Churchhopping

2006-06-05T06:04:00.000-07:00

Church attended: Malankara Orthodox Syrian Church

date: Wednesday May 31, 2006 Time: 6:00 PM
attendance: 8

Don’t call these guys Catholics. It won’t insult them — they’re too much at peace for that — but you will expose your ignorance. They are members of the Orthodox Syrian Church, a faith believed to have been carried to the Indian sub-continent by St. Thomas the Apostle around 50 A.D. Not too much has changed for them from that time, either. Their doctrine certainly hasn’t. These people also safeguard one of the oldest —maybe the oldest — intact Christian liturgies in the world, untampered with since the 4th Century. As Catholics used Latin for over a thousand years in our liturgy, the Malankaras employ a smattering of Aramaic in theirs. As most Christians know, Aramaic is the most likely language the Lord used while on His earthly mission.

They aren’t Catholic, but they do share common beliefs with us Romans — in fact, for the most part, identical. Theologically, you could loosely refer to them as Syrian Catholic, or to me as Roman Orthodox. Why? Well, we share a common brotherhood called the Holy Trinity, revealed to us through the person of Jesus Christ. At one time loosely confederated as a single church, the Catholic / Orthodox relationships slowly eroded over time as Christians took varying theological and political paths. In other words, we allowed molehill arguments to grow into mountainous differences. Lack of charity undermined our unity as well, which many of us under Christ have been laboring diligently to repair.

Should we bother to patch up everything at this late stage? We believe the Spirit is moving us in that direction, as Christ Our Lord desires unity — that we love one another, and demonstrate that love through our common faith and the willingness to repair His disjointed body. Theoretically, this should be easier than we’ve made it so far, as both communities believe the basic foundation of Christ’s Church is intact: The seven sacraments of Baptism, confession, communion, confirmation, holy orders, marriage, and anointing of the sick were present at the origins of each spiritual expression and have been preserved, unharmed and undamaged, by the varying faiths through validly consecrated bishops, known also as apostolic succession.

Where did we go wrong, all those years ago? How did we chase each other away? Minor points in theology and at times, backstabbing politics eroded our unity, but our common devotion to the Trinity is slowly bridging that gap. Catholics and the various Orthodox churches, some expressions separated since the 5th Century Council of Chalcedon, have repeatedly come to the table to bat about those same theological points. Although we have yet to achieve a complete bond, the Lord has blessed all efforts with agreements of momentous importance. Among them: the sacraments of communion and marriage are recognized by Catholics and Orthodox at interfaith weddings, and the Catholic Sunday Obligation through our presence at an Orthodox church is fulfilled by taking part in an Orthodox Mass, if no Catholic church is available. To the Protestant observer, these concessions must seem trivial, but to any Catholic or Orthodox well-versed in their faith, these history-making concessions are staggering achievements, integral to the future reconciliation of all Christianity.

This agreement provides the core of my pleasant experience at St. Gregorios Orthodox Mission in Spokane, Washington.

It ain’t easy being green — an Irish Catholic, that is. Living in a religious environment that has been abandoned by up to 80% of its adherents and witnessing the negativism about that same environment on a daily basis — it can shave the relish right off your heart. What a nice surprise to be among those at St. Gregorios, who immediately accepted me as a full brother in the Lord, despite the majority of the communicants being ex-Catholics. They had their complaints about my church, but also made many positive comments, agreeing the entire time that in most all respects, the two churches were as one.

Before going any further with the warm fuzzy part of my adventure, I have to get this confession out of my system right now: I was late. After all the teasing I came up with in my previous articles regarding everyone else’s tardiness, I entered the old white frame church by stealth about 5 minutes after Mass started, head slumped in shame. Syrian Orthodox must be charitable churchgoers, as not a single individual turned around and shook their finger at me, or alternately waved their arms at the 2 concelebrating priests and pointed at me, hissing “heathen” or “burn him” under their collective breaths. Instead, Christian charity dictated that they ignore me altogether, which they did, in their mercy.

As mentioned, two priests were concelebrating for 8 mass goers, which provided a ratio of 4 attendees for every one priest. For a Roman Catholic forced to deal with priest shortages on an ongoing basis, this seemed grossly unfair. I thought about asking nicely, “may I have one?” but it seemed inappropriate, as I had just got there. I would work it into the conversation after Mass, but realized after thinking it through that the car was a mess and I’d have to clear off the front passenger seat. I wasn’t about to insult a clergyman by asking him to ride in the back — not after so much effort had been spent on behalf of reunification. Besides, both priests had expensive vestments on and I didn’t want to wait around for somebody to change out.

So I concentrated on Mass.

As mentioned, I walked in late and snuck quietly over scuffed, creaky hardwood, sliding into my familiar back pew location. I say back pew, which was actually a row of padded fold-up chairs. No kneelers, so I knew it would be a relaxing, restful experience, unlike the pogo-stick performance in my own church; kneel, sit, stand, sit, stand, kneel, sit, kneel, stand, kneel, sit. I wonder if anyone has ever filmed a Catholic Mass with a time-lapse camera? It’d be like looking at a classroom full of 1st graders, each having just consumed a quart-sized root beer float.

Looking around the church, I took stock of my surroundings: the walls were covered with 1st millennium, Byzantine Christian art. To my left was the Last Supper with 12 manly-looking apostles (obviously, not painted by Da Vinci). At my back was a large cross, sans the Suffering Christ — along with the Black Madonna icon (religious image). On my left, a variety of icons hung, including another representation of Immaculate Mary and several saints. Shifting my studies forward, I saw front and center, a 20-foot-long red curtain, approximately 8 feet tall, behind which the main alter rest, hidden from view. To the right of the crimson veil, fully visible, was a side alter, topped by a Byzantine crucifix. I knew I was home, as the Jesus painted on that same styled crucifix had spoken to John Bernadone, one of history’s greatest Christians, some 800 years before, directing him to shore up a crumbling faith.

Standing were 8 parishioners, including in front of me, a woman of African heritage, who retained a serene countenance despite two children hanging off of her. On her right and the next set of chairs in front of her were 4 women, clustered together. An intensely prayerful East Indian woman with a billowy scarf for a head covering was at the front of a group of chairs to my left. Commanding most of my attention was two vestment-clad priests, both topped with small black pillbox hats. Noting the priest was singing the Mass, I observed also the paperbacked booklets clasped in the parishioners’ hands, allowing them to follow the Mass and participate in the responses. They had booklets and I didn’t! Barely controlling my jealousy, I resolved to run a Mission:Impossible IV – type raid on the vestibule, knowing in my heart I’d probably walked right by the coveted pamphlets on the way in.

I will spare you the agonizing moments of my short-lived sortie, sharing only its success, as I triumphantly re-entered my space victoriously clutching my pamphlet-prize, not unlike some spiritual Napoleon. Now I had the needed words at the ready, and could join the Mass.

The priests continued to celebrate the Mass as I frantically searched the pamphlet for their sung words, and my responses. Soon locating them, I discovered — to my horror — that no musical notes were provided, which re-energized my fears with a fresh shot of adrenaline. Not coming this far just to give up, I listened intently to the responses, eventually picking up the melody within 15 to 20 minutes. I would have been loaded for bear at this point, save yet another complication. The priests, in their wickedness, were skipping all over their books, which is the worst of mortal sins in my book. This is a grave situation; much more grave than the reader can grasp, for if one attempts to sing unfamiliar material, such as I did — among a tiny congregation, such as I was in — and all of the sudden the lyrics deviate from the script, which they did — one ends up, at times, as the only one singing, which is what I did.

