Montreal

I had a fantastic time in Montreal—truly one of those trips that leaves you feeling both refreshed and a little wistful when it’s over.

As I always do, I spent some time in the Village, which never disappoints, but I made sure this trip wasn’t only about nightlife. One of my favorite stops was the Montreal Museum of Fine Arts, where I saw The Torlonia Collection, a remarkable exhibition of Roman sculpture.

Of all art forms, sculpture has always been the one that speaks to me most, and this exhibit did not disappoint. What fascinated me most was not just the ancient works themselves, but the visible history layered onto them. Many of the sculptures had been damaged over time—arms missing, hands broken, features worn away—and then “repaired” during the Renaissance.

These restorations were not neutral. Renaissance artists interpreted what should have been there, and in doing so, they left their own mark on antiquity. One statue in particular stood out: an athlete whose original form had lost several parts, including an arm, a hand, and his penis. When these were restored, the additions reflected Renaissance ideals more than Roman ones—especially the rather substantial size of the newly added anatomy.

That detail might sound amusing, but it actually reveals something deeper about cultural values. In ancient Greco-Roman art, the ideal male nude was typically depicted with relatively modest proportions. A large penis was often associated with foolishness or lack of restraint, not heroic virtue. Bodies were idealized after gods—balanced, controlled, harmonious. 

By contrast, the Renaissance reinterpretation leaned into a different aesthetic, and the difference was striking—especially when this restored athlete stood beside an intact Roman sculpture. The contrast was immediate and, honestly, a bit jarring once you understood the symbolism behind it.

It was also a reminder of how art is never entirely fixed. Even ancient works continue to be shaped—physically and intellectually—by the cultures that encounter them later.

I’ve visited the museum before, but this exhibition made the trip especially worthwhile. If you ever have the chance to see it, I highly recommend it.

I also stopped by a temporary exhibit on M. C. Escher near Place des Arts. His work is endlessly fascinating—those impossible staircases and mind-bending tessellations never really lose their charm.

That said, I found myself less impressed with the exhibit itself than with the art. The lighting felt off in several areas, and the layout didn’t always serve the pieces as well as it could have. It’s funny—I don’t think I would have noticed these things as much before working in a museum. Once you’ve been involved in installing exhibits yourself, you start to see all the little decisions that shape how visitors experience a space… and when those decisions don’t quite land.

Beyond the museums, I did a little shopping, wandered the city, and simply enjoyed being somewhere that feels vibrant and alive. Montreal has a way of offering just enough of everything—art, culture, nightlife, and quiet moments when you need them.

All in all, it was a wonderful trip. I just hope it won’t be another seven years before I make it back—and next time, I’d like to stay a bit longer than three nights.

Sleeping Late

More later…

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Greatly Beloved Were You to Me

“When David had finished speaking to Saul, the soul of Jonathan was bound to the soul of David, and Jonathan loved him as his own soul.” 

—1 Samuel 18:1

There are certain images that stay with us—not just as works of art, but as moments of recognition.

For me, David by Michelangelo has always been one of those images.

I still remember the first time I saw him in person in Florence. I had just arrived, and visiting the Galleria dell’Accademia was one of the very first things I did. I walked into that long gallery, and there he was—at the end, illuminated, larger than life. I remember looking up with a kind of awe that felt both artistic and deeply personal. It wasn’t just the mastery of the sculpture—it was presence. Humanity carved into stone.

When I first started this blog, I chose David and Me by Steve Walker as my avatar. It reminded me of myself the first time I stood before David—looking up, searching, captivated. Back then, I even physically resembled the figure in Walker’s painting. I’m older now. It has been over twenty years since I last visited Florence, and I’ve changed in ways I could not have imagined then.

But the awe remains.

And because of that fascination with David, I have always found myself drawn not only to the figure in marble, but to the story in scripture—to the love between David and Jonathan.

“Then Jonathan made a covenant with David, because he loved him as his own soul.”—1 Samuel 18:3

From the very beginning, their relationship is described in language that is intimate, binding, and profound. Their souls are knit together. Their love is named openly. A covenant is made—not out of obligation, but out of love.

