Vintage Faith

My apologies if this week’s entry is a bit of a letdown–I’m more than a bit under the weather, but I wanted to keep on schedule. Hopefully I don’t cough up a storm in church this Sunday…

When I first began this project, I dipped my toes rather than diving into the deep end. For starters, I talked to people about religion more than I had previously, read up on some literature and listen to some podcasts about apologetics. Then I drove around town with my camera, taking pictures of churches that I thought I might want to visit. Ostensibly, I was just trying to get a photo of their hours (I hadn’t thought to check the internet yet), but in reality, I was just trying to be a little bit closer to them. It’s been so long, I wanted to make sure I could really do this—to really go inside, sit, and listen. I think I just needed to make sure that I could take it.

On my first day of trawling around town, I came across three of the churches that I have now visited: the Lutherans, High Street Community, and the Vintage Faith Church. Of the three, the last is definitely the best so far.
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Vintage Faith is a church unlike any other. Though the High Street Community church has a penchant for updating Christianity, Vintage Faith is out to completely re-brand it. From the street, the church is an unassuming brick and mortar experience with old windows that look as if they’ve yellowed with age to a tint just this side of amber. It has a small steeple and some scattered desert plants out front, but overall, it seems like just another church. It looks like a holdover from a simpler time, and if scrutinized enough, you can find why: there’s a large white keystone bordering the front door that says, “First Presbyterian 1889 1938.” These are its roots. There are a few old wooden signs around that still declare its First Presbyterian nature, but the shiny new sign, the one that they present to all of the people passing by on Mission Avenue declares the new name: Vintage Faith. The font is something straight out of a graphic design class, and there’s a sexy little logo that blends a V and an F into something that would make a tech-startup jealous. This is a church that watches its image, and as such, it intrigues me. With an outside like this, how orthodox can the inside really be?

When I first spoke with people about going to church, several of them requested that I visit this one. “Have you seen that hipster church downtown?” was the chosen refrain, and it seems to fit. More than just a church and the standard classroom complex out behind, this church comes complete with a coffee shop, and it doesn’t get much more hipster than that.

The sun has sunk into the ocean, and the twilight glow makes the open doorway to the café into a beacon of light. Bundled up with my scarf and new Christmas clothes, I feel like I’m walking into a Calvino novel, where feeling at home is only a prelude to some bizarre adventure. I take a deep breath of the chilled air outside and turn the page.

After ordering a drink, I sit in The Abbey, their name for this trendy little café, and watch as the faithful mill about. Built from the same red bricks and full of the same Christian smiling faces I only see on Sundays this place makes me feel as if I’m already in the pews. It’s standing room only as they mill about. The man who had been in front of me in line is clutching an old bible embossed with a silver cross on the front.

This is a church I could get into. Unlike every other church that starts its services early in the morning, the Vintage Faith church has set up a night-time meeting: seven pm on Sundays, when there’s nothing better to do in town. It’s cold outside, but not frigid, and the homemade, spiced apple cider is enough to get me out of the house all on its own. When church is next door to a café, what’s not to love?

I watch the clock tick away, sitting in a comfortable old chair by the door. I don’t want to be late, but I like to cut it close so I don’t get caught up in any awkward conversations. As time approaches, I watch the faithful file by and notice for the first time just how young this congregation really is. The man with the bible is by far the oldest I’ve seen, and he can’t be more than 40 years old. On average, these are giggly teenagers in skate clothes, girls in beanies, scarves and mufflers with boys wearing grunge era plaids. Suddenly, my decision to wear tight pants to church seems like a good idea.

I tag along at the end of the line and make my way around the corner to the chapel. There are several entrances, each of which is set up with a table and fliers. Unlike the other churches whose handouts scream Paint Shop Pro, these are laminated and professional, trendy and multilingual. The greeters at my door are 20-somethings who pal around with the people ahead of me in line while making half-hearted attempts at reverent behavioral corrections. They’re here for companionship, but there’s none of the funeral march I’ve seen so many times before. There’s something fun about it: they’re anticipating this, not dreading it, and I’m not prepared.

Inside the chapel, the lights are turned down low to movie theatre levels. People are finding their seats and the show is about to begin. I take the seat nearest to the door—a rather comfortable modern plastic chair—and set up shop. I can’t see my notebook as I scribble my notes, but I try my best to take down the details.

I’ve apparently entered near the back of the chapel and have an unobstructed view of the media operator. He’s another grunge-clad believer, and his control board is massive. It’s covered in switches and sliders like those at a recording studio. It’s the kind of tech that would make most Bay Area theatres salivate, and he dutifully tweaks the knobs in preparation. A small clip lamp lights his work as he adjusts the levels of the pre-show music and stabilizes the images on the two projector screens that are lofted thirty feet up at the front of the room.

In the corners, of the room are the remnants of orthodoxy that once filled these halls. Behind the massive dangling signs proclaiming Shalom (Peace) hangs an even more massive cross, but it’s hard to see. Wrought iron candleholders peek out from behind a large whiteboard, and a piano is tucked in behind the set up for a full rock and roll band. Old pews, probably the ones that used to fill this room, line the walls where young mothers sit with their babies still in their car seats. I have still yet to see anyone who looks over fifty, though there is an older gentleman sitting nearby. He’s balding, but still has a young face—I suppose there really aren’t any real adults around.

I’m struck by just how many seats there are here, at least as many as the St. John’s Catholic Church, but these are full. Even back in my corner, people are filtering in and asking politely if “these seats are taken.” An appropriately amorous couple takes up residency next to me. She’s a wispy Asian girl in hip, thick-framed glasses. He, on the other hand, is an overgrown jock that reminds me of the boys who once picked on me in school but later apologized because of their born-again principles. He doesn’t say much, but he holds her hand while they pray—it’s rather sweet.

A hush comes over the room as a group of people enters from the front entrance. There are several guys and a couple of girls, all of them channeling white-kid fashions from the late nineties. Someone hoots as they pickup their instruments, and though there isn’t an outright cheer, people are apparently happy to see them. I could’ve guessed they were the band before they even reached their instruments, but as they begin to play, I’m happily surprised that they do more than look the part. They begin with a song that I’ve heard far too many times—a ditty by the name of “Open the Eyes to My Heart Lord” that kicks off a rather tedious commercial on late-night TV for a worship song compilation. It’s rather funny to watch Metalocalypse, then cut to Jesus music, and here the juxtaposition seems just as odd. Moments ago, we were all just people waiting for an event. Now it’s religious.

But they’re good. If they weren’t singing Christian rock, I’d pay to see these guys. The frontman, his hair just a little too long, plays his part well in his Kurt Cobain plaid, and the female singer has a set of pipes that occasionally gets loud enough to hurt. The first legible note I scribble down during the service: SHOULD I HAVE BROUGHT EARPLUGS? I later wrote, “yes,” nearby.

As the first song comes to a close, the band slows its playing until only the guitarist is plucking out spare notes. Just like the Christmas Eve mass, this is how they pray here—a quiet tone, something just to keep things on track underneath the words. The prayer is a bit selfish (as they all are), but otherwise innocuous. We’re all blessed, please keep blessing us, and help us lift our voices in song, amen. Of course, with an ending like that, you have to have another song, don’t you?

After a while, the songs are all a bit grating in the same way that the top 20 station on the radio is. They’re all poppy, but as they once said on the Simpsons, you replace “baby” with “Jesus,” to make the transition. We love you… baby/Jesus…

Out of instinct, I tune out the music and watch the people around me as they sing and sway. It’s not as subdued here as it was in the other churches, and people occasionally call out over the crowd to make the lyrics their own, the same way drunks do at concerts. Were I so inclined I could easily join in the fray by singing the lyrics projected on the front screens, but I refrain and instead watch the pretty pictures they project behind the words. Nothing says “Jesus” like soothing images of ocean scenes, sunsets, and trees.

The music is a start, but the real change of this church comes during one of the musical breaks: this, announces the lead singer, is called “the Mingle.” On the screens, a bright pink graphic with stark black writing appears saying, “The Mingle! Interact with somebody new!” Next to the English, there are overblown, bubble-letter graphics of Kanji of some sort—probably Japanese given its trendy nature. All around me, people turn to one another and introduce themselves, catching up and shaking hands. It’s then that I realize I’m one of the rare singles in the chapel, but I do my best to reach out to a few people and remain inconspicuous. This isn’t the kind of church that would chase me out for being a fraud, but it feels weird not to shake the hand of the balding guy to my left. After all, I’m the only person nearby, and everyone deserves at least one flimsy introduction tonight.

The music resumes, another tedious Jesus love song (though, with this crowd, it kills) before coming to another welcomed halt. This time, a perky twenty-something blonde takes the stage and explains a bit about the coming months and what Vintage Faith has going on. Today is the launch of their new Shalom series, but she also gets into the details that really matter—extra programs intended to help new members get deeper into the church like the ten-week program “Starting Point” and other community groups that even newbies can lead if only they attend a few meetings.

This pep talk is all pretty standard, but it ends on a rather odd note: the donations. The services have barely started, we haven’t even seen the pastor yet, but out come the checkbooks. “Giving is an act of God,” she says, holding up the little white envelope we were all handed, and the room is eerily quiet while people fill the envelopes with their offerings. Soon, the band picks up again, and the ushers who led us in the doors wander around collecting. This is all standard procedure, but the timing is off. Indeed, doing it so early in the services reflects the extent of their introspective re-branding efforts: get them while they’re excited, pumped by the fellowship the singing and the anticipation of what’s to come. It’s really quite brilliant.

This time when the music stops there are no more songs—only more prayers and a video montage. We’ve been briefed on what’s coming, but I fail to catch the name of the presenter. Maybe next time I should bend my commandment and get a seat a little closer.

The video is a series of clips from Seinfeld—the ones where Jerry Stiller constantly yells “serenity now!” in a vain attempt at inner peace. No matter what annoyance he faces, he screams out in blood-pressure-raising tones the mantra that should be simplifying his life. The three-minute clip encompasses more than a dozen humorous situations and their serenity-free conclusions, all to the delight of the crowd.

This is the introduction of Shalom—the Hebrew word for “peace”—that this congregation will be exploring over the next few weeks. As the clip winds down, the pastor takes the stage. He’s young, especially in comparison to the clerics I’ve seen in chapels lately, and dressed to impress his hipster youths. He’s in a Dickies coat with simple, well-fitting lines, and a white t-shirt beneath. His hair is a well-coiffed blonde combed straight back off of his forehead into a fauxhawk pompador. After the Seinfeld bit, the audience is already eating up every word he says.