I spent so much time getting oriented to my surroundings, to the singing of the Mass, to the booklet, to the responses, that I was lifting zero from of the experience. This was another good lesson in preparation for me. I studied nothing about their Mass before arriving. I ran late and didn’t pray ahead of time. If I bring nothing to the Mass, I receive little or nothing as my reward. Everything was wonderful. I was the problem.

I followed along as best I could, unsettled as my intimidated spirit stopped singing and my eyes struggled to follow along in the booklet. Along the way, I gratefully said several “Our Fathers” and “Hail Marys” with the group as the prayers came up, which was frequently.

Finally, I became familiar enough with the booklet to follow along without too much trouble. The sung responses were becoming familiar to me. The flow of the Mass was predictable and understandable — I had hit my spiritual groove. I was concerned that it had all happened too late, as I knew I’d been there at least an hour. Little did I know that we had an hour to go, and my back was killing me. Oh, my kingdom for a kneeler! To practice pogo-stick religion once more!

Now that I had my bearings (if not my health), it freed my mind up to analyze what I was attempting to be a part of. The first thing was to compare their Mass to my own spiritual tradition as I followed the priests’ actions and the written words of their liturgy. Putting everything into a historical context, I saw events and phrases common to both Rome and Syria that sent me dreamily into the past; into an age before Christianity fractured — to the era of the apostles themselves, as they sewed the seeds that provided roots for Orthodoxy and Catholicism. For a short time, I was with St. Thomas as he “set up shop” among this ancient people; walking among them, radiating his Christ-like kindness and compassion, healing their sick, converting their hearts and celebrating with them — all while his brother apostles were also scattering over the known and unknown world, duplicating his efforts, teaching the same precepts, worshiping with the same tools given him by his Ascended Master.

I prayed the Our Father numerous times that evening with my sisters, as Andrew taught my family in Greece; I venerated Mary through prayer, as Philip & Bartholomew taught the Body in Hierapolis. As Peter & Paul instructed my fellow believers early on in the Eternal City, I participated in the Eucharist, by joining my prayers to the priests’ in this continuation of this once-and-for-all sacrifice. As my forebears did in the catacombs beneath Rome and in the mother faith of Judaism, I offered prayers for the dead, asking God to speed their journeys and forgive my sins.

As I saw the astounding similarities in these two faiths, tragically torn apart over a millennium and a half ago, Christian Tradition was alive and more evident to me with each passing minute; with each new word absorbed into my soul. “Peace be to you all,” the priest would proclaim as he blessed us. “Glory be to God on high” we announced to the Lord. “Accept this Holy Eucharist,” the priest pleaded to the Lord for us, and himself. “Kurielaison,” was begged many times for us, by us. All these words, all these prayers, all these actions so familiar to Catholics, were present at this time in this Syrian Holy Rite. These observations first whispered to me, then shouted out a reminder that Christ’s teachings were not lost to us. Nothing was lost to the erosion of time and confusion; that the Church was constructed out of lasting materials, built to withstand the most destructive of forces — even the hatred of Christians toward each other — until He shall come again in glory.

MARANATHA!

Joe

2006-06-04T09:37:00.000-07:00

The Reformation Updated -
Martin Luther and the Pope sit down together!

Many Christians are not familiar with the landmark Lutheran-Catholic Declaration on the Doctrine of Justification. On October 31, 1999, representatives from both Catholic and Lutheran communions ratified the joint declaration after years of theological discussions. While recognizing that each church views justification in their own light, the Lutherans and Catholics have committed to paper the beliefs they hold in common. Discussions are ongoing between the two Faiths.

In a gesture filled with symbolism, the agreement was signed in Augsburg, Germany, where the Augsburg Confession, a post-Wittenburg-theses document drafted by the religious reformer Melanchthon, was unveiled with Martin Luther's blessing. It attempted a conciliatory stance with Roman Catholics, attempting to keep traditional church doctrine intact with an emphasis on justification by faith.

Many practices prescribed at Augsburg were alien to Catholics at that time, such as communion under both species and worship (Mass) in the vernacular. The Confession also demanded abandonment of medieval dietary laws and priestly celibacy. Since the last Catholic council, Vatican II, ended in 1965, all of these practices and more have been altered in one way, shape, or form by the clergy. Married priests, while still rare in mainstream Catholicism, are common throughout the same church’s Byzantine Rite and have been introduced to the largest branch of Catholicism through conversion of priests from similar religious denominations, such as the Anglican Communion. To note: in 1945 post-Nazi Germany, a number of Lutheran ministers converted to Roman Catholicism and were allowed to live with their wives.

As Christians, we pray for an ongoing Reformation — Martin Luther was not infallible, but neither was he a coward. The former monk became what he thought God wanted him to be — a lightning rod for change. Fearless and belligerent, bigoted but believing, he shook Christendom to its core, becoming an agent for reform for both Protestantism and Catholicism, recharging and refreshing both sides, either directly or indirectly. We pray that God continues to shake us up, dislodging any complacency in our faith, drawing us closer to Him.

What do you desire of us today, Lord?

Joe

2006-06-03T17:08:00.000-07:00

Church attended: Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints
Commonly known as Mormons or LDS

date: composite Time: 9:00 AM
estimated attendance: 150 – 175 presiding bishop: varied

Pretty scary to write about this religion. I’m worried about insulting the woman closest to my heart. My wonderful wife, the most beautiful, incredible woman of the millennium, frequents this church. Besides; I myself have a lot of Mormon buddies here in Idaho. Everybody does, it seems, if they live in Idaho or Utah — there’s a huge concentration of them here and they breed like rabbits, to boot! Recognized as a controversial religion by mainstream Christianity, they are nonetheless good people — every bit as kind and giving as their Catholic, Lutheran, and Methodist counterparts. Though the LDS church enjoys robust numbers of faithful in this region, it is not among the larger religions in the world. That doesn’t mean they don’t have a crowd… there exists an estimated 4 to 5 million active members, many committed to living “the Gospel” as their religion defines it.

As this column so far is centered mainly around Judeo-Christian church-hopping (that will change), there are those who will bristle at the thought of the Mormons’ inclusion here. Why? I must point out that most traditional Christian groups don’t consider LDS members to be followers of the Lord. My Catholic church is one of those groups. One must ask oneself — are we justified? Here are some of the more noticeable differences between Mormons and mainstream Christians. Read them and decide for yourself.

Nature of God the Father: Traditional Christianity defines the Father as a body-less spirit, filling every space and corner. He existed before all time and shares Godhood with no other entity. He created everything out of nothing. The LDS church preaches a flesh-and-blood Mormon mortal who, following a post-death gift of a glorified flesh-and-bone eternal temple by his god, ascended to “the final exultation,” or the head of a trinity, and participated in the creation of this section of the universe by arranging materials at hand. This god resides on the planet (or near the star) Kolob, surrounded by his many wives who generate pre-existing spirit children, all waiting for bodies as they come available here on earth. Despite the belief in multiple gods (to quote Joseph Smith: I tell you there be gods aplenty) The LDS people reject the label of pantheism, as they are concerned only with the godhead of this world.

Jesus Christ: Orthodox Christians view the Lord as the only begotten Son of God, with Him before all ages, sharing the Father’s eternal nature. LDS people see Jesus as one of many sons of the Father, and embroiled at one point in a sibling rivalry with Satan over the appointment of saving earth people from our sins. Jesus and Lucifer both presented their plans before the Council of Gods, with Jesus winning out. Lucifer’s disappointment turned to rage and he … well, you can guess the rest.

