52 Churches

There’s an increasing disconnect between what churches say they want to do, and what they’re actually doing.  Last night, extolling the congregation to participation in the 45 minute altar call, Pastor Joe said at least three times that the altar call was not a performance, that it was a time of prayer and worship (that is, singing), that the congregation gathered was supposed to be gathered in corporate prayer for each other.  All this he said,  from a raised stage, leading a six piece band with his guitar.  The “Tyranny of the Guitar” has seldom been illustrated better.  If you want to have people interacting with each other, and not treating your service as a spectator event, then your praxis needs to not be rows and rows of seats facing a raised stage and a service led by a band from that raised stage. (It’s also hard to participate, as a new person, when the words the band is singing only match the PowerPoint about 80% of the time. Given how short their playlist was, and how often they repeated each song (and then repeated it, and then repeated again, after which the pastor asked us to “sing it like a prayer), it would probably not take too long to have them memorized, but as visitors, that 20% of having no idea what to sing is an eternity of standing there, dumbly hoping the words will come along).

Searchlight Mission Fellowship is a small congregation whose building sits almost on the stateline between Idaho and Washington. From the Idaho side, the service is billed as being at 6:20, from Washington, 6:30. We found out this is because they ran short of 3s for the marquee. The service began with an extended time of praise music and prayer. The prayer style was one I’d seen just recently at the Bioneers Conference. Mid-prayer, the pastor interrupted himself to address the congregation on one of the topics from the prayer. Several of the opening ceremonies (both from the plenary speakers and in our local sessions) did this same thing: a prayer that the speaker interrupted with an extended aside to the audience, sometimes concluding the original prayer, sometimes not returning to it. It is peculiar as I am accustomed to prayers beginning with a salutation to God, and ending with some form of “amen.”

Following the praise and worship time, the youth performed a “live video” skit about the temptations of the world (dating, goths, dancing, drinking, smoking, nerds, gangstas, porn, and chairs*), the pastor spoke a few words about temptation, and a woman from the congregation gave a sermon on the traps of the world leading to the reality that one’s yearnings for eternity can’t be satisfied by the world.

Michael scribbled down a line from the sermon that resonated with him, “[We, that is, Christians must] take the light to where it can be seen: in the dark places.” It resonates with me, too, but the focus of her sermon was on having a new hope for eternity, and not on being salt and light in the world now, and I think that portion of it was largely eclipsed by the “this world is not my home, I’m just a’passin’ though” theme of the sermon.

Like the Cornerstone Pentecostals, I think the altar call and prayer time in the concluding hour of the service serves as the cathartic experience Chuck Palahniuk talks about from the vantage point of his Catholic heritage. It doesn’t end in communion, but there was definitely an outpouring of love and acceptance from the church elders who were stationed in the front of the church, praying with whomever came forward.

*I don’t think the skit was actually against chairs, nerds, or goths. I think the chair (onto which each successive actor became stuck) was supposed to represent sin. The nerd and the goth guy were, I think, simply illustrating that anyone — any type of person — might get bogged down by the things of this world.

It’s been a while since I’ve added anything to the blog.  Typically I act as sounding-board, critic, and occasional muse, not writer.  Throughout the project though I continue to ask the question, “Why do we do church?”  What’s the point of church?  I can’t find anything in the Sermon on Mount where Jesus says, “blessed are the churchgoers for they shall hold services at 10 on Sundays.”

What I’ve discovered as I’ve gone along is that very few churches seem to articulate why they bother to have services.  Some seem to gather out of obligation, others because they enjoy the social interaction, but very few state an explicit reason for their service, and there are even fewer where the tacit reasons align with the explicit statements.  This is something that I love about the pentecostal traditions.  Pentecostals know why they are in church:  They are there to worship God. Anything else that happens is lagniappe.  They do it with abandon, eschewing social constraints, and expressing their love for God in whatever way the spirit moves them.

