H A R V E S T H O M E !

Hanns F Skoutajan

“We plough the fields and scatter,

the good seed o’er the land,

but what comes up we know not,

it’s never what we planned.”

This spoof on the well-known Thanksgiving hymn has more than a grain of truth in it.

Farming entails a gamble. It is hedged by many factors not the least of which is the

weather. A promising crop one day may turn from hope to despair by a night of frost,

rain or as recently in Calgary, a snow storm. A bumper crop also has its nemesis as the

price of the produce plummets at the elevator. Years ago farmers banded together to

form co-ops to market their produce and thus to some extent control the price. Thus the

Wheat Pool of Manitoba, Saskatchewan and Alberta came into being. They also set up

a Wheat Board, now scuttled by a pro business, corporation-loving government.

No, farming is not for the faint of heart. Today more and more crop production is in the

hands of large companies who are able to amass huge tracts of land, pay the ever

rising insurance rates and finance expensive farm machinery. The so-called family farm

where all members of the family were involved in its operation is quickly disappearing.

Children doing chores is condemned as exploitative and cheap labour.

My own experience with agriculture was thankfully short although I do not regret one

moment of it. By the time I was 11 years of age I was able to milk cows, harness horses,

drive them and ride bareback. We couldn’t afford a saddle. I was even growing some

muscles from tasks such as cleaning the barn and picking stones from the fields.

My parents and I along with several hundred refugees from the German invasion of our

homeland were settled on very marginal land in north-western Saskatchewan,100 miles

north of North Battleford. Another group of similar size was sent to the Peace River area

near Dawson Creek in British Columbia. We were settled on abandoned homesteads

and soon discovered why they had been abandoned in the depression. However, this

was the condition of our admission to this land of refuge.

Our farms were small, 160 acres, a quarter section. Mixed farming is what they called

it. Father preferred “ mixed-up farming” to better describe our furtive efforts. We started

with two cows, a team of horses, two pigs in high hope of procreation and 25 chicken,

housed in a tumbledown barn. Every four farms were supplied with basic farm

implements, second hand of course and needy of repair always at crucial times.

I recall a real feeling of envy when years later I visited Upper Canada Village near

Morrisburg, Ontario and beheld what our predecessors of the 19th and early 20th

century had to work with.

We lasted barely 3 years. Our final harvest was a disaster. The crop yield was 11

bushels to the acre of wheat. Even more devastating was the presence of wild oats,

little black kernels among the “golden wheat.”

In the turmoil of thrashing, the noise of the tractor and the roar of the thrashing

machine , the coming and going of the wagons from the fields loaded with sheaves, I

saw a boy arrive on a bicycle. He looked around and then came to me and showed me

a letter and asked me whether I knew the man with the funny name. It was a telegram

for my father. After handing it over to him the lad mounted his bike and rode off 15 miles

to the village, the terminal of the rail line, and as far as we were concerned, the end of

civilization.

Father opened the telegram from his friend and former colleague in the field of

journalism who was visiting Toronto from Britain. He urged my father to drop everything

and come to the big city where he had contacts for employment in the growing war

industry.

My father didn’t need much persuasion. The handwriting was on the wall. A few days

later we saw him off on the 4 day rail journey to the capitol of Ontario. The train ticket

used up most of the profits from our harvest. Mother and I continued on the farm

liquidating the live stock and all other possessions. It was the end of our farming

experience. Four months later we joined him in Toronto.

However, there were some success stories. In 2007, while with a film crew visiting the

area of our misadventure, I encountered a farmer who had done quite well.

Our crew stood at the intersection of two roads contemplating a dilapidated shack that

had once upon a time housed one of our immigrant families. Presently a truck churned

its way through the Saskatchewan gumbo, it was spring, and came to a halt. The driver

turned out to be a man who had been part of our group back in 1939. He was my age

and I had known him well. His parents had done reasonably well and remained on the

land while many of our fellow would-be farmers had fled to the city. He bought and

rented land from the new refugees which was, of course, dirt cheap. With much hard

work and luck he made a go of it. He expanded his operation and then turned it over to

his son who was standing with me on this muddy intersection, who had in turn

bequeathed the farm to his two sons. Theirs is now one of the best farm operations in

the district. There are several other success stories.

It is harvest time across this vast land. By the time you read this story “the sheaves will

have been gathered in, hopefully before the winter’s storms begin.” Canadians and

indeed all the people of the world are dependent on the fruits of the land and of the sea.