Salvation: You must be a member of the LDS church to be saved. If you have their gospel explained to you by an LDS member and reject it, you will undergo eternal separation from God. If you somehow missed that opportunity in this world, don’t worry — you’ll get a shot to do ‘er up right in the next. This is actually a better shot than we Catholics used to give the infidels, as one — and only one — opportunity existed to accept the right church and that was in this world.

The 1960s Catholic Vatican II council cleared up a gray area in this regard, as the Council fathers saw the lines between Christians were so blurred, people were hard pressed to uncover the correct spiritual expression. Wise and kind men that they were, they wrote a beautiful passage about acceptance of our separated brethren — extending a hand of friendship that sadly, some denominations have either been slow to grasp, or worse, have attempted to bite off altogether.

The LDS position on this same matter is firm. Catholics are “The Great and Abominable Church” and no Catholic remaining a Catholic in the next world will be saved. Also, in order to attain the highest level of salvation, the covenant of marriage must be present. To Mormons, bachelorhood is a detriment to one’s relationship with God. In the grandest possible display of religious line-drawing in the sand, Brigham Young, one-time leader of the LDS brethren, proclaimed that in order to attain godhood, a man must not have just one wife, but many.

Yes, their doctrine has a bit of a twist to it — a little unsettling to traditional followers of the Nazarene. Looking at the matter objectively, is their dogma as shocking as the idea of eating the body and drinking the blood of a felonious Jewish woodworker? And what of Catholics condemning other Christians? How many times has my church labeled their beliefs as heretical? How often have non-Catholic Christians pointed an accusing finger at my papist brothers and sisters, tagging us as either wayward Christians or worse, members of an evil empire, waging war against the Trinity? Each side has put untold numbers of Christians to death over doctrinal differences.

How does God figure into all this? What is most important to Him? To love Him with all our hearts, minds, and strength. To love our neighbors as ourselves. Have Mormons lost their way when they preach membership above this all-important doctrine of love? No more so than the rest of us humans have when we preach membership in the way we believe. You might say, “It is blasphemous to suggest we may become God and be equal to the Holy Trinity.” I’ve read Mormon literature — lots of it. The answer for their hearts is this: God will not hold any gift back to His children; He wants them to enjoy everything He possesses, including Godhood. For what God would give everything to His children except for what is most precious?

It’s not an answer that satisfies me, but I understand the concept — and understanding is key to a healthy relationship with the Trinity.

So, this means the Mormons don’t understand? Does it suggest all who don’t understand will be cast into Hell? Don’t bet on it. Understanding is something all of us must seek in greater measure, including Catholics, Mormons, and Protestants. As we come to a greater understanding, we will be more at peace in this world — but don’t get too cocky, as we won’t completely understand until the next. Then, and only then, we will see only whom God chooses. It’s up to Him, and only Him. I hope all will be spared His wrath.

Since we can’t affect anyone’s salvation outside of our own, let’s have God sort it all out. In the meantime, I’ll tell you a little of “my life among the Mormons.”

I’ve been to the Mormon sacrament service many times, each time patiently sitting through it as a gift to my wonderful bride. Admittedly, it’s not my cup of tea, but that doesn’t mean I can’t see merit in it. Or some differences.

For a Catholic entering the Mormon place of worship, it’s light-years different from my religious experience, right from the get-go.

The mood preceding the crank-up of sacrament service is loud and boisterous, in direct contrast to the quiet preliminary mood of Catholics. This would suggest an emphasis on reverence among Catholics and the supreme importance of community among Mormons. The crowd joins the piano or organ in a hymn as the well-organized service comes to life, gathering steam while many in the congregation file in late (tardiness is an ecumenical effort, it seems). Announcements are taken care of next, with the sacrament prayer and distribution of communion coming up after that.

One thing an LDS observer will notice in short order: the Mormon culture is cultivated to be distinct from other churches, through altered terminology and / or “tweaking” existing religious practices or phrasing. Communion is referred to as “the sacrament.” God is referred to as “Heavenly Father.” Satan’s designation is “The Adversary.” Jesus is referred to as “The Savior.” The lyrics of some hymns, even classics such as “Away in a Manger” are kept intact, though the melody is changed. Other hymns are distinct to the LDS culture.

The sacrament is celebrated by the lesser of two priesthoods. There exists two types of priesthoods, Aaronic and Melchizedeck, of which the Aaronic is open to children as young as 12. In the Jewish faith, this station was held by a particular bloodline. That bloodline exists to this day among Jews with the last name of Cohen. This distinctly Mormon Aaronic priesthood is offered to male LDS pre-teens. These child-priests preside over the sacrament prayer regarding the death and resurrection of Jesus, which is offered to God the Eternal Father. During this sacred prayer, the youngsters break apart a loaf of bread and pull back a white cloth on their alter, revealing pre-filled tiny water cups, blessing both before distributed among the pew-ists.

With the sacrament now behind them, the remainder of the service is taken up by hymns as well as a feature possibly unique to Mormonism: the sermons. These talks — usually three of ‘em, are given by various churchgoers, which the governing body, or “bishopric,” is free to assign this task to.

There’s a certain hominess attached to this practice of choosing homilists from the general church population. For those of us used to polished speakers with some sort of theology degree under their belts, it is fascinated to hear “one of us” struggle to share what God means to them and how they got there. It is also wonderful to hear someone’s religious views spoken from the heart. As a side benefit, the exercise forces the lecturers to contemplate God in a deeper vein. I know this, as I have preached in both the Catholic church and the LDS church; the first due to a grand experiment by the resident pastor, and the latter probably due to a case of mistaken religious identity (i.e., they thought I was LDS and I didn’t know enough to correct them). Admittedly, I probably acquitted myself much better among the Mormons, as the Catholic priest listening in on my Easter Vigil preaching intimidated the heck out of me!

Of all the services I’ve been to in my life, I found the LDS sacrament service to be the most torturous and overall the least inspiring. If the Mass can be described as dry, the LDS version is the desert — Death Valley, to be exact. Given that, I’ve asked my highly spiritual Mormon bride what the draw could possibly be for this religion. She admitted the service was “kind of stale,” but claimed also that there was so much more to her faith then having to put up with a churching that would drive Baptists to drink (or at least dance). She explained that community is all-important in her faith, and claimed the LDS people did a much better job of building community than most churches. I agree wholehearted with her.

She also liked other functions of church meetings, which include weekly Sunday school for both adults and children, and (for women) meetings of the Relief Society, which, among other things, is sort of a Mormon Red Cross.

It’s also a matter of beliefs: for her, a flesh-and-bone god is easier to latch onto then a disembodied, all-encompassing spirit. She feels strongly that we all existed before our appearance in this life. My wife also sees the practicality of polygamy, believing that some women were happier in those types of relationships rather than monogamous ones. She assured me though, that she is not that type and also stated, rather strongly, that even if her church were to restore that practice here on Earth, I wasn’t that type, either. She knew this, so there was no reason for me to explore that theology — if I valued my life!

