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

Friends Mega-Church (Sunday April 21)

So, last Sunday my dad and I went to Friends Church down in the industrial district - on 30th avenue. The website proclaimed their beliefs. One of them is that they are bible literalists, believing that the bible was written by ordinary people but inspired by God, and that it is infallible. They're not Quakers despite the 'Friends' label. They're an independent, self founded, Fairbanks original. I was pretty much braced for the worst..

Five minutes before the 11:00 service, the movie theater sized parking lot was pretty full and the remaining spots were disappearing quickly. There were a lot of shiny crossover type SUV's. People flowing across the parking lot toward the giant glass entrance way had a kind of quickness in their step, a kind of energy that swept me and dad along.

Through the doors, the large foyer was busy with people, maybe a hundred, all talking and moving somewhere. As you come in, there's a giant coffee bar to your right, larger than your average urban Starbucks, with a zillion bottles of Torani syrup lining the wall and youngish teens serving the long line with coffee's and iced coffee's and all manner of fancy latte's with the little domed lids bursting with whip cream. To the left is some kind of service counter, like an information booth, advertising and coordinating various church programs - there are many signs advertising a women's bible study group with the slogan 'gotGIRLfriends?'. An unobtrusive lady hands my dad and I a single welcome flyer with today's bible lesson inside. She doesn't try to get our names, doesn't try to meaningfully hold our eye, or shake our hand with a probing look. She just hands us the pamphlet, says 'Welcome', and moves on to welcome someone else. A kid wanders by with a huge clear plastic cup with the dome and cream operation in one hand and a whole stack of quartered maple-bar pieces in the other. Ahead, there is a big line of parents and kids before the banks of doors leading into the worship area. They are lined up to await their turn before a large table with three computers where youngish servers are busily putting ID bands on kids wrists and taking information from their parents - scanning the kids wrists when they're done. 

We moved past the lines and out of that hubbub into the worship auditorium. It is huge. Again, sort of overwhelming. A big warehouse type room with open steel ceiling, three huge screens on the long far wall, a big stage beneath them, and rank upon rank of seating filling the large floor area. We sidle off to the right hand side and take a seat amongst the angled rows outside the main three sections which directly oppose the stage. To our right, there are three smaller sections of seating which are perpendicular to the main seating facing the stage. This room could easily seat 800. The three main sections before the stage each contain 200 seats. But, right now, it has only a smattering of people walking around busily, talking with others, or finding their seats, usually with a drink, and when kids are present, they too have drinks and they invariably have stacks of donut quarters.

The seats are comfy, the lighting is nice. There is a happy energy in the place - no doubt enhanced a bit by the sugar and caffeine being sucked down. Within moments a guitar carrying twenty something takes center stage and gives a 'welcome' and breaks into song. A bass guitarist and an electrical guitarist take their places and a drummer with a full set slips into a glassed in drum booth on stage. They start cranking. The sound system is the best I've heard in our small town - the band is actually pretty good. The songs have a late '90s feel to them a lot of open guitar and drum energy. The music director guy has slouchy jeans on and some kind of little brimmed soul hat. He's the vocalist and he's pretty good at getting the crowd going. The band is tight and really going for it. People flow into the hall rapidly now - people are standing at their seats, clapping and waving their arms and singing along. The seats fill and soon there are more than 700 people in the room.

This is church 2.0.

Eventually the pastor takes the stage. He's the founder of this enterprise. He's wearing jeans and a flannel shirt, unbuttoned to reveal a black t-shirt. He has a silicon valley software exec kind of hand-in-pocket familiarity about him. But also a sort of confidence and presence and sort of super groomed, but not in that smarmy child molester sort of way, more of a Ryan Seacrest sort of way about him. He has some opening remarks and then says the kids are dismissed to 'kid church' and then he begins again from where they left off last time on Phillipians and a message about God and money. The sermon is about money this week. He seems to talk a lot about money. Talks about Warren Buffet and the Koch brothers as being people he looks up to. Talks about giving and not feeling guilty for earning lots of money. Talks about family stresses with money - kind of basic family money counselling stuff. Goes through the bible bit where Jesus says, 'render unto Caesar what is Caesar's and render unto God what is his'. All in a very non confrontational sort of way - with a good stage presence and lots of little jokes about himself and his family - but the money theme is strong and undeniable. He talks about tithing and how that is in the old testament and how Jesus never said that. But, that you should give as your heart tells you - it is the soft sell. It is the 'check yourself out' of the Apple store approach. They pass the offering baskets. They're pretty darn full. The kid in front of us drops his iced chocolate latte thing and it spills on the carpet and his dad fetches napkins and another stack of quartered chocolate frosted long johns.

