It happens at least a couple of times a month that I unwittingly stumble into some sort of demonstration or parade unfolding on Bloor Street. Suddenly, seemingly out of nowhere, an ocean of people—all passionately committed to something—will wash over me before turning the corner and being swallowed up by another portion of the city.
This is one of the things that I love about the place.
On Saturday, as I waited for Rachelle in front of Winners, a big, flatbed truck with a Jesus in the City banner on it, turned off of Avenue and onto Bloor. There were about a dozen black people on the truck, each one performing gospel, and behind them marched hundreds of people and yet more trucks. They were all jamming on Jesus is my Rock, which they’d probably been improvising on for an hour, and it was absolutely incredible. It was joyous and authentic, and immediately, immediately you started to move, wanting desperately to join in and become a part of their congregation.
As far as expressions of religiosity goes, it was the complete opposite of the somber, disapproving brand of Anglican culture that I inhabited growing up. As I was watching the celebration, I imagined a loving and forgiving God, an entity that in spite of all your blunders and weaknesses still embraced you instead of my omnipotent deity who was always watching, waiting for you to slip-up and then send you to Hell for eternity. For me, church had been a rigid and joyless experience. You behaved properly and you followed rules, repressing much of whom you might become in order to, well, conform to the dogma that was being set out before you.
But no matter, it was a sunny day, and the next ethnic wave coming down the street were comprised of Asians. Hopelessly square, they played electric guitar and beat on tambourines in the black and white polyester combos of Sunday school teachers. One truck had the words SALT AND LIGHT written on it, with a Bas-Relief of the skyline of Toronto beneath it, upon which a saltshaker, I guess, was shaking salt and light upon the city. About six young girls, dressed in white t-shirts and grey sweatpants, were performing kittenish choreographed dance routines, while a a handsome guy who dreamed of boy band glory, belted it out. The drummer, a heavy girl beneath yet heavier frames, stared straight ahead beneath her mop of her hair, while all around her pamphlets were being tossed to the crowd.
The last ethnic group to celebrate their Christianity in this parade were the whites–my people. Predictably, they did not play any instruments, but instead had a tape deck playing the sort of middle of the road stuff that reminds you of retirement homes. Instead of singing or dancing, they waved happily from their trucks, while behind them marched their army, which included several dogs wearing t-shirts for Christ.
It was all incredibly sweet and touching, the perfect counterpoint to the slick machinery of the Film Festival, which was just then, leaving town.
