When the story of the 2025 election campaign is written, when it takes up its place in the history section in the library, what will be said? What will be the moral of the tale?

Every election is like a book. It has a beginning, a middle and the end.  It has its protagonists and its antagonists, its lesser characters, its moments of pathos and bathos.  It has (usually, hopefully) a plot.

The plot in this one, this election story, was simple. Everything was going one way, towards a conclusion that seemed inevitable: the ascension of Pierre Poilievre to the office of Prime Minister, and a historically-huge Conservative Parliamentary majority – and the reduction of the despised Justin Trudeau Liberals to irrelevance.

And then, at the end of the first chapter in January, a villain entered the plot. The villain was so awful, so rotten, so cruel, he was almost a caricature. But he was real. Simultaneously, Justin Trudeau – defeated, dejected, no longer the right one for the coming battle – left the stage. 

Without warning, without just cause, the next chapter commenced with the villain named Donald Trump destroying things: the established world order, free trade, the rule of law. That was chapter two. Peace, order, and good government were shredded, and by chapter three – in and around the month of February, 2025 – the skies had gone dark and the inevitable conclusion, a Pierre Poilievre majority government, was no longer inevitable.

As plot twists go, it was almost fantastical. For that month, for that chapter, Canadians quietly went about their business, shaking their heads, quiet as church mice. Initially, we dismissed Trump’s threats as a deeply unfunny joke, told by a drunken guy at the end of the bar who refuses to leave at closing time. Then, eventually, none of it was funny anymore, and Canadians cancelled Spring Break trips to Florida or Arizona or Hawaii, and they stopped buying Campbell’s Soup. Chapter three: a crisis deepens. 

The putative hero of the piece, like all of the best heroes (King Arthur, Spiderman, David of Goliath fame), didn’t initially resemble one. He didn’t look or sound remotely like a saviour. Mark Carney, in style and content, had a banker’s approach, mainly because that was all he had ever been. It was hard to picture him in a suit of shining armour, leading a brave charge up the hill against the villain Trump. 

Pierre Poilievre, meanwhile, did look like a warrior, because that was all that he had ever been. He had a soldier’s swagger and mien. It was easy to picture him defending the Alamo, or Gettysburg, or emerging victorious at Iwo Jima. 

And therein lays the big plot twist: those were American battles, and American victories, weren’t they? There was something about Pierre Poilievre’s way – his choice of language, his policies, his style – that suggested, subtly and then not so subtly, that he may not have his musket pointed in the right direction when the final battle happened.

In other books, in other tales, there have been characters a bit like that. Dr. Watson to Sherlock Holmes, Trapper John to Hawkeye, even Chewbacca to Han Solo. Great characters, great heroes. But always playing second fiddle to the main guy. Here, in this book, that’s the quiet, analytical banker who sometimes spins fantastical tales of his own. Mark Carney.

It’s an odd story, this 2025 Canadian general federal election. An epic battle – literally, truly – for a nation’s existence, for all the marbles. And, in a plot twist that will be remembered long after the book is put away, the people abruptly decided to put their fates in the hands of the guy who has never been in a war like this before. And not the other guy, the fighter named Poilievre.

That, at the conclusion of this book, is the moral of the tale: sometimes, the people will surprise you. Sometimes, they will not rally behind the warrior, the one who knows how to fight. Sometimes, they will choose the other guy – not because they believe he is a soldier. They will choose him to lead because they think his heart is in the right place. Because they think he isn’t going side with the villain, at the end.

Quite a book, isn’t it? Doesn’t sound believable. But it’s on its way to becoming a bestseller, just the same.

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What if the Conservatives lose?

Every poll, just about, now suggests they will. The seat projections are worse. Even the polls that describe a very tight race – like Mainstreet – project a Mark Carney Liberal majority.

Polls are a snapshot in time, the saying goes, and they are. So, politicos pay attention instead to the trendline: that is, what a number of polls – over a longish period of time and asking substantially the same groups of people substantially similar questions – have to say. That’s the trendline.

The trendline, for Pierre Poilievre’s Conservatives, has been very grim indeed. Since the departure of Justin Trudeau, and the return of Donald Trump, the Poilievre Tories have presided over one of the most astonishing polling freefalls in living memory.

In January, not so long ago, the Conservatives were enjoying extraordinary popularity. Their lead over the Liberals seemed insurmountable: 26 points with Ipsos, 24 with Angus Reid. Abacus and Innovative, 21 points. Leger – the outfit that was the most accurate in recent federal elections – pegged their lead at 18 points.

It was the stuff of political fairytales. It meant that Poilievre was on track to win one of the biggest – if not the biggest – Parliamentary majorities in Canadian history.

And then, everything changed.