They bring out a long line of kids and folks from a side room and a couple of guys are preparing next to a huge plastic tank near the left hand side of the stage. At some point the pastor looks over and says, 'OK, we're going to baptize some people, ...support them in your prayers and join us in celebration'. He then addresses the baptize-ees and says to them, before you take this plunge, comit yourself to Jesus, say something to yourself from your heart like...and he improvised a very personalized sort of message about transition from one way of being to another and about giving oneself over and putting Jesus in control of things. Then the band started with a sort of mellow song and the baptizing began. It wasn't front and center, it was kinda to the side and not very well lit but the crowd was rapt. As the first person came up soaked, there was great applause and the song went on. The whole thing was underplayed with great skill. 

After the last person was baptized the pastor said, 'is that all?' They baptized about eight or so people. There was a misunderstanding about the kids, but evidently the twenty or thirty kids were just watching today, they were going to be baptized soon themselves, but not today. The band broke into a more upbeat song and the pastor said thanks and see you next week and sort of walked off in conversation with others, very nonchalant.

Theatrically a very different performance than any I've been to otherwise. The bar, which one has to overcome to attend church on a beautiful Sunday morning, is lower at this church than any I have ever seen. They succeed in creating a pleasant atmosphere for delivery of a very soft-sell message. In fact, if my daughter told me she was attending church, this would probably be the one I'd choose for her. There is a definite naturalness about the place, a positive energy which seems genuine and opposite the fear mongering Bible Baptist of last week. The gulf between the two is vast. This was the eleven AM service and there had been another at nine. I am sure they served well over 1000 Fairbanksans last Sunday morning. More than one percent of our little town, and probably closer to two percent, find home on Sunday under that roof.

Cults, Local and Distant (Bible Baptist - Sunday, April 14)

So, went to the Bible Baptist church over near the Steese and Hamilton Acres on Sunday with my dad. The one with the busses and the american flags. The experience was actually such a strong one that I have yet to completely process it. So many different thoughts and emotions about it. It was by far the most evocative, most disturbing so far. By far.

Services were at 11:00 so we went in at 10:55. Usually you can negotiate the lobby and greeters fairly quickly with other folks coming in and avoid anything by way of interactions too intrusive. You can make your way into the worship area/chapel pretty quickly and have a seat. However, we got through the main outside door and into the lobby and the two big sets of double doors leading to relative peace were closed. We were trapped in the lobby with lots of worshipers. Women in loud print rayon dresses, and an assortment of odd shaped men in dark polyester suits. 

We were like rats in a new cage looking for a way out, looking for another door inside to the seating area - all the while collecting a small trail of dark suited men following us with exaggerated smiles, firm handshakes, and a warm steel, 'welcome!'.

We were trapped. We got greeted by the first follower. Tall, dark polyester suit, greased and combed graying hair. Straight out of a mayoral portrait from the early 1970's. We had a terse welcome with him, and he got that we were visiting and from Fairbanks and were kinda stiff. He moved off and passed that knowledge along to another designated greeter. That guy came in for the heavy press.

We're standing in front of two huge bulletin boards with two world maps and literally a hundred or more photos with strings leading to pins all over the globe. The photos are portraits of mission families. So stiff, so forced. Here's Mr. heavy press, a short guy, dark polyester suit, greased graying hair, dandruf on the lapels. He extracts our names and that my dad is retired. I tell him I work at the U, and he guesses 'geophysics', no, I say, IT. I try to keep it on him and keep it light, we really just want to sit down and watch the show. He is the head locksmith on Wainwright. We make painful small talk. Him with a prying intensity, us with an eagerness to ditch this guy.

