Yes, it has been a while since this church project has shown any progress. Trust me, there are two posts in the draft queue awaiting publication, but today I had to mark a significant event: the second annual baseball sermon at my village church here in Cotuit.

The Reverend Jeremy Nickel, my neighbor and friend and baseball buddy, pitched a gem of a sermon last summer at the Federated Church, preaching (to my ears at least) that Dave Roberts, the Red Sox pinch runner who sparked the greatest comeback in sporting history with his steal of second base against the evil Yankees in 2004, opening the door for the Red Sox’s first World Series championship in modern memory, should be canonized and given sainthood for his courage to step off of the bag and fly like the wind into the unknown and future greatness.

This morning Jeremy pitched his final baseball sermon, sadly on his way to California and a lucky congregation in the San Francisco Bay Area. The topic was, “The Imperfect Game”, and with artful elegance and insight the Reverend Nickel recounted the tale of Detroit Tiger pitcher Armando Galaragga’s tragic reminder that there is no perfection in the human pursuit, only the Daedalusian drive to try, always strive, to find perfection only to see it lost, robbed, by human fallability and fate.

Baseball is indeed a sport of awesome precision and regularity, yet also a pastime rife with errors and the capricious wiles of bad luck, misfortune, and emotion. The distance between the bases, the beautiful geometry of the lines, the time it takes for a catcher to throw a ball to second to try to catch a runner stealing the base …. it all fit beautifully, played out over a numeric routine of innings, outs, strikes, and plays that while tightly prescribed and timeless, is ultimately chaotic and as subject to entropy as anything can be.

The Church:

This is where Churbucks are married, where they are buried. I was married here. I have stood on the altar stairs twice — once as a sweating groom, then before that at my father’s funeral, stammering to choke back tears as I read these lines from Melville in memory of his imperfect but brief  larger-than-life life, and his unrealized dream of sailing around the world:

“”Round the world! There is much in that sound to inspire proud feelings; but whereto does all that circumnavigation conduct? Only through numberless perils to the very point whence we started, where those that we left behind secure, were all the time before us.

“Were this world an endless plain, and by sailing eastward we could for ever reach new distances, and discover sights more sweet and strange than any Cyclades or Islands of King Solomon, then there were promise in the voyage. But in pursuit of those far mysteries we dream of, or in tormented chase of that demon phantom that, some time or other, swims before all human hearts; while chasing such over this round globe, they either lead us on in barren mazes or midway leave us whelmed.”

Those were sad words to say, words I always think of when I see the little shingle chapel in my comings and goings from the post office. I am not a parishioner of the church, but it remains my church, and while I planned on saving it as the last and final church in my rounds of 52, it had to happen today, out of respect to Jeremy and his wife Nicole, who are leaving later this summer for their new parishes in California.

The Service:

Fortunately I checked the church website for the time of the service, having mistakenly assumed a 10 am service when in fact summer hours called for a 9 am start. I popped upstairs, put on my 2007 Mike Lowell Red Sox jersey (he was the World Series MVP that year and is to my mind the ultimate Red Sox for his abilities, his good humor in the face of injury, and his solid performance in the clutch), and my battered and sweat stained Red Sox cap.  The walk across the park takes all but three minutes, past the library and down the shady bower of Norwegian Maples where the hippies congregated in a noisy tribal mob during the late 1960s. Up the little hill and into the chapel, steamy in the July heat.

I took the back pew, in the corner under an open window and started to sweat. In the pew before me sat Cotuit Kettleers Michael Faulkner, the fantastic centerfielder from Arkansas State and his teammate Chad Wright who also stands in the outfield and is also batting over .300 so far this season. To my right, politely standing so the women and children filling the church could have a seat, was the Kettleer’s coach, Mike Roberts, father of Baltimore Oriole Brian Roberts. It felt good to be surrounded by talent.

The pastor, Nicole LaMarche, opened the service with announcements, a bell-choir rang the introit, and Reverend Jeremy (@PeaceNick) was given a Barnstable Bat and an old framed map of the village from the grateful congregation.

