I had been living in the basement suite for one year when I began to attend Snooty Church, the High Anglican church in the Downtown Eastside of Vancouver. I wasn't terribly impressed, or not at first anyway. The place was huge and beautifully built and designed on the interior though the exterior seemed a combination of a Byzantine temple and a concrete shithouse. I attended the family mass which seemed forced, stilted and uninspired. After a few weeks of this I tried the Solemn or High Mass and was quite blown away.
I remember my bus ride to my first family mass. It was early, just past 8:30 am and quite an odd time of day for a Sunday. I remember a man carrying a stuffed and mounted armadillo on his lap, engaged in a conversation with an old woman seated nearby. I have since come to appreciate the aptness of the metaphor for my initial impressions of the Anglican Church.
I began to walk to church. It was a pleasant route, about two and a half miles from my home. I took side streets, enjoying the peace and quiet away from the noisy traffic as well as the heritage houses and trees and gardens. The services themselves seemed intriguing. I learned there was a daily mass, usually celebrated at 7:15 am, and a twice weekly evening mass, Tuesdays and Thursdays at 6:00 all celebrated in the Blessed Sacrament Chapel in the back. The masses were preceded respectively by the Holy Office services of Matins and evensong. There was something very medieval Europe about it all and I often felt that I was being transported into quite a different time and place from Canada's poorest postal code in the early 1980's.
My entrance into the Anglican Church was somewhat reluctant but it did correspond well with my new living arrangements. My basement apartment seemed like a hermit's cave. I had recently discovered silent prayer and soon a lively synergy evolved between church and home, places to be still and silent before a living and vibrant God.
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