Recent Columns

One has to admire Pontius Pilot, the Roman procurator who may share responsibility for history's biggest execution, but who also wouldn't budge when pressured by his editors wanting him to change his headline.

Today is Day 8 of my life as a foreigner in Yemen. I'm in a dilapidated cargo office at the international airport in Sanaa, a capital city that sits on a mountain plateau 2,000 metres above sea level. Almost one million souls live here in what is one of the oldest inhabited regions of the world. I think I'm the only one wearing a Team Canada cap.

Among the more comical responses to the tragic attacks of Sept. 11 was from an American who said she would pile up her credit card charges to beat the terrorists, "Just to show I have faith in the economy."

If you can read this, congratulations -- you're better educated than two billion people.

(The London Free Press – Oct. 28, 2000) ST. THOMAS, CANADA – Is the human soul just a vast bundle of nerve cells? Francis Crick, the Nobel laureate who set modern biotechnology in motion when he discovered DNA a generation ago, says yes. In The Astonishing Hypothesis: The Scientific Search For The Soul, he suggests our joys and sorrows, memories and ambitions, personal identities and even our cherished notions of free will are nothing more than the biochemical reactions of a neural machine. Brilliant as Crick is, the idea is more hollow than astonishing. It was the poet William Blake who said scientists, in trying to decipher that which should remain indecipherable, would "turn that which is soul and life into a mill or machine."

"Jesus Christ. Superstar. Do you believe what they say you are?" The jingle from the popular rock opera, Jesus Christ Superstar, catchy as it is, is an incredibly sad reminder that there are people who don't have an inkling of this season's joy.

(LONDON FREE PRESS, June 2, 1998) ST. THOMAS, CANADA – Regarding, Male spirituality about partnerships (May 17), Free Press assistant city editor Larry Cornies shows it's easier to criticize the evangelical Christian men's movement Promise Keepers than it is to understand it.

Dear Editor: I am eight years old. Some of my little friends say there is no Santa Claus. Papa says "If you see it in The Sun, it's so." Please tell me the truth. Is there a Santa Claus?

When experiencing the Promise Keepers sacred assembly with 100 local men and hundreds of thousands of others here earlier this month, I couldn't help but think of growing up.

I have had an opportunity to see the recent move of 33 rooming-house residents from Toronto to Aylmer, a transfer equated by some as Toronto "dumping its trash" into rural Ontario, through the eyes of personal experience. My family owned and operated a private rest home for the better part of 20 years, with tenants, patients as we called them, very similar to those at the Aylmer home run by Anne Borden Maxwell.

I have had an opportunity to see the recent move of 33 rooming-house residents from Toronto to Aylmer, a transfer equated by some as Toronto "dumping its trash" into rural Ontario, through the eyes of personal experience. My family owned and operated a private rest home for the better part of 20 years, with tenants, patients as we called them, very similar to those at the Aylmer home run by Anne Borden Maxwell.

On a warm day on a busy walkway in a large square in Berlin, a young man sits playing his flute for a pocketful of change. His hair is spiked like the Statue of Liberty and he wears a dark tank top. I draw near to him and see his shirt's message: "Jesus didn't die for my sins. He died for His own."

(The London Free Press – Saturday, May 10, 1997) "We are one, after all, you and I. Together we suffer. Together we exist. And forever will re-create each other." — Pierre Teilhard de Chardin, 20th century French philosopher ST. THOMAS, CANADA – Tomorrow is Mother's Day, the one day of the year I'm vividly reminded I have never held my mother, looked into her eyes and told her I love her. I have never offered a soft kiss on her cheek. I have never even given her flowers.