He began the call to worship with these words:

“To worship is to stand in awe under the hot sun in Fenway, to smell the fresh cut grass, the peanuts being freed from their shell …”

Then he and his wife read, one after the other, some poignant quotes about the religion of the game. Including my favorite from A. Bartlett Giamatti, president of Yale during my days in New Haven, and perhaps the best commissioner of Major League Baseball of all time:

“[Baseball] breaks your heart. It is designed to break your heart. The game begins in the spring, when everything else begins again, and it blossoms in the summer, filling the afternoons and evenings, and then as soon as the chill rains come, it stops and leaves you to face the fall all alone. You count on it, rely on it to buffer the passage of time, to keep the memory of sunshine and high skies alive, and then just when the days are all twilight, when you need it most, it stops.

The sermon was the best retelling of the Galaragga incident I have heard.

Then we rose as one and sang “Take Me Out to the Ballgame.”

Click here to view the embedded video.

Random Thoughts:

• We’re going to miss Jeremy and Nicole
• Baseball is one of the last great things in the world, a  place where children can stand on the field with their heroes, where youth displays excellence, where men like me can exult in the timelessness of the form.

A morning mass is the best way to gain fast entry to this famous basilica without having to stand in line for an hour with the mobs of cruise ship tours that infest Venice and seem to be an even greater peril to its future than global warming and the rising seas that flood San Marco Plaza every evening. The lines are atrocious, but to be fair are the only way to take in the entire experience of the 1000-year old church, one of the world’s most famous and certainly one of the most outrageous, with its homage to Venice’s Byzantine roots, its ties to the Holy Roman Church and the Patriarchate of Constantinople, and the rise of the maritime city-state into the greatest naval power of its time.

I rose early and walked alone from the Hotel Flora to St. Mark’s in the morning quiet, accompanied only by a few locals on their way to work and the first wave of workers trundling in pallets of bottle water, washing machines, hams, postcards, and cigarettes to restock the trattorias and tabacherria’s depleted by the previous day’s assault. A few puddles stood on the paving stones, left over from the previous evening’s high full-moon tides. The pigeons were gone, some high overhead growling and cooing in the smog blackened cornices of the piazza, ready to come back down and flock over some salmonella loving tourist’s hands and arms later in the afternoon. St. Mark’s is one of the world’s more ubiquitous tourism clichés, a place so filmed and described that one feels silly pressing the shutter button on one’s own digital camera.  Hemingway wrote, in Across and the River and Into the Trees, that the church looked like a “cinema palace” and the square, when flooded and devoid of pigeons was an unappealing place for breakfast with one’s 19-year old lover at the city’s oldest continuous café, the Florian. I didn’t mind, I was happy to see it open and empty as the sky pinked over the domes and spires of the fantastic church.

St. Mark, one of the 12 apostles, was a big score for the people of Venice, even after the Byzantine Emperor strongly suggested the city’s patron saint should be Saint Theodore, who, judging from his pose atop the column at the foot of the harbor, killed some crocodile type of beast. But the people of Venice wanted one of Jesus’ board of directors so to speak, so, upon the discovery of the long deceased saint’s corpse in Egypt, managed to smuggle it out of the country buried under an order of fresh pork, effectively masking it from Muslim detection until it was safe ashore. With a full apostle’s relics in their possession, the people of Venice pulled out the stops constructing a Basilica that surely must rank among the greatest religious structures in the world, certainly in Christianity.

The Church

The present structure is the third to bear the name St. Mark’s. Here is the Wikipedia being smart so I don’t have to be:

“The first St Mark’s was a temporary building in the Doge’s Palace, constructed in 828, when Venetian merchants stole the supposed relics of Mark the Evangelist from Alexandria. This was replaced by a new church on its present site in 832; from the same century dates the first St Mark’s Campanile (bell tower). The new church was burned in a rebellion in 976, rebuilt in 978 and again to form the basis of the present basilica since 1063. The basilica was consecrated in 1094, the same year in which the body of Saint Mark was supposedly rediscovered in a pillar by Vitale Faliero, doge at the time”