He introduces his topic with an academic tone, citing a study by the University of Washington that was conducted in 1964. Apparently, the seven most common stressors back then were finance, family, work, control of time, relationships, health, and death—in that order. His goal over the next five weeks is to investigate these stressors, their roots, and their remedies, all of which (I’m guessing) will probably have something to do with Jesus Christ.

He then tells a bit about himself as though the audience has never met him, which is nice for me. Apparently, he’s been to Israel on an internship, and he’s only in his mid-thirties. He has experience, and he’s well read in his discipline. He knows the bible, but he also communicates with other church leaders and watches how other leaders do their services. His stories, rather than being about fishing or jigsaw puzzles, are about Baptist ministers in the south whom he occasionally disagrees with, but who have great bits that he borrows from to suit his own purposes. He truly is a renaissance man of a pastor, and it seems as if he’s got a knack for picking the best of the best to bring to his own little corner of Jesus’ flock.

As the lesson begins, he returns to the idea of shalom, digging deep into the old testament to bolster his claims. “The word shalom appears 397 times in the old testament,” he declares. “Let’s look at some of those verses. I’ve highlighted the word shalom, and I think we should all say it together.”

The crowd listens as he reads the scriptures projected on the walls before us, and then repeats in a largely reverential tone “shalom” at the appropriate intervals. The pastor moves freely across the stage, back and forth, working the room. He has one of those little lapel mics that you see on interview shows and he makes good use of its range. Somewhere in the room, a slightly slow believer calls out “shalom!” just a little too loud and far too late, but somehow the pastor isn’t fazed. He’s all smiles as he carries on the sermon.

There’s another word in the bible that means peace, too. It’s “eirene,” a Greek word that has more to do with “whole life peace” than the individual pleasures that shalom can offer. What we need to do, according to the man in charge, is “surrender and align ourselves with God’s plan.” I’m put off by the term “surrender.” Giving up can lead to peace, but it also leads to insanity. It’s a good thing he’s so personable—the pastor, not God—or I’d probably tune him out at this point.

“God’s ways are unfathomable,” he continues. “God is peace. It’s a lifestyle, not ‘serenity now.’” With that, he wanders to the right of the stage, over where the blackboard obscures the orthodox candleholders. As he gets there, a spotlight shines down on him and the projections turn to a live feed of him drawing two circles.

These are pie charts, the first of which he divides into large chunks entitled, “spiritual,” “finances, “work,” “time,” and, “family.” He explains as he goes how each of these things was wearing on his mind, until he realized that he had it all wrong.

“You see,” he says, stepping to the second circle, “I compartmentalized it, and I had it all wrong.” He writes a heading over this one—spirituality. “See, this isn’t a piece of the pie,” he begins filling in the sections with the left-over headings from the previous chart, “it’s the whole pie.”

“Now I know not everyone here follows Jesus,” he says, waving the pen, “but this is what it’s about. Some people believe that they’re going to church to ‘be with God,’ but that’s not right. If you believe, then God’s already with you. This isn’t God’s house, it’s just a building.” I can’t help but nod at this admission. I’ve never heard a Christian say such things without first being backed into a corner, a place where they’re condemning others to their faces. He’s being inclusive of his own free will, and it’s a remarkable thing.

“God’s already with you. Think about what that means. It’s not, ‘God please be with me,’ but rather ‘let me be aware of your presence.’ Dualism is dangerous.” He then quotes a preacher from Georgia, but makes the caveat that he swears he’s “not a kook.” To him, religion isn’t about stating shalom, but finding a system to get there and to keep it in his life.

From here he gets personal. Really personal. A table of props is wheeled in from stage right, and he reveals them one at a time, discussing the various ways that he has lost peace in his life and how he intends to get it back.

First up: control of his personal time. On the screen appear some familiar icons: the blue F from facebook and the orange B from blogger, and he tells their story. He gets lost in the internet, and before he knows it, he’s lost hours to randomly clicking from one page to another. He simply likes to learn, he claims, and he riles the audience up by getting them to relate to his Facebook woes of replying to status update after status update, staying up until the wee hours of the morning checking in on his friends and family.

He then pulls a television remote out from under the prop table and holds it over his head as the sarcastically evil icon it is. He’s a scifi geek—something that has become oddly trendy in the past few years, I might add—and he can’t get enough of giant snakes and crappy monster movies.

But what can he do to reclaim his time, to find peace in his life? Well, he and his wife have made a nigh-impossible pact to turn the internet off at 7:30 every night. Worse yet, the TV is going off then, too, and on Sundays, it’s a complete blackout: just God and family. He’s already considered how he can weasel out of his obligations when he’s overseas for a speaking engagement in Korea, but he’s going to commit himself and find peace—it’s all about making goals that we can achieve.

From here, he drags out a bowling ball to represent the extra weight he’s been carrying around his stomach, and shows pictures of his personal trainer at Spa Fitness and their sign that beseeches the customers to “commit to be fit,” before making jokes about naked men in the locker room. He expertly waits for the laughter to subside after each joke, and builds toward his central thesis: he’s going to get fit, and that will bring shalom to his health. In a few weeks, who knows—maybe he’ll be the naked guy wandering around, proud of his body and making everyone else uncomfortable.

Next up is relationships, and he wants to strengthen his by spending quality time with his family instead of commenting on his wife’s status while they’re sitting next to each other on the couch. “Seriously, has it come to this?”

When it comes to finances, he’s already more peaceful than anyone I know—debt free, renting his house month to month, giving to church—but he points out that he’s going to stop complaining about the things he can’t fix, like the beater of a car that was donated to him by his in-laws. He can’t afford to fix it, and why should he? A few dents are nothing to be ashamed of, and he shouldn’t let the unwanted attention from other drivers get the better of him. He and his wife also donate liberally to the church and support a Ugandan boy through one of those Christian charity funds you see on late night commercials, but they’re going to “adopt” another one, too. After all, if they have money to give, they should do it.

At this point, he has won me over. He’s charitable, down to earth, polite, and most of all, entertaining. Even when he speaks of God, there’s no tremble of hellfire and brimstone, nor does it smack of the in-group mentality that so many others are prone to having. This isn’t a religion, it’s a support group, and that’s something I can get behind.

He finishes up by reading from Genesis before leading a final prayer. He asks God for, among other things, the guidance to keep us from compartmentalizing our spiritual shalom so we can experience true peace in his love. It’s not a bad sentiment, trying to find peace, and I almost consider coming for the whole series. Unfortunately, I want to see other churches, so that’s simply not in the cards.

During the prayer, the band returns to its instruments to play subtle, ethereal sounds, and as he leaves the stage for the last time tonight, they pick up the pace to underscore the bible verses that flicker up on the screens. The vibe is otherworldly as the drummer carefully plays his cymbals with mallets and the guitarists run their fingers up and down the necks of their guitars. The verses are tied together by a single highlighted word: shalom. I don’t read any of them, but I am struck by just how many there are. Saying that there are nearly 400 is one thing, but seeing them all flash by is rather more impressive.

Finally, the bandleader interjects to get everyone’s attention, and declares another round of song to be forthcoming. This one is one I’ve never heard before, but it pushes me involuntarily toward the exits:

“Surely goodness and righteousness are only found by trusting in you lord,” goes the refrain, and so go I out the back door. They almost didn’t offend me throughout the whole service. Almost.

Christmas Eve Mass

Christmas Eve is a time for togetherness. Normally, I spend the evening with my family, open a single gift, and enjoy a fairly standard dinner before we all head off to wrap our last minute gifts. This year, however, was different. This past Christmas was the first time I went to a Midnight Mass.

…

Outside the night is crisp and cold. My wife and I, dressed in our Sunday best, watch our breath rise before us as we climb into the car. All gods aside, there’s something magical about Christmas Eve. Outside the house, there’s an unparalleled silence on the streets, though many of the windows glow with light. Inside, families are reuniting to reenact the traditions of years gone by as we set out to break with all of ours.

My wife, Gina, is apprehensive about our excursion, and has tried more than once to talk me out of it. It’s getting late, and she doesn’t feel well. It’s cold outside, and it’d be nicer to just spend the evening watching a DVD. Her cheeks are pink and her nose a tad rosy, but we’ve already made our decision. Yesterday, we picked a church and a time. Today, we’re going.

The thought does cross my mind, that I should let her stay home with the dog, to sleep and prepare herself for the family onslaught tomorrow, but I can’t. This is something I can’t do alone, and I need her with me. This time, it’s more than misery needing company: we’re going to a Catholic Mass, and I have no idea what I’m doing.

Unlike the Lutherans who offer a handy guide, or the High Street Community church whose services required no rehearsal, the Catholics have been training for this moment since birth. Gina, the granddaughter of Catholics and a former Catholic schoolgirl, has what I need to remain inconspicuous—a reflexive knowledge of the ins and outs, or rather, the ups and downs, of a Catholic service. She wasn’t raised in the church, but she went on occasion (to appease Gramma or the Nuns) and has just enough experience to get me through.

Our resolution thoroughly made, we drive our way through the coastal streets. St. Joseph’s is only a few blocks from our new house, though I’ve never driven past it. It’s toward the upscale part of town, where Christmas lights illuminate the small homes along the seashore, and where the businesses—also dangerously close to the beach—are awash with the holiday spirit, even as they are deserted. We’ve only recently moved here, to a trailer park on the other side of the shops, but we’ve visited rather often. Still, the beauty of the clear cold night is astonishing. By the time midnight strikes, we’re usually tucked in bed happily half-asleep, the way the rest of the town seems to be at this very moment.

“I wonder where it is,” I say, slowly turning through the more rural corners.

“I think that might be it,” my Gina replies half-sarcastically as the church comes into view.

Just across the train-tracks and past the park, the empty streets have suddenly become full. Cars line the road here, as the church lot has been filled to capacity. Across the street, the middle school parking lot has adopted the overflow, and people are carefully traversing the crosswalk that spans the gap.