At a recent church service that I attended the ministers and their lay assistants sought

to demonstrate the biblical reference to bread, “I am the bread of life.” ( John 6 : 35.)

While the service was progressing, the readings, the prayers and hymns, the minister

made bread, mixing the ingredients and preparing the yeast. Members of the

congregation took turns kneading the dough. It was then taken to the church kitchen

and placed in the oven. Next Sunday the bread was shared with all the congregation. It

was a very memorable teaching occasion. The Word became alive and nurturing.

On Thanksgiving Sunday the chancel of churches will be adorned with corn stalks,

pumpkins, squash and other colourful fruit of the land. We will be reminded that our

food comes from the land and the sea, and requires farmers and fishermen involved in

often risky ventures to replenish our tables. 

Thus:

Come ye thankful people, come,

Sing the song of harvest home.

Spirit Quest 10/10/2014

BEFORE WE FLY AWAY

Hanns F Skoutajan

“Aging is not for sissies,” we have often been told by those who are well

into the process or have been keen observers of such times. Being familiar

with the aging process I can only agree.

“The days of your life are three score years and ten (70) or if by reason of

strength they are four score (80)” (Pslam 90) writes the wise old man in that

portion of the Old Testament known as the Wisdom Literature.

Opening the door of the medicine cabinet in our bathroom I recognize it for

what it is, a space for jars filled with ointment to make a tired skin less old,

of vials of prescription drugs and pills to cope with a variety of ailments, of

vitamins and minerals and other remedies to make these times of aging

more tolerable. Our calendar is dotted with appointments with specialists

and therapists.

That psalmist of long ago comments that these latter days are “only toil and

trouble,” obviously not for sissies, and then comforts us “that they are soon

gone and we fly away.” Aging is entering upon the final boarding process

of this journey of life. He goes on to advise us “to so number our days that

we may gain a heart of wisdom.”

As we accumulate mileage on the tires of our tired bodies we spend time

contemplating where we have arrived. Since birth we have been involved

in the process of “increasing in wisdom and stature” and hopefully, “in

favour with God and man.” (Luke 2: 52)

On special occasions such as birthdays we are made acutely aware of

what we have become. We are not always content and wish that we had

done more, travelled more extensively, been more diligent in aquiring other

languages, many friends we know have done so, learning to play the piano,

guitar or other musical instrument.I admire those who did. I regret that I

have not written and spoken out more forcefully and wisely on matters of

justice, peace and the health of this planet.

My partner and I have but one grandchild, and are very much aware how

important it is for us to know that our DNA has not been frustrated but will

be passed on to others. It is thrilling to discover in the evidence of her

appearance, manners and attitudes, that there is something of ourselves

alive in her. Both my spouse and I are only children and sometimes wish

that we had had siblings with whom to share the joys and sorrows of living.

We are not alone in this aging process. The world too is changing from the

picture of that beautiful blue ball with white swirls that those first astronauts

beheld not that long ago. Now we see a graying planet, less distinct giving

evidence of the use and abuse of this terrestrial home. Scientists are

involved in the possibility of making a foothold on some other, yet unvisited

planet (we think), to start a new colony, to escape from a ravaged planet

where resources are running low. We have recently been informed that

since that first space journey the number of wild animals on Earth has

halved in the past 40 years according to a new report from the World

Wildlife Fund (WWF) and the Zoological Society of London (ZSL).

On the surface of the world there is much discord among the residents, an

interminable conflict in the Middle East, international discord as in western

Europe ( Russia and the Ukraine), in the streets of Hong Kong , while ebola

ravages the people of western Africa.

In our more fortunate countries, Europe, North America and Australia the

rich make strides to become ever richer using up resources that ought to

be shared with all of human kind. Many others seem stagnated in their

search for a better life. Extraction rather than conservation is the dominant

activity propagated by the powerful corporation of our the world.

Eckhart Tolle, a spiritual teacher who is not aligned with any particular

religion or tradition, conveys a simple yet profound message. In his

lectures and books, particularly in A New Earth: Awakening to Life’s

Purpose he focuses on Being rather than Becoming, enjoying the Power of

the Now. When thinking about gaining a heart of wisdom I can think of no

better primer to help us conquer the ego individually and globally. He gently

and in very practical terns leads us to a new consciousness to experience

who we truly are without regrets.

