Sunday morning marked my second attempt to go to church in Canada. With the birth of Jesus looming, I need to find someplace to go Christmas Eve, or else come Saturday I know I will be overwhelmed with feelings of not just homesickness, but seasonal impropriety.
The first church I stumbled upon in Toronto was St. Thomas, an old parish adjacent to the University of Toronto. I discovered it when I googled “Best Church Choirs Toronto.” I figured if the preaching sucked, at least the choir would be good. I was right on both counts.
I am not in any position to tell someone how to give a good sermon. But I can pontificate, if you will, on how not to give a sermon. One should not summarize the Gospel and the readings, paraphrasing the main points and coming to an obvious moral conclusion while utilizing banal phrases such as “clothed in righteousness” and “in anticipation of God’s grace.” (Which doesn’t even make sense. The very concept of grace is that we’re blessed– or graced– with it every day. But never mind.) The choir was decent, but the congregation was old and unwelcoming. They chanted most of the responses, so I couldn’t participate and felt lost. I didn’t fit in there. I left between the Liturgy of the Word and the Eucharist, which happened to be right before the collection plate was passed. Oops. Octogenarians glared at me as I snuck guiltily out the side door. But I just couldn’t take it anymore.
The following week the Cathedral of St. James proved to be just as bad. Not only did the preacher, to so-called Primate of Canada– whatever that is– preach an uninspiring sermon, but he did so in a voice that could only be intended to put us to sleep. As if in divinity school he’d been told, “What the congregation really wants is a nap right now, so could you drone with a little less enthusiasm, please? They’ll be sure to promote you to Primate.”
To make matters worse, his subject matter this fourth week of Advent was Gabriel’s announcement to Mary. Prior to the sermon the service had been better than St. Thomas. The fully professional choir reminded me of home. There were people in the pews, and at least ten of them were under the age of 92. I even counted six black people among the congregation– a rarity in any Anglican church, let alone one in the heart of Canada. But then the Primate ascended the pulpit and ruined everything.
He had such rich material! The virgin birth has always bugged me. I think it bugs any honest modern person. We’ve all read The Davinci Code and know that the virgin birth issue was either completely invented or at least revitalized in the Middle Ages to enforce a patriarchal system of rule. I personally believe that the Virgin Mother thing got blown out of proportion by some gossip-y disciples. I think it went like this:
Disciple 1: Isn’t Jesus smart?
Disciple 2: Mmm-hmm. And his mama a virgin, too.
Disciple 1: (eyes widening) Really?!
Disciple 2: Mmm-hmmm. Her Baby Daddy is God.
And thus a religion is born. In none of the Gospels does Jesus say “The meek shall inherit the earth. And by the way, Mom was a virgin.” It just isn’t important, the same way it’s not important if a priest is a woman or if a child has two daddies.
However, I don’t think that a Bible story has to be factual to be true. The truth of the Anunciation is that Mary bent to the will of God, through whose power nothing is impossible, a concept that is even harder to grasp than a virgin birth, although I’m working hard on it. Which is why I go to church in the first place, I guess. I don’t go to hear the Gospel paraphrased and regurgitated. Why would anyone go for that? If there’s no insight to be gained spiritually or intellectually, why make time every Sunday to go? And if there’s no nourishment offered, what future does the church– any church– actually have?
Once again I left out the side door before the service ended. I asked myself why I care so much. Most people show up someplace on Christmas, snooze through the service, and leave. But I don’t want to be like that. I don’t want to be someone who goes through the motions, especially when it comes to God. I feel like there is a yearning among people of my generation to glean some sort of spiritual meaning from life. I happen to believe that Jesus had some insight into this and am happy to call myself a Christian in that regard. But the people who are seeking God, who are seeking meaning, aren’t finding it in mundane services intended for the elderly.
I don’t know where I’m going to go on Christmas. My husband and I will have to improvise. Maybe we’ll have to suffer through a lousy service in an unfamiliar space. Or maybe we’ll just stay home and create our own little tradition or ritual, something meaningful to us. Something that will most likely involve a celebratory glass of wine.