Don’t get me wrong, there are aspects in which a pentecostal service is just as scripted as a liturgical service.  No doubt there are people present out of a sense of obligation as well.  But the whole focus of the pentecostal service is joyful, ecstatic, raise-God-above-all-else worship.  Even not knowing the music, it’s a hard not to get a smile on your face when a bunch of folks are clapping, shouting, and singing, “he’s forgiven sin, he sets the captives free, he’s breaking the chains, giving liberty.”  There is tangible, palpable joy in the focused worship of God.

Which I guess gets to my last point.  As a high school student I was involved in a Foursquare church.  Foursquare is an old-time pentecostal denomination started by the evangelist Aimee Semple McPherson, or Sister Aimee as she is known within the church.  My experience in the Foursquare church was similar to what I saw Sunday at Cornerstone. People came to passionately worship, to wrestle in prayer, and to be exhorted to holiness. In our journey this year we’ve been to one Foursquare church and two Assemblies of God churches (another pentecostal denomination). Both of them were dreadfully watered down.  No shouting.  No speaking in tongues.  No dancing in the aisles.  No tear-streaked altar calls. They were safe, suburban, and dead.  While they had decent well rehearsed bands, they had nowhere near the passion and vitality of Cornerstone.

Perhaps that was what drew me as a teenager, and what draws me still today:  the genuineness of people that are willing to be “fools for Christ” in their worship, putting aside what is socially acceptable or comfortable by modern standards, to fall on their faces and declare the glory of the living God.

Church used to be that place where people could risk going and presenting their absolute worst self, once a week, and be heard by people who would accept you back, through communion, into the community. Once a week you would have this kind of talk therapy where you told your worst story and you were loved despite your worst self. So you never developed this alienation and isolation that split you so far from your community that you could just walk into a McDonald’s and kill everyone.

Then church became that place where people went just to look good, and you didn’t get that release of looking bad once a week. In a way, the support groups and 12 step groups and phone sex chat lines, all these contexts in which people present their worst selves and find a community despite their behavior, these have become the new Church. These are the new escape valves where people go and confess and are redeemed by their peers.

Chuck Palahniuk is speaking here of his experiences in the Catholic church (the cycle of confession, communion, and worship), but it seems to me that the experience we had last night in the 3.5 hour service at Cornerstone Pentecostal Church probably qualifies as the former.

Pentecostal worship is difficult to explain (so are Chick Tracts — I’ll get to those later, because I found myself interpreting them in a lunch line the other day). This is due in part to my own ignorance, and in part because it is so outside of my own comfort zone that I’m not likely to try it often enough to resolve the ignorance issue. I can tell you what I saw and what I heard, and I know enough about what things are called to give them names . . . but if you go down the road of asking me if these same experiences were “real” or not . . . forget it.

Cornerstone currently has a revival minister from California in to lead the services, and I got the impression that the service is normally about 2 hours in length (this was also the point at which some folks began to bail), but one of the hallmarks of Pentecostal worship is that it’s not focused on the clock, but rather on the experience. (Technically, I think most churches would say they’re focused on the experience and not the clock, but you can certainly see, esp. in churches with back-to-back-to-back services that happen in the same space, that the experience is never going to go past the time limit. This is the distinction I’m trying to draw).

The service began with about a half hour of singing. Loud singing. The emphasis on volume in the music is something that transcends denominations, but the singers in this group also did quite a bit of jumping. That is, while they were singing, individual singers in the 12-16 person chorus would begin jumping in time with the music. A little like a mosh pit, but without crashing into others. Throughout the congregation, people would lift their hands, sway, clap (a very rhythmically inclined group), and occasionally someone would take a lap, counter clockwise, around the left side of the church (up the aisle to the front, across the left side of the front, down the left side aisle, out the back door, and back to where they were seated. Later in the service, the assistant pastor did four such laps, which was the largest number I noted anyone doing).

The visiting revival minister started his sermon on the point that we have free will. (There are two major schools of thought in Christian theology: that our fates are predetermined or that we have freewill). He argued that the idea of predestination (the Calvinist line of thought) is Greek in origin, and went on to exhort the congregation that life was not a matter of luck, or superstition, or fate (or fatalism), but that we each have the free will to choose between right and wrong. He began recounting a piece called “Reunited (and It Feels So Good)” from NPR’s This American Life, where in Ralph and Sandra, having lost their beloved, docile bull, Chance, determine to replace him by cloning “Second Chance.” The story takes a tragic turn, twice, when Ralph is mauled by Second Chance.

