Higgins Beach (my vacation, part 2)

It has been a while since my last blog post, but I wanted to continue the story of my vacation. It sets the context for what comes next. I'm back-dating this post to the time when it takes place. 

Part II: Higgins Beach

When I got the beach house I was greeted at the door by my good friend Mike and his 3-year old daughter Hannah. Mike and I could tell she wasn't too sure about this stranger who was showing up close to her bedtime. Mike explained that I was "daddy's friend" named Bishop Thomas. She, of course, needed to test this relationship, so she held out her toy bunny rabbit to me. Naturally, I gave the bunny a hug, but as I went to give it back to her she corrected me: "He needs a kiss, too!" So I gave the toy a peck on the nose, and she was happy. Little did I know that this would be the start of a lovely friendship. Hannah, in short, just *loved* Bishop Thomas. She wanted to sit next to me at meals, and regularly wanted me to read her stories. Her two older sisters were also present in the house, as well as kids from other visiting families. It was really nice to be part of the family, and happily the kids were able to keep themselves pretty well entertained. I should add that Mike's parents were also there, and were absolutely great hosts (with amazing food!)

Mike and Ellie were kind to offer me the use of the attic bedroom, which was just lovely. I felt like I had a personal retreat centre in the middle of a family home, with a view overlooking the beach and, further on, the ocean. Sunday morning we had mass at a nearby parish, and then I got busy doing... nothing. Well, not quite. Personal prayer was a big part of this time off. In addition to the Liturgy of the Hours I went on prayer walks along the beach and through the neighbourhood, rosary beads in hand. I also made it for mass at the local parish each day, where the pastor and his assistant (and indeed, all the people I met) were warm in their welcome. 

A lovely family I got to know, with a connection to Montreal!

Spiritual reading was also a big part of my time. Some months before I had read the Dialogue of Saint Catherine of Siena, but it was a library copy so I wasn't to mark it up with pencil and write notes in the margin like I usually do to really appropriate a book and its contents. Since then, however, I had bought my own copy, and my goal was simply to re-read it and see what I might get out of it a second time. I have to say, I was not disappointed. Wow, this woman was true genius of the spiritual life, tackling deep issues like heaven, hell, joy, and pain. It is not an easy read, not because the language is tough, but because it is so deep. 

I was looking forward to a week of this, reading, praying, and relaxing in the company of good friends. Unfortunately, it was not to be. Tuesday night (Aug 22), three days after arriving, I got a message from my brother Chris, so I gave him a call. It was among the worst news possible: he had just been diagnosed that day with Amyotrophic Lateral Sclerosis (ALS), otherwise known as Lou Gehrig's disease. We spoke a bit, and then I hung up the phone, wondering what I should do next.

Homily: Can I get some peace and quiet?

Homily from August 13, 2017. Meeting God in the peace and quiet we so often seek.

Added some back posts

I've been updating my series on my personal journey of faith. I've added a back post dated back to 2012, called "The Power of Reconciliation". Enjoy!

Celebrating mass on TV

I had an unique opportunity this morning: I celebrated mass at Saint Joseph's Oratory at 8:30 am -- a mass that was televised by Salt and Light TV.

While I've celebrated mass many times (obviously), I've never done so for TV before. You have to be very present to the celebration, particularly given that there are important time constraints involved (i.e. you need to keep to the time slot given to you). In our case we have 30 minutes, and I managed to keep it to 32 up to the final blessings. It is a good discipline, especially for the homily. Next time I'll keep it to the actual 30.

I'll be honest, I was dreading to do this at first. I'm not much of a performer. Still, it was good to this, and in my homily I even addressed the television audience directly, giving people some spiritual "homework". Heck, it was fun, and I'm looking forward to doing it again.

My little black book

I had a chance to go for a lovely lunch with a local businessman, where in addition to eating we prayed and shared our spiritual journeys. During the lunch I shared on a little technique I've found very helpful to stay focused.

The picture you see above is of a little Moleskine notebook. It fits perfectly in a shirt pocket. When I go to the chapel, or just try and find a quiet spot for prayer, I keep it handy. My purpose is not to write, it's to speak to God -- and to listen. But there are two stresses that come up during prayer that this book helps with.

First of all, I find my head is so filled with work and projects that they intrude when what I need is to be in the zone with God. As soon as a distraction hits, I just write it down, parking it on paper. It really works -- I can give myself permission to not think of whatever might be preoccupying me, and just talk to the Lord.

Once those are settled, I find that my times of quiet prayer are phenomenal moments of creativity and focus, and even inspiration (and yes, I include the divine word there too). The problem is, once an idea hits, it too can become a distraction -- because I don't want to forget it! So the notebook helps there too.

When I was younger I journalled regularly. In fact, I can honestly say it was my contact with God through journalling that brought me to the seminary -- even prepared me for a direct encounter with Christ. But that is a topic for another day.

Preaching on providence

I had the joy of celebrating the opening mass for the general chapter of the Sisters of Providence. What an honour to have been invited! I was just so amazed and delighted to be among these impressive women who have offered so much to God and their neighbour.

