There can be no denying Canadians are heading into summer 2019 after one of the darkest years for religious freedom in the country’s history. 

I can never decide whether it’s the optimist or the masochist in me that believes the relentless assault on conscience rights is set to collapse under its own absurdity.

Even those who resisted expansion of gay rights from the mid-1990s to 2011 ultimately conceded the absurdity of the U.S. military’s so-called “don’t ask/don’t tell” policy. 

Until five minutes before The Curse of La Llorona began, my wife and I were the only people in the darkened void of the theatre at our local Cineplex.

A week before celebrating the Resurrection, we had the resurrection of Resurrection.

I’ve begun to call it the Gospel on the Green Line.

The heart of the Ottawa imbroglio over SNC-Lavalin can be found in remembering the time Justin Trudeau elbowed a female MP aside to get what he wanted.

Long ago, a childhood friend and I were walking across an old wooden bridge in the small town where we lived when a car stopped to offer us a ride. The local priest was at the wheel.

On a recent Saturday morning visit to Vancouver’s Downtown Eastside, a person mummy-wrapped in a dragonfly blue blanket lay motionless a few feet from the corner of Hastings and Main.