St. Herman's Russian Orthodox July 12, 2012

I have always had a sort of murky understanding of Orthodox churches. Their ancient aesthetic is inherently mysterious.

I've been wanting to go to the small local Russian Orthodox church since the beginnings of our Sunday adventures. Their 9:00am services require some forethought and prior coordination with my dad, but we finally got it right and found ourselves outside the little scrappy building with the blue metal roof and tall blue dome minutes before things got started. There were two other cars present.

The small worship building is built in the frontier style. If it didn't have the tall spired dome on the metal roof, it could easily be a large bathhouse or garage or storage building. There are few visible windows and the stairs appear hastily, though sturdily, built from all-weather wood. It is located on a rough wooded lot off Goldstream Road. The drive and lot were constructed in a similar motif to the building; they are laid down with rough tailings keeping the weeds and wild roses at bay. An Orthodox cross stands at the entrance to the coarse drive and lot. A sign indicates the name of the patron saint of the parish, 'St. Herman' guiding the way for spiritual adventurers.

The unusual Orthodox cross, I learned, is sometimes called the Cross of St. Andrew. St. Andrew used it when preaching about Christ in Southern Russia near the beginning of time. The short topmost bar represents the plaque inscribed with 'INRI', the lowest and tilted bar represents the footrest of Christ. The side on Christ's right, tilted upward to symbolize the idea that those on Christ's right were bound for heaven, those on Christ's left, bound for lesser, lower destinations.

We decided to walk on into the blue building and find our usual seats as, hopefully, more souls arrived. We were both a bit worried about not having the safety of the crowd to cover ourselves with. On opening the utility grade steel door, we were greeted with the sounds of chanting and the faint smell of incense. We passed through a small, poorly lit, and confining foyer. The walls were cluttered with CD's and a few small icon replicas and other bits of Orthodox paraphernalia for sale. We were drawn forward by the chanting, now grown louder, and the open room ahead. At first the words were difficult to distinguish but it became clear it was English and some form of the Lord's Prayer.

We entered to discover there were no pews. The only places to sit were a few mis-matched metal folding chairs and a couple of likewise mismatched benches. These seating options were pushed against the wall, sort of out of the way of the main worship space. The room was floored in discount laminate wood flooring with a springy, cheap feel to it. The wall ahead presented several life size medieval looking replica icons of various holy personages with gold backgrounds. They were compelling to the eye the way the form of a nice antique holds your attention for a moment. Around them on the raised altar space were several large brass candlesticks, a sort of closed brass font or baptismal to one side, and an ornate brass and wood podium. In the middle of the wall behind the altar were a pair of carved swinging doors, like saloon doors. They were painted gold and behind them one could see a couple of hairy hippie guys dressed in ornate vestments working busily and making preparations. To the right and left of these swinging doors were two single doors for a total of three doors leading from the raised area into the back room. In the space to our immediate right there was a gentleman in black robes sort of sing-songing along through what sounded like repetitions of various standard Catholic prayers. Beside him and joining in at times were a couple of Slavic looking women standing behind music stands. There was no music, just their voices, which, though enthusiastic, weren't of great caliber.

Beyond this trio an elderly overweight native woman, I would guess Athabaskan, was sitting on the bench against the right wall. I remember this now from the church in Jerusalem. It seems strange to have people sitting, as though waiting for a bus, perpendicular to the direction of travel. I am so accustomed to people seated facing the altar, that to have someone seated in this way seemed awkward. We stepped to the left and stood in an open area with a man, perhaps 55, who was standing with bowed head. Another elderly native woman sat beyond him against the left wall. She was also Athabaskan, I would guess, and sat heavily in a folding metal chair.

We stood uncomfortably. We were clearly outsiders and clearly had no idea what we were doing. There were no little handouts, no hymnals or guides. We had walked in on the ritual and were completely clueless. But, there we stood.

After several minutes the priest, I guess, came out of the central doors and began chanting. He swung the thurible three times here and three times there, and then proceeded around the room and over each occupant repeatedly. The man with whom we stood motioned that we should step forward so the priest could walk behind us - to thoroughly coat the walls in sacred smoke. I believe this has to do with chasing away evil influences, spirits, and protecting from the same.

This was the beginning of the service and for the most part it proceeded this way. There were only a couple of songs. They were sung by the trio and somewhat by the parishioners - we didn't know them and didn't help much but sort of mumbled along during the repetitious refrains. The priest would come and go from the main worship chamber using the three doors on the altar platform in a curiously intricate pattern which was nearly comical. The whole wall was only about 16 feet across so to be coming and going from the various doors, all leading to and from the same two rooms, was a bit silly. Also, at times, he or one of the deacons in the back room would pull a black curtain across the opening beyond the saloon doors. There was chanting and the ringing of bells from beyond the wall. I suspected that the miracle of transubstantiation was taking place at this time, but there were also other times when the curtain was pulled and more chanting and bells and it was all rather byzantine. Literally.

The priest was a heavy set younger man. Probably not more than 30. I think he lives on-site in a small cabin, possibly with some of the deacons who were serving that day. He was pretty scruffy with a big round head, patchy beard, and a greasy short pony tail tied beneath his fancy green hat, sort of like a square miter. He had kind eyes and a peaceful and gentle way about him, but had a slight tinge of officiousness about his actions and words. His vestments were badly soiled along the back hem. It was as though he had been walking and working outside in those vestments all summer. They were also torn and a bit tattered here and there, like he'd worn them on some long hikes through brush.

Others showed up as time went along. After 10 or 15 minutes into the service there were probably 10 people standing in the room with a few sitting. Maybe there were four or five native ladies, all elderly. I suppose these ladies probably had grown up or been exposed to Orthodox services years ago and now they found it comforting, an imprinted memory from when they were young. I thought about how strange for them to sit in the church and take comfort from the habits and bizarre rituals of the once-conqueror, now conquered. The rituals themselves were an inherited influence on those that first brought them to Alaska. That is the transmission of culture; sticky stuff, and little is more culturally sticky than religion.

The priest did present us with a brief sermon, which I gather is unusual. He wanted to tell us that although there had been many things said online and in 'forums' and 'emails' that we shouldn't worry about those. He wanted us to know that gossip of that nature is just a distraction. He encouraged us to carry on and do good and be good and let others sort 'things' out. It didn't matter if some had ill to say of the 'metropolitan', our job was not to gossip or spread ill rumors. Ours was to simply serve and obey the word of Christ. It struck me very much as a 'pay no attention to the man behind the curtain,' sort of moment. I wasn't sure what he was talking about but it made me curious.

The whole event seemed centered around transmitting a feeling of subservience on the attendees. There were big and important things going on and we were there to catch a glimpse of them, to witness and behold. The authority was before us. The mysticism was behind the curtain and we were to stand and observe. The coming and going through the three doors and screens further reinforced our distance from a special and sacred world. I can imagine what it would be like to come in off the steppes or in from some primitive illiterate agricultural daily slog, to come into a chamber filled with gold and ritual and song and incense and the repetition, and the repetition, like hypnotic meditation - you could understand its power in the ancient world. But I'm not sure it works today.

At the end, and after a great deal of coming and going and many flourishes of incense there was communion. One of the deacon's offered for us to partake if we had been baptized, but we passed. Everyone else shared the cup. The priest stood in the middle and had assistants to the left and right who held a gold colored towel between them suspended below the cup. One walked forward, knelt, and the priest gave you a sip from the goblet over the gold colored towel - it was there to catch the drips. Then, on the left, you could help yourself to a little piece of bread. There were small cups and plates and you could have a small amount of what again looked like wine. People dipped their bread in their wine as they went back to stand and recite the lords prayer - again sort of half singing it. I was surprised at how much of the service was word for word identical to the Catholic mass. The various branches of Orthodoxy have all been around since about the same time, shortly after 300 AD. That is also about the same time, within a couple of decades, of the formation of the main body of the Catholic Church in legislation by Constantine the Great.