My homily was, as you can imagine, on the theme of providence. This is actually a fairly major theme for me in my own spiritual life. As a kid I used to ask myself, "Why am I who I am?" In other words, how was it that I was born into the family I was, in the country and society I was? Why was I born a boy and not a girl, why was my skin/hair/eye colour what it was, why did I have the ancestry I did, etc.?

Of course, it would be easy to say that these sorts of attributes can't be answered with a "why". They simply are what they are. But deep down, I always felt that these things were not just random accidents, or simply the result of some past historical process. And if they weren't, then although I couldn't name it at the time, I was already open in my heart to the idea providence.

I even find the word "providence" fascinating. The root is "pro-videre", i.e. to "see forward". It can mean things like to foresee, to plan for the future, and so on, but basically it means being intentional about knowing the future, and it implies adjusting to meet that future. A good example is a person driving a car: the driver has to "foresee" what is coming, both what he can see, and what he can't but which, through experience, might show up. And of course, the driver needs to steer, brake, accelerate etc. as a function of all that.

Of course, the most important element of driving is knowing where you are going. A driver doesn't just drive, he navigates. "Providence" therefore is not just about reacting well to your environment, it is about having a plan so you can get to your destination.

This is why I think this concept is so important with regards to God. People often experience disappointment with regards to God's providence, thinking that God has not "provided" for them adequately. I can understand this in many cases, especially for people who have been true victims of abuse or neglect and are in the process of reclaiming their strength. But not everyone is in that situation: when a sense of entitlement or a consumerist mentality infects our soul, we lose not just our trust in God's providence, we also lose sight of God's plan.

These are real spiritual diseases. A consumer mentality, when it affects/infests our spiritual life, gradually causes us to objectify others as "suppliers" for our needs and desires. We can even treat God that way. And when we lose sight of God's plan, or worse, the very idea that there even is a plan in the first place, then we implicitly place ourselves as the primary author of that plan for us. It places us at the centre. This is a powerful illusion in this powerful civilization we live in. But when the unexpected does happen, it shocks us in ways we just can't handle.

I believe there are things we can do to keep a sense of God's providence in our life. First of all, we need to see all things as gift. Yes, we may "own" things, but we need to see them as blessings, and not as possessions. And this applies not just to our stuff, but to our relationships. Our job, our school, our family -- all is gift. Of course, when these things are sources of suffering, seeing them as gift is not as easy, but leaving that aside for a future blog post we can at least start with the mundane-to-positive things in our life.

We also need to develop a sense of God's plan. Simply put, human history is bigger than our history. God has been at work for literally billions of years before each of us got here, and history will roll on after we will have died. What is our sense of where we come from, and where we are going? Having a clear sense of these issues helps us to handle whatever might come.

The second point ties to the first. Gifts must be honoured, not exploited. And when we see all things as gift, we enter the plan of love of the giver, who sought to bless us with the gift. In other words, the first attitude prepares and reinforces the second.

It's curious, but I've noticed a lot people reacting very negatively to the idea of providence. It's like they think providence is some naive, fairy tale notion, and that it is important to live in the real world instead. Is it a defence mechanism? Some fear of being disappointed, maybe even by God? It might even be anger, or guilt at feeling angry. It can be really complicated -- but even those feelings can be part of divine providence. After all, if they help a person face something they are running from, or identify a deep-seated need for peace, then God's providence is at work.

Question on communion for divorced people

I know that there is a great deal of discussion going on right now regarding whether or not people living in certain marital situations should receive Eucharistic communion. Part of my job as a bishop is to provide a measure of clarity through answers to such questions. This isn't always easy, especially when certain particular situations are especially messy. Still, sometimes the answers are easier, and I am happy to oblige.

For example, one common misconception is that people who are civilly divorced are not allowed to receive communion in a Catholic church.

The key word here is MISCONCEPTION. Simply put, there is no necessary link between being divorced and not being able to receive communion.

No necessary link. None. I don't know where this misconception comes from, but sadly I know people who have suffered for years, feeling terribly (and unnecessarily) rejected.

Now it is definitely true that spousal abandonment is a form of breaking of the marriage vows, and therefore has a sinful quality (although there are occasions that can justify initiating a separation in the couple, such as adultery and abuse). It is equally true that sometimes in a divorce there is a truly innocent party. Therefore, it is the act of unjust spousal abandonment that would prevent a person from receiving communion, and not the legal act of divorce per se. After all, it would not make sense for the Church to punish people who find themselves divorced who never went looking for it, or who came to it as a last resort in a difficult situation.

Of course, people who are divorced often want to get remarried, and because the Catholic Church does not recognize that civil authorities have any power to dissolve valid marriages, this means they cannot get remarried in the Church (at least, not without some sort of authoritative intervention by the Church first, such as a declaration of nullity). Those who attempt marriage outside the Church definitely trigger the communion restriction. However, it is not actually because someone is divorced, but because they attempted a marriage that the Church does not recognize. Two Catholics who have never been married before who decide to elope and get married in Las Vegas by Elvis can't go to communion either afterwards, because they got married outside the Church.

But for those who simply got a civil divorce (or even just a separation), and who are otherwise living the life of a single person without attempting a new marriage, there is no necessary reason for communion to be restricted. To be sure, there may be a lot of healing that is needed, including to mend a broken heart, but that is all the more reason to turn to God in the Eucharist and seek his strength.

