Last week, two vibrant Catholic voices spoke on the same night in venues across the street from each other in downtown Toronto.

Green Party leader Elizabeth May made the perceptive point recently that democracy is too important to be left only to politicians. A nuance that might be added is that as a keystone of democracy, free, fair and above all vigorous elections should never become the exclusive preserve of the political actors seeking to benefit from them.

Over breakfast recently in Parliament’s Centre Block cafeteria, a good friend and I drifted into a conversation about the evolutionary significance of death.

Some Catholic friends and I recently had a discussion on the constant renewal of faith being necessary for faith to be truly faithful.

A woman offered up an intensely self-critical testimony about her frustration at how much she must struggle to keep her faith a matter of vital assent rather than mere acquiescence.

Claims of Jacques Parizeau’s grand stature as a statesman might seem exaggerated to some outside Quebec but the pomp around his funeral was expected and understandable.

From his bureaucratic days in the Quiet Revolution through the political twilight that followed his performance during the 1995 referendum, Parizeau, who died June 1, was a critical catalyst in the transformation of French Canadians into Québécois. Quebecers love to send off their own with panache, and the former premier was indisputably one of their own.  

Irish journalist John Waters might be forgiven for skipping the cheering and Guinness-drinking in Dublin after the country’s referendum legalizing gay marriage.

For all the talk about global warming what we’re now seeing is a freezing trend that’s producing an ice sheet over Satan’s lake of fire. We know this is happening because events long thought possible only when the underworld’s climate turned entirely upside down — when hell froze over — have become the order of the day.

With two decisions this spring, the Supreme Court of Canada set laudable boundaries between the necessarily neutral state and the exercise of religious freedom.

There’s a moment in Al Pacino’s new film Danny Collins when the eponymous character, alone in his dressing room, touches the ornate Cross nested in his ancient rock star chest hair. The gesture is cinematic sleight of hand.
In the next frame, Collins uncaps the crucifix and pours out a few lines of cocaine to put up his nose so his show can go on. The sign of our faith, in the fingers of a pop icon, turns into yet another clever cache for the pursuit of becoming comfortably numb.