Not long ago we gathered in our daughter’s beautiful garden with many

friends and family to celebrate the four score milestone of my spouse. We

did a lot of reminiscing. We had travelled many miles together and

experienced events with many of them “ in sickness and in health.” Now we

rejoiced in this time of an arrival.

Hopefully there will be more years ahead to do things that need to be done,

blogs to be written, friendships to be enjoyed, our Being to be cherished

until we too “shall fly away.”

Spirit Quest 07/10/2014

IT’S GREED, INDEED!

Hanns F Skoutajan

“There is strength in numbers.” That was the message that the Sunday

School teacher illustrated to the children at a recent service.

About a dozen or more youngsters gathered around her on the chancel

steps in the presence of the congregation. I often feel that the parents and

other worshippers, let alone the children, learn more from this “teaching

moment” than they do from the sermon to follow.

On this occasion the teacher reached into a bag and brought out a pencil.

She handed the pencil to one of the younger children and asked her to

break it. The child looked a bit startled, she was usually admonished not to

do this destructive deed. Nevertheless, with all her strength she bent and

broke it into two pieces. Once more the teacher reached into her bag and

this time brought out a bundle of six pencils held together by an elastic. The

teacher now gave the pencils to an older, bigger, stronger child. He applied

his power to the task but try as he might he could not break the collected

pencils. The combined pencils successfully resisted him.

It was, of course, a simple illustration that there is strength in numbers -

simple but not simplistic. It is a lesson that will be well remembered by all.

The news that day had to do with the massive protest marches that were

taking place in New York, Toronto, Vancouver and many other places

throughout the world. Their message was loud and clear calling on

governments and industry to curb the activities that cause global warming.

The huge rally in Manhattan came auspiciously a day before the UN

Climate Summit, a gathering that our own prime minister decided not to

attend. Instead he sent Leona Aglukkaq, minister for the environment in the

Harper cabinet who spoke to a sparse audience at the UN and never

mentioned the word “oil.”

There was a time when Canadians could point accusingly at other

countries for their infractions of human rights, the production of weapons of

mass destruction and invasion of sovereign territory of neighouring states

as well as environmental pollution. Evil was always remote from our

borders. Today the citizens of this Peaceable Kingdom no longer have that

luxury inasmuch as we have become the producers of significant amounts

of greenhouse gases. We, courtesy of Fort MacMurray, are now in the big

league of polluters. Not only the mining but the transporting of the bitumen,

is a risky business. At the end of the line this fossil fuel is sold to be burned

to produce energy and thus add further to the smog that hangs over such

countries as China and India. The once beautiful Gaia that the first

astronauts beheld from outer space has become besmirched with pollution.

Numerous pipelines are on the planning boards to be built to transport

Alberta’s bitumen south via the Keystone XL conduit, awaiting Obama’s

approval, or west over the mountains by way of the Northern Gateway to

Kitimat from whence it is to be shipped by supertankers through the

precarious passages to the Pacific ocean. The construction of this pipeline

has been vigorously opposed by First Nation People who feel that their

native lands are being violated. Oil spills would have devastating affects on

the pristine wilderness.

I have recently been reading This Changes Everything in which Naomi

Klein Illustrates and makes the case against the corporate invasion of the

world’s ecology. She documents the assault being made on this globe, and

it is, indeed, global in extent. Bill McKibben whom she quotes frequently,

who is one of the most outspoke leaders against global ecological

degradation, made the point that the petroleum industry has enormous

financial resources but the people have the numbers as has been shown in

recent demonstrations.

Our prime minister prides himself on the free trade deals that he has been

able to sign, with Europe and the Orient. This, he maintains, will bring

significant investments to Canada which will translate into jobs and wealth

that will make Canada a truly extractive giant.

Free trade agreements beginning with NAFTA and the MAI have included

what is known as Chapter 11, a provision that allows corporations to sue

foreign governments that dare to pass legislation to protect their

environment to the detriment of the investors. It is a totally undemocratic

arrangement inasmuch as it rudely overruns the wishes of citizens in favour

of the multinational corporations. The judicial process is carried out in

courts over which the country affected has no control.

We may recall the Doomsday Clock, a count down to a possible politically

related global catastrophe, such as a nuclear war that would bring

civilization to an end. However, today, there is a different doomsday threat

as the amount of CO2 emissions climbs ever higher moving the world ever

closer to a point of no return at which global warming takes on a life of its

own and human technology no longer has the power to reverse it. Already

we are witnessing changing weather patterns, to wit: storms, drought,

flooding and other unusual climate experienced also in our own country.