This ended up loosely related to the rest of the sermon, which riffed on the idea that once your “old self” has died to sin, you should let it lie, dead (and not resurrect it, like a docile bull), and that you can continually choose “new life” in Christ. He asked everyone to turn to Colossians 3:1-10 (no pew Bibles — nuts–we forgot again to bring one along), and he read it (complete with the evil concupiscence, which, in my mind, even though I love language, is a good reason to read pretty much any translation besides the KJV).

And this is where things, if you’re not from this kind of Pentecostal tradition, got weird.

The minister started really hollaring, and moved to what I call the “clause-punctuated-by-uh” form of preaching.  Most people associate this will the tent-revivals of the midwest and southeast.  It goes a little like this: “I am not going-uh to be superstitious-uh I am not-uh going to to carry-uh the foot of an animal-uh in my pocket-uh I am not-uh going to worry-uh about walking-uh under ladders-uh I am not afraid-uh of black cats-uh . . .” and this increases the congregational responses, including hand raising, verbal agreements, clapping, aisle running, and glossolalia. He riffed on various aspects of repentance, letting the “old man” die, becoming a new creation, and not committing old sins, ramping up the volume and intensity, then pausing (and wiping his head with his kerchief, and taking a sip of water), and then starting a new riff, from a normal speaking voice, and ramping it up again. Then he started finishing his riffs with, “ha-la-la-la-la-la-la-la” or “ha-ba-ba-ba-ba-ba-ba-bah.”

At some point, there was an altar call, but it wasn’t a traditional altar call, and I’m not even certain what words of invitation the pastors made to identify it. But suddenly, about 3/4 of the church left their pews and went to the front. It was so crowded, that many of them were back 3, 4, and 5 rows in the side aisles. The pastors continued to take the mic from each other, and exhort the crowd on different topics, going to individuals and praying over them, waving their handkerchiefs over groups of people, and speaking in tongues. (At this point, nearly everyone in the congregation was wailing, praying, or speaking in tongues. Michael leaned over and asked me if I saw the segregation: up front, all the men had gone to the left, all the women to the right. I hadn’t seen it). There were several people “slain in the spirit,” which means that the ecstatic religious experience they’d just had caused them to fall down. The pastor “cast out fornication” from somewhere in the group of young women in the front. The wailing on that side of the room increased. Farmergirl, full of green tea, left to go to the bathroom, and missed the exorcism on the men’s side. (I don’t know if they call it an exorcism or not . . . but I think “Devil; I cast you out, in the name of Jesus, be gone, Satan, be gone, be gone” qualifies as an exorcism. I’ll probably ask in my letter). A woman behind us began to speak loudly in a language I don’t recognize . . . many Pentecostal traditions believe in glossolalia, and not xenoglossia, so it was likely a “personal prayer language.” Shortly after, another woman spoke loudly in English, in the first person, but as the persona of God. That is, her “I” was not referencing herself, but God. I think this was “prophecy” (an announcement from God, not a prediction of the future, in this usage).

Somewhere in the middle of all this, the church’s pastor came down the aisle, and greeted us, saying, “It’s kind of different, isn’t it folks? Don’t worry, we can explain all of the things you’re seeing.” I smiled and admitted we are Episcopalians, and that I was feeling a little like “the frozen chosen” which is not a usual Episcopal designation. “We’re just a bunch of old rock-n-rollers,” he said, grinning, before he left to pray over others, and join the melee up front. He tailored what he said and how he said it specifically to us, acknowledging that our lack of participation was likely unfamiliarity with the style of worship (rather than lack of faith, say), and that we might be uncomfortable. This is a man who understands audience.

Three and a half hours after the service began, it concluded. Kind of. There were still people up front and in the pews when we left, but more than half collected their belongings and headed out the door. We waited for the pastor to put on his jacket and head for the back of the church before getting up to leave. Several people wished us well and each one invited us back, including the pastor.