We pull in between a pair of Subaru station wagons and squeeze out of the car. From here, the church is bright and shiny, a well-lit beacon in the dark night sky. There are the typical signs and shrubbery, and the architecture is stark and imposing, even as it is warm and inviting. It’s an angular building with large wooden doors that whisper of antiquity even in the presence of a fresh paint job. People mill about, just outside and in the foyer, some alone in quiet repose, others hugging and greeting each other before recoiling into jittery, wintry hand-rubbing. By non-Californian standards, it’s not cold at all, but to us, this is almost as bad as it gets.

We walk arm in arm to the door, and exchange pleasantries with the greeter. She’s a cute 30-something, well-dressed in a scarf and hat. I get the impression that Gina has a thing for her leather boots, but the observation goes unspoken.

As we pass her by, Gina leans across me to ask, “aren’t you cold?”

“Oh no,” she assures us, her hands still clenched together, “I’m doing just fine, thanks!” Her smile is warm in a way that the other churchgoers don’t match, and my other visits—on random summer Sundays—are already put to shame. This is someone who feels the occasion.

We smile back as we brush past her and into the foyer. For some reason, it feels as if we’ve breezed in too easily, too quickly for the hallowed ground before us. Once again, I feel like I’m in a foreign land, though that impression quickly fades.

Here, just out of the reach of the cold, families are straightening each other’s ties and chatting before the service. There are decorations, too: evergreen sprigs, wreaths and garlands, even the occasional glass globe ornament. It’s festive, but we don’t hang around, anxious as we are to find a seat before they’re all gone.

I nudge Gina, my veteran, and tell her to take the lead. She’s been here before, once or twice a long time ago, back before her grandmother had dementia, when she held real sway in the family. Gina’s face is suddenly stern as she wrestles with her past, but she leads on. “It’s been a while, Hon.”

She drags me through a tight passage between two groups, where one conversation circle has backed itself up against another, deeper into the building. There’s a small, low and suffocating hallway before us that opens up into the vaulted chapel, and we walk briskly toward the first available seat.

One of my personal rules is not to take the good seats from the true believers, and this night we end up in a seat that’s usually reserved for the ushers. Of course, they’ve been displaced to folding chairs behind us because of the influx of holiday Christians, but I still can’t help but feel a little guilty. Maybe I am a good Catholic after all.

The room slopes gently downward to make room for the ten or so rows of pews, and stretches out in a semicircle to accommodate six or so columns. With so much to see, I forget about my penchant for obsessively counting and simply stare. Toward the front, there is an altar with tall, towering candles, behind which there is what appears to be a house: a structure whose roof can be clearly seen, and whose open adobe structure is reminiscent of old New Mexican architecture. It has windows and plant life inside and curtains hanging from the front.

Rising up above the roof of the house is a stained glass window of Jesus Christ, triumphant and shining in a clear blue sky. It’s a massive construction that towers three stories above us and whose panels are big enough to drive a small car through. A weak light illuminates it from behind, causing his presence to dwarf all that is before him. I imagine what it must look like in direct sunlight, though I’m not sure it ever receives it, and remember why these places make such grand impressions.

The light fixtures above us are in the shape of crosses and they dangle twenty feet beneath the vaulted ceilings to project a pale light down upon the faithful. The pews are standard upholstered wood, complete with the little cubbies for hymnbooks and bibles and there are leather wrapped kneelers waiting in their full and upright position until their time arrives. All in all, the room is designed to present an old world feel—even the air conditioning ducts have been painted the same milk chocolate brown as the ceiling to hide them.

Toward the front of the room, there is a small band (guitars, violin, piano) and a caroling-sized choir harmoniously singing their way through the hymnal. The arrangement reminds me of Peter, Paul, and Mary, so soft and relaxed. They sing the usual Christmas faire, including all of the songs I’ve ever heard that refer to babies being born in Bethlehem. They look like they’ve been there a while, and more than one set of eyelids look a little heavy.

At midnight, the service begins in earnest. All of the singing and brotherhood has been but a prelude to this, the parade-laden, smoke-filled lineup of the usual suspects. But still, there’s a different feel to the place that I can’t quite put my finger on.

The first parade, four people large, is quick and painless. There is a woman with a large, smoking censer, and an African-American altar boy in white robes carrying a massive crucifix, as well as a few others. I lose track between this and the several other mini-marches which objects are brought down, but my list includes a pair of candles, and another censer during the trip that delivers Eucharist. It really is something to watch, and, though I know it’s old hat to everyone else in the room, my eyes light up at the pageantry of it all. The priest isn’t quite as well dressed as Pastor Rick, but he’s clean cut and cheerful in a way that’s almost perky as he takes the stage for the first time.

“This is my favorite time of year,” he begins, “because I get to be the first person to wish you a Merry Christmas.” His long white sleeves dangle from his wrists and he nods a knowing smile. His hand movements seem something straight from a Broadway production—open palm, sweeping gestures that accentuate the flow of his robes. He’s well-kept in a Hollywood sort of way, and from the back of the room, he looks as if he could pass for 30, though my best estimation puts him somewhere nearer his forties. More than any other religious leader I’ve met yet, he seems in control. This isn’t a loose congregation of people who like to sing songs on Sunday morning—this is a Catholic priest, and he speaks for god.

The clock has struck midnight, and I feel happily transported, if a bit stuck, on the other side of the rabbit hole. For the first time, I feel strange taking notes, and, five minutes past the introductory prayer, I’ve put them away for good. This church isn’t about the particulars, it’s about the sense of it—the way the shadows fall on the corners of the room, the way people raise their voices or whisper their platitudes. Tonight is a special night.

The priest, a man whose name I do not know (and who never introduces himself), leads the congregation in prayer as the pianist twinkles the keys behind him. He thanks god for his love and the like, then punctuates it all with a signal phrase that sets the audience to retort with a prepared response. I look to Gina for guidance, but despite her whispered promptings, I still can’t remember what I’m supposed to say. Standing with the other members, their hands outstretched with their palms facing up, I simply cross my hands and watch the dance.

Following the prayer, there is another hymn—one of the few I still remember from my days in church. Noel, Noel, the angels did say… mumble mumble mumble. Okay, so maybe I don’t know it, I realize, but the words are projected on a screen at the front of the room, so I follow along. The choir simultaneously sets the melody and deviates from it, showing the congregation their proper level of drone before taking off in flights of fancy toward harder notes and more impressive harmonies, and before I know it, the song is done.

Or, at least the verses I know are done. Glancing quickly over at Gina, I see her mouth still diligently singing the words as her eyebrows reflect her inner confusion. The verses keep coming, beyond the basics of Jesus’ birth to include stars stopping in the sky and staying there all day. I suppose I’ve only been exposed to the more secular versions in recent years, but the implicit belief in miracles reminds me of where I am—the virgin birth is only the start of what Catholics believe. These are the people who have the Pope.

After the song, there are more parades and various readings from the bible, but I begin to tune out. It’s getting late, and the smoke is going to my head. I’m struck by images more than words—something that doesn’t often happen to me—as people walk up and down the center aisle holding the various accoutrements of a Catholic performance. My favorite, by far, is the ornate, colorful Bible, turned to the page from which the priest will read, that is carefully carried down the hill. The man, a little less photogenic than most of the others who will pass this way, takes a couple of steps, then stops to show the page. Even from this distance, I can see the calligraphy of the writing. It looks old in the way that instills a sense of awe in the believer, and I begin to wonder how much I would have to pay to see such a performance if it were a play.

But this is all a prelude. The parades, the various short prayers, the standing up and sitting down, and standing up and sitting down (it happens a lot): to me, they’re nothing more than a buildup for when the priest himself takes the stage in earnest to deliver his sermon. Three churches into my project and already I begin to grasp the pattern, to anxiously await the show at center stage. When it comes, I am not disappointed.

As another hymn draws to a close, the priest takes center stage. He has one of those tiny, flesh colored microphones, the ones that hang from your ear and point toward your mouth. From our nosebleed seats I can barely see it, and the effect of his voice coming over the PA is eerily godlike. He’s smiling again, a Guy Smiley kind of smile, bit and cheerful as he begins his story.

“I am not a shopper,” he says, making eye contact with as many parishioners as possible, “but one day I got this idea into my head that I needed some new pots and pans. I don’t know why—I don’t even cook, but I decided that I needed them, so I set to watching the sales and cutting out coupons.” Like all priests, it was hard to see where he was going with this. There was no mention of Jesus, the saints, or even impregnated virgins: this was a story about shopping.

“So one day, I decide I’ve found what I want—a nice new set of Cuisinart pots and pans from Macy’s.” He makes little flourishes with his hands, nodding head gestures—he’s a showman, and his shtick is working. The audience chuckles on cue and hangs on his every word. “And I go into the store, find my pots and pans, and take them to the checkout. I have my coupon, and there’s a sale going on—it’s perfect.”

His eyes light up, “but it gets better.” I have trouble not laughing. These tangents always get me, how the leadership goes off the deep end on a story before coming back. It’s the most entertaining part of the night. “How does it get better, you ask? There was a free gift.”

“A free gift. Just think about that for a second. How nice is it to get a free gift?” he nods knowingly to the front row. “I was already getting a deal, but now I was going to get a free gift, too!”

“What was my free gift, you might ask? It was a Cuisinart Quick Prep Hand Mixer.” His excitement now has the rest of the church chuckling under its breath. He’s obviously attached to this item in a way that borders on the fetishistic. “This thing is amazing. If you want to make a milkshake, you just put your ice cream and your milk in the cup and vvvvvvvv it’s a milkshake.” He mimes holding this magical device and the noise that it makes while in use. “If you want mashed potatoes, you just put a potato in a cup and vvvvvvv it’s mashed potatoes.” He repeats the name of the gift to comic effect, giving its full name every time. The Quick Prep Hand Mixer. The Quick Prep Hand Mixer. He plays it up, how amazing it is and all of the things it can do.

And then there’s the turn. His method is common to all storytellers, but it’s killing in this room: “There’s just one problem.” He walks to the front row and someone hands him a tall, rectangular box. “I never used it.”

He opens it to reveal the shrinkwrapped parts. “It’s an amazing thing. It does everything, but here it is, ten years later, still in its original box. I haven’t even opened it until now.” The audience lets out a hearty laugh, and the priest reveals his hand.

“This Cuisinart Quick Prep Hand Mixer is a lot like another gift that we don’t use enough: the gift of Jesus.” I always marvel at the way these things come back to God, how fishing or puzzle pieces, music or even a stubbed toe becomes a miraculous parallel. This, however, is a new one.

