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.