There’s a lot of things about Pentecostal worship that I’m not comfortable with . . . for starters, I’m never comfortable with emotionalism (religious or not) . . . especially groups of people moved together in a crescendo-ing emotional response. But I would have been really disappointed yesterday had the service not included glossolalia, spirit slaying, exorcism, physical activity, and/or prophecy, because I’d hoped many of those elements would be present at the service. They were something I wanted Farmergirl to have exposure to during this project.

It will be a couple of decades yet before today’s 20-something-churches are 40-something-Deaf-congregations. The time to invest in ASL classes is now. Jacob’s Well, like many of the younger congregations we’ve attended, had loud music* [in a small space]. It was, to be fair, not as loud as many (and better mixed — the drums weren’t blowing everything else away): it wasn’t loud enough that we held Farmergirl’s ears . . . it was loud enough that we were still speaking at too high a volume in the Baldwini’s cozy living room afterward.  (The Baldwinis were not speaking too loudly, as they attended their own church, and then the first-church-of-fix-stuff-that’s-not-working-at-Grandma’s-house.  Given that their Grandma is pretty hard of hearing, you’d expect them to be suffering similar ill effects, but they weren’t).

The focus of this particular service wasn’t the music, though . . . it was the sermon, which, at over an hour and twenty minutes, takes the “longest sermon” prize for the year (thus far–we haven’t gone to a proper Pentecostal or Gospel service yet).  It was a pretty good one (the sermon).  His initial focus was on 1 Cor. 2, but he wove in Habakkuk 2 and Daniel 2 for a rousing rendition of the stories of Nebuchadnezzar, Hananiah, Mishael, and Azariah (known colloquially to Sunday school children as Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego), Daniel, and Jeremiah . . . for an overarching point that, in our current stress over the financial crisis and the election — God isn’t “stuck” if we choose poorly. (For that matter, he pointed out: “Jeremiah [not taken to Babylon in captivity, prophet in Jerusalem] got the short end of the stick: he gets to work with God’s people” — complete with the rueful emphasis on that last bit that only a pastor could muster).

But I got to thinking . . . maybe we aren’t the faithful, carted away to a foreign land . . . maybe WE ARE Babylon.

Last week, at Deep Chat, in the face of our president’s advice on 9/11 to get out and shop, our multi-front war “on terror,” the current financial debacle on Wall Street (with its global-reaching consequences), and the upcoming US presidential election, the question of American complacency came up. If we’re so against the war, one of the participants asked, why don’t we simply stop paying taxes? What would it take for us to risk doing the right thing? What would it take for ordinary Americans to take to the streets and demand change? Are we so enamored with all our cheap crap from China that we don’t dare risk discontinuing paying our taxes to support a war we despise? How does our consumerism mesh with (even feed) our complacency?

I mentioned a story Jesus tells (in Mark 10, Luke 18, and Matt 19) about this very thing (this is my paraphrase).
A rich guy comes up to Jesus and asks him what it is he should be doing.
Jesus says, “Okay — here’s what you do: sell everything you have, and give it to the poor.”
The rich guy cleans out his ear with his pinky as says, “Um? What was that? I don’t think I caught what you said, exactly.”
Jesus is a pretty nice guy, and pretty patient, so he slows it down: “Take all that stuff you have. Sell it. Give the money to the poor.”
And the rich guy is just standing there, and all he can think is, “ . . . Crap.”

Last night, Pastor Eric of Jacob’s Well picked up on the same theme: Fundamentalists are concerned that there will be a literal “Mark of the Beast” — some numbers tattooed on their hands or on their foreheads that wil allow (or prevent) them from engaging in commerce. He suggests it’s not literal — that people already
“have 666 tattooed into their minds and hands…all they think and do, is motivated, controlled, determined and influenced by the spirit of mammon. A reviving of a Babylonian mentality that robs the poor, exalts materialism and militarism and continually prides itself as a World Power worthy of worship.”