I myself find truth in the LDS church. Children’s choir at Sacrament service is beautiful to observe: at no other time are children perceived as so innocent and pure (except when they’re asleep). It is honorable and noble that LDS leaders demand spirituality among their flock. Mormons are constantly guided to pray and believe me, they take that advice seriously. Too many times in my own church the priest will announce, “let us pray” with no visible reaction from his congregation. I also found two sermons preached at the LDS church to be quite inspirational (no, neither were mine). My lovely wife’s sermon, all those years ago, deeply inspired me. Approximately two years ago, a widow by the name of Adams also gave a sermon that inspired me as few have before or since. Speaking frankly and humbly, she gave an honest, refreshing, and downright hilarious view of her life that revealed mankind’s relationship with God to me in a way I’d never before considered. Her life, which she viewed as a simple endeavor, showed a peace, love and trust for the Almighty that is my envy.

The Mormons were, and still are, a spiritually baffling group to me. Undoubtedly, those LDS who read this article will lament my lost status and pray for me, hoping I will one day discover the truth in its fullness. I welcome those prayers, and will reciprocate. More than anything, I will continue to ask God’s help to discern the path ahead.

Joe

2006-05-28T19:56:00.000-07:00

Church attended: St. George’s Roman Catholic Church date: 5/15/06

Time: 10:30 AM Attendance: 150 – 175 priest: Father William Gould

My readers probably think I call no church home. Quite the contrary — I’m a happy Masser at St. George’s Roman Catholic church, Post Falls, Idaho, where I was baptized as an infant, served as an irreverent alter boy, exchanged wedding vows with a Baptist who joined the Catholic faith, underwent a brutal divorce, struggled through an annulment and later joined a lovely Mormon woman at the hip.

A major milepost of my spiritual journey is the development of a profound love and respect for the Catholic service, known as the “Mass,” or in ancient times, Agape. It is no small paradox to me that most of my childhood papist friends who later embraced the Reformation are not moved by this spectacle — yet I concede a tingling in my soul at the mere mention of it. Why should I be so affected by what most Christians in this country claim to be a meaningless ritual?

I don’t know when disbelief turns to belief. I don’t know when the bite of wine turns from sour to pleasant. As far as I can tell, this experience came alive as a spiritual journey around the perimeter of my belief in the Holy Trinity. Let me try to explain…

I was told that Catholicism revolves around prayer, preparation, and involvement: if one brings one’s heart, mind, and soul to the Mass, God will gift everything back to us, and much more. After testing this logic, I know it to be true.

Now that I work under the gift of faith, I usually prepare for Mass by praying on my drive and as I enter church. At some point during my prayers, the souls around me are acknowledged. I contemplate them; their lives, their successes, their troubles, and the faith we all share. I know the majority of the participants are also praying for me, and for guidance; they desire fervently to take part. I used to assume all other Catholics were apathetic. Like my other bigotries, this rumor has been dispelled, as I discovered that no two people approach God in exactly the same way. I must not judge, nor must I compare.

As Mass opens with the priest’s blessing and prayer, I pray along with him, offering thanksgiving for everyone’s presence — especially the Almighty’s! As a congregation, we offer the “Gloria” to God, praising Him above all things. We acknowledge the need to confess our sins as well, asking not only for forgiveness from God, but also his angels and saints, Immaculate Mary, and each other. Now here’s where it gets tricky: if a Catholic doesn’t mean what he says — if he just parrots the words because his wife or parents are glaring at him, or he’s busy thinking about his taxes or sharpening his lawnmower blade instead of praying — then it really is meaningless ritual, right from the get-go. However, if he’s saying and praying with conviction, the Mass overflows with meaning and nourishes the spirit to the point of obesity. I know it does for me and many others. I know because I’ve listened.

Scripture readings, which come next, are of supreme importance to the liturgy, as symbolized by placement of the pulpit next to the alter. I sometimes wish they were a few words longer (sometimes shorter, too), although I now notice we read more scripture in our church than do other Christian churches — at least the churches I’ve been to so far (notice I said Christian churches — the synagogue puts us all to shame). Three readings are announced; usually an Old Testament, Epistle, and Gospel reading. Great care was taken by Church authorities to commonly theme the three readings, as the sermon, or “homily,” as we refer to it, is based on these scriptures. We sit while the first scripture reading is announced by a layman from the pulpit. In between the first and second reading, a psalm (or equivalent) is sung. The second reading is announced, after which we stand while the priest or deacon goes through the Gospel reading. Afterward, we’re permitted to sit and relax while the priest attempts to talk us into acting a little more like believers when we leave church. Fat chance! I have the license # of that guy who cut me off in traffic this morning.

The homily is generally mid-Mass. You get there, you know you’ve made it halfway home. At St. George’s, the homily is preached by a rather unique priest by the name of Father Bill Gould. He doesn’t have the deep, resonant voice of a master orator, nor does he have a memorable style. His hands don’t wave about and his eyebrows don’t bob up and down while he preaches. He declines to alternately scream and whisper or change cadence or prance about the pulpit, screaming for an “Amen!” Nonetheless, his quiet delivery laced with deadpan humor evokes a range of responses from a slight chuckle to genuine belly-laughs. While settling into his usual pose of one elbow leaning against the pulpit, Father Bill is an expert at placing his listeners in exactly the place he wants them to contemplate; usually somewhere in Judea, say around 30-33 A.D. I have listened to Father Bill most every week for many years — admittedly, sometimes I think about getting my tools up on a pegboard or wondering when my Costco card expires. Most always though, my tie-less friend inspires me to form a deeper relationship with God.

After Father Bill has laid sufficient guilt upon us, the congregation joins together in reciting a 4th Century statement of Faith, of which Dan Brown would quickly pen a conspiracy thriller, if he were in the pews. I can see him now, shaking his head in disgust as we blurt out our beliefs in the Godhood of Jesus; His humble birth surrounded by animal feces, His agonizing death, and miraculous resurrection. “You believe in that garbage?” Dan would cry out in outrage at this incredible proposition.

Yes Dan. Yes, we sure do. And you’re invited to join us.

At the conclusion of this statement of faith, a layman ascends the pulpit steps, offering prayers for whatever ails us. When those prayers are finished, it’s “open mike time,” or “prayer karaoke.” All of us pew-dwellers have the opportunity to audibly pray for whatever we desire.

Next comes the most controversial event in all religion: the passing of the collection plate. All of us dig in to our pockets as we see fit in order to support Holy Mother Church. I’ve heard tell in some parishes, money is begged or demanded from the pulpit with great regularity; in our parish, I would guess twice a year on average, going back to the days of my youth.

The meat of the Mass is now upon us in the form of the Liturgy of the Eucharist: “where the rubber meets the road” in the Catholic faith. We Romans believe Jesus will be physically present in the unleavened bread and sacramental wine that is shared in this miraculous event. In the ancient Jewish faith, the priest offered sacrifice. Here too, sacrifice is offered, although in a unique sense: the victim, a Nazarene carpenter, has already been sacrificed once and for all. This event is defined as an unbloodied sacrifice, or loosely speaking, a mystical continuation of His willing surrender of life for all of us. It’s a hard concept to explain. For you Protestants brothers to completely empathize with my dilemma, try intricately defining the Trinity to a Jewish friend.

A contrite, open spirit, empty and focused, is needed to commune with the Holy Trinity. While on our knees, silent and humbled before God, the priest stands at the alter — before Calvary itself, representing Jesus — showing his spiritual family the Son Himself, bringing His 2,000 year-old sacrifice into the moment at hand, calling down His wondrous deed as He removes the substance of bread and wine, transforming both into His own bleeding, beaten and broken body. Sadly, in my ignorant youth, this act of God affected me with such boredom, such negativity, that I did everything possible to avoid being present to it. Now, I truly hunger for the sacrament as I acquire a deeper understanding of its nature with each passing year.