For me, the old show fell a bit flat. In an ancient hall of stone it might have had more power but the man behind the curtain was too visible, the content too light, too ritualized, too anachronistic. There was almost no interest in engaging the subjects. We were not participants and I was not moved in any way. I didn't feel any connection to others in the room with us. There weren't any moments of introspection or reflection, nor was there an attempt at achieving this. There wasn't much of the binding of community. We just looked on, over the fence, if you will, at important events in the distance. My legs got tired and my feet got sore. That's not to say I didn't like it. I did enjoy the experience and I'd recommend it. But, I wouldn't go again and I can't imagine spending a lifetime of Sundays in such emptiness. But, if you've grown up with something, imprinted on it at an impressionable age, the nostalgia itself has value. And the meditative peace achieved with an hour and a half of chanting repetition certainly makes you feel as if you've done something, or seen something at least.

We walked out into the warm summer air and I was glad. We had done that. It was still early in the day and I was glad to have that time ahead of me on a Sunday. Later, I found out that the head of the Orthodox Church in America had been dismissed in a scandal involving the protection and cover-up of a priest accused of rape. He's been replaced by another now. Direct your attention elsewhere.

St. James African Methodist Episcopal Zion Church Sept. 23, 2012

Services at St. James African Methodist Episcopal Zion Church - not to be confused with the African Methodist Episcopal Church - take place at 11:00 on Sunday mornings. Dad and I pulled up at 10:45 and the parking lot had two other cars. We wondered if we'd gotten the time wrong - but the large entrance sign said we were correct.

It had been a while since we'd attended any services and we were feeling a bit cocky in the warm fall air. We decided to go on in and see what was up. As we ascended the winding entrance ramp, a heavy set black man with a chin beard and a white collar was coming down. He said, 'you gentlemen looking for St. Paul's'?

Next door, not 100 yards away, is St. Paul's. I'm thinking St. Paul's (Methodist) is not an all-black church. We'll check that one out next Sunday. Meanwhile, the pastor of St. James was pretty sure that we weren't looking to attend his little church. Probably because the AME Zion church was founded in the late 18th century as an alternative to racist segregation in Methodist and Episcopal churches in and around New York by African Americans. The church sent missionaries throughout the south in the wake of the civil war and became quite popular - along with the African Methodist Episcopal Church - not related. There are over 1.4 million members of the AME Zion church - but you wouldn't know it from the parking lot of St. James in Fairbanks on a Sunday morning.

I replied, "No, actually we were hoping to visit St. James, here, if that would be OK?"

"Oh, absolutely," he said. He had kind of a mumbling distracted way about him - not very self confident for a pastor, but a very kind and humble face and a welcoming tone.

So, we went on in. The building is pretty old - maybe 25 years or older. The decking was originally built out of untreated wood and it is rotting beneath the brown paint, with some individual boards having been replaced with treated wood. Inside - very clean and bright, with a small worship area. Maybe only 4 or 5 nicely padded benches to left and right of the aisle. There were only 3 other people inside. They looked pretty darn surprised. The pastor followed us in, kind of muttering and sounding a bit apologetic about something which we couldn't determine.

As it turned out, he was apologetic about the technology. A large woman, who later turned out to be his wife, was working with a dated laptop and data projector to project lyrics onto a too small screen in the corner of the worship space. Her 18 month old daughter was helping her type. She was typing in the lyrics, but the video settings on the projector were all screwed up so it wasn't displaying properly.

Two elderly black ladies were talking among themselves and I was not really paying attention until one finally said to the other, "well, OK, let's do it" and they came over and introduced themselves to dad and I. Very nice ladies. One tall and heavy with short wavy hair bleached to a dull orange. The other short and heavy with some gold teeth and an infectious easy laugh. Both were wearing black and had some loud gold jewelry on.

As it came time to start, there was some mumbled debate about whether or not they were going to sing today. Finally, the two ladies decided they would so they came forward and stood at the front of the church and sang "this little light of mine". They were pretty horrible - and dad and I weren't much help. Nor was the pastor or his wife or their toddler. A couple of older gentlemen came in, husbands of the two ladies, I think. They couldn't sing either. But we all tried. And it was pretty embarrassingly horrible. Then, we read some scripture, and the pastor was going to play a song off of some idevice but after several attempts and tracing down different cords and plugging in various things, and nervously checking his iphone for texts, he gave up and said we didn't need it anyhow. Amen? Amen.

Despite oratorical and organizational shortcomings, he gave one of the best sermons we've heard in this town. It was humble and honest and heartfelt. The main point of the message was to listen. Listen with your heart to your wife, your kids, yourself. Take time and listen. He said he passed someone who was stuck in the ditch the other evening and he felt he should pull them out but instead he went ahead to go get his wife where she was getting off work - well, she was late getting off work and then his truck had died so he needed a jump - see, he should have stopped to pull that person out. It was a simple sermon - very straightforward.

Then, after the sermon, he said, 'we gonna try something new...we gonna stretch ourselves' (except the word was ou-seves). They fired up the laptop, got the resolution set right, and then proceeded to have the electric organ play accompaniment music to a hymn. It was a long slow hymn and the music was like muzak and the singing was terrible anyway and we all looked at one another nervously and smiled and did the best we could.

And then the pastor said, well..."well...hug someone and tell them you love them"... The two elder ladies and the big lady with the kid hugged dad and I and said they loved us. But we only shook the hands of the elder men. ... I wasn't sure if we were to sit down again or not...but that was it. 42 minutes. We were done. ...The pastor shook our hands, we complemented him on a nice job, and he went in his office and closed the door.

Very nice. Very short. Lovely. We had a nice time of it, the nine of us.

Away we went. Out into the unusually warm fall air.

St. Raphael's - July 8, 2012

Last Sunday was a busy day. In fact, the whole weekend was cramped and things were jamming up against one another left and right. I had a lot going on at home, was in the middle of several projects and couldn't afford to let the day get eaten up with any two hour and twenty minute revival service. I just sort of wanted to get church, 'out of the way'. I wanted to have done it, but I wasn't up for any sort of expenditure of energy or resources on my part. I wasn't up for challenge or threat, or really any intrusion into the existing momentum of my Sunday.

With that criteria, really, the choice was clear. The Catholics. I knew I could count on them for a 58 minute service. God has ordained that you shall not keep parishioners longer than one hour, or perhaps it was only the pope. I called dad the night before and lined up the church that met my needs. In addition, this was not just an ordinary Catholic church. This was the yuppie, hippie, richy-rich-church-in-the-hills church. I wanted to show my dad this place to broaden his perception of Catholics, and perhaps broaden his perception of church.

St. Raphael's has a beautiful location in the hills overlooking town. Its exterior is well landscaped, with pots and beds of flowers that are tasteful and almost grand. The building is large and in good condition; a 1980's design with an all cedar exterior and a large bent winglike floor plan. The worship area occupies the wing angled to the north east, and the large and well windowed community hall occupies the western wing. The south walls of the structure are taller than the north with large windows gathering lots of light. If I were designing a community hall for my gatherings, (and I wanted to say include a theater or other 'worship space'), this building would suit my needs perfectly.

