Obituary: Fintan Kilbride (1927-2006)

Though I'm scarcely qualified to eulogize a man whom I only knew in his twilight years, the passing of Fintan Kilbride over the holiday season - the only person I would call a mentor - has inspired me to write a few words about someone who touched the lives of so many, myself included.

I easily remember the first time I met Fintan. High school graduation was only months away and I was rudderless, hopelessly drifting towards an uninspired undergraduate degree that felt more like an impending jail sentence than the privilege of higher education. That spring, way back in 2001, I improbably found myself in an information session on volunteering. The only reason I even went was because my OAC global issues teacher gave bonus marks for attending such seminars outside of class. Amidst some stuff about landmines and sweatshops, an imposing figure took the floor to recruit students for his twice-annual missions to Jamaica.

Fintan stood tall, even as a septuagenarian, his pallid face wizened by years of work in the sweltering heat of the tropics. His stature was highlighted by a lithe but muscular figure that any 30-something would be proud of, even if his diminishing crop of hair belied his vitality. A Roman-Catholic priest turned high school teacher, I imagined he could put the fear of God into a callow teenager at a moment's notice. But the lilt of his Irish brogue was disarming and, with a infectiously broad smile, Fintan had me determined to raise enough money to join him on a two-week excursion that summer.

He made it clear from the start what the trip wasn't about: religion or altruism. Despite his strong personal faith and religious background, there was no pressure or expectation to be Christian while in Jamaica, though the nature of the experience was inevitably spiritual. He had a similar distaste for seeming the haughty Canadians swooping in to teach the enfeebled Jamaicans a thing or two. We had more to learn from them, he insisted, then they did from us.

And learn we did - from the exuberance of the children living in the garbage dump; the disfigured lepers who sang and danced with us without a care in the world; the audible gunshots from the slums of Kingston at night - Fintan was there to put it into context. He transported a small library to the islands, and at night he'd have us reading away on everything from gay rights to globalization to first-world suicide rates. While we gained insight into the social injustice we witnessed on the streets, Fintan's ultimate goal was to expose the superficiality and excess of our own culture that caused it.

But Jamaica was a mere summer vacation for Fintan's tireless work. Throughout the year he would build schools in Haiti and deliver medical supplies to Nicaragua, all the while teaching at Toronto-area Catholic schools. He recalled with great satisfaction the wager he would make with petulant children: beat him in jump rope and they could all go home. No student ever succeeded.

Through long conversations and much laughter, I learned a little of Fintan's compelling life story. A priest, teacher and consummate athlete, the man was full of surprises and unbelievable stories of humanity. A bit of a renegade in the Catholic Church - he was a vocal critic of priests being unable to marry and women being disallowed priesthood - he served stints in Trinidad and Nigeria that seemed to cement his connection to the developing world. I'll never forget his story of being shot down while flying medical supplies into Biafra during the Nigerian Civil War, the province where he'd built schools and hospitals. Or how he, as a priest, fell in love with a nun and the two of them left the Church to build a beautiful family together.

It's probably those little anecdotes that I'll remember most about him. How he said he'd always clean up a public washroom if there was litter on the counter top. How he'd be after me to go out for coffee whenever I was in the GTA, even after our Jamaica days were well behind us. How I'd receive letters from him out of the blue when I didn't even know he had my new contact information. How I had to cut his toenails when his sciatic nerve was acting up. How I mistakenly challenged him to a friendly game of table tennis and was soundly drubbed by a man 55 years my senior.

Only later did he tell me he was the world racquetball champion at his age level and the one below him. He could have been the champ at my age level, I remembered thinking.

After that formative summer in 2001, I went off to university and promptly changed my major to global studies, my eyes literally opened to a new world of opportunities. I ended up going back to Jamaica for a second time the next summer, and kept in contact with Fintan until I left Canada a couple years ago on another global exchange. Though we drifted apart, I still think of him often; what he taught me; what he meant to so many others around the world. As I carry my life forward and dear Fintan fades into memory, his creed of "peace, love and respect" won't be soon forgotten.