For some unknown reason, this morning I began thinking about my mother and her faith. My mother was one of those individuals who was deeply religious all her life. Raised in the Episcopal Church in Rochester, NY but attended the Church of England in Canada (the name used by the Anglican Church of Canada until 1956) while at Queen's University in Kingston, Ontario in the 1930s. She married my Dad, a United Church follower (baptized Methodist), in 1941 and was married in an Anglican church in Ottawa. After the war they settled in Montreal, but switched there to the United Church because their Anglican parish was Anglo-Catholic and both were not interested in that form of Christianity at all. In 1954, they moved to suburban Toronto and attended Thornhill United. In 1959, they moved to Windsor, Ontario and for a few months attended the local United Church. They then switched to St. Matthew's Anglican.
This is the bare bones story. But what was swirling through my head this morning was the communal and social side of this story. This communal side is, I think, as important or perhaps more important than belief for many if not most. 'Church' is as much a story of being part of a community as it is of theology, at least for the ordinary members.
I want to illustrate this with two anecdotes, one short and one longer.
The short anecdote looks at my father, the boy baptized Methodist in 1918 and become United Church in 1925. He married my Mum in an Anglican church because the custom was that marriages occur in the bride's denomination. In his heart I suspect he preferred the United Church - I hasten to add as it was in the past, not today. A generically Protestant church with all the usual moral strictures of strict Protestantism - all now pretty much abandoned. Why then, did he agree to attend an Anglican Church a form of Christianity that he stayed with until his death? His story: the Anglican minister was going door to door looking for converts to his new parish. The church did not yet have a church building, but had started very pragmatically with the hall. This building could be converted to worship Anglican style within a half hour. This is the first time I realized the importance of community: build the hall before the church. My Dad claimed that he hit it off with this minister at the door, and then took classes to become Anglican and the family switched. The two did have a love of English sports cars in common. But..... a few weeks before this happened, the minister at the local United Church my parents were attending, passed around the 'pledge' in a service. The 'Pledge' was a pledge to avoid the consumption of 'spiritous liquors'. There was no way on earth my Dad was going to give up his Labatt's IPA he drank while watching the CFL on TV every Saturday every Fall. I have always maintained that was the real reason for his conversion. My mother, of course, was Anglican anyway.
Turning to my mother, she became one of the church ladies at St. Matthew's. I attended Sunday school there, then church after confirmation. But she was one of the ladies who set up the hall for pot luck dinners, weddings, baptisms, funerals, Sunday school concerts, etc. etc. Most Girl Guide, Brownies, Cubs, Scouts in those days met in church halls and my mother duly became a Brownie, then Guide leader. She also taught in Sunday School, preferring the very young. I remember that hall better than I do the church they eventually built. They had a collection of China cups, saucers, plates and silverware (though probably that was not actually 'silver') which they hauled out to place on the tables they set up, with good quality table cloths for parish dinners, or for any of the celebrations mentioned just now. Everybody knew everybody and there were probably about 400 adults who regularly attended services and these celebrations in the hall. My mother was part of this for more than 40 years until she was no longer able to live on her own. My elder sister and I had to bring her to the Niagara region to live in a nursing home at that point. When she died, we arranged the funeral at her old parish in Windsor as many there still remembered her well and my father, brother and one sister were already buried in Windsor.
I gave the eulogy at her funeral. I have to digress here for a minute to tell my favourite story of her that got a good laugh at the funeral, but also sheds light on one church lady. Christians do laugh at funerals, especially for those who have had a good, long life. In the late 1950s, my parents lived in the suburbs just north of Toronto. Highland Park Blvd. the first east-west street north of Steeles off Yonge, to be precise. She could walk a block to catch a bus on Steeles that would take her south to the nearest subway station at Eglinton to go into Toronto to shop. But for normal shopping she relied on my father to take her to get groceries. It was decided she should get her driver's license. My parents hired a teacher who came to the house. I was there watching that day. The fellow parked his car. My mother got in the driver's seat of the family car and he got in the passenger. This car was a 1956 Packaard with a huge V8 engine - a giant 1950s powerhouse of heavy steel and an engine that roared if coaxed. These houses had ditches running along the side of the road then - each driveway had its own little earthen bridge over the ditch, but there was the ditch. The car started, purring loudly, then my mother tromped too hard on the gas and it flew back into the ditch. She had missed the little driveway bridge entirely. It sat there for a few moments, pointing to the sky, with occupants inside gesticulating and saying something no one could hear....later i learned that the teacher wanted her to get out and he would try to get the car out of the ditch. My mother was a very stubborn church lady. Instead, she floored it.The engine roared, the rear wheels spun in the ditch - fortunately dry then - and it rocketed out of the ditch and went flying at our house. For some reason, no doubt her guardian angel, she slammed on the brakes and it stopped a few inches short of the house. The driving teacher emerged, white and shaking and said to my mother, also out by then. "I think that's enough for today". He got in his car and left, never to return. This is the essence of my church lady mother. Never underestimate church ladies is a good motto.
I told this story at her funeral as I said. We went out the to cemetery for the burial. We came back to the church hall and the church ladies had set out the tables with good China and nibbles and coffee and of course tea for the mourners. I had the bitter sweet thought then and now that my mother had done the same for others probably thousands of times.
This is what church is about. This is what any religion is about for ordinary followers. Yes there are varied degrees of assent to the theology, but this is religion for all those who belong to these small communities.