We walked in on time, maybe 10 minutes early. We walked in through the community center, it wasn't quite clear from the outside which of the two main doors led where. Lots of subaru's in the parking lot. Lots of folks who looked just like us. In fact, we were some of the best dressed in our slacks and dress shirts. There were several people in sweatshirts and jeans, several guys wearing shorts, it was very casual. Very white also. Very clean. Not a lot of diversity and very upper-middle-income. If one of our daughters was husband shopping - this might be the place to come. I mean, if you had to shop at a church.

We took our seats in the amply padded and comfortable oak chairs. The individual seating was arranged in rows in the worship space in a sort of free-form pattern. The musicians off to the left were warming up. A guy in a Denver Bronco's jersey was playing a guitar. There was a thin lady with long hair warming up on a flute. Some guy had a tambourine. Really. Another guitar. Lots of former hippies, now doing well filled the room. Lots of young families also. Lots of little kids. By the time things got started, promptly at 9:30, there were maybe eighty people in the room.

The worship area itself has a soaring ceiling with equally soaring windows facing south. The seating faces the sacristy to the north where there's a giant statue of Christ on the Cross against the wall behind the altar. The statue was done in birch or some other white wood and easily Christ is eight or nine feet tall and very dramatically carved with ribs and muscles modelled in the extreme; a very pronounced wreath of thorns on his head and huge nails in hands and feet.

The daily bulletin was the best we've had so far. One of those big sheets of paper, folded in half, it was four regular sized pages of detailed and thorough information, all presented in a professional desktop publishing format on nice, recycled parchment colored paper. Everything was very comfortable and clean and and friendly.

We sang a song or two, or rather they did, I was happily able to maintain my own thoughts and just sort of coast. We stood, we sat, we stood again and sang again, we sat and then stood again. We repeated the Nicean Creed and sat again. The sermon was delivered by one of the two priests present. One priest was from India and had very dark skin, I'd say southern India. He spoke amazingly loud but was absolutely unintelligible, with everyone, including me, thought was great. The other guy had white hair, a clean shaven face and some sort of polish name. He had big loose features in a sort of child molester friendly sort of way. He performed the sermon and it was about how we should all go out into the world and be Christ, do as Christ would do and spread the good word. But in a very non confrontational sort of way. Like, maybe we should allow the woman in the post office with the car seat and the stroller to go first in line. But we were all going to do this anyway, right? He said his bit and we all nodded and smiled and then the hippie band played again.

They played well, someone had some sort of maraca in addition to the tambourine. It was a whole former hippie ensemble. Any my mind stayed blissfully rooted elsewhere. The sun was coming in, it was a nice place to be, amongst nice people, to be lost in my own thoughts.

Three young blond girls brought up 'the gifts', the bread and the wine. One was wearing a white dress and little leather high laced sandals. Another of the girls had her hair done with a pair of braids, one from either side of her head, brought around and joined in back over the rest of her long blond hair. They had a vague 'flower children' air. I watched the priest to see if he watched them but he was busying himself with the book. I'd like to say something that alludes to darker possibilities, but it really wasn't in the air. The sun was shining and the demons were absent.

The whole thing was perfectly uncompellling. Usually Dad and I take communion, but for some reason, neither of us did. I know my dad was as non-present as I was. The people around us went through the line and I was surprised at how many drank from the communal cup. But, if I had to drink from a communal cup here in town, that would be my cup of choice. Clean and friendly people. They looked as free of social diseases as they did of medical ones.

There was a brief period of announcements and the announcer asked for any visitors to please make themselves known. Dad and I sat quietly and everyone was just as happy that way. The recessional involved more tambourine and more flute and it was over. It was 10:28. Perfect, really. We were out the door, back into sunshine and a promising Sunday ahead. We had gotten what I wanted. We got church out of the way, like when you see someone you know at the store and you haven't seen them for a long time. You know you're going to have to catch up with them and a lot has gone on since you last saw them, but you don't really have the time or inclination to spend it talking to them. You meet eyes and are delighted to find that they are of the same attitude. You both nod and smile but then keep walking, both acknowledging the other in a pleasant way, and at the same time happily in agreement that the other is irrelevant in that moment.

St. John Baptist Church - July 1, 2012

I was up earlier than usual Sunday morning and called my dad before he had a chance to call me. We worked together on the phone; me on the internet, him in the yellow pages, to select our service of choice. I had heard that the Bishop was going to discuss Catholic opposition to Obamacare and thought that might be interesting - but we weren't too enthused about sitting through a Catholic Mass. We talked about going to the yuppie Catholic Church in the hills, but we'd already missed their mass times, likewise the Orthodox services.

We settled upon a Southern Baptist Church in South Fairbanks. Should be interesting, we thought.

We really had no idea.

We arrived in the parking lot by about 10:50 and decided to head on in to watch people arrive for the 11:00 services. The parking lot was small but full, spilling over in a jumbled assortment of sports cars and SUV's into a vacant lot across the street. There were no other Subarus in sight. The building is older and has some serious deferred maintenance issues. Peeling paint and water damage here and there on the aging exterior. We were the only ones walking in as we proceeded across the street and parking lot and we had the feeling that perhaps we had the time of services wrong or something - but then a car door opened and a young black couple also joined us in our parking lot pilgrimage.

Older black ladies in Sunday finery, a few younger black women with kids, one or two younger black men in dark suits milled on the stairs and in the hall before the doors leading to the worship area. We had everyone's attention, that is for sure. People milled in such a way as you had to sort of weave between them to get to the actual service chamber. At the top of the stairs, with everyone aware if not staring, we were greeted warmly and in sequence by three elder black women. All were dressed well and one was dressed in a white suit with a flat topped large white hat with flower and lace. 'First time attending our services?' she asked. 'Really?' I thought. To our affirmative she said, 'Welcome, welcome, make yourselves at home'.

We wove into the main worship area and took our usual seats about two thirds back on the right hand side. The hall was lit by a series of 1970's vintage large white globes descending from the ceiling. These had fluorescent bulbs in them and had a sort of pale light quality. The room was musty smelling, like an old church, a church much older than this one actually is. In the center of the ceiling, a large fan was busy stirring the warm humid air. The textured bumps of the ceiling around the circumference of the fan were thickly caked in shadows of sedimentary dust and fan grime. The small stage at the far end of the hall was crowded by a large podium in the center, a full drum set against the back left wall, a bass guitar setup in front of that, and three rows of padded seating for the choir. At the foot of the choir seating and behind the podium, three large ornate chairs, the center one 50% larger than its two wingmen.

The church was mostly empty at three minutes before eleven. A few young folks milled on stage, a very young man warmed up on the bass guitar. At one point he strummed the first few notes of the pink panther theme, trying to get the attention of some girl in the choir. At eleven, there were perhaps a dozen people talking and socializing amongst the faded and padded pews. Reading in the bulletin, the day's program was a long one. Several of the scheduled events, including the sermon, were marked with the words 'Please, no walking' in the bulletin. I didn't know what that meant. First time I've ever seen that in a bulletin and certainly not with the Jehova's Witnesses of the week before.

By five minutes after things were still mostly empty. There were perhaps thirty people in the room and that included the dozen members of the choir, all in their late teens or early twenties. My dad picked this moment to noisily whisper that in America, blacks have the highest percentages of faith and respond positively to all survey questions dealing with religion such as, 'do you believe in the devil', 'do you believe the bible should be taken literally and so on.' I cringed and nodded acknowledgement. The very large black guy in the row in front of us hopefully didn't hear. There was quite a bit of strumming and drumming from the stage as the two young men continued to warm up. Trying to lead by example, I whispered back much more quietly that I'm sure it correlates strongly with overall education. We could die at any moment. They'd easily be able to dispose of us and our solitary Subaru off the dikes somewhere. I felt as much like an 'outsider' as I have ever felt in Fairbanks, but not in a bad way, in more of an exciting adventurous sort of way. On the wall beside me, there was a large banner. Beneath the name of the church, it read, 'Since 1954' and featured a much enlarged black and white photo of an all black congregation standing outside the building in which we now sat.