“Jonathan made David swear again by his love for him; for he loved him as he loved his own life.”—1 Samuel 20:17

This is not casual affection. This is not distant loyalty. This is a love that insists on being spoken, reaffirmed, and held fast even in the face of danger.

“They kissed each other, and wept with each other; David wept the more.”—1 Samuel 20:41

There is tenderness here. Physical closeness. Emotional vulnerability. Grief shared without restraint.

And then, in the end, there is lament.

“I am distressed for you, my brother Jonathan; greatly beloved were you to me; your love to me was wonderful, passing the love of women.”—2 Samuel 1:26

Few passages in scripture speak of love with such intensity. So what are we to make of it? Was this admiration? A deep and abiding friendship?

Was it something like the bond between Achilles and Patroclus, or between Alexander the Great and Hephaestion—relationships that have long existed in that space between friendship and something more?

Or could it have been a love that was intimate in ways the text does not fully define, but does not deny?

The truth is, we will never know with certainty.

But we can pay attention to the language. The Hebrew does not shy away from words of love, of binding, of covenant. It does not diminish their connection. And yet, across centuries, translations and interpretations have often been shaped by the assumptions and discomforts of those doing the translating.

Some render the relationship in ways that feel safer—contained, strictly platonic. Others allow the emotional depth to remain, even if they stop short of naming it outright.

Which raises a different question: not only what was their relationship, but what are we willing to see in it?

For many LGBTQ+ people of faith, this story resonates deeply.

We know what it is to form bonds that others do not understand. We know what it is to love in ways that are questioned, reinterpreted, or denied.We know what it is to hear our stories explained away.

And yet, here in scripture, the love between David and Jonathan is not erased. It is spoken. It is remembered. It is grieved.

I think about that when I think of David—both the young man of scripture and the figure carved in marble.

Strength and beauty, yes. But also vulnerability. Connection. Love that dares to speak its name, even in a world that may not fully understand it.

Maybe we don’t need to resolve the question of what, exactly, David and Jonathan were to each other. Maybe it is enough to let their story remain open—to allow it to hold possibility.

Because for those of us who have been told that our love has no place in sacred story, even the possibility matters.

Even the words themselves are enough:

Greatly beloved were you to me.

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Moment of Zen: A Room with a View

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Ah, Montreal…

The drive up to Montreal was a pleasant one. Even the Canadian border guard was nice—unexpectedly so (and, I have to admit, very easy on the eyes). In all the times I’ve made this trip, I’ve always found it a bit odd that the Canadian guards tend to be the stern ones while the Americans are usually more relaxed. I suppose I’ll find out on the return trip whether that still holds true. One can hope for consistency… or at least a repeat of yesterday’s good fortune.

But enough about border crossings.

It felt wonderful last night to wander through the Village again and to be reminded what it’s like to be in a real city—energy, movement, people everywhere. It’s something I don’t get nearly enough of, and I’ve missed it more than I realized.

My hotel room also came with an unexpected gift: a beautiful view of the St. Lawrence River. There’s something calming about watching the water, especially in the early morning light.

And speaking of morning—I actually slept in. That alone feels like a luxury, and it’s why this post is a bit later than usual.

Now, it’s time for a proper start to the day: breakfast, a good cup of coffee, and then out to explore more of Montreal.

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At Last

Finally, the day has come. I’m leaving for four days in Montreal.

It’s been too long—since 2019—and I’ve missed the city more than I realized. This trip feels like a long-overdue chance to step away, relax, and just enjoy myself for a few days. I’m looking forward to wandering through a few museums, doing a little shopping, and spending some time in The Village. From what I’ve seen, it’s changed a bit since the pandemic, but I’m still excited to revisit some of my favorite spots, maybe check out a few bars, and just have some fun.

More than anything, though, I’m looking forward to something simple: being a visitor.

For once, I won’t be thinking about programming, planning events, or representing the museum. I won’t be teaching, guiding, or organizing anything. I’ll just be another person walking through galleries, taking things in at my own pace, enjoying the experience without responsibility.

That alone feels like a vacation.

The weather is supposed to be sunny and cool—exactly the kind of weather I love—so everything seems perfectly timed. After a busy stretch of work, I’m ready for a few days to breathe, explore, and recharge.

Montreal, here I come.