brahms  (1833 - 1897), the Intermezzo and concluded with George Gershwin’s (1898 - 19370) inimitable Rhapsody in Blue.  Schumann and Liszt were also part of his outstanding performance. 

But what brought me to my feet with loud “Wows:” and “Bravos” was his rendition of Allegro da Concerto  by Enrique Granados (1867 - 1916). I hurried to acquire his disc containing that performance after the show.

Speaking to Graham after the concert which by the way brought 150 people to Southminster’s hard pews, I marvelled at the rich resources of musical talent that is found in Ottawa and indeed across Canada. We are much more than “hewers of wood and haulers of water” or the modern equivalent thereof. Roland’s concerts showcase much talent giving young artist an opportunity to be appreciated.

Granted, these are short  concerts, more than hors d’oeuvres but a little less filling than a main course, enough to introduce you to performers  and music, some familiar and others a pleasant and surprising introduction to “now for something entirely  new.”  If Mauro Bartoli’s concert presages what is to come then my outburst of “wows”  at last week’s concert should be prolonged throughout the season.  All of this proves that Ottawa isn’t an entirely boring government town but indeed is rich in culture.

Across the country and abroad as well, churches have taken on the role of concert hall There is nothing new in that.  Even in the Middle Ages cathedrals hosted musical events, granted most of them were of a “sacred” nature, but then that‘s what most music was about  What better place for that Food of Love than a house of worship.  Rejoice in this rich heritage. Enjoy and support it! 

SQ 27/09/2013

Addendum:

For those in the Ottawa area who are able to take advantage of these concert the following is the line up of performances until Christmas:

Next week, October 2,Peter Woods, saxophone  and Brian Browne, piano, will make the case  for Jazz in Sacred Spaces, that is music in the modern vein to enhance Christian worship. 

In the following weeks there will be Lunchtime Lieder with Laurent Deleuil, baritone accompanied by Justine Pelletier on the piano. On subsequent  midweek concerts our wanderlust will be spirited by Vaughan William’s Songs of Travel with Jeff Boyd accompanied by Graham  himself. Other exciting  presentations will be Come Dance With Me  played on the piano by Katarzyna Musial, (Oct. 23). 

Graham has chosen from his own choir a chamber group  to sing Palestrina’s Missa Papea Marcelli ( Oct. 30).

From Vienna, one of my favourite cities and my father’s birthplace, to Paris, my wife’s favourite city, will feature  a piano duet  of Ioulia Blinova and Ruby Jin, (Nov. 13).

On November 8 Carolina Leonardelli will perform Paysages on harp which is sure to be enjoyed.

For a total change of pace look forward to Nov 20 to thrill to Mike Essoudry, Francois Gravel and Linsey Wellman, percussion, piano and woodwind.

The second last in this years series , Nov. 27, will be a Benjamin Britten Birthday Bash with Dillon Parmer, tenor, Gary Dahl, baritone and Matthew Larkin, piano.

December 4 appropriately will usher in the pre Christmas season with Advent Mysteries sung by the Southminster United Church Choir directed by Roland Graham.

   

          

BLESSING THE MOURNERS

Hanns F Skoutajan 

The horrific bus- train crash near Fallowfield Station on the outskirts of Ottawa ( Sept. 18) has affected many of the people of Ottawa. Everyday thousands entrust their lives to drivers and their vehicles and occasionally these fail.  At Fallowfield it resulted in 6 deaths and numerous injuries. The incident has been described graphically by many of the survivors. 

We all have our stories to tell of accidents or close calls. I remember in my latter teens one night returning from the movies in Belleville with a carload of my friends. To the west of the city the county road follows the CNR double track main line  and then crosses over it. As I approached the unprotected cross-over a freight train came from the west. I stopped to let it pass and then proceeded over the eastbound tracks when a westbound freight came roaring by. Its approach had been obscured by the the previous train and I was unable to hear its whistle. Remember, this was in the era of those mighty steam engines. 

I slammed on my brakes and came to a stop on the eastbound tracks no more than a car’s length from the oncoming train. I was shaken although my passengers were too involved in smooching and thus oblivious to the precariousness of their lives.  We continued home safely.

Last Wednesday evening as my spouse and I returned from sitting our granddaughter we recalled the people who at that moment were in deep grief, including the wife of the bus driver. Undoubtedly there were many devastated as well as relieved people in  Ottawa that night.

It reminded me of the saying that in the midst of life we are in death. Incidents such as this make us aware of the shortness and uncertainty of  human life.

One of the positive things that happen on the occasion of  a catastrophe is that people are drawn together. Already bunches of flowers have been placed along the tracks and transitway, many of them by total strangers. Let no one disparage these acts of compassion. They give witness to a human bond that extends beyond kith and kin.

They also say something about the human community in which we are bound to one another . Sometimes it takes tragic events to remind us of our belonging. 

As I proceeded over the tracks that night long ago I was deeply shaken . My girlfriend sitting close by my side was conscious of my upset. Did she move a little closer? I could not help but think of the consequences that might have been - the grief, the carnage, the lost lives. I thought of my own parents having to inform my relatives  overseas of the tragic event of the loss of their  only child who was about to enter university, as was the case of several of the victims of the crash at Fallowfield. 

I have often travelled from Ottawa to Toronto by VIA rail and enjoyed the comfort of modern train travel. I recall the train slowing as it approached the suburban station. I noticed the traffic halted along Woodroffe Avenue to let the train pass. Never did I give a thought of what would someday occur at this very place.

The people who gathered at the Nepean Sportsplex throughout the day and into the evening had at least this comfort that they were not alone. “A grief shared is a grief diminished” is a well known saying. When we embrace and mingle our tears  we share our common humanity. No, it doesn’t change anything , but yes it does.

One of the duties of a clergyman, a profession which I practiced for over forty years, is to be with people in all sorts of circumstances, happy and sad, in hospital rooms and at gravesides. I soon learned that it wasn’t what I said that counted most but my attendance. This is what is known as the sacrament or gift of the presence that conveys sentiments that words fail to fully express. It is a sacrament that requires no ordination to celebrate. It is the gift of love that travels over unmarked roadways connecting human lives near and far.

May those who mourn be comforted by the love of fellow humans. They are after all the hand of God.

SQ 19/09/2013