The editorial staff of this magazine, of which I'm a member, occasionally tries to package several stories with a similar theme. But it was only after the April issue had gone to the printers that I realized we had run three stories and the editorial all variously discussing the issue of church and church buildings. There was a news story about Ontario's proposed heritage building law, an interview with Alison Elliot, the Scottish moderator, who argued that old buildings ought to be razed in order to raise spiritual consciousness and an article about a new-wave church that meets in a movie theatre. The editorial admonished the Ontario government's cavalier attitude towards churches that own heritage buildings.
I have a simple solution to the government's hasty dealings: We should sell all of our heritage buildings. As far as I'm concerned they can all be converted to condos, let Alice buy one and turn it into a restaurant, let them be bowling alleys or bingo halls. Most old church buildings continue to house congregations only because of a history of bequests, and even then a good chunk of the budget is wasted on restoring, renovating, maintaining and heating these caverns. The majority of our old church buildings sit in the downtown cores of major cities, on real estate that is worth millions, if not tens and hundreds of millions of dollars. Those bequests are worth another fortune.
Oh yes, of course they are beautiful, and some are even architecturally unique. But most of them in Canada, regardless of their age, are copies of finer examples in Europe. Some have magnificent organs, but, let's be honest, most of our old church buildings are nothing but living museums, their greatest exhibit being a dusty and fading memory of the energetic congregations they once housed.
Church isn't about tradition, it's about mission. Let's sell these beautiful, soaring old barns, collect the cash, and make certain there is a storefront church in each and every mall in this country. That's right, inside those ugly modern commercial meccas, because malls are the public squares of our time. That's where the people are, and that is where the church should be. Not in some sequestered sanctuary, too precious to be public.
We should have a Starbucks policy — let there be a Presbyterian church beside every Starbucks. And a Gap policy — let there be a Presbyterian church beside every Gap store. Let us provide real sanctuary to the weary consumer. Let us be egalitarian. And fraternal. Instead of begging the masses to come to our distant homes, let us go where they go.
Think of the haggard shopper, the lonely senior, the confused adolescent, and the other poor souls who populate our malls, along with you and I. Imagine if there was a place they could go — sit down, and find peace. There in front of them is a five minute film, a meditation with music and images and scripture, which loops constantly. Each day a new meditation, something from the lectionary, and within hailing distance a pastor to lend an ear and give guidance.
And on Sunday morning, and maybe even mid-week, let the congregation attached to that storefront church make a joyful noise inside the deafening den of petty commerce. Let us all dare to be Daniels. We weekly raise our voices to the Lord in buildings cloistered from our communities. Let us take our voice into the community — let us be heard by those who need to hear.
The greatest religion of North America is commerce; there is none other that threatens supremacy. Our religion is an often strangled voice in the buying frenzy of the marketplace. Though it is true that tens of thousands of Christians worship the Lord each Sunday in each village, town and city, it is equally true that hundreds of thousands of others are out shopping, sipping coffees, having brunch.
Each of our heritage buildings speaks a language that, if not dead, is choking.
Its location made sense a hundred years ago when it was built — its builders did some sort of market research and decided that's the corner that'll have a grand Presbyterian presence. Its catchment was so defined. Up until — let's say arbitrarily — 1950, the language of that building was well understood. But no more. It no longer speaks tradition, it mutters nostalgia.
Let us not be in love with our traditions just because they are our traditions. Let us question them, reflect upon them. Let us think about their intentions — what was the purpose of this magnificent structure? And how is that purpose best defined today?