“We all know we have him, but how many of us really use him?” He’s more solemn now, and his smile is subdued. “Think about that for a moment.” He makes a sideways glance across the room, toward a corner where a statue of a saint stands in a lit alcove. I can’t name the saint, of course, but as he scans back across the room, he nods constantly.

“You can be a good person, you can be gracious and kind and giving. You can do everything right…”

Comically, he’s still clutching the Cuisinart Quick Prep Hand Mixer to his chest as he delivers the punchline: “But without Jesus, you have nothing.”

Gina and I simultaneously recoil. Even in our disbelief, we appreciate qualities like kindness, graciousness and love, but this is what they truly believe: without Jesus, we’re nothing. Without this belief, we might as well be murderers and terrorists. Maybe this is where they get the idea that, without God, we would all devolve into cavemen with firearms, raping and pillaging our way through good God-fearing neighborhoods.

He’s a nice guy, and better than that, he’s got a flair for the dramatic, but Gina and I are done. He ends his speech on this note, a downer for us, but a solemn boost of confidence for the flock, and it’s time for donations. Older men, nearly all missing vast expanses of hair and wearing their best suits, wander around with baskets on the end of long dowels, sliding them in between the pews for people to toss in their offerings. Later, Gina would tell me that the man in charge of our section was a little pushy with his basket and returned time and again to give us the eyes. I didn’t notice—I tend to be a little oblivious of social cues I don’t need to pay attention to. After all, I have no reason to give to a church, especially one that lists its financial figures online at close to a $200,000 gross for the year to date. (They’re short of their budget, but do they really need $200,000?)

As the services recommence, we watch the communion make its way to the front of the room, carried in the usual parade with smoke. The priest rises and sings what I understand to be the standard Catholic prayers. It’s really quite beautiful, and he does his best to put some rhythm to words that were probably only meant to be spoken. As the audience returns its final amen, I tug on Gina’s shoulder.

It’s Christmas Eve, and we’ve had a long day. She’s half asleep in her seat, and we’re both feeling a bit slighted by the Jesus remark. It’s as if the fun and games are over, and I decide to break one of my own commandments: we shalt leave early tonight.

There’s not much left in the services anyway, I figure. After the sacrament, there are the tedious community announcements; then the slow march from the chapel and the traffic jam out front. We stoop over as we walk out, and quicken our pace the closer we get to the door. We haven’t caused much of a scene, but we’re happy to be gone.

Back across the street, we slam the doors to the car. The cold air, paired with the awkwardness of having just done something so out of character, is invigorating. For me, it was just another exercise, but for Gina, it was something more.

She isn’t a nonbeliever, at least, not in the same way that I am. She has a mind of her own, and that’s her biggest gripe with the church. She’s in favor of all things liberal—gay marriage chief among them—and is just as disturbed as I am at the atrocities that churches regularly get away with. But tradition pulls hard, and she feels odd inside. The night has dredged up some deeper feelings, and that sense of longing that I felt during my first visit with the Lutherans.

Back at home, the excitement eventually subsides. For the first time in months, I’m the first to fall asleep.

A Writerly Dilemma

Today, I could’ve gone to a service–albeit a Jewish one–but I decided to stay in and do a write-up of another church visit. I routinely boast that this blog is the easiest thing I’ve ever written because there’s absolutely no shortage of inspiration, but now I’m running into a shortage of time and energy. Decisions decisions… Stay home, out of the bad weather and write or get all gussied up for another evening of note-taking? Guess I’m sticking it out at home.

Also, dear readers, help me out here: I have no idea how to get along at a Temple service, and even though the local one is really, really, accommodating (they’re even open with homosexuals), I don’t want to look like an idiot when/if I show up. So: anyone have any advice? Is there a Shabbat Survival guide out there on the internet?

This weekend: the beloved Christmas Eve trip. I know some of you are waiting for it, so tune in Sunday afternoon.

High Street Community Church

Long ago, I was a good Mormon. No caffeine. No alcohol.

Now I down two shots of whiskey in a tumbler of Coke so I can get over my writing jitters. If I’m going to keep up with this project, I might have to invest in a flask just to make it through my Sundays. After all, I’m going to have to visit a Catholic mass someday.

***

As part of my circuitous route to the second church, I drove to an empty public school parking lot. As a kid, I loved going to school on the weekend to use the wide-open fields or practice skating in the empty halls, and even now it feels like a safe place. This Sunday, I sit with the radio up and the windows down, finalizing my notes on what I just saw. There was a lot going on in the church itself, but there was more to be found in the numerous pamphlets that the listless old man had handed me.

Somehow, the things that churches claim on paper never cease to amaze me. Chief among the things that worry me about the Lutherans is this single sentence: “We believe that the bible is the word of God and thus, free of error.” This has become an accepted fact for so many that its utterance doesn’t strike them as odd, but for anyone who has looked beyond the front cover of the bible, it’s a pretty jagged pill to swallow.

I put down the pamphlets and try to catch my breath. My heart is still beating quickly, and I have that same feeling I got when I first went to college and reinvented myself. There’s something powerful about changing. I never feel like I belong anywhere—not with the outcasts, not with the popular people, and most definitely not with the devout—but somehow, I’ve managed to make myself acceptable, at least in my first encounter. It’s a powerful feeling. There was never any part of me that believed I would be struck by lightning or anything of that sort, but the real threat of public embarrassment, or worse, unadulterated intolerance, is omnipresent. I still want to go home, but I refuse: I’m going to do this. Again.

The High Street Community Church has a lot going for it. For one, it has “Community” in its name—the one thing that I can always get behind where a church is concerned. No matter what nonsense people may speak in a place of worship, the fact that they come together once a week and commiserate is always a good thing, and the fact that they can fall back on each other in hard times is indisputably a good thing. This is one of the few things that the Mormon Church does right in my book, and something that I still admire about them to this day.

High Street Community is across the street and up a small hill from the Lutherans. It’s an older looking building covered in wooden shingles with a big pointed spire front-and-center when viewed from the street. Pointy things seem to be a pattern at the churches here in Santa Cruz. There are a meager few parking spaces alongside the building, and beautiful trees all around. Santa Cruz is known for its hippie culture, and this church fits right in. Oddly enough, the cross that usually tops a chapel building is conspicuously absent from this one. I try not to read too much into it, but at the same time, it does stir some hope for a less dogmatic experience.

From the street, this looks like a small chapel and nothing more. But as I pull into the driveway, I realize that this is just the tip of the iceberg. The few parking spaces that run down the side of the complex are but a prelude to the sea of blacktop behind where you’ll find the myriad of other buildings, each with a purpose unknown to me. There appears to be a community center with a multifunctional room—bingo or basketball, depending on the night—and several small foyers with comfortable chairs and places to sit and wile away the hours. I pass no fewer than six doors on my march to find the chapel and fear I would never have found it had I not followed a steady stream of people.

The key to going places you don’t belong is to pretend that you’ve always been there. I confidently follow an elderly man, himself barely shuffling along, until I see the wide-open double doors of the chapel. Inside, there’s music, and in the foyer, there are a pair of greeters funneling the faithful into the chapel. This massive building isn’t even visible from the street—the small, aging bits and bobbles are merely a façade for a church with money to burn.

The greeters are a middle-aged man and woman. If they aren’t married, they could’ve fooled me. If the woman wasn’t pregnant, she did fool me. They are the picture of Christian health, smiling and chipper, shaking hands and pointing the way. The man is distracted talking to one of the congregants (a true believer, I assume), but the woman is free to welcome me. Mercifully, it is a brief encounter, but she holds her eyes on mine for an inordinate amount of time and it makes me a tad uneasy. I don’t look away, but I find myself wondering, “whatever happened to averting your eyes in a place of worship?”

Through one set of doors, I am directed to another where a secondary greeter quickly collates a stack of handouts and passes them into my hands. There are three different colors, half-sheets tucked inside of folded full-size papers, the gospel, the hymns, even the lyrics to the hip new contemporary songs we’re about to sing. It’s a pile to say the least. The paper budgets for these churches must be through the roof.

Last week, I worked a free college information night for parents at a local school—they couldn’t afford to make copies of my speech or even of the salient points concerning the testing that the students needed to do. It bothers me, but I don’t let it show: I smile, take the pages, and head in.

Inside the inner-sanctum, I seek out an inconspicuous seat. Ever the pragmatist, I never opt to sit in the front at events I don’t enjoy. When my wife drags me to a Shakespeare play or some high-art production of an avant-garde Godzilla reinterpretation, I always sit toward the back so that the true fans can get the most out of the performance. Thus, I grab a chair near the exit, on the end, by the doors. As I look around the room, my nerves flare-up again. Faced with that same nagging voice that still wants to drag me away to greener pastures (or at least a nice breakfast), I write down my new rule: No Leaving Early.

Part of what puts me on edge here is how much livelier everyone is. Back at the Lutheran church, in a room of a dozen geriatrics—many of them seemingly septuagenarians—I could easily beat a hasty retreat should the Second Coming finally arrive. Here, however, among the young families, I actually fear being found out, or simply making them nervous. I’m here to observe their behavior, to see the real church. If I don’t fit in, I might alert them that there is a nonbeliever in their midst. Worst of all, if they don’t behave normally, I will have ruined their day and wasted my time—something that I don’t wish on anyone. No matter how rude I may be on occasion, I’d hate to put this many people out at one time.

Looking around, I can see that this isn’t at all like the Mormon Church I once went to, but somehow it feels the same. Maybe it’s the way the seats are covered with that scratchy, easy to clean fabric, or the way that the teenage boy and girl two rows ahead of me glance at each other, their faces glowing with the chaste, promise-ring love that is so popular these days. There are children and young families, parents still young enough to be cool, but old enough to have an air of responsibility. The dress code is relaxed, but clean and neat, and the fifty or so members talk happily amongst themselves.

As they catch up, I take notes on the architecture. Above me, the ceilings are vaulted to a ridiculous height. They’re at least four stories tall and the building that supports them is equally extravagant. Up-lights shine toward the ceiling, giving a heavenly glow to the walls. At the front of the room, there is a pair of rock walls that seem to recede from each other, leaving open a vast white space between them where the lyrics to the hymns are projected just beneath a thin yet impressively tall cross. When the congregation sings, it’s almost like karaoke. Sadly, I’m not drunk enough to pretend it’s enjoyable.

