Dominion Day, Trudeau’s Socks and Canadian Martyrs

A blessed and joyous Dominion-Canada Day to all, as we mark the 150th anniversary of the signing on of those first few provinces into what is now known as ‘Canada’. It seems I must correct myself on this momentous occasion of my adopted country’s sesquicentennial birthday:  In my reflections on our vaunted Prime Minister marching in the recent ‘Gay Pride’ parade, I remarked that he was wearing rainbow socks. They looked like such to my untrained eye, seeing rainbows everywhere. But no.  As Mark Steyn has pointed out, the socks were actually Islamic, commemorating the post-Ramadan celebration of Eid, or more specifically Eid al-Fitr, the ‘festival of the breaking of the fast’.

As Steyn alludes, this is the fatuity of multiculturalism at its most absurd:  Justin Trudeau, who in some dim way still professes to be Catholic, at a parade celebrating the joys of sodomy and sexual deviance, wearing Islamic socks, all three ‘cultures’ in their own way not only mutually exclusive, but deeply antagonistic:  Islam, Catholicism, homosexualism.  How would one draw a Venn diagram of their overlapping contradictions?

Trudeau’s socks are a symbol of a decaying and quite literally dis-integrating Canada on her historical birthday:  Whatever was holding Canada together as a country, or more properly a dominion, holds no longer.  Timbits, hockey, maple leafs, and vague allusions to CFL, curling and lacrosse can only go so far. ‘I am Canadian‘ cried the actor, whose name I never knew, blandly handsome in a Ryan Reynolds-Canuck sort of way, in that Molson commercial a few years back, Yadda yadda, rah, rah, right on, eh, but what does being ‘Canadian’ mean?   What do we as a nation believe, hold true and dear? What do we want to hand on to our children, all those traditions that make a nation great, allowing it to survive through history against what enemies there be?  We stand on guard for thee, but for what are standing guard? All those pretty little things in pony tails flocking into our military and police forces, while legions of sadly vasectomized men play around in compensatory oversized pick-ups a-huntin’ and a -fishin’, wondering how someone like Trudeau was ever chosen to lead them.  What will we do when we must face a real threat?

As Steyn asks in a previous post, just how ‘Canadian’ is  a golf-club and knife swinging full-hijabbed, female would-be jihadist in the aisles of a Canadian Tire store, who considers herself no longer ‘Canadian’, but a member of the ISIS caliphate?  How many ‘citizens’, even ‘landed immigrants’ share her sympathies?   And why is our Prime Minister wearing the socks of a religion that seeks, in its inherent founding principles, to make him and the rest of us ‘submit’ to its harsh, gloomy, fatalistic teachings?  Wine and music, to mention just two of the great joys of life (well, I will add dark ale), gone and goner under Sharia law, to say nothing of all the spiritual joys and sustenance of our Catholic faith, not least the Holy Eucharist.

I sometimes wonder what Mr. Trudeau thinks about when he dresses himself, to say nothing of the other moments of his day.

Without a raison d’etre, there is no etre, no being, no present and definitely no future. Trudeau as the fin de siecle Prime Minister has a sort of pathetic chiastic  quality to it.  His Dad started all this mess, and it may be left to his wayward son to finish it.

Of course, I do hope for some sort of divine intervention, a grace from on high to set things right and I am praying every day for this fair land, thanking the good God for its beauty, the freedoms and opportunities we still enjoy, the water and fresh air, and even all the noble and good people I have had the honour of meeting and even befriending.

On Monday,  I plan a personal pilgrimage to Martyrs’ Shrine in Midland which, besides Quebec and the whole history of Saint Francois de Laval, Champlain, the early faithful settlers and others hallowing la belle provence, it is that quiet, pleasant and bucolic area around Midland that may be considered the spiritual centre of Canada (certainly not the bloated bureaucracy in Ottawa).  Far from the centre of political power, on the rugged shores of Georgian Bay in the 1640’s, five Jesuit priests were martyred for the faith, shedding their blood for all that is good and true, for their beloved converts and for all future Canadians.  There is still that truly Catholic Canada that exists behind the confusion, nonsense, even evil, that so many of our modern politicians, professors and other elites are foisting upon future generations.  As Christ foretold, this can only be seen and heard by those with eyes to see and ears to hear.

So on that note of optimism, bonne anniversaire, Canada.  Ad multos annos in bonum et veritatem.