According to outsiders it’s a dry ritual and repetition kills any possible benefit. To me it is a spiritual exercise — and when spiritual muscles are flexed they gain definition and tone. Some bodies reject the notion of a workout, while others crave it — come to depend on it, like food. That exercise becomes necessary for its very existence. So I pray and contemplate all through the sacrificial prayer; sometimes with my head buried in my hands while all things not of God are pinched from my mind. Other times, with handed folded and eyes shut, the mild discomfort from my aching knees creeping first into my thighs, then my back and shoulders, I see the Suffering Christ with arms outstretched as blood drips into his eyes from the piercing thorns of his makeshift crown. In yet another spiritual exercise, I envision the original motley band of apostles joining hands in a circle around the alter. Can you see them now? Peter and Paul, side by side, eyeing each other in cautious camaraderie, each man’s sweaty, tense hand held uncomfortably by the other? Thomas, gazing wistfully upon the table as he recalls his declaration of denial with sad amusement? Picture also the frowning, heavily bearded face of James as he ponders his formative years — a toddler who pulled the hair of his peaceful, devote relative, whom James came to recognize as a deity. And John, whose intense love for Jesus perhaps opened his eyes to truth sooner than most of his friends.

All of these contemplative and prayerful scenarios touch me, move me — leading me to the instant Christ is upon us, as the priest declares, “This is my body. This is my blood.” The moment pours over me. I am transfixed as Jesus joins us physically as well as spiritually.

We are spirits joined to the flesh, charged by God to live our lives here on earth, however long or short a time that may be. During this miraculous event, God becomes flesh on earth once again. We dine on that flesh as commanded, communing with Jesus as His spirit and flesh are absorbed into ours, straddling the Veil — fusing the link — between God and man.

We are prepared now to face the world, with Christ in our lives, in our hearts, and in our bodies. As St. Patrick so boldly put it: Christ with me, Christ before me, Christ behind me, Christ in me, Christ beneath me, Christ above me, Christ on my right hand, Christ on my left…

The sacrifice is finished. A hymn, and then Mass is dismissed.

As we pour out of the building and spill down the steps, a fresh challenge awaits us: to re-join and live in the world once again, but yet apart from it. We are charged to live compassionately and set aside our wants and desires in deference to our neighbor. Most all of us will fail miserable at this throughout the week, as we grind out our daily routines with instinctive egocentricity. That will be my routine, as well. Perhaps though, with much prayer and with a greater commitment to God, I can avoid at least one or two of the previous week’s sins. As I am a vessel for the Lord, however weak and imperfect, He and I will work together to bring about some sort of change.

That is my hope, prayer, and belief.

Joe

2006-04-27T22:10:00.000-07:00

TEMPLE BETH SHALOM (after italicized intro)

Baptized when a few days old, I’ve now been a Roman Catholic for 48 years — the first 25 of which were pretty boring. In 1983, God used a friend of mine to bring about a conversion experience that is still ongoing in my life. Some of this conversion has been joyful beyond measure. Other times it’s excruciatingly painful — sort of like being held under water for a minute longer than I can actually hold my breath. Somehow God keeps me from drowning, although I’m certain I’ve suffered some brain damage…

As most everyone is aware of, Catholicism is not the magnet for conversion it was 50 years ago. At one time the fastest growing church in the United States, it is rapidly imploding in this country; changes in the way we worship, bad press from pedophile priests, the reputation for harshness by the clergy in parochial schools, the inflexibility of its leadership, and the lack of good sound witness by too many has driven Catholics away from the church of their upbringing at a rate not seen since the 4th Century.

For a number of reasons, I’ve chosen to stay. I don’t begrudge those who leave, as I am aware of the problems they faced. Sadly, many people seem to begrudge me for staying, as if they can peer into my soul and judge that it’s empty. Maybe it is. However, I can only go by what I see, what I experience, and how I perceive God wants me to live my life. I pray about it constantly and the answer is always the same. Will I be Catholic all my life? God knows the answer to that — I don’t. However, like a cow that doesn’t have the sense to stay off an electric fence, I’ve been jolted over and over by the Lord, who lets me know under no uncertain terms that I’m to be at Mass. As many of you know, one does NOT argue with the Supreme Being and Father of all — unless you like leaning against current-filled wire.

God led me to write a book, which was christened The Foxhole Angel. It’s about war, religious and racial intolerance, the love a father has for his family, and most of all, the love God & His angels have for us. It’s about the love that Jesus, God’s son who is God, has for us, whether we see him, or not.

I believe God has a special purpose for me, as He does for everyone. As I’m a great talker, he naturally prefers I listen. I had a wonderful job working for a wonderful man named Gary Martin, a humble Roman Catholic small business owner who would split right down the middle if he didn’t do the right thing by the Lord. I took care of his customers by going into their homes and estimating a service for them. While doing so, I talked religion with almost ever single one of them — well, listened to them —and learned more than I’d ever thought possible. More than anything, I learned how beautiful each person is who God created and how God leads each one of us by the hand, despite our tendency to squeeze His too tight at times. I learned that each person is generally sincere about the direction they are going in and how everyone struggles to make the right decisions. As the priest from The Count of Monte Cristo said, “You don’t believe in God? No matter. He believes in you.”

What a wonderful thing to say and believe. In the Roman church, we were taught constantly that faith is a gift. I believed it then and I believe it now — because of that, it is my sincere hope that God will bring us all home one day. I know how much God has already given up for us. I too, would die for any one of my children, if necessary. I also could not step foot in Heaven unless I have all of my children with me. How much more God loves us!

We’re saved if we have faith. We’re a pretty screwed up lot, we humans are, and all of us reject God in many ways most every single day. None of us can really say we have faith, no matter what escapes our lips. Who then, can be saved? Anyone God loves with an intensity which burns a thousand, million times greater than the brightest star, and who can receive His endless mercy. I believe this description fits all of us.

A few hundred years ago, I would’ve been burned at the stake by my own church for writing this. No matter: most Protestant churches would’ve torched me, as well — or held me under water for a minute longer than I could breathe…

So I believe what I believe, trying to believe it as it’s revealed to me. I’m imperfect, so I listen and interpret best I can. I believe God will bring all of us home one day, and I believe that in the meantime, my particular function is to listen. Therefore, as happy as I am with Catholicism, I am to listen to others by traveling to other churches. I plan to visit several churches over the next few weeks and post the results of my travels on my blog spot. I hope you’ll follow along.

Saturday, April 22, 2006

Temple Beth Shalom
1322 E. 30th
Spokane, WA

Service attended: 9AM attendance: 45 - 50

Presiding Rabbi: Jack Izakson

This morning, I looked forward to my Temple Beth Shalom pilgrimage as a visit with Catholicism’s elder brother. Perhaps that’s an insult to our Jewish neighbors, considering the indescribable pain and grief my brethren have inflicted on them at times, but its not meant that way. On the contrary, countless articles written by Catholic Theologians and prelates describe our roots as sunk deep within the Hebrew culture. That’s the theory. At times, Christianity has embraced this theology. Other times, we’ve treated our spiritual predecessors as outcasts — and worse.

Contemplating my impending visit on the forty minute drive to TBS, I wondered what I would find upon my arrival. I pictured a congregation made up of elderly men and women half-dead in their faith shuffling into an obligatory service, mumbling lackluster responses to time-worn prayers. And would I be welcome there? Should I ask for direction when I enter the Temple lobby? Or would I be ill-advised to herald my arrival, perhaps arousing resentment as an invasion of one who came only to gawk at them and their strange ways? Well, regardless of what I would find, I made the commitment to join their worship and assured myself of following through, no matter how I was received. Besides, I thought, I can tough it out for an hour.

