Why I'm No Longer A Radical

 November 15, 2024,

Hi, for me, being a radical meant that there was something that I had been radicalized about. After thirty plus years, what radicalize me no longer exists. 

The Village

Not wishing to offend anyone, I have had Aria create a generic small coastal village rather than an accurate portrayal of the village that radicalized me. It's not that I'm nicer than I used to be. I'm just too damn tired to want a senseless argument. 

It was a small community with a population that, depending upon the time of year, would fluctuate between 400 and 1000 people. 

The United Church asked the village if they would take part in a new program. A program that would train village pastors in an almost apprenticeship program with yearly stints at a world-class seminary to get their theology up to snuff. The only snag in the program was that there were no indigenous people ready to be trained. So the greater church talked to the village church and made them an offer.

 Would they be willing to train Brian Waddington, who had worked on the Thomas Crosby 5 and lived on the coast as a lighthouse keeper, to be a village pastor?

The village church was undecided. But when one of the church council mentioned that I sang, played the guitar and flute and would be a great addition to the church choir, it was a done deal. For me, it was a no-brainer. I was dying in the city and desperately needed to get back to the north coast. 

There were only two or three problems with the idea. 

1. I was Brian the deck hand, and it was Robin the engineer who was musical. Which meant that for four years whenever the choir sang, it was the responsibility of the choir member who was closest to the pulpit to make sure my mike was turned off. That made sure my voice didn't ruin the choir's singing.  
2. The village church believed that they were training their village pastor. The greater church saw me simply as a needed evil until someone with a status card could take over.   
3. My wife was not exactly thrilled to have her wild colonial boy husband become a pastor. Our marriage would not survive the village. And for the record, it was an equal opportunity breakup. 

 The village church reserved the right to cancel the effort if they felt I was not working out. One Sunday after church, I was instructed to head to the basement. There I found the church council on one side of a long table and a single chair on the other side for me. 

What happened next was totally unexpected. They spent about two hours asking me to explain why I was doing things the way I was. Then they suggested how thing could be improved. We talked about where in some areas (very few) I might be right and where in other areas they might be. 

The next Sunday, I explained to the congregation what had passed between the council and myself. I made it abundantly clear that I was the student and that I would be implementing all the needed changes. 

From that moment, the village church owned me. When word got out to the rest of the village, they also decided to give me a chance. Soon I was being treated as a rather large but not very well-educated child. The grandmothers took me under their care. Chiefs and elders started to tell me teaching stories. I was given the unofficial title of Village Lepled. I was theirs. They radicalized me. They trained me so well that when it came time for me to integrate to the greater church, I couldn't do it. I was pretty good in the village but pathetic in a mainstream church.  

Since those days, the village has changed dramatically. The people and the situation that changed me no longer exist. Indeed, Canada has also changed dramatically.  

Which is why I'm no longer a radical. I am, at most, an old opinionated white man.

Brian