At about eight minutes after, a taller and slightly harder and more fit version of Gwen Ifill took the podium and began speaking to others around her and members of the congregation over the PA system. There were many details yet to organize, evidently, and things were still coming together. People started to take their seats and we began to roll, slowly things coalesced into a service. She started with a few words and then we opened with a bible reading and a prayer. She announced, 'if you don't have a bible, please raise your hand and we'll get you one.' Dad and I didn't raise our hands. She announced this several times and the chapter and verse several times, but we were under the misconception that this was optional. Someone pointed out to someone else that we didn't have bibles so two were brought to us. Everyone waited while we found Malachi 2, verse 14. Everyone. Once we'd found it (I found it first in mine and told dad the page number but his bible was different so the pages didn't correlate so I handed him mine and looked for a bit but eventually just looked on). Everyone seemed satisfied with this and still a few hadn't heard the chapter and verse so it was announced again a few times. Finally, we all read it together and in unison. Then, a prayer was offered by two of the ushers, a father and son. The son, in his early twenties, was supposed to do the reading of the prayer, but he was a horrible mumbler and his dad chided him repeatedly as he read to speak up until finally his dad took over with smiles all around.

There was a lot of 'amen's and a lot of vocal encouragement in general from the pulpit and from the congregation throughout this process. At all times and anytime.

Then it was time for a hymn and things started kinda slowly, but still in another universe from the JW's or the Mormons. An elderly lady had taken a seat at the piano on the right of the stage. She was wearing a long down coat wrapped around her legs with the sleeves and back of the coat draped off the back of the chair. She wrapped the body of the coat tightly around her legs and then began to play the hymn. We all sang along (well, I read along while they sang). The choir members were sort of half enthused, a couple of guys were teasing a couple of the girls in front of them. But then the bass guitar came in, and slowly the drums started. Gwen loudly spoke/sang the lyric before the choir so everyone could follow easily - it grew and became some sort of musical harmonizing firestorm - and still the choir was only sort of half engaged.

And then the hymn was over and the next item in the bulletin was 'Selection' by the SJBC Praise Team. Six members of the choir came down before the pulpit and prepared to sing a song. They were still kind of kidding one another and talking, but then the piano started. One of the men began singing in a voice that was truly beautiful to hear. He worked with the other singers, in harmony and in solos, with a tenor voice - it was outstanding. The piano lady was some sort of Jerry Lee Lewis reincarnated with her fingers flying and pounding on the keys. Gwen joined in, other members of the choir joined in, and the congregation, as usual, joined in at will. I felt energized and excited and uplifted. It was awesome.

Then, back to their seats and the next item on the bulletin was 'Welcome/Visitor'. It was time to welcome visitors. ! Visitors were asked to stand and introduce themselves. The congregation had grown to about forty people and we weren't the only whites in the room. There was one young white girl up front. There was no way we could not stand, in fact, most of the congregation were already looking at us. We stood and a few other folks stood - and Gwen said we could start with the tall gentleman back there on the left. What she meant was 'tall white gentlemen', and everyone knew it. I introduced myself and said I lived locally and was 'unafiliated'. We were supposed to also announce our church home. 'Amen, well, we've got something for you' she said. My dad's turn. To make sure we're not taken for a gay couple dad always makes sure to point out we're 'father and son'. 'Well, we've got something for you too', she said. And we went on. There were only a handful of other visitors and most of those were family members from down south, Memphis and so on. And then it was announced that it was time to greet the visitors, 'take your time, mill around, go on', Gwen said. So, everyone came to greet us. And by greet, I mean hug. It was thrilling to hug all those black people. Pretty ladies, big ladies, men, children. It had a certain invigorating and cleansing effect on my soul. I felt like I was dipped in the love waters of the Lord, a bit like some kind of inverted David Livingston - gone to some distant land and found salvation rather than being the deliverer of such, it was delivered unto me by these waters of humanity.

The informality of the service, the warmth of the people, the energy, beauty, and power of the singing combined with the physical experience and sincere greetings - it was inevitable that I felt adopted into the tribe. Like a hot shower on a cold wet day - it was deeply satisfying. No church experience to date has come close.

I could relate every detail, it was all so richly memorable: the diminutive sassy young woman who read the announcements super fast and as she walked back to her seat with some swagger and sway said, 'short and sweet', to which everyone laughed and there were a few, mm-hmm's, a couple more moving, rolling 'selections', another reading or two, and the 'tithe and offering' which involved the deacons donning white gloves and passing brass platters. There was Lafondah and her boyfriend from Napoleon Dynamite, but they weren't together in this scene. Napoleon's brother just sat in an over sized dark suit in the front row, greasy hair and bad teeth. All of this was building toward 'Word of the Lord...no walking please...Rev. Dr. Lawrence J. Ellison, Pastor' in the bulletin. At some point, almost mysteriously, there appeared an older black man with tightly cropped gray hair in the large chair behind the podium. Through all the singing and admonitions, which grew ever more energetic with the deacons passing out fans in the aisle and women in their hats waving them energetically; this man sat thoughtfully and never made eye contact with anyone. He sat removed from the singing and sweating and dancing and carrying on about him. He made little notes to himself as thoughts occurred to him. In his white suit, he was a lighthouse amidst the raging sea of his followers. Finally, Gwen introduced him, her husband, the good Reverend Doctor Ellison. He took the podium and I realized the coat of his white suit was long. To his ankles. And his collar was purple, like a nehru collar, upright and short. Huge cuffs came to his elbows and they were purple with giant gold crosses embroidered on them. 

They had been married twenty years this past Wednesday and they complimented one another profusely. 'Her eyes so beautiful, her skin so fair', he said. To which my dad loudly whispered, 'so fair!' to me, with irony in his whisper. They carried on like this for a while and everyone loved it. But, I think also they were purposeful about it. Modelling love and adoration for the congregation. People had continued to arrive and now we were up to about 50 or 55 folks. There were some men present, but mostly, it was women with kids. There were few couples, few family units. Maybe four single men in the congregation, six in the choir, and maybe four couples with kids. The rest were all women, young or old, some with kids, some with grand kids, others wearing work uniforms or fancy Sunday dress, I can still remember their faces. Beautiful people.

The Reverend Doctor had us all read, in unison, the section from the bible on David and Goliath. I, of course, enjoyed the hell out of that. David hitting the Philistine in the forehead with a slingstone and then cutting his head off with his own sword - that was my kind of Sunday reading. But then it sort of got worked up into how David wasn't wearing Saul's armor - David was wearing the armor of the Lord. You need the armor of the Lord when you go out in this world, the breastplate of righteousness, the helmet of faith, and so on. He worked and worked and got to a sort of James Brown state, all the while Gwen was cheering him on with, 'what you say?', 'now you say'in it', 'amen', 'I hear you','say it now', and so on. As he spoke, the piano player pulled her coat tight about her legs and began a tremulating background fill, slowly the bass guitar and finally the drums were involved too. It was a feverish Baptist tent service - but he wasn't really James Brown and I was actually alienated a bit by that performance. He made his point, talking about trying to use 'Coke-ANE' or 'Crystals of Meth-Maphetamine's' as your armor instead of the armor of the Lord, that he feared no bullets from a 'Colt .45 automatic' because he wore the armor of the Lord...but it took him 35 minutes to get there. By then we'd been there in church two hours. When he finally ended, I was glad. I had no idea things were about to take a darker turn.