In the meantime, I once again repeat:  there is no necessary link between being divorced and not being able to receive communion. Too many people have been misinformed in this matter by some sort of folk wisdom that is anything but wise. Let's be sure to be part of the solution, and not the problem, by helping people live free of any misplaced guilt in this domain.

The Gospel and animals

So I was walking down the street today (June 27) to get to a lunch appointment when a guy came up to me while I was waiting at a red light. He handed me the above two cards, and then began to berate the Catholic Church for (in his view) not doing enough to protect the animals, despite Jesus having eliminated animal sacrifice.

Such is life when you walk around downtown Montreal in a Roman collar -- similar to a box of chocolates, you just never know what you're gonna get.

Coming back to my mystery interlocutor, after offering me his cards (as well as a piece of his mind) he took off in another direction. The whole exchange was less than 10 seconds, and as the light changed green I thought to myself, "Now I know what to blog about for today!"

So for what its worth, here is a brief summary of what the Catholic Church teaches about animals, vegan diets, etc.:

The message on the cards includes an exhortation to love animals, because (as the card says) God does. I have no problem agreeing with the general thrust of this message, and in fact it is part of official Catholic teaching. However, it must be lived in a balanced way. The Catechism of the Catholic Church, which acts as a summary of Catholic doctrine, has this to say on the subject:

2416 Animals are God's creatures. He surrounds them with his providential care. By their mere existence they bless him and give him glory. Thus men owe them kindness. We should recall the gentleness with which saints like St. Francis of Assisi or St. Philip Neri treated animals.

2417 God entrusted animals to the stewardship of those whom he created in his own image. Hence it is legitimate to use animals for food and clothing. They may be domesticated to help man in his work and leisure. Medical and scientific experimentation on animals is a morally acceptable practice if it remains within reasonable limits and contributes to caring for or saving human lives.

2418 It is contrary to human dignity to cause animals to suffer or die needlessly. It is likewise unworthy to spend money on them that should as a priority go to the relief of human misery. One can love animals; one should not direct to them the affection due only to persons.

I recognize that there are some who will object to some of these points because they affirm a special place for human beings within the animal kingdom (and indeed, within creation). However, that special status within the overall ecology of our world is definitely part of the Biblical perspective too (a subject for another blog post sometime).

Within the religious practice of the Catholic Church, there is nothing that mandates harm to animals. For example, as the guy who handed me those cards pointed out, the tradition of animal sacrifices found throughout Hebrew history was not carried over to Christianity. On the flip side, our official book of blessings does have prayers for the blessing of animals. I even got asked to bless a dog in a veterinary hospital once (a neat story for another day).

With regards to special diets, we know that many religions require their followers to follow such diets: kosher for Jews, halal for Muslims, various diets within Hinduism, etc. But for Catholics, there is no moral imperative in natural or divine law to eat certain foods or to avoid certain foods. The Torah does state that certain foods should not be eaten as they are ritually unclean, but the common Christian tradition says that Jesus declared all foods clean (Mark 7:19). The vision of Saint Peter as described in Acts 10:15-16 uses the fact of all foods being clean as analogy to enourage the inclusion of new peoples and cultures in the Church.

While there is no moral imperative in natural or divine law to follow a specific diet, the Church does teach certain diets as part of the spiritual practice of penance. We are asked to avoid eating meat on certain days (Ash Wednesday and the Friday's of Lent, in particular), and to avoid eating more than one full meal on Ash Wednesday and Good Friday. Of course, this is just a minimum -- we can choose a more restricted diet if we wish. For the last couple of years, for example, I've followed a vegan diet during Lent, and I've gotten a lot out of the practice (a story for another time).

On the flip side, the Bible warns us that the following of a certain diet can also lead to a kind of pridefulness. The film Scott Pilgrim vs. the World has a hilarious take on the subject (sorry for the mild swear at the beginning as the title character defends the honour of Toronto):

I must confess, I did not get any vegan powers myself when I followed that diet during Lent, but that's probably because I took Sundays off :-) And before I hear protests, no that was not cheating. To avoid falling into the pridefulness a religious diet can encourage, the Church actually suggests certain days where we are called to feast, not fast! We even call them "feast days", as opposed to the aforementioned "fast days", and Sunday is the essential feast day, even during Lent.

Coming back to the fellow who printed these cards, he is correct that the original plan of God described in the story of creation in the book of Genesis was, in fact, vegan. More than that, it was fruitarian, an even more strict form of veganism. However, we must remember that the story is highly symbolic in nature, and cannot be taken to be a simple outline of a plan of daily living. After all, Adam and Eve walked around naked too, and yet I don't think God is asking all of us to practice continuous nudism as a form of discipleship -- apart from the purely moral and aesthetic arguments against such a practice, it could get a bit chilly during a Canadian winter! Brrr!

That's enough for now. I've already got enough material for three more blog posts on these and related subjects -- so stay tuned!

Visit to Val Notre-Dame monastery

One of the biggest takeaways for me from the ad limina visit to Rome was a challenge Pope Francis put out to all of us bishops: "How many hours a day do you spend praying?" I didn't exactly start doing a count, but I have to admit, the "hours" reference got me thinking!

