Crossings Community Church in Acton

I was recommended to a small coffee shop/Church in Acton (One town West and in the same municipality as my beloved Georgetown) by two independent sources.  I was told they were doing something amazing, something inspiring.  So, I was expecting a good time, running late on an unseasonably cold April Morning.  I parked a block away and sprinted across highway 7 to the building's modern coffee house facade and was greeted by a smoker shaped like a good offensive guard parked against the side of the door keeping warm. He grunted a hello, I did the same and in went I.



I'm going to start with the building.  When the churches founders bought the property, it was a complete mess.  It was far and away the seediest bar for miles in any direction, and the back rooms were "the place" for drugs, sex and generally the sort of things that separate nice downtowns from crumby ones.  The building was an eyesore for the community and generally nursed a wide spectrum of bad habits into full maturity.  What amounted to the investment of a handful of families became Crossings Community Church in 2007.

In 2011, the building I entered was at once slick and comfortable, a brightly lit coffee shop of the first order that was bustling with activity, and before I had a chance to look around properly I was pointed to the self serve coffee thermos and armed with my choice from a tray of mismatched mugs.  The coffee shop backed out into what looked and felt like a retrofitted barn chapel, painted lovingly and situated with a hundred-plus neatly lined chairs, and flanked at the back and the left by another smaller coffee bar and a huge balcony above.  It was an interesting juxtaposition, I was struck with the feeling of being in an impromptu gathering, the place is mid-renovation and has a cultivated feel of a patchwork project, but with modern trappings like a Widescreen planted on the wall that reads out the hymns to those who's views might be obstructed.   The place was alive and filled with the comings and goings of parishioners, I heard lots and lots of high energy hey-how-are-yas and I saw a hugs aplenty, a dozen hugs if it was one.

By the time I got done shooting the breeze (and a second cup of joe) there was no seats in the regular aisles, so I took a place at a small cafe-style table to the side of the room under the balcony.  I was greeted by everybody in a ten foot radius in voices that were loud enough to be heard by the congregation and absorbed happily into the vibe of the service.  That service was performed by a band (which the gentleman seated next to me informed me had a rotating cast) and the junior half of the pastoral team.  The young preacher, dressed in Jeans and a sweater was a few years my junior (ack!) and delivered a great palm sunday sermon from the Book of Luke 19:28-40 that talked about humility, sacrifice and love.  His delivery was as informal as his dress, and he neither his voice or verbiage differed from his preaching to his conversation.  We had communion and as is Cross Community tradition, I was invited to a potluck lunch afterwards.


The lunch was something else.  Old pots of kraft dinner and hotdogs beside elaborate casseroles and store bought veggie platters.  If a cursory glance around the congregation didn't tell you, the potluck would: The Crossings Community Church congregation is an eclectic mix.  For every clean cut Christian family right out of a sears catalogue, there were torn leather jackets and sports jerseys from the 90's.  The place consciously caters to the community's addicted, to the mentally ill, and to the down and out, and mixes them shamelessly with the rest.  Actually, one gets the impression that the comfortable are there as much for the less so as is the other way around.  They don't just offer counselling and charity, they offer a community.  A place to belong, to be loved and to contribute.  The mix between the relatively well-heeled and the poor, and the equal footing upon which they stand, brought the sermon on the mount crashing home like a meteor.  This isn't an act of gentrification, at least not in the way I've come to understand the word.  This Church is here because they're doing the same things to people's lives as they've done to their building, to their neighbourhood.

I was told that when the church was founded, their parent church, The Alliance of Canada, was lukewarm at best to the idea, (who could blame them, the idea seems half-baked to probably everybody but the people doing it).  Needless to say, they've happily changed their tune.  This the most incredible example of inspiration, vision and the Holy Spirit manifested that I've ever even heard of, and it's a testament of faith and the awesome power of Christ in the modern world that you have to see to believe.

Both of the Church's pastors, along with half a dozen regulars made time to talk to me about All our Sundays and their church with that pitch-perfect mix of pride and humility that's so hard to come by.  They even looked a little embarrassed when I gushed about how neat I thought the place was.  I want so much to live in a world where this kind of church isn't so remarkable.  I've never seen anything like it and you really have to see this place for yourself.