The seating arrangement here is a half-circle facing a slightly skewed podium. In the center of the room is the sacramental version of a Thanksgiving spread complete with golden cups and covered dishes of what I assume to be broken bread. To the right, there is a podium where the many different speakers of the day will stand to deliver, and behind all of this, there is a band.

Whenever I see a guy with a ponytail and an acoustic guitar, I think about the ridiculous musicians I met in college. If there was a guy with a guitar, you could bet your tuition that he was trying to pick-up some coeds. If he had a ponytail, you should go double or nothing. Though we’re only a couple of blocks away from the University, I am still surprised to find the paradigm here in the flesh—this is a church for Christ’s sake.

As the first modern hymn begins, I realize that he’s the bandleader for the church. And with good reason—he has everything it takes to get by as a Christian rock god: a twenty-something with a knack for closing his eyes while slowly shaking his head, the ponytail, and an acoustic guitar—he’s golden. On this particular Sunday, he tops off the college look with a tight shirt and jeans, though his clean-cut looks still keep him well within the good-Christian look-book standards. Behind him, nearly sinking into the wings, is a depressed young woman with a bass guitar who strums listlessly as she mouths the words to the song. Her makeup is thick and she hangs her head forward, obscuring half of her face with her long hair at any given moment. I get the distinct impression that she wants to be here almost as much as I do.

To the left, there is a piano, and toward the front, there are too thin, perky backup singers who help lead the congregation as they lift their voices in song. Back when I went to church, we had an elderly woman parked behind an organ and the songs were droning, off-key contemplations that were good for little more than muffling the screams of petulant children. At HSCC, however, there is more song than church. Most of it is that particular brand of contemporary Christian music that causes the congregation to hold their hands up and sway ever so gently from side to side. They stand as if cornered by the police—palms forward, elbows at heights that increase commensurate with their devotion—and sing out with feeling. One row ahead, there’s a couple with two children dancing them around as if it were a mommy and me swim class and the song were “if you’re happy and you know it.” I appear to be the only one who doesn’t know the lyrics by heart, and at this point, I am disinclined to even try. I’ll just pretend I’m the depressed God-seeker who is here for the fellowship of it all.

Luckily, I’ve chosen the right row to occupy. With the safety of an empty seat between us, I happen to be sitting next to the only congregant incapable of standing to show her devotion. I overhear that she was recently in a car accident—a bad one that she’s lucky to have survived—and she’s not quite up to her usual praise-habits. She looks fifty, but she tries hard to look younger: she’s fairly fashionable and the tone of her skin doesn’t match the shade of her hair. When the others stand, I don’t, but with her nearby, I don’t feel quite as awkward.

After the opening songs (of which there are quite a few), we are invited to turn to our neighbors and introduce ourselves. I turn to her and grasp her dainty hand. Having heard her story I’m far more interested in her ditch-diving survival than the church proceedings, but I promptly forget her name. It’s hard to take notes on that kind of thing without looking suspicious. It’s probably also for the best: I don’t want to upset anyone with the blog. I shake hands and continue to avoid the uncommon degree of eye contact, before returning to my seat. Once again, a slew of religious people have heard my real name, and I can only hope they will forget it. In all of my various online personae, I am undoubtedly an Atheist, and I don’t want to blow my cover just yet: I have many more churches to visit before I can finish my project.

From here, pastors and sub-pastors alike will take the stand to deliver their lessons. Apparently, I’ve come at the right time: the series of lessons that I am only catching a brief glimpse of are entitled “What is Church?” and offer me a chance to see what exactly this group believes. Far from the pamphlet perversion I got from the Lutherans, I get to see the real church here, replete with the reactions of the masses themselves. You see, what the clergy say is important to me, but whether or not the people in the pews believe it is what I really want to know. I’ve seen crazy, and I’ve read about insane, but I believe that the rank and file don’t fall in line nearly as often as people think. Remember, I was once Mormon, and I’m hoping that these people—let’s not forget, they are people—will bear out my hypothesis.

After the Associate Pastor offers an opening prayer, the Lead Pastor (named Don, according to the program) takes the stand. He’s a gracefully graying man with a knack for talking to the people, and his multimedia approach is well executed. His speech includes a slideshow and a video, but he himself is quite capable of holding the crowd’s attention.

I join the congregation in nodding along as he discusses the finer points of his ministry and what they should do for God, but I am taken aback when he uses language that isn’t suited for such purposes. He mentions that “salvation comes from Jesus,” and that it’s part of his DNA. “Salvation is only through God,” he claims, “not personal effort.” Twice today I have been faced with the claim that man’s own effort is meaningless, his struggle for nothing, unless he beseeches the omnipotent for help.

On one slide, I have trouble reconciling Pastor Don’s enthusiasm with the words he says. Quoting the bible, he talks about the things that we must do for God if we want his affection, how we should be, “in the spirit—boiling!” and, “in the tribulation—remaining under!” The exclamation points are either from him or the Bible itself, but either way, it’s disturbing. He says these things with the fanaticism of a suicide bomber. Seriously, are you looking forward to boiling? Reveling in the chance to be troubled? Oh how merciful God truly is!

Some people hear the voice of God while sitting in a church, but I hear George Eliot. She speaks to me, hundreds of years dead through the words she wrote about another preacher in sheep’s clothing:

“Given, a man with moderate intellect, a moral standard not higher than the average, some rhetorical affluence and great glibness of speech, what is the career in which, without the aid of birth or money, he may most easily attain power and reputation in English society…? Let such a man become an evangelical preacher…”

Luckily, the sermon is mercifully short to make way for the video portion of the presentation and Pastor Don retreats to the audience to sit beside his wife. The video is projected on that same stretch of wall that displayed the song lyrics before. It cuts right to the point: there’s a chubby, scruffy faced musician sitting in a row of empty amphitheater seats talking about how people aren’t hearing God’s song. This guy, who makes the college-guitar-guy look like Jesus Christ instead of a pickup artist, speaks from the heart about how people need to get with the program. The gist is this: people everywhere are singing the song of God, but unless they know Jesus, they’re out of tune. It’s exactly that kind of particularism that makes us moral nonbelievers recoil—that no matter how much good we do in the world, there are Christians out there who see us as something less simply because we don’t partake in their rituals.

This musician is hip, as indicated by his forward leaning posture and his over-emphatic gesticulations. He’s Kirk Cameron with an extra fifty pounds, shorter hair, and of course, the “I haven’t shaved, but it’s okay, I’m still with Jesus,” facial hair. The band that plays throughout his speech is made up of violins and other standard orchestral items, but in the center of the room, there is a small rock-and-roll band. The bass player has a 70’s porn star mustache and the drummer is a long-haired flower-child boy, completing the attractive church-boy trinity so as to keep the young ladies in line. I’m reminded of the fanaticism that surrounds the Jonas brothers, but given that I purposefully refuse to watch religious propaganda outside of church, I can’t say for certain that they’re similar. (Note: make no bones about it, they are religious propaganda—abstinence only education in tight little pants.)

As the band jams out, the chubby leader talks about how the world needs, “faith, love, truth, hope, compassion, generosity, mercy, and justice,” and how Jesus is the key. I would be moved if it weren’t for the last part of the sentence, but once again, the audience is expected to believe that they’re impotent without Jesus, and that no matter how well they might improvise, they will never be a part of the band if they don’t play Jesus’ tune.

It all ends with a swell of music and some generic lyrics about the love of God. Overall, it’s a rather beautiful piece, but I’m happy when the video winds down.

Pastor Don resumes his position as the tech-guy fumbles with the lights. There’s a professional kit up the stairs behind us, and the balcony belongs to him and him alone during the proceedings. Again, the Worship Center surprises me with how big it is—I hadn’t even noticed that balcony before, and now I see stairs that head back into that area of the building as well. Wow.

Ever the optimist, Pastor Don ends the sermon by reminding us that it’s the little surrenders that allow us to live with God. He rejoices in the idea of God putting his yoke on him, and says that we should strive to do His will, “until Jesus comes back or God takes us home.” I wish someone were here to share in my continued dismay—his yoke? I guess I’m lucky not to have been born an ox.

After a brief prayer, the “communion” is doled out (it’s not sacrament—it’s more about community here), and then began the testimonials. This is the most insidious part of church in my opinion—letting the laypeople stand up to offer their uplifting testimony for the others to hear. Their comparatively simple language, the heartfelt, and often tear-filled, stories about their troubled lives push all the right buttons for the devout. The sermons are good, but this is the proof of Jesus’ love as discerned from the random patterns of life.

To say that I was perturbed by the belief in the imminent arrival of Jesus Christ is an understatement, but the testimonials dig right into my sense of human decency. Though each believer claims compassion, there is a distinct lack of love in every church I’ve ever visited, save the love for the divine. Among the stories I hear this day, one stands out in particular.

A little old lady, her hair impeccably permed, chokes back tears of joy as she tells us of the trials and tribulations that her daughter has recently faced. It’s obvious by the way she speaks that this daughter has, of late, been short on belief, but that the good Lord has shown her the way:

“My daughter lost her job recently,” she says, “and they came and took away the car. And now she might lose the house.” She shines a slightly melancholy smile, but her true feelings are unquestionable—just like Pastor Don and his joyous boiling, she rejoices in these misfortunes. Why? Because, “it brought her closer to the Lord.” People in the rows of chairs nod knowingly, their hands over their hearts in empathetic oneness. “I think that’s why he did it—so she could find him again.”

Obviously, being nearer to the Lord is more important than supporting a family, having a car or even knowing where you’re going to be living in the next few months. I don’t think Jesus is going to help her daughter get her car back, but he will keep her coming to church if he keeps abusing her the way he has lately.

Another congregant follows her cheery story with one of his own: his mother recently died, and in her death he could, “see God’s grace.” As a coping mechanism, I understand belief in the hereafter, but to hear each of these people profess their love of a malevolent God was almost too much. It seems that the more He ruins lives, the more they adore Him. I suppose I just need to start punching people in the face and I’ll be elected homecoming king.

Oddly enough, some of them had thought of my new strategy first, though face-punching wasn’t on the menu. Indeed, in the pursuit of God, at least one believer was more than willing to be the abuser. Just before the final hymn, there comes a request for a communal prayer, a blessing of sorts, from Pastor Don’s wife. In order to give her a proper blessing (I assume), she stands before the congregation and explains why she needs everyone’s prayers. In a nutshell, she runs a group called Eagle’s Wings that helps arrange for people to go to far away places where they can pray in isolation. As part of this calling, she herself is about to embark upon a trip to a far away British Isle where people have gone for thousands of years to pray and get closer to God.