One disciple I've been trying to adopt since it being more intentional in making church and chapel visits. Usually its a fairly easy process -- I do live at a church after all -- but as today I had a meeting in Joliette I decided to take the opportunity to visit Val Notre-Dame Trappist monastery. These are the monks who once liked in Oka, and who moved a few years ago to Saint-Jean-de-Matha in the Joliette diocese.

I have a soft spot in my heart for this particular monastic community. I used to visit them in Oka when I was a seminarian and a young priest. I once did a two week silent retreat there, and it was one of the most profound and intense spiritual experiences I ever had (complete with what I can only describe as a vision from God towards the end). I stayed with them for about 10 days a few years ago after they had moved, and again it was a powerful experience that helped me get through some tough stuff I was dealing with and needed to face. There is something about the gentle rhythm of their prayer, and the kindliness of their welcome, that has been a real balm to my soul. It was a delight to spend just a few minutes there.

Link to their website: Abbaye Val Notre-Dame

Learning about conscience, part 1: Saint Thomas More

I was a kid in a time before video on demand services like Netflix. Heck, it was before PVRs and even VCRs. We had one TV in the house, and if you wanted to know what was going on you consulted the newspaper or a print publication like TV Guide. Or, sometimes you'd be channel surfing and if you came across something you wanted to watch, you either just watched it or you let it go.

I don't remember exactly how old I was when A Man for All Seasons came on TV. It was probably between the ages of 7 and 10. It was an afternoon, and I'm pretty sure it was a Saturday. In those days, Saturday morning was a time for kids to watch cartoons, but at a certain point the kids shows stopped and the "grown up" shows took over. My recollection is that I had finished watching "my" shows, and my dad had come downstairs to watch "his show". But as I was getting up to go, my dad invited me to stay and watch the movie with him. I wasn't too sure -- I generally found "grown up" shows boring. But my dad said, "This movie is about someone you are named after." Really? Wow! So I couldn't refuse.

For those who do not know A Man for All Seasons, it is the story of Sir Thomas More (later known as Saint Thomas More). He was the good friend of King Henry VIII, and at one point was Chancellor of England. This was in the 16th century, when the Protestant Reformation was in full swing on the Continent. At one point Henry had himself declared the head of the Church in England, and communion disintegrated between himself and the Pope. Sir Thomas More could not accept to go down that path, and he eventually lost everything, including his life.

At my age, I did not understand all that was going on in the story. It was set in another century, the dialogue was a fairly advanced form of English, and I knew very little about the Protestant Reformation except that some kids in our neighbourhood were "protestants" which meant they went to a different church than us. But my dad explained things as needed, and my focus anyway was mainly on the main character who had the same name as me.

The story of Saint Thomas More left a deep impression on me, leaving me perplexed and even disturbed. My father asked me what I thought about the story, and I remember asking him the same question.

"I've always admired Thomas More," my father explained. "For me, he is a model of what it means to follow your conscience."

"Conscience? What's that?" I asked.

My dad did not answer the question directly. Instead of saying what it was, he said what it meant. "To live by your conscience means to always act according to the truth. That's what Thomas More did."

I changed the focus of my questioning. "But why did Sir Thomas go all the way to being killed?"

"He didn't want to die," my father explained. "If you noticed, Thomas was trying to avoid falling into the danger set before him. He didn't go looking for trouble, in fact he did his best to get out of it, but when in the end they backed him into a corner and said he had to deny his commitment or else, he refused to do so."

"That's what conscience means," he continued. "To live by your conscience means you have to have courage. Anybody can find excuses to avoid challenges and suffering, but sometimes there are things we have to be willing to sacrifice for. For example, if someone ever made me have to choose between my life and yours, or my life and the life of your mother, or brother, or sister, I'd choose to die rather than let you die. At least I hope I would, I hope I'd have the courage to do that."

Now that got my attention. My dad didn't know it, but he was teaching me about the difference between courage and daring. People will sometimes do something dangerous on a dare, but real courage is not just about daring. It is about daring to do the right thing, even if it costs you.

This, of course, raised other questions in my mind. After all, if following your conscience could have such high stakes, you had better be pretty sure of what the right thing is. After all, there is no point suffering for the wrong thing!

My father confirmed as much. "To follow your conscience takes courage, but you also have to use your brain," he said. "You have to always be willing to seek the truth and stick with it. But it also takes humility, because no one can ever know the whole truth all at once. You have to be willing to admit you don't know everything, and to be willing to ask questions. It helps to be part of a community that is committed to finding the truth and living it. That's what the Church is for."

Getting back to my story, I remember asking my dad if all this conscience stuff was really worth it. Remember, I was a kid and peer pressure was a fact of life. If joining with my friends was the path of least resistance, why not just do that, at least in the normal course of life? My father reminded me that, in the film, Sir Thomas had a conversation with his good friend the Duke of Norfolk, who had tried to persuade Thomas to take a false oath "for fellowship". Thomas replied, "And when we die, and you are sent to heaven for doing your conscience, and I am sent to hell for not doing mine, will you come with me, for fellowship?"

I looked at my father and said that this argument did not sound fair. God was going to punish us for not following our conscience? Is that the ultimate reason why we should seek the truth and be willing to suffer for it -- because we are afraid of God?