Maybe we ARE Babylon.

*They warmed up to U2’s “I Still Haven’t Found What I’m Looking For.” They also did about the only version of “Come, Now is the Time to Worship” that I’ve found tolerable. (I liked it enough to dial my friend Jimmie, who does like the song, so he could listen to it . . . I should make a follow-up call to see if they did get the call or not).

There’s a delicious irony to a church-in-a-box* congregation like Latah Valley using ceramic mugs for their coffee hour, while most of the church-with-property buildings we’ve gone to use disposable (often styrofoam**).

Latah Valley is a new congregation, Presbyterian, with serious emerging church leanings. My friend Jim mused, “Emerging presbyterians– with tattoos of tulips and hoppy beer by the keg after the service– and a nice pipe” . . . which was close–sans beers and smoke. (Okay, I didn’t actually see any tattoos, either, but this particular emerging congregation was way older and well-heeled than the other emerging/emergent services we’ve attended . . . reflective of their geographic/demographic area. In some ways, that makes their commitment to lugging and cleaning ceramic mugs even more impressive).

I’ve been musing further on the tyranny of the guitar and how the physical space impacts what happens in a service. One of the authors I’ve been reading (please don’t ask which — I don’t know — though when I stumble on it again, I’ll note it) talks about the tyranny of the guitar . . . how the folksy song leaders of the 60s paved the way for the performance rock groups of today . . . how that style of music (and its attendant congregation-as-audience / worship-team-as-performers) dominates contemporary worship, erodes participation, and keeps the congregation in the role of passive observers. But 45 minute sermons tend to to that, too . . . like lectures in school . . . the teacher (pastor) imparts the knowledge/wisdom to the class (congregation) . . . then the bell rings, and that’s the end of that.

I think the vast majority of Christian worship has taken that road, though . . . congregation as audience to the performance of worship. This is particularly clear in many of the mega-churches we’ve visited, with countdowns, and timed 10-second greeting moments . . . but it’s true of many of the other sizes and styles of churches we’ve been in as well. In this particular congregation, they’ve got the additional unfortunate reality of the space they’re in (the multi-purpose room/ cafeteria of an elementary school), and have some remedy (3/4 round seating) planned for the building they’re building.

Latah Valley was one of the friendliest congregations we’ve met . . . though I think that tends to be true of most church plants and building-less congregations: the part where many pastors preach that “we” are the church, and “the building” is not the church is never more apparent than when the church doesn’t have a permanent space. But it’s also fascinating how many set up the space they rent to resemble a traditional church space: altar/music team in front, podium off to the side, rows of chairs with a center aisle. Being a church-in-a-box doesn’t necessarily mean being out of the box.

*Church-in-a-box refers to churches who rent space, often in schools, and carry everything for their service from the trailer or storage facility it lives in during the week into the building, set up for the service, and then afterward, pack it back out. We’ve done this. It’s a lot of work, and requires a lot of dedication. Hence the irony: ceramic mugs are heavy — and require the additional work of cleaning them.

**Styrofoam, which even McDonald’s stopped using two decades ago, is the cup of choice at the mega church out on the Rathdrum prairie. Critics of this particular facility complain of the draw on the water and sewer system (though I haven’t seen criticism of the amount of trash generated by five thousand coffee drinkers.

*** This note doesn’t have corresponding asterii above, but since it’s not a continuation of the ** note, I gave it three to set it off. We left a mug from the church-in-a-box we used to attend in Raleigh, NC. We had several boxes of things we were taking to the goodwill that day, and among the things were two mugs from GracePoint. We turned one of them in with the dirty mugs to the guy who was doing the wash that morning. Should we call it a “drive-by mugging”?

After my friend IM’d the link to me on Tuesday, I knew I’d have to go check out the Deep Chat that Radical Grace Ministries has weekly at the Empyrean. We met, we drank tea, we talked. It was a pleasurable two hours with people whose spiritual views and worldview are quite different from my own.

I think I’m going to blog about the third-place community-building meme, rather than the chat itself, because it seems a violation of the implied confidentiality of small groups.