Arriving at Temple Beth Shalom, the first sight greeting me was a police car in the parking lot. Knowing full-well Jews suffered more persecution than any religious or ethnic group in the world, I still was dismayed that even in the Inland Empire, Jews cannot be assured of worshiping in peace. Easing my old silver Taurus into the nearest parking space, I made the short walk into the concrete structure as I nodded to the gendarme.

Once inside the lobby, my guileless expression betrayed me, along with my mumbled reply to the kindly words of a bright-smiling 40s-ish woman who greeted me with “Shabbat Shalom,” which either means “Greetings on this Sabbath day” or “say, you’re one of those silly gentiles, aren’t you?” Another kindly churchgoer, Mr. Glass, spotted my helpless stare and beckoned me to a nearby bin, where he helped me pick out a skull-cap, or yarmulke.

“First time here?” he asked me, obviously to make conversation, as my Gentile status was painfully evident. Confessing my ignorance of worship, Hebrew-style, proved to be my joy and my pain, as Mr. Glass obligingly loaded my arms with prayer books and a guide to the service, then steered me into a side-chapel, where festivities were about to begin.

Before forsaking the lobby, I took a long look at the books Mr. Glass had given me and theorized about the time allotted for my quest.
“By the way,” I asked him, “how long is the service?”
“Oh, about 3 hours,” he nonchalantly offered.
I consider myself a tough guy — a spiritual Rambo, as it were — so I was not about to let Mr. Glass marvel at the color draining from my face or my Adams apple bobbing up and down like a buoy in a tempest, so after thanking him with an unintentional pubescent-like cracked voice, I squared up my shoulders for the task at hand.

With lavender yarmulke in place, I skulked through the chapel door, silently praising my good fortune of locating yet again an unfilled seat in the back of an unfamiliar church. As I sat in my cushioned, theater-style pull-down chair, I took stock of my surroundings: The chapel was maybe 800 or so square feet in size; all along the wall to my left were memorial plaques; engraved names of former members, relatives, and friends who have passed on to greater things. To my right, the wall was in apparent sections, which looked removable to facilitate a larger crowd. Immediately behind me were the entry doors. To the left of those entry doors were built-in dark-wood bookshelves, where additional prayer books and scripture were kept. In front was a combination table and podium with removable top as to make the table surface larger. Behind this table was a curtained closet called the ark, where the Torah lay, protected by a snug, ornate cloth.

As a minute or two was left before show time, I opened one of the prayer books in my possession. To my surprise, the book was written mostly in Hebrew and was printed backwards… in other words (no pun intended), it read from back to front, rather than front to back. Quickly checking one of the other books, I found it too,
followed this same format. These poor people, I thought… Somebody printed their books up all wrong and they’re too bashful to say anything about it! Well, perhaps that’s not exactly what I was thinking, but I want credit for noticing this alleged gaffe. I also noticed that the band hadn’t yet made their appearance. There’s always a band for church. Always. What were they going to do without one? While I pondered this new revelation all of the Jewish men were donning talits, or prayer shawls. Perhaps they were praying for the choir to show up?

The service launched with a mixture of hymns and prayers. At the podium, a succession of teen-age girls followed by a young man read the service in flawless Hebrew (that’s the way it seemed to me, anyway. How the heck should I know?). They all announced page numbers as they went along, so neophytes like me could follow. Wherever the sacred text was translated into English in these books I silently prayed it; I must confess those words and the manner in which they were presented touched a depth of spiritual emotion rarely stirred, awakening a intense longing for communion with my Creator. I was overwhelmed at the surging power and beauty of the service as I was quickly swept up in its wake.

Countless prayerful words were spoken and sang. As a regular goin’-to-Mass Catholic, I am proud of my musical heritage. Tightly-performed Gregorian Chants, brass-accented Ave Marias, and Trent High Masses are all first-class examples of a religion rich beyond measure in liturgical tools. Even with my knowledge of this abundant wealth warehoused in my own spiritual vault, I was unprepared for the devoutly performed hymns of the Jewish religion.

I was reminded at Temple Beth Shalom that there is nothing more melodious than the human voice — except when joined by at least two or three more. The 40+ person congregation, singing a cappella, raised their communal Hebrew voice to storm Heaven itself. Those songs, born of ancient ritual and executed with boundless energy in reverential glee, beseeched the Lord in joyful prayer to stretch His arm from Heaven and sweep us up, gathering His Chosen Ones protectively to His bosom. I swear to you, a Pentecostal spirit overshadowed me and I was losing my fight to keep emotions in check.

At some point, the curtain was drawn and the Torah brought out of its cloister. Gently gathered into the arms the aforementioned teenage boy, the sacred scroll was processed up and down the center aisle while the congregation touched their talits to its shroud, softly kissing the shawl where it made contact with the Torah. Following the young man and his precious cargo were several of The Faithful, who all shook hands with us in the “cheap seats” and distributed blessings all around. I might add that this hand-shaking & well wishing was repeated several times during the service and in every instance was warm and sincere. When the scripture was delivered back up to the front, its protection was was removed, unveiling the scrolls underneath. The podium-top was pulled off, the scrolls were rolled out on the table, and then read in Hebrew by the rabbi as others looked on. A reading from Samuel took place, as well. Rabbi Izakson then gave us a Jewish sermon on the readings, inviting the pew-dwellers to join in by asking questions and making comments, which many did. Their input was most enjoyable to absorb, as so many of the Faithful were well-versed in scripture and demonstrated a broad theological base for their beliefs.

The most amazing revelation for me involved Rabbi Izakson and his preaching. I’ve listened to countless gifted orators of a great number of denominations and non-denominations, my own included. Each time these speakers preached on what we refer to as the Old Testament, it was, in some shape or form, from a standpoint of heralding the arrival of Jesus Christ — in general, Christians view this as the focal point of any writings before 33 AD. The rabbi preached from the position that the Old Testament is new and fresh and that God always has something bold and innovative to reveal in our lives through this sacred text. I’ve never in my life had Old Testament Scripture make sense to me the way the Rabbi allowed it to.

After the scrolls were once again shrouded, a second procession took place as the assembly was re-installed in its curtained resting place. More singing, prayers, and readings filled out the remainder of our time in the chapel. As the clock approached noon and the last reading was offered, we were all bid farewell and the service came to its conclusion.

I sat in my pew for a moment longer, taking in the experience as it came to me. One by one, my pre-conceived notions and prejudices were proven false. Half-expecting to view a rusting hulk from a by-gone era, I instead found a timeless cornucopia of spiritual fruit, delivered with lovingkindness into the interior of my soul, filling it to overflowing and enjoining me to bear this bounty to whomever I could share it with.

Mr. Glass broke my trance as he laid a hand on my shoulder.
“Are you going to eat with us?”
It was almost noon. As much as I had enjoyed the service and the company, I dared not incur my ever-patient wife’s rarely-surfacing ire by staying any longer.
“Certainly!” The words involuntarily escaped my lips, but I had no desire to recant — I would eat now and do penance at home later.