With great patience, and with (I believe) some delight in the fact that I was pushing the issue so far, he replied that, in fact, having a strong conscience, one that was anchored in truth and had the courage to live it, was actually the source of one of the greatest assets a personality can have: inner freedom. Saint Thomas, in his struggle, showed himself to be more free than the King himself, even when he was locked up in the Tower of London.

We need that inner freedom, my father explained, to be able to live according to the ultimate law: the law of love. I had heard of this law before, during the Bible readings and sermons and church, such as in the expression "love your neighbour". That law doesn't say we have to like our neighbour, but that we do have to love him. We have to even love our enemies. But, as my father explained, how can we do that unless we have the inner freedom to do so? Real love cannot be forced, it must be free. Having a strong conscience makes us free inside, the kind of freedom that Saint Thomas had to declare that he was "the King's faithful servant, but God's first".

"That's why we wind up in Hell if we disobey our conscience," my father explained. "We can't live real love with out. And God is love, Heaven is love. It's not that God will punish us if we don't follow our conscience, it's that conscience is our guide to Heaven, to being with God. And while God sometimes grants people visions or speaks words to them, it's in our conscience that God ordinarily impresses himself up on. If our conscience isn't clear, we can't have a real relationship with Him."

This conversation had a lasting effect upon me, even until today. For example, as I've gotten older I've come to realise this conversation was the start of my passion for ecumenical and inter-faith dialogue (heck, even dialogue with sincere atheists). I like speaking with people who have convictions and try and live by them. Our convictions may differ, but if those convictions are sincere it means the other person is willing to have them tested in the name of a higher principle, i.e. the principle that The Truth is more important than "this or that" truth. As I would learn later, this perspective would eventually come in handy when I started to have my own "crisis of faith" -- that that is a story for another time.

Congratulations to Edwin and Nora!

Congratulations to Edwin (baby on the left) and Nora (baby on the right), two cousins I had the honour of baptising today. I have known (some of) the families for many years now, and I've had the pleasure to get to meet even more. God bless to all, and welcome to God's family!

Experiencing communion for the first time

Some time after my first confession our religion teachers began to shift gears, starting to prepare us for our first communion. For those unfamiliar with the Catholic tradition, the "communion rite" is the time during a prayer service (usually a mass, although not exclusively) where the people approach a minister to receive and eat what appears to the eye as either a piece of bread (most common), some bread with some wine (less common), or just a bit of wine (least common, for exceptional circumstances). As they are distributed during the communion rite, the term "communion" also commonly applies to the substances being consumed. A person's "first communion", therefore, refers to the first time a person participates in the communion rite by going up and receiving communion.

In some spiritual traditions, such as for many Eastern Catholics, a person receives their first communion at the same time they are baptized, i.e. it can be given even to an infant. However, in the Latin tradition (to which most Roman Catholics belong), communion is not given to infants, but is delayed until the person has attained a level of maturity called the "age of reason" (generally considered to be around 7 years old).

Of course, that doesn't stop little kids from wanting to receive earlier. Any minister of communion can tell stories of what often happens when parents bring their children up with them in the communion rite. "Let me see!" they sometimes say when we place the wafer (called a "host") in the adult's hand. "Can I have some? Why can't I have some?" they sometimes exclaim. I've even had a few come up and perfectly imitate the gesture of receiving communion, not noticing Mom or Dad behind indicating, with a shake of the head, that the little one has not yet made his or her First Communion. On some level they know that something special is happening with communion, and they want to take part.

I was no different. I knew I had to wait until I had made my First Communion, and I don't recall making a lot of fuss otherwise. Still, I was curious. During our annual summer holiday at a cottage in the country, I asked the kindly parish priest if I could try a host. My father accompanied us to the sacristy, where the priest took a host out of a tin and gave it to me. It tasted like... not much.

Sometime later I found myself reflecting on this experience. The host was way too small to be worthwhile as food, and as a culinary experience it left something to be desired. So I asked my father about it: what was the big deal?

His answer floored me. "After the host is consecrated, it isn't bread anymore. When we receive the host in communion, what we are actually receiving is the Body of Jesus."

Wait, what?

How was THAT possible?

"It's called 'transsubstantiation'," he explained (and yes, he used that word). "It means that the host keeps all of the outward appearances of being bread, including the look and the taste, but it isn't bread anymore. It is Jesus' body."

This all seemed very strange to me. I didn't have a lot of trouble thinking that transsubstantiation was possible — after all, God could do anything, so if that's what he wanted to do that was his business. But to be honest, it didn't sound terribly plausible. In fact, it sounded a little gross. So I asked where we Catholics got this strange notion that we were eating Jesus' body in communion.

My father's answer? "From Jesus himself." And then he went to a Bible, and showed me chapter 6 of the gospel of John, where Jesus said that the bread he would give the world was his flesh (verse 51). He also showed me how people disputed this saying (verse 52), how some found this teaching intolerable (verse 60), and how some even stopped following him because of it (verse 66). "People had taken him literally," my father explained, "and Jesus did not correct them. When it was the Last Supper, Jesus took bread and said 'this is my body", and then he took wine and said 'this is my blood'. He meant what he said."

I had heard those words before, of course, during Sunday mass. I knew the priest spoke them over the bread and wine, and I knew they had been the words of Jesus. My father explained that this was why we would kneel at that point, why the priest would elevate the elements after each set of words, and why we would ring the bells and bow our heads. Jesus was now present, ready to be received by us as food.