West Park Baptist Church in London

I visited my parents this weekend in the Northeast corner of London ON.  Running my finger along Google Maps I chose for my Sunday service a large modern church in a new arm of London's comfortable ambient sprawl called West Park Baptist Church.

Now, as you've probably garnered already, I'm from the classic Upper Canadian Protestant tradition, that is, organs, fair to middling singers of hymns, calls followed by responses, preachers with sermons, Spartan uncomfortable pews and so on and so on.  That said, I was very much exposed to Baptist churches both as a kid and as a teenager.  I went to a great bible camp in Northern Ontario as a gradeschooler and I tagged along on dozens of comparatively elaborate trips put on by the Baptist youth ministry happening kitty-corner from my own church.

I knew they did things differently.  I knew they were less restrained, I knew they emphasized more urgency than my quiet, contemplative denomination, and I knew that when it comes to both financial and pure numerical resources they were playing with a completely different deck of cards.

And so it was that when my mom and I came to the West Park we were at once set upon with the small problem of figuring out which doors to enter.  There were several options, one not obviously more viable than the next and as it turns out they were all more or less appropriate.  This place was as substantial as you could ever want.

*This was not an entrance

In no particular order they had:

A functional, medium-sized library.
A daycare center the envy of any I've seen in my parenting adventures.
A youth area that combined a small rock music venue stage with a pool table and lounge.
A (no kidding) manned information desk
A beautiful, modern, high tech auditorium that could hold it's own any new high school in a Provincial Cabinet Minister's riding.

And into the auditorium, which might have been called a chapel but wasn't, walked my mother and I.  It was neat.  Comfortable, cushioned seating for hundreds semi-circled around a beautiful stage, flanked by three professional cameras manned by serious-looking teenagers earning defacto apprenticeships while recording the rock n' roll stylings of a seven person church band.  Onstage to the far right they erected one of the cooler crucifixes I've ever seen, with a rough spindly cross piece set against a perfectly straight body, complete with those three horrifying spikes at the hands and feet.  The cross was set on the stage and illuminated at all times with purple light, and set up in front were four untouched microphones of the sort that backup do-wop singers would use.

It was a whole lot to take in.  The band played rock-fused hymns loud and proud (so loud as to render the congregation more-or-less silent, but I'll get to that).  The Reverend Dan introduced the guest preacher, his father Marvin Brubacher, the President of Heritage College and Seminary, who after another hymn and the reading of a psalm got to work on the meat of the sermon, Mary of Bethany's anointment of Jesus at Simon the Leper's house as recounted in Mark 14 (NIV).  The sermon was titled "The Motivated Worshipper" and the President preached friendly and hard about how we can all be better, more complete lovers of God.  The sermon was punctuated by a handful of crescendo shouts, followed by as many "can I have an Amen"'s that did nothing to take away from the levelness and comfort of the service.  A very seasoned and very good orator.

These guys understand the 21st century.  They are loud, engaging, confident, media savvy, and make no bones about tailoring their service to suit the front row of the dozen-plus clean cut teenagers sitting eagerly at attention.  Service at West Park is a modern, sensory experience and their attitudes and stylings have resulted in a congregation with the kind of numbers that the other churches I've visited so far can only dream about.  A flood of children got up to leave for Sunday School and what was left were still twice that of a regular service at my home church.  West Park and their three-year-old building are flourishing.

My mother is of a shy disposition, having transferred her extroverted genes fully onto her children, and while I have no such qualms we both found ourselves before and after service standing quite alone, talking to ourselves and people-watching in a way I haven't yet been afforded.  We struck up conversations and our questions were answered politely, but curtly, by the rank and file of the church.  It wasn't until I spoke with Pastor Dan Brubacher that I got a truly pleasant reception.

It's hard to imagine a faith community so big and so enthusiastic as being insular, but when my mom and I were driving home we both came up with the same word to describe our hosts;

Suspicious.

I enjoyed the service, and I have no doubt that the community is completely supportive and loving to there fellow parishioners and the larger community, but for this guest their environment was as different as their service.  It was the same difference that made it impossible to sing the hymns over the guitars and keyboards, part of the ambience that lit up the stage while leaving the crowd in the relative darkness.  They have figured out a dynamic that works for them, and works well, they are a shining and happy testament to Christ's love and work in the world.   I'm poked and prodded by the holy spirit to remember that as Christians we all have so much to learn and gain from each other.