PORT HARDY, B.C. — The future direction of St. Columba’s Anglican-United Church changed unexpectedly during an unusually cold winter in 2021. On Dec. 21, temperatures in Port Hardy, situated on the northernmost tip of Vancouver Island, fell to -5 C, then to -5 C again on Christmas Day. A few days later, they plunged to an unthinkable -12 C.
In other parts of Canada, these winter temperatures might be considered a warm spell. But in Port Hardy, that kind of frigid, foggy weather is rare; it penetrates through the usual West Coast winter uniform of wool, polar fleece, denim and cotton, seeping so deeply into skin and bones that even a bath or sauna can’t relieve the chill.
The unexpected cold snap put the town’s limited shelter system to an immediate and severe test. Its local Salvation Army, operating under contract to the province, was mandated to close its doors at 7 a.m. each morning, casting vulnerable residents out into the bitter cold. Nowhere else welcoming opened its doors until 9:30 a.m. That crucial two-and-a-half-hour gap, during which people faced freezing conditions without shelter, led directly to the creation of the St. Columba Sanctuary, a daily drop-in program designed to meet an urgent local need.
Since Christmastime nearly five years ago, the church has welcomed about 15 people each morning for a hot breakfast and a listening ear.
This vital community ministry exists in a region with its own deeply complicated and often painful relationship with the institutional church. The poorer part of the North Island that St. Columba serves is about 40 percent Indigenous. Until the 1970s, The United Church of Canada ran the now-infamous Kuper Island and Alberni Indian Residential Schools, while the Anglican Church of Canada ran St. Michael’s Residential and Day School at Alert Bay.
The historical trauma of these institutions continues to cast a long shadow over the community.
“Some of the older Indigenous people in the community, even though they had bad experiences at the residential schools, still think of themselves as Anglican,” says Judy Fykes, the long-time treasurer and a lay leader at St. Columba’s. “But of course, the other response is that people don’t want to have anything to do with church or Anglicans or United people.”
Against that delicate and heavy backdrop, St. Columba’s has tried to build something fundamentally different. Today, the church employs two ministers part time: Rev. Bob Gilbert, who is semi-retired, and Rev. Sheila Cook, a recent graduate of the Vancouver School of Theology and a member of the Cree Nation, who is also the daughter of a residential school survivor. The congregation now defines part of its core outreach work explicitly as reconciliation.
“We take the TRC calls to action to heart,” said Fykes, referring to the Truth and Reconciliation Commission’s calls to action.
In a community where the church’s history is complicated, St. Columba’s is actively working to redefine what it means to be a place of genuine welcome. In a tangible step toward cultural sensitivity, the church replaced its red exit lights with green ones after learning that the old red emergency lights evoked distressing memories of residential schools for some community members.
Alongside the Sanctuary—which was initially given the Kwak’wala phrase “O’maín’s Na’ma,” translating to “we are one”—the church serves a regular community lunch on Sundays. It has also set up a “Blessing Box,” which operates similarly to a tiny free library, but is stocked with nonperishable food items instead of books.
Every Sept. 30, following the community walk for the National Day for Truth and Reconciliation, St. Columba’s opens its doors to feed about 500 local residents. Beyond immediate food security, the church has taken on broader work, including ongoing efforts to decolonize its worship services and deepen congregational education about the history and enduring impacts of residential schools.
This extensive outreach is funded by a diverse patchwork of grants from the Anglican Church, the United Church, local Lions and Rotary service clubs, the United Way, and even financial support from other Vancouver Island congregations. In addition to monetary grants, the church relies on practical in-kind contributions, such as deli meat donations from the local grocery store. Volunteers take these donations, make them into sandwiches, and distribute them directly at the morning Sanctuary program.
Fykes notes that the church’s hands-on work in food security and outreach to marginalized populations has proved remarkably attractive to external funders who want to see direct community impact.
“Heinrich finds it’s not that difficult to find money for the outreach work that we do,” she says, reflecting on the surprising generosity and support the church receives for its social programs.
That mission of service has taken on new weight as the congregation itself has grown smaller over the decades. Fykes and her husband, Robert, raised their three children on the North Island. They remember a profoundly different time when the region’s bustling mills and mines brought professionals from all around the world to live and work there, and when the local Sunday schools, pews, and church bank accounts were full.
As the mining and forestry industries boomed and then eventually busted, the region morphed drastically in population and demographics. The most poignant and disruptive shift occurred in 1996, when Port Hardy’s largest mine shut down entirely, causing the once 8,000-strong community to abruptly drop to just 4,000 residents.
“It affected every congregation, business and school,” remembers Robert Fykes, who worked as the mine’s former lab technician.
Today, the Sunday congregation typically attracts about 16 worshippers, alongside a similar number of non-worshipping volunteers who show up consistently through the week to support the church’s programs.
While Fykes maintains a certain nostalgia for the days of St. Columba’s bigger congregation, when she didn’t have to wear quite so many hats, she emphasizes that belonging to a smaller congregation brings its own distinct joy. Relationships between the congregants are much deeper now. And, in this current era, the mission and purpose of the church are clearer than they have ever been.
“We’re working on many generations of healing,” she says.