This also explained what happened after receiving communion. I remember being impressed at seeing my parents pray in silence after receiving communion. As I got closer to my first communion, I found myself wondering what I should be "doing" during that time of silence. My father's suggestion was an Our Father, a Hail Mary, and a Glory Be. I knew those prayers, so that seemed simple enough.

Once our special catechism classes for first communion were over, I knew the big day was coming. However, our parish at the time had a curious practice, in that there was no big group first communion ceremony as was found in many other parishes. Instead, the parents were encouraged to decide, as a family, on a particular Sunday when the young boy or girl would receive their first communion along with the regular parish community. As I recall, there was not a lot of extra ceremony.

It was at this time that my mother had an idea. Her suggestion was that I receive my first communion on the Thursday of Holy Week. For those who don't know, the mass of Holy Thursday evening is the special moment of the year when we commemorate the institution of the Eucharist by Jesus. Every mass is a memorial of that moment, of course, but Holy Thursday has that character in a special way. As she pointed out it would make every Holy Thursday from then on an extra special event in my life. Given everything I had learned, it made sense to me.

I don't recall feeling anything particular in the moment when I finally did receive my first communion. I went up, I received and ate the host, I went back to my seat, and I said my prayers. It was all very matter of fact, and I felt as much.

That is, until the end of mass.

My experience of the end of your usual Sunday mass had been: a closing prayer, a set of announcements, and a final blessing and dismissal. Grand total, about 5 minutes. Mentally, I started to already shift gears into going home.

Except this was Holy Thursday.

After the closing prayer, suddenly everyone was back on their knees. The priest put on what looked like an extra white robe (which I would much later learn was called a "humeral veil"), and picked up the vessels that contained the leftover hosts. Instead of putting them back in the tabernacle, he then began to walk around the inside of the parish church with them. It was a procession, complete with candles and an altar server waving incense.

As the priest walked around, the choir began to sing. It was all a capella, i.e. no instruments. I had never heard that gorgeous melody before, and it was all in a language I didn't understand (I later found out it was the Pange Lingua, being sung in Latin).

Through it all, something spoke to me in my heart, impressing on me not words but concepts:

"This is holy."

"What the priest is carrying, is holy."

"What you received, is holy."

It was a genuine religious experience. Despite whatever hesitations I might have had before, I never again had trouble believing in the Real Presence of Jesus in the Eucharist — or at least, not for many years, and even that time of challenge was never about the Real Presence as such. But that is a tale for a later installment of this story.

Corpus Christi procession 2017

Great video of the procession we had on the feast of Corpus Christ. Thousands of people wound through the streets of downtown Montreal, starting from Mary Queen of the World Cathedral and ending at Saint Patrick's basilica. God was good to us with the weather, too: the temperature was perfect, mild with a light breeze, and the rain held off until exactly the moment we made it back to our starting point. I'm already looking forward to next year.

My personal story of faith

I've recently had a number of conversations in which people have asked me to share my story of faith. It's not the first time I've received those kinds of questions. When I was being made a bishop and was being interviewed by journalists, more than one reporter asked me if I had ever had any doubts or questions about my Catholic faith. In all honesty, while I am a firmly committed believer in Jesus Christ and in his Church, I (like lots of people) have indeed had my struggles. That being said, while those times were certainly difficult, I have to admit that the process of working through those challenges has helped me become the man of faith that I am today. As I sometimes tell people, "I used to believe what I did because I was a Catholic; but now, I am a Catholic because of what I believe." This holds true today. Indeed, it has become even more important to me now that I am a bishop, because as a bishop I supposed to be doing more than just be teaching "the party line". I don't see how I could ever have considered being a priest, much less a bishop, without a profound and examined conviction that what I would be teaching was actually the Truth: the truth about God, the truth about the cosmos and the human condition, and the truth about our deepest longings and our common destiny.

I don't want to claim that my journey of faith is somehow universal, and that everyone is obliged to accept it as universally valid. After all, my life experience is unique to me. That being said, I have often appreciated hearing about the faith journey of others, even though that journey was unique to them. Very often, I found myself challenged by the issues others would wrestle with, and nourished by the answers they found. Most importantly, I would find myself in admiration at their desire to follow where their emerging convictions would lead them. Faith, after all, isn't just an external content, a list of truths: it is also a personal response consistent with those truths.

I am not a perfect Catholic, and I don't want to pretend that my life today is some sort of ideal response to the truths of the Catholic faith. While I'd like to be a living saint (and I really mean that), I know I'm still a sinner, and that I have a long way to go. Still, even that is a grace. After all, one can only know their weakness if they also know their potential strength. The Catholic faith is part of that strength: it has given me a reliable map to guide my life, and firm foundation upon which to build as I have made (and continue to make) my life choices. To be honest, it has also led me to have a life that is, quite frankly, extremely rich and interesting, and full of opportunities for joy. I feel called to share my personal story of faith, in the hopes it will help others find their foundation and source of joy in Christ as well.

A talk I gave at an interfaith event for peace

This is a talk I gave at the Interfaith Human Rights Celebration for World Peace organized by Canadians for Coexistence. Many thanks to Rabbi Alan Bright for his warm welcome to Shaare Zedek synagogue.