She needs prayers to help her with her anxieties, to keep her safe on her long flights, and to help keep her husband’s spirits up. You see, while she’s out communing with God, she won’t be writing home very often and she definitely won’t be answering her phone or emailing home. You see, this is her time with the Lord, so her husband is just going to have to deal with her absence. For weeks.

Standing beside her, he nods and looks toward the floor, smiling (as a good Pastor always must), but he’s obviously not looking forward to her departure. I’m sure they’ve discussed it, I’m sure it was a mutual decision, and that her time with God is important to her. But to me, flying away to be alone in search of a companion when you have one at home already, leaving a real support system to partake in one that is either a figment of your imagination or the guiding hand of an unseen force—is foolish. As a couple, I wish them the best, but I fear the worst. Were my wife to request a two-week vacation to commune with anything other than me, I would have wonder about the health of our relationship.

As I sit and contemplate the deeper meaning of such a sabbatical, the members of the church surround the missus. Someone says a prayer into the microphone—more flattery than anything else—and I’m home free. Guitar guy sneaks up behind them to strum another tune and I make for the nearest exit. I don’t consider skipping a hymn to be leaving early and the pamphlets say that this is it.

On the way to the car, I call my wife just to say hello, and to tell her I love her. It seems that churchgoing is setting my priorities straight after all.

A Note on Sundays

The thing I dislike most about churches, at least at right now, is that they meet on Sunday mornings. You see, Sunday mornings are when I go to my church—a wide-open field of green grass—and pray to the gods of “please don’t let me injure myself today.” I play ultimate Frisbee every Sunday, and to be honest, I’m not about to just give that up to visit with God.

So far, of my church visits, two have been on Sundays when I was injured, one was Christmas Eve (no Sundays there, thankfully), and the latest was an evening service, thankfully freeing up my morning for my usual fun. My search terms when I’m googling up my next place of worship: “Friday church services.”

I never said I was a saint.

This weekend’s entry will be about my experiences with a Community church, so stay tuned if you want to see how I do with a slightly less orthodox service.

Lutherans

Waking up at 7 in the morning to go to church is hard. I remember a time when I believed in salvation, the power of the sacrament and all of that but even then it was difficult to drag myself through those reverent doors. Now, as an Atheist, it is even harder.

My first church in this new adventure is a Lutheran one. I’ve never really thought much about the different denominations, but I respect the roots of the Lutheran sect. If you have to believe in something, you might as well believe in a reformist notion, one that was borne of a man who had the courage to stand up and nail his ideas to the door of the establishment.

But today, it’s just a church. I don’t know the particular reforms or the exact words of that firebrand who separated the flock. All I know is it’s 8 in the morning and I’m standing outside of a rather old building wondering which way to turn. I had done some research, taken a few photos and looked around, but I still didn’t know exactly where the services were to be held. To my right, there are stained glass windows and big wooden doors. To my left, there are more wooden doors, and straight ahead, there is a courtyard with a fountain and more modern buildings. As it turns out, all of the churches in this area are church complexes, with many different buildings, some with the big glass doors you’d expect to see on a Wal-Mart, some decorated with the art work of small children, and still others built with stones and wood beams—the ancient look that stood to inspire Philip Larkin.

If you wander around a church long enough, someone is bound to say hello. Luckily for me, it’s the pastor of the church, a man in a white robe and glasses that would stir reverence in me if there was any left for these proceedings. He’s kindly, clean, and has a firm handshake. He introduces himself as Pastor Rick, and welcomes me warmly.

When asked my name, I answer honestly. When asked my purpose, I only reply that, “I’m looking for a church I like.” It’s the truth, though a tad evasive—I do want to like a church, it’s just not going to be easy.

Pastor Rick invites me in, but informs me that this isn’t the service that the majority of the congregants normally attend. Unfortunately for me, I have begun my journey in complete orthodoxy, free of the pageantry and pomp that makes modern religion more than the boredom of rote ritual.

Where Pastor Rick leads me reflects this fact. The room is small—so small, I didn’t even know it existed—and ten or so elder churchgoers sit awaiting his arrival. From the outside, this room looks like a storage closet, or even just a simple wall. It’s made of gray stone and has the appearance and shape of a castle parapet. Inside, there are wooden pews and tastefully upholstered folding chairs along with the odds and ends of bigger services like music stands, speakers, and the like.

There are no young faces here and as a 25 year old in a suit, I stick out like a goat amongst the sheep. Some of the men stand up to shake my hand and I slide easily into the standard chitchat that precedes any social event. Church or not, people are people, and their concerns aren’t always on the hereafter. Given that the average age in the room is well into the fifties, their choice of topics isn’t far from expected.

“I think that’s a 14 point font,” one of them remarks, discussing the large-print version of the day’s lesson, which kicks off the antiquated repartee of how many picas there are in a point, and what exactly a point looks like. I throw in my two cents, the remnants of three months spent in a print shop, and the bespectacled congregation nods their approval. Unfortunately, the conversation comes to an abrupt end when the second youngest person in the room (a matronly 40-something) replies that she lets the computer take care of that for her. The futility of knowing picas, ens, and sarifs strikes me as apropos.

Just as I begin to build rapport, Pastor Rick reintroduces himself to the room, this time more solemn and prepared for his duties. He walks quickly through the aisles, nodding and smiling at his flock. His robe is white with green accents, tied loosely with a gold cord around his waist. There’s a large medallion, reminiscent of an iron cross around his neck and it sways back and forth throughout his sermon.

Pastor Rick stands at the head of the room. He has a small stage (just one step up from the little people), and is oddly fenced off from the rest of us. At waist height, there is a handrail of sorts, though it’s too low to be of use to him. His first task is to guide us through some brief bible study and interpretation, leading us through a handout that tells us (thankfully for me) when to repeat after him and what to say. It’s marked with little C’s for “congregation” and P’s for “pastor.” I read along, channeling my teenage-self who used to repeat the “Amens” after his Mormon leadership. This is far more complicated, but the handout is, quite literally, a godsend.

Pastor Rick doesn’t have the thick drawl I’ve come to know and love from southerners like my both of my grandfathers, but there is a hint of the south in his speech and mannerisms. Once past the introductory pleasantries (if prostrating oneself in guilty shame can be called “pleasant”), he tells a brief story about jigsaw puzzles and the frustration of misplaced pieces.

“How frustrating it must be for the Lord,” he finishes, “to see his puzzle so close to completion, yet missing some pieces.” He nods reverently at us, a knowing yet melancholy smile on his lips. He implies those missing from his flock and those yet to hear the word of God are missing from the great tapestry of the Lord’s love. My presence, especially at this point in the lecture, seems most conspicuous, though not as I had anticipated—I am a newcomer, someone who has heard the call, a puzzle piece nestling into its proper place.

On average, the services are as ceremoniously tedious as expected, though the storytelling is as inspired as any campfire tale. Pastor Rick comes to life as the congregation chuckles quietly at his jokes and smiles down at their laps. At times, I feel as if I am the only one making eye contact with the man in the white robe, the only one looking these proceedings in the face.

With the Lutherans, I find little reason for mirth or ire, though I am nagged by the feeling that I have heard this all before. When the congregation speaks, it is under their breath, their tone tinged with the prostration and unworthiness that our first collective outburst reflected:

“O Lord, I stand guilty before You for I have sinned and deserve Your just and eternal condemnation. I am not innocent in Your sight, for I have failed to confess my faith before others, and have failed to do the good You command. O Lord have mercy on me. I have not loved my neighbor as myself. I have not treated others justly with compassion and kindness. I have failed to forgive my brothers and sisters in Christ. Show me your unfailing kindness for the sake of Christ, my Savior and my God. Have Mercy O Lord, have mercy.”

Paradoxically, the second time we speak together, the pamphlet insists we exclaim: “Amen, Praise God for His wondrous love!” The love whose very mention causes us to cast down our eyes and proclaim our unworthiness, whose rubric puts each and every human life beneath a piece of bread and a sip of wine.

Pastor Rick stands in his holy pen, the sunlight now filtering through the summer gloom outside and invites the congregation up to take the sacrament. Quietly, they file forward until they all surround him, their hands resting on the fencelike structure. It is only now that I recognize the leather-wrapped kneelers on the floor before them and the purpose of the handrail. No one kneels, but they do all stand and make themselves comfortable as they await their blessings.

Pastor Rick waves me forward. He had mentioned that those not wishing to partake of the sacrament could simply receive a blessing, but I’m not game for either. I wave back to him in the same manner I would at a dinner party where I was offered an unappetizing morsel, mouthing the words, “that’s okay, I’m fine.”

He smiles, ever the warm tempter, and carries about his business feeding each attendee in turn a small wafer whilst repeating, “the body of Christ,” before returning for the gore portion of the ceremony. Before offering each a sip from an ornate chalice, he reminds them that this wine is “the blood of Jesus, shed for you.”

Momentarily I remember how nice it was feeling the light of that love—the idea that someone would sacrifice so much for me—as I watch them drink from the cup.

But then I remember that I don’t believe, and that no amount of imaginary sacrifice is more important than the real sacrifices that have brought me here, alive and well, into the twenty-first century. I think of my parents and all that they did to make sure I went to college, to make sure that I was happy and healthy despite my constant sickliness as a child. I also think of the love of the small family I have just begun: one wife and one dog large. That is true warmth, free of the strings that come with a divine presence; a warmth unabashed and unashamed of the shortcomings of human reality. Even as the proceedings draw to a close, I wish I were back in my warm bed.

The sermon, though largely unobtrusive, ends on a sour note for me. As an Atheist, I am routinely accosted by the belief systems of those who think they know better for me, whose faith compels them to share their idea of eternity with me whether I care to listen or not. As a student, I see the ill-effects of religion across disciplines more varied than I care to mention, and the ignorance of this tiny room is palpable when Pastor Rick implores God in his final prayer to “open the eyes and the mouths of [his] followers, especially the soldiers overseas to spread [his] word.” For the first time, I feel compelled to speak out and remind them that the battle for hearts and minds in the Middle East is lost more often by ethnocentric intolerance than by the deeds of the military at large. More often than not, their smuggled bibles and religious rhetoric lose us precious ground with the people we must necessarily convince of our piety. This is the same intolerance they pay to me here, on our home soil, but more poisonous—our battle is one of words, theirs is one of violence.