Unfortunately there are still those who remain unconvinced by the

testimony of scientists, who prefer not to believe that which stands in the

way of their ability to make more profits, simply put, their greed.

Yet, as is evident, all over the world more and more people are deeply

concerned where this “economic development” is leading us. It is

undoubtedly the most important issue facing the people of the world. Ban

Ki-moon, the Secretary General of the United Nations, has stated that,

“Climate change is the defining issue of our time. It is not a distant threat. It

is coming and approaching much, much faster than we may think.” As I

looked at the assembled children at church I could not help but wonder

about their future.

It has been stated that there is No Second Chance. Once having destroyed

Nature it is difficult if not impossible to rebuild. Nature can do without us but

we cannot do without it. Nature is not our enemy, although we often treat it

as an entity to be subdued. Rather, we need to treat it as a friend.

Remember the Children’s Moment at my church - individually we can be

broken but together we are strong to resist the forces of greed. The

catchword of our time is: UNITE!

Spirit Quest 28/09/2014

PS: This just in and Three Cheers!

BERLIN, Sept 25 (Reuters) - Germany will not sign a trade pact

between Canada and the European Union unless an investment

protection clause allowing companies to take cross-border legal action

against governments is scrapped, Germany's economy minister said

on Thursday.

FROM THE DIAPHRAGM

Hanns F Skoutajan

“You have a stentorian voice!” she accused or honoured me. I’m not sure which.

I had some sense of what that meant - a voice that is impossible to ignore. I had

been involved, as is often the case, in a debate that passes for conversation on

the patio of our favourite coffee shop in Ottawa. Conversation is not enhanced by

the passing traffic, especially not by the trucks and occasional fire engine that

can bring communication to a halt. Even my stentorian voice is overwhelmed by

that.

I was curious about the origin of the term, stentorian, and so turned to Google

and Wikipedia for an answer. The designation, I discovered, originated from the

name Stentor, an Athenian soldier in the Trojan Wars. He was well known for his

powerful voice which was a real asset on the battlefields of the time as it would

be on the parade squares of today. Unfortunately Stentor died of overexertion in

a shouting contest. His name, however, persisted in modern parlance.

While chaplain at Dalhousie University in Halifax in the latter fifties I was invited

to be the interim minister at St. Matthew’s United Church in downtown Halifax for

almost a whole year. It consisted of preaching Sunday morning and evening. St.

Matthews is a large and beautiful church with a tall spire that defines the corner

of Spring Garden Road and Barrington Street. Inside it is unique for the little

doors at the end of each pew. The seating capacity was close to 1000 and well

attended in the morning and evening. The sermon was preached from a

magnificent pulpit high on the front wall of the sanctuary. From that perch most

ministers with a normal voice should manage to be heard. The worship was

enhanced by a great four manual Casavant pipe organ and a well trained choir.

The organist took me in hand to teach me how to project my natural stentorian

voice to best affect. Complaints dramatically subsided. I hope that what I had to

say was also worth hearing. I do have some old reel to reel tape recordings of

those occasions. My successor who was less well accoustically endowed

begged the board to procure a public address system.

Two years ago I was honoured with an invitation to preach at the 265th

anniversary of the congregation. The building itself dates from the latter 19th

century, one of the oldest in the city that managed to survive the great explosion

of 1917 that ravaged a good deal of the city below Citadel Hill.

Much has changed. The congregation is considerably smaller as is the fate of

many old downtown churches. However, the interior has been beautifully

preserved and the little pew doors remain intact. The high pulpit is no longer in

use. Worship is now conducted from a raised platform and, of course, enhanced

with an excellent PA system. It is from there that I delivered my sermon.

During the closing hymn Betsy Hogan, the minister, whispered to me an invitation

that I could not refuse and had secretly hoped to hear. Would I speak the

benediction from the old pulpit? And so it was that during the singing of the last

verse of the hymn I mounted the long stairs to what had seemed close to

heaven. When the hymn was completed I raised my “stentorian” voice to speak

the words of the benediction without a PA system:

Go into the world with a daring and a tender love,

The world is waiting for you

Go in peace and may all that you do be done because of love,

And the grace of the Lord Jesus Christ be with you always.

