Messiah for the city: A post for New Year's Day

“I’m not looking, guys,” said I, as I raced through the back church door past attendees of a twelve-step meeting who, understandably, expected to be anonymous. O.K., maybe I didn’t say this out loud—but I really wasn’t looking. In my hands was a basket of donations for admission to the Christmas Story, Holy Trinity’s traditional pageant, and I had to get to the priest in the office before the lights went out in the church. Which was happening about—now.

But how did I attain such a pass?

I first stepped into this church twenty years ago, in 1999. Some of those years I’ve been a regular member of the congregation, and others I’ve lived outside Canada, but it always feels like home to me. Part of the reason is that the moment you step through the door, people make you feel that, as one of our visitors said on Sunday, “this is my church.” I’d never seen him before—he was with a couple of other guys, one of whom told me proudly during the peace that he’s Native, some of whom might be homeless. In any case, he’s right. This is his church, and mine.

Anyway, being back I’d promptly been asked to help serve the hot chocolate before a performance of the Christmas Story. The refreshments are sold in aid of the Alice Heap Radical Hospitality fund, named for a late member whom I remember well and who, with her husband, was a pivotal actor in the role of radical hospitality. Strangely, though, when I was given the instructions for making the hot chocolate, it was itself twelve steps long. It began, as my Grandma always used to, with stirring milk in a pan on the stove. 

Like Grandma, T. also does this regardless of whether the hot chocolate mix already contains milk. She offered to help with the twelve steps.

With T’s help preparing and that of two delightful young acquaintances selling, there was little for me to do but enjoy myself. Except when it came to the end. None of the instructions told us what to do with the money or that the church would be plunged into total blackness exactly at 7:30! Good thing we’d cleaned up as we went along. 

It was a great night. One of our young salespeople’s friends played a small angel in the pageant, and stopped by beforehand in the kitchen. I expressed gratitude that we were being visited by an angel. “Why?” she asked curiously. “Are angels better than shepherds or something?” I might have expected such a question at Holy Trinity!

If you’re ever in Toronto during Advent, take time out and go to the Christmas Story. Admission is by donation, and it’s been going for 80 years, since it was brought here from St. Martin-in-the-Fields, London. Before emigrating to Canada, Patricia Frank and her pastor husband, John, were at that church at Trafalgar Square, where attendees of the Christmas Story included the future Queen Elizabeth and her sister, Princess Margaret. 

The Christmas Story includes the classic Scriptures, of course, and wonderful carols for organ and choir. It also includes what many versions of the story omit: the flight into Egypt by Jesus and his parents, Herod’s massacre of the innocents, and the symbolic “Rachel weeping for her children.” These are part of the Christmas story too, and were certainly not omitted in the 1930s, when this production began. Refugees are an important part of Holy Trinity’s ministry and continue to be relevant in Canada today.

Something else I’ve noticed since I’ve been back in Canada, similar to Australia, is the acknowledgment of traditional lands. At the beginning of a service, concert, or other event, someone will name the indigenous peoples who lived (and live) where we are, and also note that many indigenous people from different nations are part of the living city. Nowhere was this more relevant than at Glad Day, the world’s oldest LGBT bookshop, where I attended the revival of the “Proust & Co.” reading series with Jeffrey Round. One of the readers was Anishnaabe poet Laura Kooji, accompanied by a guitarist of Mohawk origin. 

Being back at Glad Day, and reading the letters of Rick Bébout and Jane Rule as I mentioned in a previous post, really made me feel at home as a writer, as well as a Canadian. Rick wrote for Xtra!, as I later did. Jane's novels were edited by Canadian-American Katherine V. Forrest, as mine later were.

Before this tour of Toronto’s queer past, I’d been walking the snowy paths of the Don Valley. We often think of previous generations as having damaged the environment, but sadly, it’s today’s generation that has lost the use of the Don River. 

Down Pottery Road from the corner of Broadview and Mortimer (where there’s a Dairy Queen for refreshment), you’ll find Todmorden Mills. The former mill has an oxbow pond and a wildflower preserve. As I walked I had “Greensleeves” playing in my headphones.

There’s also a gallery and theatre in the former paper mill. When I visited, the display was photographs of children in the Victorian era—a fascinating glimpse into another world gone forever.

Thence to the Brick Works, now Evergreen Brick Works. A sweet-smelling Christmas tree market stood there, but on this day, it was strangely empty. The former brick works are, I am told, a centre for environmental innovation now; all I saw was a family walking on paths through the snow, leading up to the Belt Line Trail.

Another former industrial site in Toronto is the Distillery District, now full of galleries and shops. In December it transforms into a Christmas market. We visited during a weekday so it was not too crowded.

Bet they aren't nine for a pound, though!