But I bite my tongue. I am an impartial observer, and more than that, I am polite. Whether on their sacred earth or on the street, I don’t make it a habit to assault people with my beliefs or lack thereof. I am here to find common ground, but within the chapel walls, there is little to be found.

As we file out, people return to their former lives, the color returning to their cheeks as the morning air kisses them coldly. Half of the congregation seeks me out to shake my hand and introduce themselves, to offer kind conversation and turn me toward the church. While one member talks to me about where I am from, another shuffles quickly off to find me a brochure that discusses the merits of the church—their charities and beliefs, information about their pre-school—so I can be better informed.

The conversationalists are all retired and getting on in years, though some are more alert than others. The one with the brochure is worn and exhausted, his eyes clouded by his years on this earth. He speaks only of the church, and butts into a conversation mid-sentence after I tell someone about my higher education pursuits. “What are you studying?”

When I reply that I am a writer, he raises an appropriately skeptical eyebrow, but presses the subject no further. I offer that I write creative non-fiction, stories about reality, but am unwilling to offer my exact subject matter up for scrutiny. As another member continues to talk to me about my other work as a tutor and teacher, the skeptic wanders off toward the mid-morning refreshments, dragging his feet down the hill and into the inner-sanctum.

Now that the pastor and the more devout have given up on me, I am faced with a single man, who reminds me of my grandfather. He’s slightly younger, and a little balder, but I could easily imagine him golfing with my grandfather on a misty morning back in Ojai. As he talks, I find out that he was in the Navy, like my grandfather. Post-service, he pursued knowledge voraciously wherever he could find it and even today goes to the Naval Post-Graduate School nearby for continuing courses. It amazes me that someone who routinely studies for his own self-improvement (and amusement) should be so devout as to be here this morning. He doesn’t say anything about the church at all, but rather strays towards the things that he has learned and the people that he could put me in contact with. He wants me to tutor at the local Navy extension; he wants to make me money. He knows a lot of students who might be interested in my services, and he slips me his card before inviting me to coffee.

“Actually, I have something I need to get to,” I reply, not mentioning that my pressing engagement is another church. He smiles and nods, ending our conversation as warmly as any other I have ever experienced. He is kind in a way that transcends Christianity—it is truly humane.

I’m leaving because I have to get to another chapel fifteen minutes from now, but I’m also leaving because I’m tired of keeping up appearances. Outside the church in standard conversation, I am reminded that these are all just people—people with hopes, dreams, and lives. I remember that I don’t hate them, no matter what disagreements we might have, but I can’t bear the thought of having to face more questions. The service itself is pretty easy, but the deception by omission is not. I refuse to lie, and faced with the right questions, I would out myself for the godless heathen I am. Without God to bridge the gaps between us, I don’t know how much they’d like me, and that thought worries me.

With a shy wave, I make my getaway to the vast and empty parking lot as the full congregation begins to pull up along the periphery. Soon, the halls will be filled with song and the shouts of children, but for me, it remains hollow and worrisome. I write down my final notes and drive a circuitous route toward my next destination. The other church is right across the street, but I don’t want anyone knowing I’ve done both in the same day, so I take a breather at a local elementary school and wait to follow a crowd into the lot.

[Disclaimer: this visit actually occurred in September, the day before labor day to be exact.]

Entry VII: A Small Reconciliation

Before we continue, I want to bring you up to speed on where I am today. The me that confronted zealots in the quad is a few years in the past, though I’m not opposed to the idea, I’m simply not in fighting shape anymore. Instead, I have mellowed with age–though I’m only 26–and seek to build bridges rather than burn them. I’ve had conversations with Rastafarians, Christians, and Muslims, all of which ended peacefully.

Indeed, though I have strayed from my religion, I haven’t severed all of my ties with it. My nephew still goes to a religious private school and my parents do occasionally attend church, yet nobody has been disowned. I’ve even been known to attend a Christmas pageant or a wedding as my contempt for religion has faded. Back in college, I was angry that I had been duped, that I had wasted so much time sitting in hallowed halls when I could have been out enjoying a Sunday afternoon. I was angry that I had been scared into submission and that I hadn’t trusted my own perceptions of the facts. When I was religious, I lost a part of myself: it was the only time in my life that I wasn’t a skeptic, a thought that still makes me feel ashamed to this day.

But I’ve grown past that now. Today, I want to learn about what I once was by reliving it in small pieces. I want to see the other side the way I should’ve seen it originally. I want to understand what it is that makes believers tick. Why doesn’t everyone outgrow the impulse to believe in fairy tales? How can people survive, hanging their hopes on something no realer than the dreams they have each night? It really is a fanciful notion, and sometimes, I miss it.

No matter how nostalgic I get, I always snap back to reality. There’s not enough good in religion for me anymore, and I do honestly believe that religion is a form of child abuse—especially the bloody-Jesus-on-the-cross kind. That kind of violence and fear is a terrible thing to put on a kid. (Imagine the national outrage if that kind of thing were in a video game.) Guilt and worry, the consideration of whether a deceased pet or friend will end up burning for eternity in hell: it’s simply not healthy.

But I bite my tongue in pleasant company. I am not a “militant Atheist,” nor am I someone who seeks to abolish religion. I don’t feel the need to push people underground for believing in silly things, I merely want to keep their silly things relegated to the realm from which they come. After all, millions are growing out of their religions right this moment, and children, no matter how slow-witted, are capable of finding the truth if they really want to.

I consider myself less of an atheist than a skeptic, and beyond that, a plain and simple pragmatist. I tend to see every issue with the clarity of personal experience or empirical research.

I’ve known more religious unwed teenage mothers than non-religious ones. (Thank you abstinence only education.)
I’ve seen people driven mad by illogical concerns of purity and decency. (Sometimes a kiss is just a kiss.)
I’ve heard the street preachers talk about an apocalypse that has already been predicted and never arrived. (And if it does, it will undoubtedly be man-made.)
I’ve watched my country nod happily when its president claimed that God told him to start a war. (And eight years later, we’re still there.)

In short: I worry not about eternity, but about the things that happen all around us. I wonder why, in a decimated economy, churches aren’t taxed even as their leadership lives large off of donations. I wonder why textbooks have to be vetted through the fundamentalist Texas school board before they can be printed for the rest of us. I wonder why “thou shalt not lie” doesn’t apply to twisting the truth on cable news, or why sexual sins are okay as long as you’re a conservative congressman who believes homosexuality is a sin. I wonder why religion enjoys such a blessed position in a country that once valued innovation over tradition; that dared to challenge the birthright of divine appointment in the pursuit of life and liberty.

To keep myself from sinking back into bad habits, I want to stop seeing my fellow humans as sheep or pawns. I don’t want the TV version, or the talking points. Instead, I want to hear from their own mouths what they believe, what they hold dear, and what they are willing to fight for. I want to hear what they say when they think they’re alone. It’s not enough to have a bumper sticker, a ribbon, an American flag, or even a clever T-shirt. In the interest of being truly impartial, of really looking the facts in the face, I will go where I haven’t been in a long, long time. I invite you to come with me.

From this point on, my entries won’t appear daily—I don’t have the time to go to church everyday, and even if I did, I don’t think I could take it. My goal is to post once a week, though my church attendance can be sporadic. If you have any questions, suggestions, or simply want to start a conversation, feel free to do so in the comments section. All comments are moderated as of now so that people can send along whatever messages free of stigma. I hope that this will become more than a monologue, and I hope that you will help me.

Entry VI: The Antichrist

I finished high school in Ojai and escaped to college as soon as I could. Though I visited on the weekends, I was content to sleep in on Sundays while my family went off to church. During the week, I was an often cross-dressing, mascara-wearing, cheerleader-scaring member of a liberal university, and I liked it. I changed my name and refused to answer to the old one. I had become something altogether different from the straight-laced boy I had once been. I still had my morals—no drugs, no promiscuity—but I lost the filter that had once kept me respectful of other people’s beliefs.

On occasion, UC Santa Barbara’s liberal campus was invaded by anti-abortionist militant Christians, homophobes, and other such undesirables. They would march around our clock tower, shouting slogans and generally harassing the students as they walked by. Needless to say, their approach clashed with my new outlook on life, and, though I had been religious before, I had never been a proselytizer. I believed in being a good example, to show people the way rather than shoving my ideology down their throats. Even at my most devout, I had shied away from people who willingly picked fights with complete strangers and never rubbed anyone’s nose in my personal piety.

When I saw them coming, I usually took a different path. There was more than one way to cross the campus, and I would rather not waste my time embroiled in an ideological conversation with an out of control zealot.

One day, while eating lunch, I listened to them argue with passersby. Some of the conversations were civil, some were not. This particular group of middle-aged balding white men avoided words like, “fag,” but peppered their prepared speeches with, “hellfire and brimstone.” They wore clever T-shirts declaring their beliefs and stretched printed signs between themselves as they proclaimed their love of God. To them, this was the most important day of the week, to us, it was just one more inconvenience.

As I listened, I began to notice that the way they spoke was familiar. They cited the bible and spoke with certainty about the unsubstantiated. They made claims and pointed damning fingers at all who passed by. Soon, I felt nauseous, deep in my stomach. It was like I was back in Ojai. It was like it had followed me here, like hometown hatred had overleapt its natural boundaries.

Still, I kept my distance. The homosexuals on campus were more than capable of taking care of themselves, and I enjoyed the show when they did. Still, I couldn’t figure out why I was so upset. Then it happened. A soft-spoken African American twenty-something joined the ranks of the ranters, and something clicked. I had seen this before: the picketing, the arguing, the intimidation. This was prejudice for the sake of prejudice, propped up by the declarations of generations of madmen.

Back in Ojai, I had had run-ins with skinheads on a regular basis. Most of them were innocuous enough. After all, I was white, and because of that, I wasn’t a target. One of my best friends, however, was black. When they talked to me—about their rallies, about how they hated niggers, about how they wanted to kill everyone who was less pure than they were—it made me sick, but I was forced to bite my tongue. These were people who would just as soon stomp me to death after school if they knew my affiliations and my hands were tied.

