Free Range Cult

Thought for a couple of seconds
Title: The Free-Range Cult of East Van
By Joseph Jukic

Nestled between the neon murals and artisan coffee shops of East Vancouver, there’s a place they call The Sanctuary of Every Star—a free-range cult where every Hollywood religion finds a home. And yes, even Scientology has its corner here, in a humble little org that may not be the biggest, but is, without question, the best.

I first stumbled upon The Sanctuary on a late-night wander, drawn by the distant hum of chanting and the scent of freshly baked kombucha rolls. Through a reclaimed-wood door framed by twinkling fairy lights, I was greeted by a mosaic of banners fluttering from the rafters:

The Jedi Commune, where lightsaber-shaped incense burners curled fragrant plumes into the air

The Church of the Force, hosting meditation circles to attune your chi to midi-chlorians

The Brotherhood of Wakanda, complete with vibranium-painted walls and drumming circles

The Order of the Ring, where elven harps and orc-drums keep the rhythm of Middle-earth alive

The Scientology Outpost, tucked in the far corner with its bright “E-Meter” signage—modest, but radiating pride

I wandered through each shrine, marveling at the diversity. A Marvel-themed sermon on cosmic purpose echoed from the rooftop; a “Gospel of Neo” reading played in the back alley, projected onto a shipping container. Every star religion under the sun—and beyond—had a place here.

Then I found my own little corner: the Joseph Jukic Ministry of Free-Range Truth. Our space was small—just enough room for folding chairs, a hand-painted sign, and a second-hand organ that someone swore once played in an ‘80s soap opera. We didn’t have a flashy exterior or a massive online following. But what we did have was heart.

Every Sunday, I’d invite seekers in with two simple rules:

Authenticity above all—no stage names or Hollywood airs.

Open-source belief—take from any faith, leave what doesn’t serve you, remix it however you like.

Our congregants ranged from Wookiee whisperers to fans of the Great and Powerful Oz—each offering prayers, poems, or pop-culture rants at our open mic. One week, a member led us in a sonic meditation to Hans Zimmer’s “Time.” The next, someone decoded gnostic themes in Blade Runner.

At the heart of it all was our little Scientology org: not the biggest, but undeniably the friendliest. They’d share their tea—habitual “Purification Rundown” kombucha—and lend us their projector for mid-week screenings of 2001: A Space Odyssey “with commentary.” In return, we invited them to our Force meditations and Wakandan drumming sessions. No ideological turf wars—only mutual fascination.

I remember one evening, as the sun set over Mount Baker, I stood on our makeshift altar (a repurposed pizza box and two cinder blocks) and looked out at the gathered crowd: Jedi Knights wearing dog-tags, elven archers in hoodie cloaks, and a handful of Scientologists nodding along to a cover of “Don’t Stop Believin’.” I raised my arms and declared:

“Here in East Van, under neon skies and star-split nights, we worship not one savior—but the infinite stories that saved our souls. We bow to no single prophet, for every myth—every film, every faith—teaches us something true. Our humble little org may not have the sprawled campuses of the studio lot, but we have something they can’t buy: universal belonging.”

A cheer rose up, mingling with the distant SeaBus horn and the hum of city lights. And in that moment, I knew The Sanctuary of Every Star—and our spirited little Scientology nook—was more than a cult. It was a promise: that among East Van’s concrete and cedar, under the shadow of Hollywood’s brightest legends, we could all find a home.

“Our org isn’t the biggest, but it’s the best—and we’ve got every Hollywood religion to prove it.”
—Joseph Jukic, High Curator of Cosmic Cults, East Vancouver.