Finally the doors open (piles more people in similar attire suddenly come downstairs from some sort of gathering they had upstairs). We make our getaway, but he says, 'do me one favor before you go in, please sign my guestbook, I really like to keep track of visitors'. Again, with an imploring tone and unnatural urgency or forcefulness. The book is between the doors and everywhere are these guys with the dark suits watching all of this. So, I sign the guest book but put a phony address and make a mess out of our names in my worst scrawl. I thought about putting Dan's name and address, but I couldn't do that to Dan. We're caught in this weird place of being friendly and familiar, like you are when out and about in Fairbanks, and also on our guard, like you are when you're in the midst of a cutist warren.

Mr. Locksmith catches us one more time as we go in, 'so, Owen and .... Dale....right?'...

The worship room is large, probably seats 300, but it has no relief and is on the lower floor of that big building so it is one big chamber with 8 or 9 foot cielings and at one end an elevated stage across the whole room. The ceiling kicks up there in a weird way. It has that bad old institutional smell, like a funeral home. Bad fake flowers by the light fixtures. Giant custom oak podium with a cross pattern in the face of it. Big screen behind it and grand piano to the right of the stage, regular piano on the left.

Some weird little guy with a tan polyester suit and a microphone begins leading everyone in song. His balding head barely rises over the podium and he's waving his hand emphatically like some kind of orchestra conductor but his conducting isn't having much effect on the arriving congregation. The words are on the screen and he is singing almost maniacally. He's not a good singer but he's got a lot of energy. The seats are filling rapidly and the congregation is singing and it is getting louder as the song continues to take root. He's waving before us like some kind of 19th century minister exhorting the unwashed savages straight out of the jungle to join in humming if not in song.

From somewhere, after several songs, 'page 155 now...Our Lord is Mighty....'...and on and on, a big guy, round head, balding, round body, big belly, in a medium gray polyester suit with a broad dark tie, big round glasses, this big guy is suddenly on stage and chimes in on the songs loud enough to be heard above the sound amplified short conductor on the 'amens, and haleluia's'...

He turns out to be 'pastor'. Everyone calls him 'pastor', not THE pastor, but he IS 'pastor'.

At some point in the beginning of the service he is praying for our servicemembers over seas and then they show the names and pictures of those who've died recently. And then somone stands up with a trumpet....everyone is asked to stand and place their hands over their hearts as they face the American flag, behind the piano on the left, and the guy with the trumpet plays taps. ...

He thanked everyone for being there. He thanked my dad and I by name. "I want to thank Owen and Dale for visiting us today. Nice to see a father and son together on this Sunday in a house of God. And you know it's a house of God because it's filled with God's people. Amen? Amen!

That got my heart going.

Somehow it drifts into todays readings, and the beginnings of a sermom, but mostly drifting around on thoughts that pass through Pastor's mind. He ocassionally comes back to some skeleton of a sermon. The sermon was about Saul, the first king of Israel and how the Israelites, looking around at other kingdoms with their monarchs wanted a real king, and decided they didn't want god as their king any more, and how this was obviously dumb. But interspersed were comments like these...

'You know that guy who ran for.... not McCain...but ...someone Caine?'.... muttering from the audience...'Herman Cain!'...'Well, remember his 9-9-9 plan?  Well I don't know what that was all about exactly but Obama has a 9-9-9 plan too. He want's us all to pay nine dollars and ninety nine cents a gallon for gasoline... You see, he's got an agenda. He wants us all to drive small cars. Doesn't he know that here in Alaska if you drive a small car, you might lose it in your driveway?'

That comment went on for a bit, drifted back to Saul, all the while in a softened southern accent. Then he was talking about how Saul's son was a soldier against the Philistines. ...