The 7 am service took place in the western, or port-side chapel to the left of the main altar and iconostasis. Entrance was gained through a side door roped off by a velvet disco rope. A security guard gave me the eye as I entered, but the first rule of sneaking into anything is never sneak and always arrive with the full psychological expectations and body language of one permitted to be there. This has worked for me at everything from churches to Grateful Dead concerts, even crime scenes marked off with yellow police tape. I pressed through a pair of doors, through a green curtain, and into a small chapel arrayed before a gorgeous golden icon of the Madonna and Child. Afterwards I learned this icon had serious historical significance, dating back to 1200 when it was carried into battle by Venetian armies and navies as superstitious inspiration. Twenty candles in red glass pendants hung from the ceiling on black chains, giving the altar an ancient, almost Hindu aspect I recall from some of the inner sanctums of the Temple of Shiva at Madurai. In the center of the church rose the altar, iconstasis, and prayer chancel, a marble object so old and worn it looked dirty and greasy from centuries of hands touching and rubbing it for good luck.

The floor was a fantastic constellation of mosaic work and cracked marble tiles, swirling like the end papers of an 18^th century leatherbound novel.  The columns before the apse, starting with the penditives that supported the circular base of the dome, were dark green like wet marine creatures, all dark but gleaming in the reflected sunlight that managed to murkily seep through the windows on the southern side of the cruciform nave.  The last column, against the wall was plain brick, red and crumbling, making, to my projected imagination, a statement about simplicity and unadorned

The Service

Two columns of prayer benches and wooden chairs ran back about 15 rows from the altar. I sat alone on the left side in the customary back row, three nuns took the last row of the right side, a gentleman in a trench coat sat in the second row, and that was it. Five congregants sitting quietly. An electric bell rang and two priests, each about my age, popped out from behind the main altar in white vestments with gold collars and surplices. They quickly strolled in front of the icon, turned on their heels in perfect synchronization and knelt deeply before the table. They lingered for a moment, then rose, turned and with upraised right hands, greeted us.

To state the obvious: the service was conducted in Italian which meant I understood less than ten percent of the content but was able to more or less guess along with the rest. Morning weekday services are very efficient, very effective, and meant to nourish the spirit before a long day at the oar of a gondola the way a nonbeliever like me needs a caffe macchiato to get things rolling in the morning. Speaking of which, I did zone out and caught myself falling asleep at one point – one those whiplash inducing bouts of narcolepsy where I made a loud and abupt “Snark!” as I popped back awake. I dragged my shoe on the floor to try to mask the sound with another like it, but it was no good, I had snored and the nuns busted me.

At one point the man in the raincoat rose and joined the priests by reading some scripture or bible verse. One of the security guards assisted with the blessing of the holy sacrament, helping by unfolding the holy towel/napkin and helping the priest when he poured holy water from a small cruet over his hands.

Communion was served and I decided to partake – something I do more often ever since partaking in Istanbul at the Feast of the Three Hierarchs. Communion was supposed to be verboten in this project – as I do not want to participate in any holy of holy acts up at the altar, but sometimes I feel so moved to get up close and personal and check things out, so that Wednesday morning in Venice, in one of the oldest places I have ever stood, I tagged along in the communion line, stood before the priest, opened wide and waited for him to intinct my wafer in the vin sancto and place it in my gaping mouth.

It was the generic communion wafer, made of some pulp/paper product in a special communion wafer factory. It was the size of a Sacagawea silver dollar and it cemented itself to the roof of my mouth. I thought about scraping it off with my finger, but suffered through it as the priest wound things up and the mass drew to a close. I was first through the green curtain, popped a picture of some water puddle in the basilica’s porch, and once outside in the morning light found my chance to get the wafer pried free. Five minutes later I sat down with my wife and daughter in the garden of the Hotel Flora and drank my coffee.

Next: an overdue account of my one and only brush with Christian Science.

“I went into the church. It was very dark, and impregnated with centuries of incense. It affected me like the lair of some enormous creature. My senses were roused, they sprang awake in the hot, spiced darkness. My skin was expectant, as it expected some contact, some embrace, as if it were aware of the contiguity of the physical wor;ld, the physical contact with the darkness and the heavy, suggestive substance of the enclosure. It was a think fierce darkness of the senses. But my soul shrank.