The next and second to last item on the bulletin was 'Invitation to Christian Discipleship'. I didn't really know what that meant but Gwen took the stand and began by asking people to come forward and join their church, accept Jesus and join their family. She said, 'if you don't have a church home, come forward'. The atmosphere got heavier and heavier - obviously Dad and I were (white) elephants in the room. We had foolishly announced that we were both 'unafiliated' with another church. At this turnabout, I felt betrayed. Really, I was sick. There was no way I was going to go forward, so it was just a matter of waiting in that uncomfortable space - in that game of spiritual chicken. The experiences at Bible Baptist came rushing back to me. And then, I thought again. Maybe this was just part of the Baptist travelling-tent-revival culture. They did this all the time and it was part of their thing. I didn't like it, but was able to find a way to feel less uncomfortable while I stood there, feeling everyone waiting for (me to go forward and fall upon the alter) something. Finally, Gwen asked us to sit and asked anyone with special prayers to come forward.

It was a bit like witnessing. They would come forward with an experience and talk about how they needed help with something and the Reverend Doctor would say a few words. He was excellent at this and knew everyone and had warm uplifting words to say, usually getting the congregation to laugh. The big guy in front of us went forward and said he was having some tough times. The young woman who was with him and sitting directly in front of me was crying. He asked for help and prayers and the Reverend Doctor said he'd already talked to the young man and knew everything was going to be fine, but also wanted to ask the young man to stop worrying about himself and start worrying about others, so called him to serve as a deacon. It was good - seemed effective at relieving some sort of weight on the couple and in the room.

Finally Gwen took over again and we began communion. As they were getting ready, the Reverend Doctor came over and asked dad and I, 'are you gentlemen baptized'? We both said yes, and he said, 'well then you are welcome to participate in our communion ceremony', and he departed in a swirl of white and purple. I noticed, up close like that, that he had a badly wandering eye. So, we processed around the pews and picked up our little plastic cup of what looked like wine. 'Rose', whispered dad loudly when we took our seats. The cup was sealed on top, like a thimble sized version of the orange juice containers on an airplane. On top of the cup and sealed under a thin layer of peel away plastic was a small communion wafer. We waited until all were seated and then had communion together. It was grape juice - a little on the stale side.

There was another hymn, and we were instructed how to depart. Everyone leaves to the right, walks forward and says goodbye. The choir, piano lady, drummer and guitarist, deacons, other officers (including the lady in the white hat), and finally Gwen and the Reverend Doctor - everyone lined up and we walked toward the alter and along the line, hugging and shaking hands and saying thank you and goodbye to all. Several asked us to make sure and come again next week. Gwen was extremely kind and generous in person and I complimented her and thanked her for allowing us to come and she could not have been more gracious. The Reverend Doctor welcomed us to come back again, and I was sad inside knowing I never would. 

Out the door; half eager to get out and half sorry for the passing, we found half the congregation milling on the narrow steps. We wound through the mass and made our way out into the brilliant sun. It was quiet outside and the space big and bright. I walked sort of half removed and half awakened, disoriented almost, on the way to the car. Like waking from a nap on a hot and sunny afternoon, the world was different from the one we had departed two and a half hours earlier. A few steps and once again we sat in the Subaru in the parking. After a quiet moment I turned to my dad and said, 'well, I don't think an enlightening lecture on evolution has much to offer for those folks.'

Kingdom Hall - June 24, 2012

Dad called me at noon on Sunday. I was still in bed. We'd walked the Midnight Sun Run and were having our midnight breakfast when the subject came up. He was going to call at 10:00 but luckily, I said not to. Noon was about as long as he could wait, and that was fine. I was sort of waking up anyway, and had sort of written off the idea of going on one of our church outings this Sunday. I was thikning about cleaning the garage and other pressing but uninspiring chores.

"The Jehova's Witnesses have a service at 1:00," he said.

I said, though I didn't really feel like saying it, "sure, let's do it".

"OK, I'll be at your house in 20 minutes."

If you're going to go to Kingdom Hall as an outsider, this is the way to go. Don't think about it, just get up, get in the shower, grab a cold waffle from the distant dream of the night before, and then you're in the car on your way to the 'meeting'.

Yeah, JW's have 'meetings', not services or masses. My dad briefed me on the way that the Jehova's Witness movement started in the late 19th century as part of the Bible Study movement. There are currently about 20 million JW's world wide.

I've always dreaded seeing them walking up the driveway, joked about the JW's coming at inopportune times at home, and generally wondered what went on in the little brick building titled 'Kingdom Hall'.

As we pulled up outside, I noticed that the half dozen or so other attendees were really well dressed. Women were wearing dresses, men were wearing dark suits. My dad and I were wearing khaki's and dress shirts. Looking pretty good for only having rolled out of be a few moments earlier, but we weren't really dressed to fit in. It was about 10 minutes before the hour. I was happy to sit in the car and finish my orange juice but given the choice, dad said, 'let's go'... Again, this wasn't my natural inclination. I really felt aprehensive about Kingdom Hall. My whole life I'd sought to avoid contact with these folks, and sort of reviled them in their evangelical enthusiasm. Here we were, offering ourselves up and walking right in the front door. As I left the house, I had told Amanda where we were going in case I didn't return.

We went inside, past the folks socializing outside and through the double doors. I could feel the eyes of all we passed on our backs. We made our way to our usual vantage point, about two thirds of the way back on the right hand side. There were maybe two dozen others already inside - and again, lots of looks. All of the men were wearing dark suits. All of them. We had hardly sat down before we were welcomed evaluatively by a tall handsome fellow. And then, another welcome, and introductions and what brings you here and so on. We had maybe six or so of those, and then some of the women seated around us welcomed us and again, introductions and what brings you. As it happens, the Sunday before we'd had the JW's come by the house so it was a reason at the ready. We'd had someone give us a Watchtower and we wondered what it was all about so we thought we'd come and see. Everyone was very nice, in a warm, but somewhat guarded sort of way - and no real conversation, an awkward moment for all, to be sure.

One lady that my dad happened to know from his course on Athiesm "Athiests Among Us', a very nice slighlty built elderly lady, sat in front of us. She said that we would really enjoy ourselves and that they had a guest speaker from some other chapter down south, and the lesson from the Watchtower, we'd really enjoy that; sort of like a college course or seminar, she said. This lady had a very kind and friendly aura about her, but she's one who complained about dad's course and got it cancelled.

The Hall was very well kept, very 1980's, but didn't have that oppressive feel that the Mormon Temple or Baptist Church did. The air was fresh and the dated lecture theater style seating was comfotable. The Hall wasn't that full as we got started, maybe 55 people total, out of a possible 150 or 175. They started with a song - pretty pathetic audience participation, kind of nasally and half hearted. Like trying to get a bunch of 3rd graders to sing "God Bless America" or something. My dad leaned over to me and whispered, though much too loudly to be really a whisper, 'They're worse than the Mormons'. I cringed and laughed at the same time.

The guest lecture was boring, banal and mumbled. The speaker talked of crumbling american family values, of the dangers of music, of the dangers of choice of profession, of the wrong use of blood. The blood thing sort of threw me. I had no idea what he was talking about. He also went on at length about how difficult it was to choose a good profession. How being a delivery person seems like a good job, but what if you're called to deliver something immoral, such as blood sausage. What? He spoke about how satan was active everywhere and one had to be careful. There was good music, but there was also bad music. Earlier there was a time when it was easier to tell the difference between right and wrong, black and white, but now, it was much more difficult. He reminded everyone that this 'system' was coming to an end, and would be replaced by Jehova's system - the Kingdom of Heaven where Jesus was king. As you might imagine, most people weren't going to make it, only a few, a few who knew and practiced 'the truth'.