Funny story: I had the time wrong in my calendar and got there over an hour early. I wound up mixing with a family that had come in for some business. They were a bit surprised to see me there, as you can imagine, but a bit of joking banter helped lighten the mood. I'm always honoured to be in a house of God.

Visit to Martyr's shrine

Was in Midland today and saw where the Jesuit martyrs were killed and buried. Simple but very moving.

The story of my personal encounter with Christ

I had a chance to speak at the Montée Jeunesse in May 2017. In my talk I had a chance to share part of my personal conversion story -- in particular, the story of how I had a personal encounter with Christ in a powerful mystical experience. I share it in the hopes it will help others as well.

Poverty and providence

I grew up in a typical middle-class family. While I weren't surrounded by luxury, I do not remember lacking anything. Of course, that didn't mean I always appreciated what I had. I suppose that is the negative side of being a child blessed with a general sense of material security — you risk taking things for granted, not out of ill-will, but simply out of inexperience.

Still, this did not meant that I didn't know poverty existed. I remember seeing images of extreme poverty on television — families experiencing famine in some distant country, for example, who were on display as part of some telethon to raise money for a charity. Of course, the producers of these telethons would put up the most pitiful scenes, such as of hungry mothers trying to tend to their malnourished children. I was very disturbed by such images, and I remember asking my father about them. My naive question was direct and to the point:

"Why do they have so many children if they can't feed them?" I asked. It seemed to me to be a basic element of parental responsibility.

"Well," my father replied, "they probably had those children at a time when there was enough food. It is only after that the problems began. But you know, Tom, there is enough food in the world to feed everyone. The problem isn't growing it. The problem is sharing it, and getting it to everyone."

My father's answer shed a completely new light on the situation. I suddenly realised that poverty was a deeply moral question, and that it wasn't just a moral question for those who were poor. Somehow, everyone was involved, whatever their wealth or poverty. It was a question of solidarity.

I had a chance to experience in a practical way through an activity organized at a local parish sometime later. It was called a "poor man's supper". I had been to such an event before. They were normally fundraising dinners, in which the participants paid for tickets as for a typical fundraising dinner, but for which the meal was very simple (usually not much more than soup). The goal was to be in solidarity with the poor, not only through the donation of money, but also in what we ate. In the case of this parish, however, there was an additional twist. Once we were seated, an explanation was given regarding what would happen next. Each participant would turn over their plate to see what kind of meal they would get. Most participants were going to get the usual simple meal, but two at each table were to be exceptions: one participant was to only receive water and a bit of bread, while the other would get a sumptuous feast. The goal was to sensitize us to the way food was actually distributed in the world — most got something, while some got almost nothing, and a few were able to eat like kings.

One thing was for sure: in my little kid brain (and little kids are always hungry), I really didn't want to get the non-meal. I remember being quite nervous about it, in fact. As it turned out, however, I ended up with the sumptuous feast! At first I ate with relish — after all, it wasn't as if it was my fault that I got lucky in my choice of seat. Still, as the meal progressed I couldn't help but think that something was wrong with this scenario.

I'd like to claim that I immediately started to share my meal with others, but to be honest I don't remember if I did or not. However, I do remember reflecting on the experience afterwards, putting it in a bigger context. "How is it," I wondered, "that I was born in Canada, in a place of plenty, when I could have just as easily been born someplace else, such as the place shown in the television program, where people lived in desperate poverty?"

In other words, was it just luck, like it had been with the plate?

Or was it a sign of God's providence?

And if it was providence, what responsibility did that mean for me to share what I had with others?

Heavy thoughts for a little kid, but looking back I know now that these were the first stirrings of a sense of social justice and solidarity within me.

The power of reconciliation

One of the "rites of passage" of a Catholic child is making his or her first confession. For those unfamiliar with confession in the Catholic tradition, the practice is that the penitent confesses his or her sins to a priest, who offers some counsel as well as a penance which the penitent must accomplish (usually a prayer or an act of devotion or charity of some kind). It is generally held that it is unlikely that a child has sufficient moral awareness before the age of 6 or 7 to commit a real sin (and even then, it is unlikely to be very grave). Still, we all know that kids have at least started, by that point, to have some sense of moral action, and so it is normal that young Catholics start to be educated about this sacrament of forgiveness of sins.

I remember when I was first being taught about sin and reconciliation. Like lots of kids, I wasn't too sure how to know when something was a sin and when it wasn't. My father gave me the following advice: "For something to be a sin, you have to know it is wrong, you have to have chosen to do it, and you have to have done it."

We then talked about those criteria. The following conversation isn't an actual verbatim account, but it generally summarizes the conversation we had that day.

"So if I didn't know it was wrong, and I did it, it isn't a sin?" I asked.

"Yes," he answered. "But that doesn't change the fact that it was wrong, and so probably hurt somebody. We have a responsibility to learn what is right and what is wrong, so as to be good people."

"And if I did it by accident, and not by choice, it isn't a sin?" I continued.

"Correct," to replied. "But that is only true for true accidents, and not something that happens because of negligence. Also, even if we do something bad by accident, we are responsible to help set things right."

"And what do you mean by 'You have to have done it'?" I asked further.