As I looked over the congregation, now much smaller than I remembered it back

in 1958, memories flooded my mind. I recalled some of the congregants of the

time, a few were still present on this occasion, still occupying the same pew. In

my heart I gave thanks to Clifford Gates who had helped me to use my vocal gift

to best advantage, then and through the rest of my PA assisted ministry.

In my education for the ministry, preaching was an important subject. We were

also trained to use our voice. “From your diaphragm now, men (and we were all

men).” This was later replaced by microphone technique, if at all. The stentorian

gift is no longer a necessity as it was then most definitely.

Silence is precious but when there is something to be communicated it is best

that it be clearly understood and heard.

Spirit Quest 21/09/2014

                          GIVE THEM THIS DAY THEIR DAILY SOUP

                                                   Hanns F Skoutajan

There was a time in my life when I was nourished at a soup kitchen. Thankfully it was a long time ago and far, far away from here.

My parents and I and a lot of other refugees had flooded into the city of Prague, so much so that the Czech authorities were sending them back by trainloads into the arms of the SS. All were German antifascists on the run from Hitler’s forces and the minions that were supporting his takeover of the Sudetenland in the fall of 1938. The Nazis were intent on picking up the leadership and shipping them off to concentration camps such as Dachau. My father’s name was prominent on their list, I was later to discover.

We had very little money or possessions, only what we could carry when we arrived in the capital city. What money we did have we tried to save for even harder times ahead. We did not know what was to come. The future did not look promising.

Our accommodation was in an attic which had been supplied with straw mattresses on the floor, there was not a stick of furniture about. One toilet supplied the needs of all of us. Most of our neighbours were Jewish who had been able to read the writing on the wall. Their hope was to reach Britain, the US or perhaps Palestine. Our worst suspicions came to reality a few months later when the German forces occupied the rest of our country. We had reached a safe haven by that time.

Every day a large crowd gathered at the Labour Hall to line up at the counter where we were dished out a (thankfully) thick, rich soup and a hunk of heavy rye bread. and a piece of hard chocolate. It was better than what was served in Canada during the depression. We were grateful for these mercies.

What sustained our morale was the sense that we had one thing in common, that we were not alone. We were political refugees with a common enemy. This fear also united us.

I still recall the slogan on the wall of the hall - “Work and Democracy.” That’s  quite different from the words over the entrance to the concentration camp that awaited many : Arbeit Macht Frei:  (work will make you free). This was of course a lie for in those camps all were slave labour, and freedom would only come with death or if you were lucky to survive until the arrival of the allies armies.

Our family was among the fortunates inasmuch as my father was one of the most endangered and thus soon spirited out of the country to Britain. Mother and I followed three weeks later. In the meantime we continued to be guests at the soup kitchen and attic.

As I pass by the Shepherds Of Good Hope at the corner of Murray and King Edward streets in Ottawa, I observe the crowd, fortunate in their misfortune to receive food and accommodation. I have never been inside but can only imagine it to be pretty crowded and quite basic. 

The clientelle is quite different from what we were back at the Labour Hall in Prague in the fall of 1938  There is only one thing we have in common: we are all victims. There are those who blame the victims for their victimhood, but many of them have histories of mental illness, drug abuse, first hand or second hand as in fetal alcohol syndrome, as well as a plethora of other causes. 

We were victims of ideology. We believed in freedom and social justice, peace and security.  We all suffered homelessness and fear.

I admire those who care for them as well as those who cared for us either through donations or with feet on the ground. It is not an easy task.

Today there are victims on every continent, especially in Africa and the Middle East but also some on this blessed continent. They are the poor, the displaced, the sick, children and the aged.

Those bowls of soup at Prague’s Labour Hall remind me how narrow is the trail from misfortune and how broad the stream of those en route. Much has changed from those days when my parents and I stood in line dependent on the compassion and generosity of our providers. Unfortunately much has remained the same. Fortunately there are many agencies and individuals dedicated to helping them whether at home or abroad. The need is dire. Support them generously! 

SQ 14/09/2014

More writing may be found at MYQUEST   

    

                              PARLER VOUS.....?

                                          Hanns Skoutajan

A strange phenomenon has been manifesting itself in my brain - words and phrases in the Czech language, irrelevant and often inappropriate, have been popping into my head at all hours. 

The Czech language, until I was ten years of age, was a second language for me, German being my mother tongue. I was then living in what used to be the Sudetenland, an area stretching along the border of Germany and Austria. In our city, 85% German, Czech was the second language. We children were taught Czech in school. By the time I was nine years old I could converse in basic Czech but then we were forced to flee the country when Hitler annexed it.

