Doggie Doodoo and the Red Mass

It was a gorgeous late-September afternoon, still summer but hinting of the first flirt of autumn. For whatever reason, the doors of the cathedral hadn’t yet opened, but that simply meant we continued to enjoy one another’s company on the sun-dappled grass under the majestic maples, several hundred Ottawa lawyers fully gowned as if for court. Perhaps Lawyer Heaven is a bit like that.

The occasion was a Red Mass, held immediately after the formal Opening of the Courts, an annual event harking back to an earlier time when the courts actually did close for the summer and the Court of Chancery was in fact closer to its church roots. There was something restorative and meaningful in the ceremony, a rite of the profession, and a grand one at that, the barristers all gowned, and the judges in their various regalia. We all stood ten feet tall. Such things can be good for the soul.

The Red Mass was an unofficial adjunct to the Opening of the Courts, an event initiated by the Thomas More Guild of Ottawa some years before. In its early days the Mass was a very eclectic and ecumenical affair– in fact, the first ever prayer at the very first Mass was offered in Hebrew by Hyman Soloway, whose name would correctly suggest that he was not Catholic. Jews, Catholics, Protestants, Muslims, and agnostics all reverently gathered to celebrate our profession and to invoke the blessing of God, or Allah, or the Universe, or Whoever, or each other, all done very respectfully as gowned brothers and sisters.

And so it was in this spirit, somewhat mellowed by the intervening wine and cheese reception, that we all stood waiting on the Cathedral lawns in the gentle sunshine. It was my good fortune to have with me two young members of our firm who, as I recall, I had cajoled into coming along. It would be good for their souls and their careers, I had told them.

Appropriately enough, there in the soft September afternoon, the air redolent with lawyerliness, I exhorted my young companions to be and become everything which was good and praiseworthy as barristers. And they were, I’m sure, filled with inspiration and awe, until, that is, one of them looked down and remarked, “Norm, you’re standing in a huge pile of dog shit.”

And so I was.

The excrement was so fresh that it still steamed, and given the dimensions of the pile, it had been created by a beast of considerable size. You may correctly assume that the lofty exhortations of just a minute ago became much more earthy, and we all agreed that it was because of my sanctimonious rant that I had neither seen nor smelled the offensive mess.

But that wasn’t the end of it.

Shoes cleaned up as best as possible under the circumstances, I joined my colleagues in solemn procession into the hallowed place, the autumn sun shafting down from Heaven through the stained glass. The majestic tones of the pipe organ filled the old cathedral as the Archbishop of Ottawa led his clergy to the chancel, all of them spectacularly robed. If angels had appeared, nobody would have been surprised.

The archbishop was new to Ottawa, said to be something of a tough guy sent in to settle a handful of financial and abuse scandals and to hose down an overenthusiastic ecumenism. For the first time in the history of the Red Mass, there were no clergy other than his own. Perhaps we should have seen where this was going.

After the typical welcomes and observations came the mass. Then the Archbishop took the pulpit, splendid in his regalia. Behind him were a dozen very old, very white, men. Some of them had been in the news, not in a good way.

As it happened, just down the street, Parliament was in session and actively debating changes to Canada’s definition of marriage, occasioned by a series of court cases which had found the existing “one man and one woman” definition to be unconstitutional. Regardless of our personal religious views, few among us disagreed technically with the constitutional finding,

The archbishop was clearly exercised about what Parliament was doing, and had clearly primed himself to speak to legal practitioners, mistakenly thinking that we had some kind of inside influence with Parliament. I think he wanted us to storm the House of Commons.

His determination was apparent, his oratorical skill was not– in fact, he was a dreadful public speaker. Nevertheless, the motley collection of Protestants, Jews, Muslims, Catholics, Atheists, Agnostics, Buddhists, and Wiccans sat politely, if stonily, before him, feeling exactly like the proverbial fish in a barrel.

As courtroom lawyers, we all had mental tricks to make time pass in such circumstances, and they helped somewhat as ten minutes turned into twenty, and twenty turned into forty, and still the droning went on. And on. And on. Adam and Eve were mentioned more than once, as was family. Every time the words “child” or “children” were uttered, a few of the old white men on stage seemed to brighten somewhat. Maybe that was their way of making the time pass more quickly, a kind of word challenge game.

At last, some time before the sun set, we were released. I chalked up at least six deep lessons in communication and public speaking– know your audience, respect your audience, ensure relevance of message, avoid negative background symbolism, match vocal tone to the message, and above all else, be brief.

As we emerged into the cool of the early evening, one of my young colleagues turned to me and said, “Well, Norm, you weren’t the only one standing in dog shit today.”

Indeed.