While this was going on, I was mostly bored out of my skull. The way in which the speaker presented was almost like he was saying something without actually saying it - the entire time. I wasn't sure if it was because I was tired, but his formulation of ideas and points was so obtuse, I wasn't sure if he was talking way above my level of comprehension, or way below - like to kindergardeners. Things to be careful of, a list of simple truths. It was disorienting in that it felt like he was saying something larger, but its meaning, to me, was incomprehensible. I found myself reading 'The Watchtower' magazine. There were four main sections, each one divided into several lessons. They all were incredibly banal, except the last. That one had to do with lessons derived from three important events in 'history'. The flood and Noah's ark, the Exodus out of Egypt by Moses and crew, and the destruction of Jerusalem by the Romans. It even had a picture of Pharoah's army being crushed by the Red Sea as the waters closed on his army. My kind of reading. It was strange reading however, I could never decipher the point - what the purpose of it all was.

Finally the speaker finished his half hour presentation on the dangers of satan and what he presented as the complexities of avoiding satan in the modern world. I was pretty worried when the next speaker approached the podium (hand cranked the wooden lever to elevate it to the right height) and announced that the lesson would begin. To my great pleasure, however, it was anounced that we were to studying the last section and the one with the best pictures. This should be good, I thought.

Crap. It was the most boring, pedantic, banal, mindless, pseudo-inquiry of my life. The next hour consisted of reading through the several page article in the following manner. The man at the main podium was the director. He would direct another man, at a microphone, to read numbered paragraph passages. Then the director would read the prepared questions. The passages made simple statements, mostly based on bible passages about the events in question, and the questions simply asked what had just been stated. Two runners in the audience, guys in dark suits, would run microphones to members of the audience who raised their hands and answered questions. They were bearing 'Witness' to the teachings of Jehova. I got it.

Oh dear, it was mind numbingly dull. A sample: Jehova knew long before he told Noah that he was going to bring the deluge. He told Noah to build the ark about 40 years before it was going to flood, but only told Noah of the coming flood about 7 days before it arrived. Jehova is a good planner, and doesn't leave things to chance. ... What does this tell us about Jehova? ... Ooh, ooh....'Jehova is a good planner and doesn't leave things to chance'.... Well said Sister Marrion.  They refer to one another as brother and sister.

So, on it went for an hour. We learned that Jehova was a good planner. That he looks after those who follow him, as evidenced by the parting of the Red Seas and the following destruction of Pharaoh's army. The most enthusiastic and insightful comment of the day was made by a lady who remarked with glee, 'Boy, those Egyptians sure were stupid, I mean, the Israelites had the tower of brilliant cloud leading them and the Egyptians were plunged into darkness and Jehova made their chariot wheels fall off and yet they still tried to cross between the waters....they could see that the Israelites had Jehova on their side and they still tried, boy were they dumb (deriding snicker)!'

And, from the destruction of Jerusalem, we learned that you have to listen to Jehova. When he says to do something, don't dilly dally - the Romans may come back and your opportunity may have passed. And that was the end of the lesson. Another quick, feeble, song, and we were out the door. We were the first ones out and hardly ten yards towards our car when I realized that one very well dressed couple were in quick pursuit. The lady smiled and waved and again with the introduction and she asked if we had enjoyed ourselves. I responded that the services had gone long and that we were late and so must be going, but thanked her and told her to have a nice afternoon. She and the fellow were nice and withdrew to walk back inside. Whew. We made it. 

I read afterwards that they don't do Christmas, Easter, birthdays, or holidays other than a fancy dinner on Passover. They are concientious objectors - they believe that all governments on earth are controlled by satan and basically have no part in them. They don't vote. They belive that Satan came to earth on October 1st, 1914 and began the end times in which we now reside. They have a funny hangup about blood which prevents them from accepting transfusions, and delivering blood sausage evidently. If you openly question the teachings of The Watchtower, you are titled an apostate and 'disfellowshipped'. From wikipedia, "Witnesses are strongly discouraged from formulating doctrines and "private ideas" reached through Bible research independent of Watch Tower Society publications, and are cautioned against reading other religious literature....The Watchtower warns members to "avoid independent thinking", claiming such thinking "was introduced by Satan the Devil."

We were in Kingdom hall an hour and forty minutes. I couldn't help but feel that through this method of formulaic question and response, the brothers and sisters were 'witnessing' as a method of social belief reinforcement. The meaning behind the presentations wasn't driving toward an explicit point. It was all based on implicit reinforcement of 'truth'. It had a very cultist atmosphere. Friendly, cordial, well dressed, but culty as hell.

The Mormons

Dad woke me up Sunday morning with his phone call, as he has done now for the past several weeks, to discuss what church we should go to. He suggested the Mormons and I concurred, although not without some trepidation. I wasn't sure what to expect and it seemed that if the Bible Baptists could have an organized system of nearly assaultive tactics for the visitor, then I could only imagine what the notoriously conversion oriented Mormons might have in store for us.

A little bit of research and I discovered that there are 5 'wards' in Fairbanks. Each of the two major churches has two wards with separate times for worship, and there is a fifth ward entitled 'singles', as well as other wards in outlying communities. Every community, now matter how small has its own ward. North Pole, Delta, Salcha, etc. We agreed to attend the 11:00 AM services of one of the two wards serviced by the Mormon temple downtown on Cowles near the old Shoppers Forum.

Before I knew it or was even really awake, we were parked outside. As has become standard for us, we waited a bit before entering. We didn't want to enter too early and usually prefer to enter only minutes before things get started. However, on this day, Dad said it would be interesting to enter and watch folks flow in so in we went a few minutes earlier than our usual aim. It was about ten minutes before things got started. For me, it helped to face the uncertainty, rather than sit and let it build. Ahead of us a heavy lady with tattoos on her arms and legs, and sort of a dark nightclub dress, lots of makeup, lots of cleavage showing, walked with her young daughter. My dad made a comment about the tattoos showing for church and how that was kind

of a new thing probably.

I should mention that my dad grew up a member of, and became an ordained minister in an unusual branch of the Mormon church, called the *Reorganized* Church of Jesus Christ Latter Day Saints. This splinter sect was founded by Joseph Smith's wife and her followers when they decided not to go along with Smith's revelation regarding polygamy. Smith's wife didn't cotton to him taking a fourteen year old girl as his additional wife if I remember correctly. This split happened while the church followers were in Nauvoo Illinois, before Smith was killed and the remaining followers were run out of town and eventually emigrated to Utah.

Other folks walking in sported white shirts and ties for the men, most or nearly all of the women wore long skirts. It reminded me of the services from last Sunday and thought of the nineteenth century aspects of that conservative presence.

The first thing that struck me was that the building is quite small. I imagined something more grand or more imposing. The hallways are narrow and tight and lead directly to a fairly small worship space. The space is smaller than the Church of Christ space from last week and considerably drearier. Everything is quite dated. I immediately noticed that there was no projector for lyrics or information, no screen, and unusually, lots of permanent seating on the raised altar-like area. Sort of like a 'head table' arrangement, only in elevated rows facing the congregation. It didn't take long before we were noticed by the pastor, he reminded me in appearance quite a bit of George Bush Sr. He came over and welcomed us and asked if we were visiting but was satisfied and welcoming when we said yes, and that we were just local visitors and gave our names. Another fellow came by for a similar sincere greeting before things got going.

At the back of the church, against the back wall, all of the young men on mission sit in chairs all in a row. There were probably eight or ten. The church filled up fairly well, maybe about 70% capacity, perhaps 85 or 90 people took their seats. Four or five men sat facing us from the raised altar seating. I'm not sure who they all were exactly.