Just before Christmas of 1938 we arrived in Scotland and I was now exposed to English albeit with a Scottish accent. One day someone approached me and addressed me in Czech. I was embarrassed, although the language sounded very familiar and I thought that I should understand it, nevertheless I did not know what the person was saying. It seemed that in my effort to learn English Czech had been totally wiped from my mind. Not until four years later in Canada when we took up residence in the little wartime community of Batawa east of Toronto, did I hear Czech once again.

Batawa was the home of the Bata Shoe company who had also come to Canada with Tom Bata to establish the shoe business in this country. Many of my new friends spoke Czech with each other which sounded familiar but was mostly incomprehensible to me except for bits and pieces.

In high school I learned French and later Latin. The French that was taught was Parisian but not that which was current in La Belle Provence. However, we did read Maria Chapdelaine, a novel set in the Lac St. Jean area of the province. 

As for Latin, it is basic to many of the modern romance languages, especially Italian.  Once upon a time it was the official language of the Roman Empire, the language of Virgil and Cicero. When it disappeared from common usage it continued to be, until this day, the language of the Roman church.

At university I studied the Greek of Homer, Aeschylus, of Plato and Aristotle , but also the New Testament of the Bible. although much of it was written in a colloquial form known as koine. It also familiarized me with the Cyrillic alphabet which allowed me to read the street names in Moscow and prevented me from getting lost. 

As well I was also exposed to Hebrew and managed to be able to read some of the Torah and Psalms particularly because I was already familiar with them in English. 

Jesus did not speak Hebrew. The language in his home and community was Aramaic, a sort of amalgam of Hebrew, Arabic and other semitic languages. 

However, I have retained German, my mother tongue. My cousin, a German lawyer, maintains that my German is better than it ever was and that this is a sign of old age.  I studied German literature at university and did a year of postgraduate studies in German  which certainly helped in maturing my mother tongue.

But all this is ancient history. What amazes me is the occurrence of Czech phrases and words, seemingly out of the blue, having been stored somewhere in my subconscious all these years. As a child I had learned simple songs  such as : ”Jade, jade, poštovsky pan,” about the arrival of the mailman, or  “Ja mam konĕ,” about owning a pony, not very sophisticated, you will agree. 

All this leads me to assert the importance of learning another language, be that becoming bilingual in Canada or comfortable as a tourist in Latin America and elsewhere.

Language is more than words. It is a culture, a way of life. As the world gets smaller and our neighbourhood contracts, we need to appreciate those neighbours and their modus vivendi. However many of us are content to rely on English, the universal language, spoken and understood the world over. It is thus easy to become linguistically lazy.

I realize that I shall never become fluent in Czech or any other language for that matter, and there are languages such as Spanish or Chinese that are more practical, but I must admit that upon hearing Czech, either sung or recited, a chill runs down my spine and I sense an affinity and love for my first second language. 

My strong advice to all who have not yet reached the age of dotage is to attempt to learn to read, if not to speak fluently, another tongue. Being able to converse and to read in German has given me a great sense of satisfaction. I practice it at every opportunity. 

SPIRIT QUEST  

September 10, 2014

More writings are available on MYQUEST

  

IN THE BEGINNING : SOMETHING TO STAND ON

Hanns F Skoutajan

“Nooooo, not you of all people!” was the response of Pat Bennet, my favourite high school teacher, when at age 17 in Grade 12 I revealed my professional aspiration to her. She was a Catholic and undoubtedly had in her mind the image of a pious celibate which didn’t quite jibe with the Hanns she had come to know. 

Mr. Sigsworth, the principal of this village school in eastern Ontario, was a strict Free Methodist who was less negative but had some doubts about my beliefs. I had not been “saved” as far as he perceived me. My fellow students were unanimously ambiguous or just didn’t give a damn what I did with my life after I left the school. 

As for my parents they were relieved that I had chosen what they called an intellectual calling. Father had left the Lutheran church when he was a young man. It was too narrow and nationalistic. Mother had similarly left the Roman Catholic Church about the same time. She was a humanist and feminist and that didn’t sit too well in the pew.  In Canada they joined, and indeed became quite active, in the United Church.