Mr. Glass and I strolled through the lobby and into the auditorium at a leisurely pace as we spoke of lofty things. I excitedly shared with him the magnificence of the past 3 hours and inundated him with questions and comments about Judaism, which, one by one, he patiently & knowledgably addressed. Once inside the auditorium we took our place in a short food line and I was given free reign to pillage the buffet as I saw fit, piling my plate with a bagel, fish (probably not lox, unfortunately), and a sort of fish-egg salad which probably wasn’t fish eggs, but tasted excellent, nonetheless.

I looked longingly at the collection of rum, whiskey, and other spirits grouped on a separate table, but my self-imposed 21-year-long vow of abstinence forbade me to partake. Someday I’ll have to see if I can talk myself out of that…

Once I sat down, I quickly learned that a Jew does not immediately dig in, but waits for a series of prayers, blessings, and toasts. They also shoved a mike in my hands and talked me into introducing myself, which I am proud to say I acquitted myself quite well, neither stammering nor slobbering as I offered them my severely abbreviated life’s story. After a Whitworth student introduced herself as well, I aggressively wielded my fork, plunging in before those Jews even THOUGHT about offering another toast!

As lunch wound down, many worshipers filtered out of the building, leaving only us hard-core religious fanatics to finish things off. Perhaps 20 to 25 people were left to offer a final prayer, blessing, and hymn, before things concluded. After offering my hand in friendship to those about me, with both my stomach and soul completely sated, I regretfully departed from the company of my elder brothers and sisters in faith. But I will be back.

I must.

I regret the short-sightedness that caused the tragic rift between Jews and Christians. I am sad my chosen religion has, through the centuries, cut itself off from the storehouse of faith, knowledge, and counsel that our spiritual fathers have to offer. I hope another Christian reads this blog and trusts my experience enough to make the pilgrimage to Temple Beth Shalom — to seek out the company of this marvelous gift of God’s Chosen People and share in the abundant spiritual riches they possess. I hope that as a whole, we Christians can one day cast aside our inglorious history of pettiness and insecurity and embrace this magnificent culture and all its adherents, rather than convincing ourselves it’s somehow our duty to convert them — or crush them. Instead, let us trust The Almighty in everything.

Let God be God, for faith is a gift... If this is the special gift these Chosen People have been given, then let us all rejoice and be glad in it!

After all, our mission in life is to love God with all our hearts, all our souls, all our strength. Who better to teach us this lesson than the sons & daughters of Abraham himself?

Shabbat Shalom…

2006-04-20T20:14:00.000-07:00

Friday, April 14, 2006

North Country Chapel
2281 W. Seltice Way
Post Falls, Idaho 83854
208.773.7100

Service attended: 7PM

attendance: 550-600(?)

Speaker: Bob Davis

I must confess (a Catholic should always start out by confessing), I was apprehensive about attending North Country Chapel. I had lunch with Pastor Bob Davis and a member of his congregation a few years ago at a Mexican restaurant here in Post Falls — back when I think Mr. Davis was affiliated in some way with Koinonia House in the same town. During the course of the meal I attempted many times to bring the conversation about to my favorite subjects, which are Jesus Christ and religion. Not once did Rev. Davis bite on the subject — only into his enchilada. I remember leaving in a somewhat sour frame of mind, judging this particular minister to be a phony, not having any real zeal for God.
I almost didn’t go to North Country Chapel. I had attended Real Life the previous Friday and was hoping for a different experience than another evangelical night. However, I neglected to check alternate church schedules and I was late finishing work, so off I trudged to North Country Chapel.
The parking lot wasn’t near the size of Real Life’s, but still large enough to give me some exercise, as I was forced to park some distance from the front doors. Entering the long, somewhat narrow lobby, it was but a few more steps to rush past the greeters and pass through the doors to “where the action was.” Making it inside while resisting the urge to make the Sign of the Cross or scope out wall-mounted Holy Water fonts, I staked my claim to a chair toward the rear. The service had just begun, with Bob rattling off a dozen or so announcements laced with light humor while the blue padded chairs filled up with reverent backsides. Of the estimated 700 chairs available for the service, 550 to 600 seats were unavailable when the inbound procession ended.
After Rev. Davis made an impassioned plea to keep marching forward with North Country’s “Christian Books for Prisoners” jail ministry, he strapped on a guitar and asked us all to bow our heads for prayer. Learning long ago to pray with my head up and eyes wide open, I snuck a peak at Bob as he invoked the Lord, noticing he kept his hands in his pockets while he prayed. At first I recoiled, judging him to be irreverent. Immediately I recanted, instead seeing a man devoid of pretense and caught up with God instead of form. It was good to be here.
As the prayer ended, Bob led a Christian band in 5 modern-age hymns of worship, ranging from the near-dirge-like to the semi-lively. Accompanied by guitars, keyboards, saxophone, and drums, the congregation followed along dutifully if unexcitedly, softly singing the words as they flashed on the bone-white pull-down projection screen mounted on the back wall above the stage. The words were inspiring and orthodox, as there was nothing about animal sacrifices, Paul is dead, or The Da Vinci Code hidden in the lyrics. Busy-body that I am, I looked up and down the rows of chairs, looking to catch Protestants who weren’t singing. Sad to say, I only caught 3 — well 4, myself included (have a bad cough… honest!). Remarkably, almost everyone in the place was following along!
5 hymns in a row was a bit much for my Christian Attention Deficit Disorder, so while the rest of the churchgoers were caught up in the 3rd score, I let my eyes wander about the facility, absorbing my surroundings. As a Catholic, I’m used to lots of colored ceramic; wall-mounted plaques called Stations of the Cross; life-sized, cross-mounted, gory reproductions of the Crucified Christ; a crown-topped statue of Immaculate Mary, robed in Sacred Blue, and a simple-dressed St. Joseph, Christ-toddler held close in one arm while the other hand gripped a flowering staff. In stark contrast, this particular church was rather Spartan in its adornments, missing even a simple cross on the back wall. When originally constructed, this plain metal building was put up, its exposed metal framing whitewashed and white plastic-covered bats of insulation fixed between the framing. An immense crimson curtain was hung from floor to ceiling behind the stage, stretching the entire length of the wall. On the other walls, a plain, tight-weave gray and black flecked carpet crept up about 12 feet, leaving the white plastic and framing exposed above. I did not feel that this cheapened their worship in any way. As apparent theological descendants of the iconoclasts, I believe they wanted to put their money other facets of their Christian expression.
After the 5th hymn came to its merciful conclusion, Bob suggested we all greet each other. After warm handshakes all around, more heartfelt prayers were offered, once again with Bob’s hands in his pockets (I can’t get over that!). We all sat down and settled in for the sermon. Bob asked everyone to get their bibles out. To my utter surprise, most everyone produced one.
I haven’t timed the sermons yet. I suppose I will at some point. I’m wild-guessing this sermon to be about a half-hour in length. All my life I’ve been going to the same church and seeing the same type of service, not seeing any sense in it until my mid-twenties. It’s a mighty struggle for me to sit in one place for an extended period of time. Pastor Davis kept me interested in Christ’s Passover meal as he explored the theme of “How much does a prayer weigh?” This minister whom I judged as a phony all those years ago preached a revved up sermon. He repeatedly asked us pointed questions and provided sharp answers, providing food for our hungry ears and hearts. Bob believes we’re living in the last days and challenged us to use our time wisely — to deny ourselves and concentrate on loving others; to pray hard and listen to God. “The world’s going to hell in a hand basket. Don’t go with it,” he would say — or words to that effect. Delivering his powerful messages with hand gestures, humor, changes in tone and pitch, and all manners of analogies, Bob formed up an altogether clever and inspired sermon.
Reverend Davis asked his assistant pastor, Clayton Johnson, to give the final prayer as he headed to the back of the church, ready to greet everyone as they filed out. As I walked past Bob, he warmly shook my hand. I asked him how he was.
“HUNGRY!” He said, with a warm, sincere smile.
Recalling our meal together, I smiled back. Bob certainly demonstrated devotion to the Lord that had earned my respect and affection. I would never doubt his sincerity again — in meals or religion.
Sneaking back into the church, I made my way up to Clayton, who was still near the stage. We spoke a bit about church attendance and Evangelicals vs. Pentecostals, after which I dropped the burning question on him.
“What do you think is most important to God, Clayton?”
Johnson eyed me warily.
“You a reporter? I hope you don’t quote Bob out of context. That happens way too often.”
At that point, I explained to him about The Foxhole Angel and my blogsite, which loosened him up a bit. He pitched his perfect answer.
“Love God with all of your heart, all of your mind, all of your strength. Love your neighbor as yourself. Everything stems from that.”
Well satisfied with his reply, I asked Clayton for his e-mail address, promised to forward a copy of this blog, and bid him a cordial goodbye.
After much prayer throughout the past 20 some years, I believe God wants me in the Roman Catholic Church. Despite this I was sad to leave North Country Chapel, as I would probably never be back. The loss is mine, though. It reminded me that the world is dotted with Christian communities and I had found yet another strong one struggling hard to accomplish what the Lord would desire of it. With these kinds of caring people living and working in today’s culture, I have hope that the world is not, in fact, headed to hell in a hand-basket.
No offense, Bob Davis…