Soon the minister got things started with some announcements regarding a gathering at Lost Lake and then some songs. The worst, most boring and banal singing I have heard to date. Pretty much without spirit, and lacking in tempo, energy, or any sort of inspiration. A young woman in a white cardigan and long skirt tried half heartedly to exhort music from the crowd with rhythmic waving of her hand but it was a feeble effort and the crowd invested little in the exercise. The songs were slow and dreary and soulless. I was so bored I read the inside of the hymnal and discovered that these songs were selected four days after the Mormon church was founded when Smith asked his wife to 'make some selections from common hymns that would give glory to god.' I'm not sure whether the failure was hers or simply in execution, but failure was abundant and the result was agony.

I was surprised at how small the service was in terms of attendance. The gathering was smaller than the fringe gathering at the Church of Christ the week before. The crowd was of mixed race but had more women with kids and without spouses than I've seen at the other churches. But the servers were all men. Aside from the girl in the cardigan, those on the raised platform were all men and boys. During one of the lifeless songs, I noticed boys breaking bread into small pieces at the left side of the altar area. More interminable songs. Really there were only two but they went on forever and were painful. A group of boys and one man gathered and delivered the sacrament amongst the pews. First, small torn fragments of whole-wheat wonder bread were offered to all. Very sweet on the palette. Then, the little tray with a hundred little plastic cups, each the size of a thimble, with our dose of water. Water. This water had the hard taste of institutional water. I wouldn't say it was any kind of spring water. More like institutional water fountain water.

It is hard to get excited about a thimble of water. It doesn't have much majestic appeal, or ritualistic power. I thought about how most people attending services in their various offshoot churches don't realize that they're following in the shadows of Catholicism. They're doing a literally watered down version of the Catholic service that was around for 1500 years before the Reformation. Not that the grape juice of the other churches is much better. It is all silly in fact. I think the Friends Church has this much better. Skip all that, eat your donuts, drink your latte and just sit and relax. Or dance and rock out to the upbeat music. That is the upgrade. But I was stuck in Church 1.0 and a watery one at that.

George Bush Sr. began the 'Testimony' portion of the service. The minister or pastor in the Mormon church has a pretty good deal. He didn't have to give a sermon, he mentioned that today was a day of fasting, and that they were focused on family this week and then began his own 'testimony'. Tearfully he expressed his gratefulness for his six children and for Jesus dying on the cross and then opened up the floor for other testimonies. It was 11:25 and he said they would take testimony until five minutes after the hour. I couldn't believe, at first, that he meant what he said, or that I actually had the right time on my watch. But it was true. The testimonies began. The tension between testifiers would grow and grow in the silence as we all waited for someone to leave their seat and begin the walk toward the podium.

I must interrupt myself at this point to discuss the podium for I believe it was the best and only evidence of God I saw this day. Whenever a parishioner would walk towards it, it would magically raise or lower with a dull whirring noise to the appropriate height. I'm not sure who or what was controlling this, but I am pretty sure it was the Heavenly Father. For the otherwise austere worship environment, this magic podium struck me as comical as it would try to anticipate the height of speakers as they ascended the altar. Sometimes finishing with a final pulse or two to get the height just right.

Back to the testifiers - there was a relief as they approached, but the tension would begin again as they invariably launched into banalities and trivialities with great emotion and usually pretty poor speaking talent.

I think their emotional outbursts, these releases, must somehow come from the stresses involved in maintaining dualities of existence. Being rooted in both the material objective world, and at the same time trying to interpret things via the supernatural. Whatever the source of the energy, there was a consistent tearful release by the testifiers. The cliché about people occasionally needing a 'good cry' comes to mind. Something drives them to walk alone to the front of the class and dump their heart in a choking sobbing confession. One of the main threads was regarding things they 'knew' to be true.

They testified that the Gospel was true, that the Book of Mormon was true, and that it was true that Jesus Christ died for our sins. They testified to these main points with some variation in inclusion or omission, but basically, I got the point. It was interminable. Some souls added little personal details that they thought were somehow necessary, or offered in evidence of the other basic testimony. It seemed odd to me that they repeatedly all testified to these same things being true. It seems there is a lot of insecurity in this matter.

One heavier elder lady testified that the Gospel was true and that she was thankful for her sons who helped her with wallpapering or spackling or something, she didn't quite know what they were doing but it was helping her walls to look better and she was thankful for the help and how she couldn't do it herself because her wrist hurt and so she slept with the heating pad on it and in the morning it felt much better and it is just so amazing how Jesus Christ works. She was thankful. There was an incoherent Native guy. One of the young male missionaries gave perhaps the best testimony when he compared the Book of Mormon to rotisserie chicken and that you had to really get in there and feast on the Book of Mormon as it was full of such good and enriching content.

Finally, after about a year, the testimonies ended and we had another excruciatingly slow and spiritless song and we were dismissed. I wanted to invite these folks to step into the Friends Church. I can't help but imagine that they'd get more out of it, and have a lot more fun in the process. Or even the Church of Christ - with a full and lively atmosphere. I am contemplating talking to my dad about visiting the other main Mormon church, just to see if this was some sort of anomaly. For the famous Mormon Church, I was really surprised at its simplicity and lack of spiritual or emotional sophistication. We all get what we want out of the things we do, and for some, tradition undoubtedly plays a huge role.

As we walked out into the parking lot, my dad and I laughed at the rotisserie chicken analogy and he said that no-one has ever feasted on the Book of Mormon, it being so boring and bizarre with various fictional tribes of Israel in the new world fighting other fictional peoples and so on. We had a good laugh and it helped us to dispel the tension of our morning's adventure with the Mormons.

Church of Christ (Sunday, April 28)

So, last Sunday my Dad and I went to the Chuch of Christ downtown. They're located on 11th, near where the old Dairy Queen used to be. I really had no idea what I was in for except I knew they were some kind of Christian church that placed a heavy emphasis on the Bible. My Dad and I showed up at the requisite time, a little before 11;00 AM and the parking lot was mostly full but no activity. It felt like we were late. We waited a few moments until about five minutes before the hour and then went on ahead inside. We are still a bit scarred from the experience at the Bible Baptist church so we like to shave it a bit closer on our arrival time.

To the extent that much of church depends on what you bring through the doors yourself, today wasn't boding well. The church is in a sort of late 1960's vintage building, perhaps mid 1970's. It has that tired downtown Fairbanks look to it. The parking lot was only sort of full and I was sort of expecting a dying congregation. A gathering of the faithful, but by the exterior appearance, I was expecting a rather uncomfortably intimate experience, amongst a very small set of worshipers. I wasn't in the mood particularly for my weekly dose of God and devotion. It was a nice morning and there were many things I'd rather be doing. I couldn't imagine it would compare favorably to the big Friends Church of the previous Sunday. That low bar of entry was so easy and I knew this bar would be higher. I can't say it compared favorably and yet I found it the most challenging and thought provoking experience to date.

The minute we walked through the door I knew I was wrong about my apprehension and foreboding. There were people milling freely and talking easily. A plainly dressed lady with an open face and bright eyes gave us the morning devotional papers, and welcomed us to go on inside. Easily as open and welcoming as at the Friends mega-church, only on a much smaller and more intimate scale. Yet, she didn't try to hold our eyes or interrogate us at any level. We were simply welcome to enter. She wasn't pretending or 'being' in the role of greeter, she believed and was wholly present in her role in the simplest of ways. We ascended into the main worship area which embodies a large 1970's era vision of worship space. Four huge glue-lam trusses support the lightly stained tongue and groove pine ceiling. The whole space has very comfortable padded pews and a nice ascendant light, if somewhat period in design and inspiration. As we took our seats I noticed that many of the women we wearing head-scarves and all the women that I saw were wearing skirts. Not pants.