'I would just as soon kill everyone in another country before I'd let one of ours die. I know that doesn't sound loving, but it's true. I'm an American. I love America. Amen? Amen!  I love America.....and Israel. But that's another story. ... Yes, I would prefer to kill every single person in another country before I'd let one of our people die. ...But that's not loving, you might say. Well people, Jesus did say to love thine enemy, but he meant your personal enemy - not your NATIONAL enemy. He meant the person across the street...but what about police forces. Yes, I want a strong police force. I want a police force with guns - because I want them to shoot someone before he can get me...so there's enemies and there's enemies. You don't want to shoot your enemy at work, but maybe the enemy who wants to rob your house. That's why you have to understand... '

Through all of this I got a sort of uncomfortable feeling. Mr. Locksmith and some younger (but also greased hair poly-suit) guys were standing back at the main doors. I wondered if maybe Mr. Locksmith had looked us up on the internet and seen that our address wasn't real. When Pastor identified us by name and they had us write down our address, it just felt funny, you know.

The most frightening part of the whole thing - where I got that sick to my stomach feeling like I was a little kid at the daycare place and it was nap time and we were supposed to sleep on the floor in that back room on our mats...and I wasn't asleep. It was some families house down behind where Fred Meyer west is now and at nap time the two daughters used to make us take off our pants and shirts and nap in our underwear - we were like 4 to 7 or so...the dad was some kind of southern white-trash fireman who'd sing drinking songs about naked women and the mom was all makeup and big hair and bad perfume and laugh loudly and spoke in a harsh way...that kind of sick feeling.

That's the feeling I got when the sermon finally wound down to its non-end, and it became time for the culmination of the whole thing. At times, Pastor had gotten really loud and fired up and yelled and so on, but now his voice changed and he started talking about being saved, and if you knew you were saved by Jesus you were supposed to raise your hand, my mind was drifting off at that part and all of a sudden everyone's hand went up and I only then caught up that we were supposed to put our hands up if we knew we were going to heaven. Well, like the entire room's hands shot up all at once and there was a pregnant moment of silence when Pastor took a good look around and there my dad and I sit - out of it - and everyones hands go down. ...and we were all supposed to pray and everyone knew they were sinners...and his mouth was very close to the mic at this point and very intense and ...

'now everyone's head is bowed and their eyes are closed, your sitting there with your head bowed and your eyes closed, everyones head's down and your eyes are closed, your eyes are closed, your head is bowed.... if you didn't raise your hand earlier, if you don't know if you're going to heaven, and you know who you are, and nobody can see this, I'm not going to come over and put my hand on you, or take you into another room, or lead you away, but I want you to ... your head is bowed and your eyes are closed, nobody is going to know, it is just between you and me, everyone's eyes are closed....if you know you have sinned and you know it is you I'm talking to, I just want you to raise your hand and I'll pray for you...no one else will know...'

His voice had this heavy coercive tone. The fake flowers under the light fixtures and the heavy stuffy 1980's funeral parlour air.... there were people moving around the aisles, there was no way I was going to close my eyes but it took serious will power not to just instinctively do as you were told. ... And then we were allowed to open our eyes and if we wanted, we could come forward and recieve his special prayer...and very quickly an eight or nine year old boy, buzz cut in Sunday pants and shirt, walked up the aisle from behind us and sort of fell kneeling on the altar steps with his head in his hands...followed by others, men and women...many emotionally breaking down...

Eventually, short-weird-balding-guy waved us through another hymn and we were released...dad and I dodged through the door that the handicapped and special ed people were going through because Pastor's attention was turned to those going out the other door....out into the muddy parking lot, bright spring sun and light fresh air...

I could only think that at several points during the service, Pastor proudly proclaimed that he'd been doing this for 37 years.

____________


And then, Sunday night I had recorded on the DVR a National Geographic program called 'I escaped a cult'...

http://tvblogs.nationalgeographic.com/tag/i-escaped-a-cult/

A good documentary. Amazing. One segment was about a guy who was a memeber of the FLDS under Warren Jeffs. The other was about a woman and her daughter that were members of the Aggressive Christianity Missionary Training Corps.

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

These guys are really crazy.


And then I couldn't help but realize that they're all the same thing. That voice. That coercive tone. Different points on the same spectrum. Somewhere, someone gets the experience of what it is like to coerce people with the power of the voice; it must be addictive as hell. All over america. A thousand thousand Pastors.