I had been challenged by my pastor, the Rev. Henry Vaclavic, shortly after my confirmation. He was a Czech like ourselves and a minister of the Church of All Nations in Toronto. He made periodic visits to our little community to minister to Czech families.  His services in the Batawa recreation hall were rather long inasmuch as he repeated the sermon in Czech. I thus became well acquainted with the flooring of the hall.

“Have you ever thought of the ministry?” he enquired of me. Well, yes I did. Although my parents had left their respective churches they felt that I should be acquainted with their former faiths. Father took me to the Lutheran church. It was very plain but had a large statue of Christ with outstretched, welcoming arms, behind the altar as if to say, “Come unto me all ye who labour and are heavy laden...” The services were rather wordy. The music was very Lutheran, not lively. “A Mighty Fortress” however was powerful and father sang it with conviction. Mother had taken me to the Catholic church and I was quite impressed by the bells and smells, the elaborately garbed clergy who bowed and genuflected gracefully before the altar. It was all very dramatic and reminded me of the operas I attended at our beautiful baroque opera house where father was on the board of managers. I regarded the mass like a dramatic performance to be enjoyed but not believed in literally.

After my positive response Mr. Vaclavic passed my name on to Queen’s Theological College in Kingston where the students were organizing a gathering of young people during the Christmas holidays known as the Christians Renewal Conference. I received an invitation and decided to attend. On leaving home father warned me, “The students will make a significant impact on you, think carefully about your decision.” 

The students were indeed infectiously enthusiastic about  their chosen profession. One of whom was Bob Shorten, who is still in contact with me. We had fun but also listened to lectures given by some of the Queen’s staff. I was particularly interested in the ideas expounded by Prof. Mac Gilmour who gave the gospels a more liberal interpretation than that with which I had been familiar. Also Prof. Harry Kent, an Old Testament teacher, made this ancient history come live. There was also a church bureaucrat present to talk to possible candidates for the ministry individually. Dr. John Leng became my mentor.

One day I received an invitation from Leng to come to Toronto to the “Church House,” the secretariat of the national church, at 299 Queen Street West, not 999 on that same street which was the well known mental hospital.

Leng introduced me to a number of senior secretaries, one of whom advised me to go to the United Church Book Room in the building and to obtain a recently published book with the interesting title “Something To Stand On.” Lewis Dunnington the author was minister of a Methodist church in Idaho. A good many students attended his services - remember this was the post war period. They had lots of questions about the Bible and religion in general. He put a question box in the foyer of the church and invited students to put their questions into it. He then endeavoured to preach on the suggested topics and later gathered them in the book that I had bought.

In these sermons/chapters, he dealt with “Hell, A Place or State of Mind” coming down on the latter, of the person of Jesus, could he possibly be both God and man, and again came down on the latter. He wrote/preached about miracles, sin and forgiveness and much more. His book has a place of honour on my bookshelf inasmuch as it had opened my mind to other interpretations of the faith than that with which I had been accustomed. Today his thinking is represented by John Shelby Spong, an American Episcopalian bishop, who has been in the forefront of the movement for gay marriage and women priests and bishops. He is both reviled and highly honoured by Americans. I have acquired and read most of his books. He is also a frequent lecturer in Canada.

The conference at Queen’s concluded with a communion service at Morgan Memorial Chapel on the Queen’s campus. During that service I did some serious thinking as my father had admonished me to do and came to the conclusion, as he suspected I would, to embark on my journey to ordination in the United Church of Canada. In his latter years when he and my mother lived in Toronto they were always in my congregation.

On returning home I was soon conscripted by my local pastor to assist him. The Frankford pastoral charge consisted of four congregations: Frankford, the village church, Stockdale at the corner of two roads just west of the village and Zion at the end of a long farm road. After the war Batawa was added to this trio of churches. It was different, looking more like a suburb. Its residents were employees of the Bata Shoe Company and thus a more urban crowd. For our education we travelled by bus, perhaps the first school bus in Canada, to the schools in Frankford and finally to Trenton and Belleville. 

During the summer holidays all four congregations wanted morning services and I was conscripted to preside over two in rotation. My minister gave me a number of books of sermons to peruse and then turned me loose in those four churches. Dunnington’s book was always close at hand. I needed something to stand on.This turned out to be a real education. I still have some of these sermons in a box in storage. 

A number of people have asked me about my faith journey. There is much more to it than what I have just narrated and of course my mind has changed in certain instances, but it is the beginning and I hope to add to this story as time goes by. 

SQ 25/08/2014