But there was an apparent earnestness. A sincerity. The women in their head-scarves and skirts, the men and boys in simple slacks and button down shirts, mostly patterned, not white or 'Sunday Best' but ordinary wear, slacks and plaid or patterned button-downs. These are not the same crowd as those who appear at the mega-church. Nor have I seen the same kinds of kids at Randy Smith or West Valley. There is a humbleness to them that is immediately apparent. Sometimes, women and men 'dress' for church. In a way that glorifies the self a bit. These folks weren't about that at all. It is a delicate line of distinction but these men and women were cut of different cloth. Though I entered sort of dreading the event, I was surprised. I felt I had actually journeyed out of Fairbanks. There was an actual cultural difference in this room and I felt energized by it. Like visiting Japan or Egypt, standing amidst people who are, as one, different than myself, is kinda cool. Exciting. These folks, I had no idea they existed in Fairbanks, let alone congregated en masse. The women in their head scarves and skirts, the men in their plain clothes, it had the feeling, a bit, like an Amish community. Something almost from the 19th century.

My dad leaned over to me and whispered, a little too loudly, 'I think the greeter was relieved to hear that we were father and son.....for a moment, I think he thought we were a gay couple!'.... we both laughed. The place was pretty darn squeaky in terms of parents with kids and fairly traditional family units around. Except, for in that moment, an elderly woman and her daughter came to sit in the aisle in front of us. Along with her came her other daughter/son. She was obviously not your average daughter, with very male features and physiognomy, long thin hair, yet with a bald spot, and manicured nails with some sort of red-white-and-blue design. Everyone seemed absolutely comfortable and loving and unphased by this appearance. Throughout the service, the man/woman cared for his/her mother with tenderness and gently rubbed the aging womans back throughout the service, stood and sang off key with a man's voice despite the obvious breast augmentation or perhaps the enhanced results of estrogen therapy.

This, I would say, wouldn't have gone over equally in any church I've visited. The parishioners were genuinely earnest in their expressions of welcome and greetings in ways that almost defy description. Just to say that I think if, at any desperate time in my life, I found myself in need, this would be a group of people that I would most choose to fling myself upon and find some sort of fabric on which to land. If no other group availed, as in, if lost on foreign shores. These folks represent some sort of western ideal rarely found - and I'm not sure that they really are that, but they do a damn good impersonation of such. 

Services began with singing, good singing. The lady in front of us, an older lady in head-scarf, white hair, skirt, and dark sweater, sang these soaring counter-melodies. An African Americal woman across the aisle sang melodies amazingly. No musical accompaniment. That is when my dad remembered that the followers of the Church of Christ don't believe in musical instruments. They don't believe in any of that and they do believe in the infallibility of the bible. Further, that the Bible is more or less a blue-print for everything one needs to know in life. If it's not in the bible, they aren't going to do it. They're descendants of what is sometimes referred to as Christian Primativism. These folks are totally warm, totally welcoming, but also some of the most conservative I've met. Probably, Rick Santorum isn't conservative enough for them. So far outside the norm of my expectations that I felt I was in a different world and pretty much suspended much of the judgement that I feel within my own kind. When amongst the baptists, for instance, I find them so at fault for their shortsightedness and fearful take on the world.

The sermon was wandering a bit, but mostly beseeching the congregation (less than 100 souls for the second mass of the day) to be faithful. Be vigilant. If you're hanging around those who don't walk with Christ, telling yourself that you're going to lead them to Christ, then isnt' it about time you talked with them? Isn't it about time you shared your heart? And if you are afraid of their reaction, are you sure you should continue hanging around them? Because Sin rubs off. You can be led into wrongdoing simply by hanging around the wrong sorts of folks, people who are making poor decisions. "Be careful lest you want to eat of their delicacies", said David. 'Fitting in can become more important than being God's friend." It went on. It seemed to me to be somewhat isolationist. The pastor, a man younger than myself, spoke of the dangers of associating with those who aren't on the right path. But, I have to say, in a gentle way, not condemning those who weren't on the right path, but beseeching those in the room to be careful. And, with all earnestness and intense caring, to be thoughtful and to be good. They were really focused on 'being good' as interpreted from the New Testament. To 'smite with kindness' those who don't know Christ. And much more quotable fragments but the picture begins to solidify. These folks believe what they're saying. They pass around unleavened cracker and grape juice and partake together. They meet and hope, earnestly, for the saving of a 'detiorating and ever more lost world'. They aren't pretending. Unlike the men at the Seventh Day Adventist Church who absently strummed at their guitars whilst their wives absorbed the limelight at the front of the stage and sang their love of Jesus and God, these men aren't pretending in hopes of getting lucky on Saturday night, or at least simple domestic survival. In fact, these men are alone in service. I didn't understand, at first, what 'Men Who Serve' meant. This calender with names and titles was handed to us as we entered, but it turns out that 'Men Who Serve' are the men who handle all of the various aspects of the service. Women don't handle anything. They can sing but they're not to be in Service.

Sounds kind of anachronistic from our perspective, something we instinctively reject, but looking at this room full of folks from my traveller's perspective, maybe it is a good thing. The vanity of women kind of do distract from the whole thing somehow. It becomes more complicated and about something more in a way with their involvement. It is almost refreshing to have things distilled and free of that added complexity. Or perhaps that is the simple perspective of another throw-back chauvinist.

Yeah, these folks are really conservative; in their belief of the Bible as faultless, and their disavowal of musical instruments, and segregation of women, really, really conservative. Almost like from another time. Ignorance plays a role, willful or inherited. And that is where I got hung up. Rarely have I met 'nice people' or 'good people' that one hopes to believe underly the great masses of American religious. Instead, I find mostly simple ignorance. And yet, when coupled with such earnest intent to do good and be good, what can you say? What to even feel toward them? The Bible Baptist crowd I can consign to the gas chambers of my mind. Their level of fear, anger and simple minded aggression allows me to write them off as insalvageable detritus. These folks, their big eyed earnestness I can find nothing but compassion for. If I find intolerance, anger, or hatred within myself at their almost island-like culture of anachronism, then it seems to me that I become the Bible Baptists. I become the fearer and the intolerant one. And yet, within these people lie the seeds of ignorance that lead to dark futures. From inside their prayer bulletin, they pray for 'Government, that it return to God.' It would be so much easier if they wore loin cloths and gathered around smudge fires and lived a more ancient lifestyle. I could place them in some safe pocket of respectful condescension within my mind. As it is, I really don't know how to take them or how to regard them. The distance between us makes them truly foreign.

The hymn of departure was 'I'll fly away'. They did a beautiful job of singing it in rounds without any apparent direction. I thought of my Dad and both of our struggles with inner demons through the winter. Yes, we're clever in our knowledge of biological and scientific truths, smug in our attendance of these services. We look down from our lofty heights of enlightenment, but I wonder if these folks are also troubled with similar personal demons? Perhaps they hold some heights of their own? As we departed, the pastor caught us at the door and turned from his entire congregation to have a few words with us. To find out why we were there and who we were. To take a moment and say he'd love the opportunity to get to know us better. He wasn't just saying it. He wasn't pretending. He really meant it. In all earnestness. And that was more than I was prepared for, more than I had brought through the door, that day. Dodging awkwardly out the door and out of the potential for conversation with only a few quick words of thanks, breaking eye contact from his open intensity, left me feeling uneasy. Perhaps we had eaten of their delicacies.


 http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Churches_of_Christ