The Salvation Army holds a high place in my family's heart. The men in my mother's family fought for Canada in the Great war, and along with any muted stories that have been passed down to me about bayonets, trenches and mustard gas, I was and am always told that of all the relief and aid agencies, the Sally Anne was the only one that were consistently there for the men.
That was almost 100 years ago, but their actions then have echoed through my family and my blood so that I, like my mother, feel shame every time we pass a Salvation Army Christmas collector without giving, even if we just emptied our pockets to the fellow at the other side of the mall.
As it turns out I even have a Great Grandmother who belonged to them, but for a church that I had always heard of, "shopped" at, and have always revered, I knew next to nothing about it before this morning. I stepped into the small, comparatively spartan parish, nestled in a pleasant, affluent neighbourhood in Oakville for the first time about half an hour before service began and was immediately set upon by half a dozen interested greeters all 25+ years my senior. They showed me around, listened to me talk about "All Our Sundays" and passed me from friendly parishioner to friendly parishioner, so that by the time I took a seat for the service, I'd had a quick conversation with a dozen people.
The church's insides were plain white-painted drywall dressed with simple stained glass windows. The sanctuary had a collapsable table beside the pulpit that held an opened laptop connected to a projector, and behind that, a drum set (said one of my hosts, "We have a drum set, we're still looking for a drummer") and a simple wooden crucifix centred on the wall. I sat in a pew ahead of Colleen, who told me with some excitement about the mission work her congregation was involved in, a large shelter called the lighthouse amongst other things, and her zeal for their undertakings was as electric as it was shared with everyone else. She told me she had been raised in the United Church, my church, and we talked for a while about our familiar stomping ground.
I asked her casually how she had ended up with the Salvation Army, and without missing a beat she replied that they had taken her in. This well-heeled woman, a banker, had been down and out and had needed a bed to sleep in, and the Army had been there for her. She said it proudly and it was the closest anybody I met there got to boasting. These guys do two things better than anybody I've yet to meet, Mission and humility.
The service started with music from a 5-piece brass band I thought was great, and between a tuba and a trumpet about forty souls piled in for service. This particular Sunday the church was celebrating their various missions, and a contingent from their Lighthouse community centre arrived. A number of them looked exactly like you would expect people living in an emergency shelter would look like, and you figure out very quickly that this church is busy walking the walk and doing the heavy lifting.
We opened the service with "Onward Christian Soldier, marching as if to war", which I'm familiar with but have never actually sung before, and my hosts made no bones about singing at the top of their lungs.
I was busy carrying on a quiet conversation with another "officer" behind me while the woman performing the announcements introduced me to the congregation, and then reintroduced me, and then re-reintroduced me before I turned around to pay attention (in my defence, the three ladies behind me were pretty chatty).
The main reading was from Acts 2:42 (New International Version), and the sermon was delivered by the female half of a married team of "Majors"(Wendy and Dan). I've never heard a sermon less draped in craft, or more humble. She talked at length clearly and simply about how incredible the growth of the early church must have been, about how church is exciting now. She talked about numbers, about how even though a majority of Canadians identified themselves as Christian, something like 20% attended church regularly. She called Christians who didn't go to church "orphans", and talked about the necessity of belonging and the value of being a community.(I have plenty of friends who feel that way, who don't have anything bad to say about Jesus, but feel about church the way other people feel about the dentist. I get some wonky answers when I ask them what they think goes on.)
The readings and the sermon were all dressed with exclamations from the crowd, and every point a speaker would make would be followed by a rousing "amen" or "Praise god" from all corners of the church. Those sorts of exclamations are foreign to my Church upbringing, and I'm always taken by their spontaneity, but what was even more unfamiliar was the THREE WHOLE HYMNS sung in a row halfway through the service. Three loud, sequential hymns I'd never heard before, with no accompanying sheet music. Three songs in which a shaky tenor voice could be heard missing notes, beats and entire stanzas. It was in-church equivalent of running a marathon blindfolded and I'm pretty sure the ladies behind me weren't giggling "with" me at all.
The Salvation Army lives up to their reputation, and it is a congregation focused on service to the downtrodden. Church life here doesn't begin and end with Sunday service by a long shot, and while consequently the services probably aren't for everyone, when they say "welcome everyone" they really mean it, and if you're looking for a place to make a difference, they're drinking right from the well.
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