Seeing him there, that smart looking, independent black man, I remembered the indignation I had felt back then. I wondered what made this conflict any different? I wanted to confront him, to ask him, “who do you think they’ll come after once the gays are gone? After the abortion clinics have all been bombed out of existence, who’s next on the list?” I wanted to tell him the things I knew, who his friends reminded me of—to slap some sense into him.

But I didn’t. Instead, I approached him calmly and asked one simple question intended to undermine his certainty: “What color was Jesus?”

His face contorted with anger—I had strayed from the script and he didn’t know what to say. “Now, why would you ask a thing like that?” he replied, and I nodded toward his compatriots.

“Maybe you should ask those guys.” He stormed away, fists clenched and I returned to my lunch.

This was the first time I had stood up to a religious figure, albeit a meek one, and I liked it. The psychology of what he was doing was frightening to me—that someone could be so blinded as to miss all of the signs of unmitigated (and undeserved) prejudice. Didn’t he see what was going on here? Surely he had been on the other side of this fence at some point. Or maybe not. I was forced to come to the realization that authority—be it real or imagined, from God or the law—makes men certain even when certainty is the least plausible option. What they do with that certainty is up to them, but it is a dangerous proposition no matter what they subscribe to.

A few moments later, after he had come to his senses (and I had finished my lunch), he approached me again, apologizing for the way he had reacted. He was upset that I had caught him on a technicality; he was upset that I had pushed past his rhetoric to chip away at the foundations of his faith; he was upset that I had sewn doubts amongst the flock. He had no answer for the color of Jesus’ skin, but told me the history of where Jesus was from and what he had said.

I accepted his apology, but from then on, I was no longer on the fence about religion. The conversation had changed from possibilities and eternities to the real world of hatred and persecution. I hadn’t set out to take a side, but once I realized what I had done, I embraced my newfound sense of justice, proof, and human potential.

Entry V: Cross-Examining the Witness

I’m nothing if not a pragmatist. I compare and contrast the options before making most decisions, and I usually make the right one (much to my wife’s chagrin). When it came to religion, I wasn’t thinking of alternatives, I was thinking of eternal glory. If your choices are heaven or nothing, which would you choose?

After all, the “proof” was there. Joseph Smith had seen angels and been led into the woods to find golden plates upon which had been engraved holy scriptures that trumped the old and new testament. Of course he was the only one who could translate that language. Of course he was the only one who could lead his people to the Zion. Of course the laws of the church were ordained by God. Of course the current president of the church had cordial conversations with God. Of course my soul could only be saved through the sacrifice of our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ.

For every potential question, the missionaries had a prepared answer. They had been trained to bring us unto Christ, and so they did. Compared to other Christian sects, it seemed that the Mormons really did know what they were doing. The ancient testaments were featured, but they were less important when compared to the books that Joseph Smith had originated. Where there were inconsistencies or holes in the plot, the Book of Mormon served to fill them quite nicely. The newness of Mormonism, the inventiveness, served to squelch my problem with tradition. Their laws were stricter and carried harsher penalties because God was actually watching and actually cared if you disobeyed. This attentiveness took care of my problem with all of the Christians in town whose morals were looser than mine. There were confessions of a sort, and blessings that the elders could hand out, but in all honesty, the LDS church seemed more watchful than gossipy. Compared to the other religions I had seen around town, the Mormons had it all. This was a church on a mission, and nobody was playing around.

Though many of my social events with the church were innocuous gatherings punctuated by pickup basketball games and impromptu bake-sales, there were times where things didn’t feel quite right. Prayer was par for the course, and listening to church speakers rail against the iniquities of modern life were fairly common, but there was one event that stood out. Really, there’s nothing else to be said for it: it was a prolonged attempt at brainwashing.

I can’t remember what they called it, but I do remember how they played it up in the intervening days between announcement and the official roll out. That the elders talked about it like a retreat, a camping trip with like-minded individuals, a chance for us teenagers to connect. I was wary of camping in general and took quite a bit of convincing, but with the right amount of social pressure, I fell in line and packed my bag.

At dusk on a cool fall night, dozens of teenagers from all over the county (most of whom I had never seen before) were dropped off at our local church. Econoline vans–the kind that seat a dozen teenagers comfortably–rolled through the lot in rapid succession, leaving behind their pensive cargo. Some of them greeted each other, old friends from the monthly church dances, but I quickly realized that I was alone. My friends had already been whisked away to be with their “families”–that’s what they named the groups–and
the others would all be likewise parted before long. As the last of the non-participating parents pulled out of the lot, we were shuffled into the church and placed into carefully chosen rooms with complete strangers. There, we would choose a nickname by which we would be known for the remainder of this misadventure. Unwittingly, the church gave birth to my pen-name, but that’s a story for another day.

Looking back, I realize that every decision made about that night can be seen as a lesson in brainwashing. The first lesson? Nobody can know anybody. Soon, the same vans that had deposited us here were refilled to capacity and we piled in for a late night drive through the cold, dark night. Taking your victims some place they’ve never been before without letting them see the path? That’s lesson 2.

Slowly we wound our way up the back roads of Ojai toward Santa Paula. There, down a long dirt road, we were released into the night air to follow our “parents”–mine were actually old enough to be grandparents–to the place we would camp for the night. After telling stories around the campfire, boys and girls were separated into different tents where we laid awake, too cold and wet to sleep more than a few hours. Sleep deprivation in a cold uncomfortable environment? That’s lesson 3.

The next day, we were awoken at the crack of dawn. It was cold, and most of us were wearing the same clothes we had worn the day before, now wet from the morning dew. We brushed our teeth with a cup of water, but when it came time to eat, there was bad news. We were given only a single orange for breakfast, and our next meal wouldn’t come for nearly six hours. Starvation and forced labor (after all, there was no turning back now, was there)? That’s lesson 4.

In the interim, we would participate in leadership style games of togetherness, teamwork, and critical thinking, each with its own distinctly religious spin. “This spiderweb represents the world—the traps that Satan has set out before you…”

I honestly can’t remember if it was that blatant—after all, I had been starved—but I do know that God’s love, or at least his plan, was the basis for every arbitrary task. Little papers were posted at each station to explain your purpose in life, then give some instruction for your immediate task. Jesus loves you, now figure out how to get your group over this rope without touching the ground on either side.

This time, though steeped in religious nonsense, wasn’t the worst that the day had to offer, however. At least out there, with other teenagers, I could be myself and learn about the lives other Mormons outside of the Ojai Valley were living, but night time brought a new indoctrination, one far more powerful.

As dusk settled over the valley, we were once again deposited into the vans and driven back down the windy dirt roads, this time seeing and discussing the landmarks we had passed on our way out–we weren’t that far from town after all. Predictably, our final destination was back at the church, where we were given a lengthy sermon on teenage issues (sexual perversion, drugs, alcoholism), and then given envelopes with letters of encouragement and love written by our parents. It was very emotional, but not in the way they had intended—I read the letters and loved my parents more than ever, but God seemed like an afterthought, a spare addition to a long ordeal. Why were we marched around in the midday sun with only a canteen of water? Why the fire and brimstone talk? Why abuse us to show us God’s love? More importantly, who needed it when we had parents who loved us and looked out for us? More than ever, I questioned the people who needed this pomp and circumstance, who had to pull rabbits out of hats to keep us in line. What was I doing with my life? Are these really the people I trust with guiding my immortal soul?

Did I even have one?

Everyday was the beginning of the end for me. Every forced prayer, every forced march, every call to the faithful pushed me further away. I had better things to do than cavort with the faithfully ignorant and the deliberately negligent. My piety was unquestionable, but my reasons for it–the pride of seeking love from God, of needing his favor, of being an eternal sycophant–were starting to seem dubious.

When I finally left religion behind, it was this day that I remembered the most, how my priorities had changed for the worse when I had joined their ranks. It inspired me to take back control, to remember who I was and what I wanted to accomplish in life. No one could tell me what to think or how to act before I put on my white shirt and tie, and that was the way I liked it.

Entry IV: The Breakdown

At the social events, I fit in well. Alone, religion didn’t simply didn’t work. Prayer is important to the Mormons–it even follows a script to some extent–but it wasn’t important to me. I had tried praying early on, but it didn’t feel right. I couldn’t kneel. I couldn’t form the words of humility, of the beggar at the Lord’s feet. I wasn’t sinning and it didn’t seem like I should have to humble myself before anyone. After all, if you’re following the rules, what is there to apologize for?

Then there were the beliefs. The story of Joseph Smith, when presented by the missionaries, is something easy to believe, but many of the miracles floating around the church were not. One day, while hanging out with a church friend, he pointed to a mountain in the distance and said, “I could move that mountain if I had enough faith.” Other friends made claims about seeing Jesus, in the flesh, at the temple, or angels protecting female missionaries while they were in the field. Somehow, when faced with modern miracles, I couldn’t tame my skepticism. I had read books before, and even believed them. But this was too much, going too far.

Eventually, my internal rebellion bled into the rest of my church life. One day, I realized that I was seeking guidance from elders who had more problems than I did. All around me, my pious peers were having similar reactions. Some of them dropped out of church while others were excommunicated–both from the flock and from their families. One of the girls who went missing from the pews never to return had gotten pregnant, and for that, she was universally shunned. For each sheep that went astray, there was one who stayed behind in the church to gossip and spread rumors. Without the umbrella of shared faith, many people turned downright nasty with one another, further undermining my faith in the people of the church.

Ojai is often a train wreck for adolescents, but the church wasn’t helping any of us. One Sunday, our teacher decided to lecture us on the evils of drugs and alcohol because she had recently discovered her own son in a drunken stupor. She was angry and pointed accusing fingers at each of us. This was a common occurrence–calling us all out for the sins of a single person–but this particular sermon was the final straw. I was done with church, and done with being crucified for the sins of others. We didn’t need an intervention, her son did. This wasn’t about sin, it was about psychology. Her son needed rehab, help, and a proper medical evaluation. As I recounted this to my parents on the car ride home, I realized that the fairy tale was over for me.

In the years following, I never once went to church, and I never missed it. I remained a virgin until I met the woman I would marry, and in most things, I stuck to my holy guns. I’ve still never smoked, and I didn’t drink more than an obligatory sip until I was 21. I’ve had bouts with caffeine addiction, but remain almost entirely free of it. I made each of these decisions for my health, but somewhere deep in the back of my brain, I was always keeping my options open. After all, if the church did have it right, I might as well not slam the door on the Celestial Kingdom.