As in all things political, it’s never one thing that kills you. It’s a multiplicity of things: Trump hello, Trudeau goodbye, 51st state, tariffs. Add to that the ascension of Mark Carney to the Liberal throne – and the Conservatives’ stubborn refusal to adjust their strategy accordingly – and you have a formula for disaster.

From the heady days of a near-30-point lead to now: the Liberals ahead three points with Ipsos, and five points with Reid. Abacus, three points. Leger showing four points – and Reid showing the Grits with crushing leads in the seat-abundant cities of Vancouver, Toronto and Montreal.

How did this happen? Poilievre and his chief strategist, Jenni Byrne, have a run a tight, disciplined campaign. They had candidate bimbo eruptions, yes, but so did everyone else. Truly, Poilievre and Byrne didn’t make many big mistakes. At all.

It is easy to understand, then, the crushing disappointment the Tories now feel: they have effectively lost 30 percentage points in a matter of weeks. That has never really happened before, as noted.

So, what happens now?

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The first Jesuit Pope is gone.

Like my father, I was taught by Jesuits. At Loyola High School in Montreal, Jesuit priests were not just teachers to generations of Roman Catholic boys – they were giants, men who reshaped our lives, pushing us towards changing society, and not merely being part of it.

The Society of Jesus, as it is called, is different than any other Catholic religious order. Within the Church, Jesuits have for centuries relentlessly advocated for education, research and scientific truth. Within our poor Irish Catholic family, my father became the first doctor – and I the first lawyer.

The Jebs, as my father called them, were the ones who taught us about the labour movement, about emancipation of the poor, about pushing always for government to become a force of good in the lives of all people – whether Catholic or not.

Francis became the first Jesuit Pope, improbably, twelve years ago. For those of us who had been taught by Jesuits, his ascension in Rome was a shock and a promise. The Church, we hoped, would finally embrace modernity and progress: the ordination of women, the open acceptance of LGBTQ Catholics, the abandonment of doctrinaire policies that had driven millions away from the Church.

He changed some things, but was often foiled by traditionalist forces within the Church. But always, Francis displayed the Jesuitical commitment to positive change and moving forward, and a Church that was not just a retrograde, antediluvian institution mired in the past.

He was a teacher before he became a Pope, lecturing on philosophy and psychology at high schools and universities. He loved the works of Fyodor Dostoevsky, CS Lewis, and TS Eliot. And he was unwavering in his commitment to teaching throughout his life.

How proud we were of him! He practiced what he preached, always. Staying at a hotel during the papal enclave that elected him, and paying his own bill. Moving around the Vatican in an old Ford. And – most of all – being the voice of the world’s poor, always urging world leaders to improve the circumstances of the ones who lived with hunger and powerlessness.

To be taught by Jesuits – at Loyola in Montreal, at St. Mary’s in Halifax, at Campion College in Regina, Fordham in New York City, Georgetown in Washington, Gonzaga in Washington State (where I was offered a spot at their law school) – was to receive one of the best educations one could get, anywhere in the world. Going back to their founding by Saint Ignatius in the 1500s, Jesuit educators became known as “the Soldiers of God.”

They would go anywhere to teach and serve – often to the poorest, most dangerous places. They became known for always pushing for change – angering some in power, and leading to their official suppression in the 1700s. But they would be back in the 1800s, their commitment to social change unchecked.

President Bill Clinton, Senator John Kerry, Mexican President Vicente Fox, White House Chief of Staff Alexander Haig, Dr. Anthony Fauci, French President Charles de Gaulle, Finance Minister Jim Flaherty, Pierre Trudeau at Jean-de-Brebeuf and now Prime Minister Mark Carney at St.  Francis Xavier in Edmonton: through the Centuries, those given a Jesuitical education were urged to advocate for a better future within government, law, journalism and education.

In school, Jesuits like Francis taught us about labour leaders like Cesar Chavez, Watergate reporters Bob Woodward and Carl Bernstein, and – of course – Saint Ignatius, who famously said: “Give me the child until he is seven and I will show you the man.”

But Francis’ order didn’t just educate Catholic boys. At Loyola, I had Jewish and Muslim classmates, and we were expected to learn and know their faiths and traditions, too. At other Jesuit institutions – not quite yet Loyola High in those days – girls were taught, as well. U.S. Senators Lisa Murkowski, Catherine Masto and Mazie Hirono were all educated by Jesuits.

Nudging their students towards public life was a constant theme in Francis’ order. When my parents made the decision to build a new life in Calgary – far from the language wars then roiling Montreal – my mother told Father Francis O’Brien, my history teacher. Father O’Brien looked disappointed.

“That’s too bad,” he said to my mother. “We had plans for your son.”

That, perhaps, was the best articulation of the philosophy of the Jesuits, and their greatest alumni, Pope Francis: they were teachers, always pushing their students towards change. They had plans for us.

We are unlikely to see the likes of the Jesuit named Francis again in our lifetimes. May God bless and keep him, always.

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