Joe

2006-04-20T19:48:00.000-07:00

April 7, 2006

Real Life Ministry
1866 N. Cecil
Post Falls, Idaho

Service attended: 6:00PM, Friday night attendance: 1500(?)

Speakers: Jim Putnam & Dan Lynch

I pulled up in Real Life’s Great Plains-sized parking lot about 5:45PM. Seeing several church-goers funneling through a pair of glass double-doors, I followed the flow, entering a lobby roughly the size of a basketball court, which was directly before an impressive-sized auditorium. Soft-rock music (specifically “All Star” by the group Smashmouth) was playing out of wall-hung speakers. I was amazed when I discovered this was merely the children’s auditorium and was guided toward a much larger building.

Upon arriving in the larger building, a distinctive warmth greeted me in this lobby, which was massive in comparison to the first. It was like upgrading from an elementary school basketball court to Madison Square Garden! Two 30s-ish male greeters were stationed at either side of the front doors. I asked the first whether the church was Evangelical or Pentecostal, to which his response was, “non-denominational, as we don’t like labels.” The second greeter, spotting the confusion on my face, spoke up himself, stating that “we’re more evangelical, but we don’t have a problem with raising and clapping your hands.” I let it go at that, knowing the greeters were sincere and knowing also I would find out for myself soon enough.

To my right as I entered the lobby was an espresso stand or small café, perhaps 200 square feet in size, completely enclosed floor-to-ceiling with glass and metal and a glass 3’ wide entry door. Beyond that and still to my right was a large conversation area replete with comfy chairs and sofas, several of which were so plush I would have pirated for my own use if I hadn’t been saddled with the guilt of Christianity. Just a quick walk in front of me and a short drift to my left was the entrance to Mecca, the place of worship. I am guessing that 2500 folding chairs were set out in long, straight, parallel lines throughout the cavernous building, all of which stayed straight throughout the service. If the Real Life ministry populace was one thing, it was neat.

The elevated stage, like everything else, was massive. A Christian band, complete with a guitar-playing, sweet-voiced young man, back up singer, drums, and saxophone, was performing. On either side of the stage were two projection screens I would estimate at 20’ to 25’ feet in height, which allowed me to not only admire the brand of guitar the lead singer was playing, but identify every pore and mole on his face, as well. The music was outstanding and I easily followed along, reading lyrics flashing across screens when I wasn’t counting pores. I searched out a comfortable perch. As a practicing Catholic, I naturally took the very back row, poised for a quick exit if they started bashing the Pope.

I don’t want to overdo the Catholic angle, but you’ve got to appreciate the culture shock I was subjected to. For instance, for those of you who’ve regularly attended Mass, most Massers are in their seats when the priest processes down the aisle. If there are stragglers, they walk in so quietly it appears to be painful for them, like their feet have suddenly swollen to twice their natural size. At Real Life, not only did the hierarchy forget totally about installing kneelers, but they allow stragglers to walk in as they see fit, not once striking them on their noses with rolled-up newspapers or condemning them to eternal hell-fire from the stage. With not a hint of embellishment, I claim that up to 50% of the congregation entered after the music had begun, many of them clinging to (horror of horrors) cups filled with steaming Holy Espresso.

Despite my flippant writing style, I do take my Christianity seriously. I love and admire The Lord with all that I have in me, which at times isn’t much. At times I believe I would truly die for Him in a heartbeat — at other times, I’m close to being dead to Him. Mostly though, I’m somewhere in the middle. If I do have a central Christian doctrine, it is to strive to love God with all my heart, my strength, all my mind. It was a wonderful surprise that the band’s first song carried this as a theme. Several songs were performed while everyone stood, after which we all sat down and communion was given out. In the Catholic tradition, communion is center stage of the Faith and everything connected to Catholicism revolves around it. The priest quotes the Bible each time as he blesses the bread and wine. I was surprised as the communion minister up on the stage at Real Life loosely quoted the same passage while interjecting his own interpretation of scripture rather than rely on the words as the Catholic priest did. As a student of church history, I smiled at the irony. I couldn’t help but think how we’ve come full circle: Catholics relying completely on scripture and non-Catholics transposing those same powerful words. Martin Luther must be spinning like a top in his grave.

Communion was over with in a hurry, it seemed, and everyone settled in for the sermon. Jim Putnam, head pastor, and Dan Lynch, seniors’ minister, gave the sermon together, alternately sharing their thoughts with the congregation. The sermon must have lasted 30 to 45 minutes. Both speakers were quite knowledgeable of their subject matter, which concerned Eli and his sons in the First Book of Samuel. Putnam and Lynch worked expertly together, offering a seamless lesson that tied in nicely with how parents should be raising our own children. I did feel that the talk was fairly redundant, so toward the end I found myself screaming inside for them to move on. Looking around me, searching to appease my suddenly-arising thoughts of cutting my own throat for relief, I noticed a great many other parishioners (let me call them that just once, OK?) were staring at the ceiling, speaking with each other, staring at the ground while wringing their hands, reading handouts, or going for espresso. As the church service was great otherwise (sermon included) the minister’s verbosity seemed a small price to pay for the much-needed message they delivered.

After the service was over, the lobby was full for quite some time as the church-goers socialized with each other. I had the pleasure of chatting briefly with several good friends. Several members of the Real Life staff made a point of greeting me, which was a daunting task for them, considering the overwhelming size of the congregation. Brandon Guindon, who has been on staff since 1999, stayed with me until the lobby was near empty, sharing with me his experiences of Jesus Christ and how much Real Life meant to him.

All in all, I enjoyed Real Life greatly and recognize it as a solid spoke in the wheel of Christian existence. It is my hope that as Christians, we can all come together in love and support for each other, accepting each other unconditionally and exhorting each other to love God with all our hearts, all our minds, all our strength. I don’t doubt the sincerity of Real Life Christians. I hope they don’t doubt mine.

Whether they do or don’t… well, as for me and my house, we will serve the Lord.