I’ve mentioned before that Toronto isn’t beautiful. What it has, it has reclaimed, such as the man-made headland in the east of the city now containing Tommy Thompson Park. In real life, everyone still calls it the Leslie Street Spit. To get there, walk for ten minutes or so down astonishingly ugly Leslie St., purely on faith that there is something at the end of it. You will be rewarded with a narrow path between the lake on one side and the skyline on the other.

Here’s the thing about Toronto: It’s the first place I’ve been on these travels that I wanted to stay. I don’t want to go anywhere else. Some people have never had such a place in their lives so I’m grateful for it.

One of the earliest walks I discovered in my years here was along the Belt Line Trail. Certainly not as far as the Brick Works, but the part I know was once a railroad encircling the then-outskirts of the city. I meandered down it again recently.

I was passing the Forest Hill community arena and decided to stop in and use the facilities. As it happened, a girls’ hockey game was just beginning. I’d never actually seen a hockey game live (the Maple Leafs, bad or good, are ridiculously expensive), so I sat down in the bleachers and enjoyed myself thoroughly. I had a great view of the net in which a goal was scored each period (the home team won). And a young man chatted to me about the flag patches on my daypack. Only when he took his seat did I realize he was the visiting team’s coach!

While I was there, I also saw some older players—that is, older than I—coming out of the locker rooms with all their gear. A seniors’ league, I guess. It was great to see both sexes and all ages participating in Canada’s favourite sport!

The trail then took me to Mount Pleasant Cemetery.

Diversity, in death as in life

As I walked there, I spotted a coyote loping past. It reappeared a bit later by the cremation memorial wall, then disappeared again. I passed two women who said “There’s a coyote” and there it was a third time, popping up behind one of the gravestones.

One of the things that happens when you live in a city is that you fail to appreciate its museums and other attractions. For example, I haven’t been to the Natural History Museum in London since 1994. I’d only been to the Royal Ontario Museum once, too, but the two cooperate each year in presenting the Wildlife Photography of the Year finalists. T. and I dropped by the ROM to enjoy it. I have to say the photographs were much more impressive than mine of the coyote!

Mix architectural styles much, ROM?

Thirty-odd people in a downtown church can feel like a small group, not really filling the space with our voices. Thirty-odd people at a shape-note singing, in the music room of Blood Street United Church, has a totally different feeling, not to mention sound. It was the annual Christmas potluck of the Toronto Sacred Harp group, and some, though not all, of what we sang were carols: “While shepherds watched,” etc. A young man wearing a kipa and ritual fringes led “David’s Lamentation.” I felt at home there too, even with people I’d never met before. Someday I’ll publish my third novel and you can read all about it.

Somewhat less expensive than Leafs tickets are Raptors tickets. Toronto’s pro basketball team is also better than it used to be, and it is no longer possible to pay $15 to sit in the “Sprite Zone”! Still, T. and I sprang for tickets, and thoroughly enjoyed a home win. 

The guy in the turban is "Superfan" and can be seen at every Toronto Raptors home game.

Last December, when we didn't yet know where we’d be spending Christmas, we took a poll on Facebook. Marie-Josée said “Canada, please!” but it was not to be until this year. She’s been following our travels around the world, wondering if she would ever see us—but what a spread she put on when we finally got there! 

With Olivier and Albert

I also ended up spending my birthday with Marie-Josée and Olivier. It happened this way. Back before I ever moved to Toronto, members of the symphony orchestra wanted to take their music beyond Roy Thomson Hall and share it with the larger community. In particular, they wanted to give highlights of Handel’s Messiah, the baroque oratorio, to the city. The late and much-lamented progressive politician Jack Layton, the Cathedral Church of St. James, and the United Way became their partners in this effort, and this year Messiah for the City was performed at St. Andrew’s Presbyterian Church by the Toronto Beach Chorale.

Through a friend of a friend, I was given three (not sure why) tickets to this free concert, and T. suggested I ask Marie-Josée if she wanted to go. Her answer was an ecstatic “Oui!” It turns out she loves Handel and used to go to the sing-along Messiah, but hadn’t been in years—tickets cost more than the Raptors nowadays. 

It was for exactly this reason that Messiah in the City was started. Like the grace of God, this music is not for sale. Many of the people in St. Andrew’s had never heard these magnificent choruses before. And the orchestra, choir, and soloists were as good as I have ever heard at any performance. Afterwards, walking in the freezing cold, I learned a new French word, peculiar to Quebecois: frette. “It’s colder than froid,” Olivier explained. 

During my favourite chorus, “And the glory of the Lord,” I’d looked up at the choir and seen one woman wearing a bright dress, standing in a sea of dark suits. I realized then that she was singing with the tenors. It brought back memories of my own choir experience: “Jacqui and the men.” I see you up there, sister.