My father replied, "I mean that sometimes we feel a temptation to do sins, and we can feel bad that we have those temptations. Still, a temptation is not a sin. When you go to confession to the priest, you can talk about your temptations with him if you want, and maybe he can help you deal with them. But you should not feel guilty about them like you would for actual sins you've done."

With this information, I felt I was getting pretty ready for my first confession. I had been taught that God loved me and wanted for forgive me for any bad things I had done, and that now I had a much better sense of what "sin" actually was (and so I knew what things I was supposed to say). Still, I have to admit that I was a bit nervous. I trusted the priests I knew — they had always been very kind to me — but did I really need to tell them about my bad acts? Couldn't we just forget them, pretending like they had never happened?

As it turned out, something occurred during that time of preparation that changed my perspective on this sacrament forever.

At a certain point in that period of preparation — I don't remember exactly when — an adult I looked up to hurt my feelings. I don't remember what it was about, all I remember was the deep sadness I was feeling. Even worse than the hurt, mind you, was the alienation: when someone we look up to and love hurts us, it can make us feel terribly alone. That lonesomeness can even be worse than the original pain.

A few hours after the hurtful incident in question, the same adult came to see me. I had no idea what to expect. In gentle tones, he told me he had thought about the incident, and that he felt badly. He then came right out and apologized. He had done wrong, he admitted it, he promised not to do it again, and he wanted to make amends.

I was in awe.

I was partly in awe of this adult, who was making this offer to a little kid. As a child I had often felt others' love and care, but this was the first time I had ever felt so respected.

But I was also in awe of the moment itself. I knew something extraordinarily special was happening. I remember thinking to myself, "God must be like this somehow."

And so, we were reconciled. Truly reconciled. Again, I don't even remember what the actual hurtful incident was, but I do remember the sadness and pain of alienation being replaced by the joy of genuine reconciliation.

I should add that I was now completely sold on the actual sacrament of reconciliation itself. That adult had examined his conscience, seen he had done wrong, admitted it to another, promised not to repeat it, and offered to make amends. I figured that if an adult had been willing to respect a little kid enough to ask for forgiveness, I as a little kid should be willing to do the same with God. If confession was the means — and the steps the adult had lived sounded a lot like what I had been taught about going to confession — then so be it.

It went beyond this, though. It wasn't just that I was now comfortable with another element of my Catholic duty. No, I wanted to go to confession. We had heard the story of the Prodigal Son as part of our preparation for this sacrament during our catechism classes. I remember being struck by the joy of the father when his errant son came home. I had no trouble believing that part of the story at all. I could imagine the pain of separation each one must have felt when the son left, but I could also understand very well the joy of their reconciliation.

That's what confession was about, I reasoned. It wasn't about rehashing our sins, it was about bringing joy to God and letting him bring an end to our own spiritual isolation.

I don't remember who the priest was for my first experience of the sacrament. I have no idea what I said in my first confession, and given I was only a kid I doubt it was anything all that terrible. But I do remember knowing how holy a moment it was that I was living.

The Catechism of the Catholic Church tells us that this sacrament can be called by different names, but my favourite title, even to this day, is the "sacrament of reconciliation".

My earliest understanding of God

I grew up in a practicing Catholic family. I was baptised as an infant, learned my prayers at an early age, and was brought to mass by my parents. While I don't ever recall it being at all overbearing, I also can't recall a time when religion wasn't part of our family experience. Simply put, God, prayer and Church were just there, as part of our lives. It felt very natural.

Still, I do recall when I put forward what may have been my first real question about God. I know I was at most five years old. We were sitting at the supper table, and out of the blue I asked, "Where is God?"

My father replied, very simply, "God is everywhere."

I pressed on a bit. "Really? Is God here in this room with us right now?"

"Yes, he is," my father said.

I remember holding up some solid physical object, and asking, "Is he in this?"

"Yes," he repeated, and with a bit of a smile as I seem to recall. But he didn't stop there, adding, "But more important than that, he wants to live inside of you. He wants to live inside all of us."

For a young child, that last statement was big news. I remember that my questions in that conversation stopped at that point, not because I understood, but because I needed to think about what I'd just been told.

The question, in my little kid brain, was simple: how could God be everywhere, and yet at the same time be inside of us in a special way?

I don't quite recall how long it took, but a few days later I came up with an answer. Simply put, I thought about air. Air is all around us. Since it is invisible, most of the time we don't notice it unless it is acting upon us (as with a breeze, or the wind), but that didn't make it any less real. Finally, the most important air was the air we breathe in — the air inside us that gives us life.

Again, in my little kid brain, my question now had an answer: God was like air. I knew he wasn't actually the air, but that he was like air: invisible, all around us, but able to be inside us in a special way, especially to give us life.

Now it may sound funny, but this insight actually had an effect on my early prayer life. Up until then, prayers were things I said. After this, though, I started to sometimes do a kind of childlike praying where I would think about my breathing as I was doing it, and pretending that I was feeling God being around me and inside me. I won't pretend that I was particularly disciplined in this form of prayer, and I don't claim that "intentional breathing" is necessarily spiritual, but I do know that this practice was important for me. God was around me, God was inside me, and imagining God as I breathed helped me be aware of the presence of God.