“I went out again. The pavemented threshold was clear as a jewel, the marvellous clarity of sunshine that becomes blue in the height seemed to distil me into itself.”

D.H. Lawrence, Twilight in Italy

Very strange metaphysical exploration by Lawrence, set in the Lago Garda region of Northern Italy in the Dolomites. Stumbled on the book and found this passage that seemed appropriate after venturing into the darkness of Venice’s St. Mark’s Basillica.

The opportunity to visit some of the great churches of Europe has always held a very exotic appeal for this 52 Churches project, but the problem is most of my business travel takes me pretty much everywhere but Europe. A recent vacation in Italy – my first real leisurely personal trip through the country – yielded two wonderful opportunities to really experience the Catholic Church in all of its Italian glory. I took advantage, and on two mornings woke early for the first mass of the day.

The first was in Florence, Firenze, in the great cathedral of the city, the “Duomo” or more accurately Santa Maria del Fiore and the second was in Venice, at the Basilica San Marco the ancient basilica that looks, in the words of Hemingway, like a “damned Cinema Palace.”

The Duomo in Florence is one of the enduring symbols of the Renaissance, particularly its astonishing dome, which was designed by Brunelleschi and completed in 1463. I climbed to the top of the dome, all 462 steps, and overcame a severe phobia of heights long enough to cling to a wall and peer anxiously out at the city arrayed along the Arno Valley.

One of the great advantages of church tourism is that the tourist has a certain pious priority in gaining access to churches otherwise overwhelmed by lines of tourists paying steep admission fees. By inquiring of a quard standing by the door into one of the side chapels I learned the first mass of the day was at 7:30 am. The next morning I hurried through the alleys of Florence alone, dressed as respectfully as possible in jacket and tie, humming the words of the Band’s great “When I Paint My Masterpiece” while enjoying a few minutes of silent streets before the whining hornet drones of the Vespas and scooters ruined the atmosphere.

I entered early and made a brief tour of the three altars, trying the entire time not to gawk too much in front of the skeptical guards who doubtlessly thought I was a tourist just trying to get a free unobstructed tour of the nave and apse before the mobs arrived. Photography is permitted inside of the Duomo — one of the few churches that do permit photography, but I didn’t press my luck during that morning visit, but instead tried to determine which of the three “churches” or chapels within the Cathedral would be the scene of the mass, which I assume would be called “Matins.”

The Cathedral

The Duomo is the fourth largest cathedral in the world according to the guide books, and was built by the wool merchants guild of Florence in the 1400s. Given that the Medici fortune was based on wool, there is a certsin syllogism that the Duomo is not only Florence’s most enduring landmark but also a monument to the power snd glory of one of the world’s most powerful and illustrious fsmilies, one that gave the church several Popes,  Queens, Kings, and overtime became the wealthiest family in the world. But I digress as this post is not a history lesson on the Medicis but a simple account of a trip to a great church.

I had read an excellent history, Brunelleschi’s Dome, by Ross King, before visiting and would recommend the same to anyone anticipating a visit to the Duomo. It is an amazing tale of Renaissance brillance, of a true “Renaisssance man” Filippio Brunelleschi, an inventor, architect, and artist who not only pulled out an impossible act of engineering but in also invented some key construction tools and machines that were the technical marvels of their time, being sketched by Da Vinci and widely imitated as ground breaking enablers of architectural wonders.

For ten minutes I sat alone in the northern chapel, as the cancles there were lit and the rows of prayer benches looked promising. but as I got comfortable and gawked st the soaring arches, pendentives, mosaics and stained glass windows I realized the action was across the nave in the southern, Arno-side apse. Off I went, taking the usual back row seat, satisfied I was in the right place when a gaggle of nuns in blue and white habits paraded down the aisle and took the first few rows on the starboard side. A few worshippers joined them until there were about a dozen of us waiting for the procession of the priest and his assistant. In the game of “One of These Things if Not Like the Other,” your’s truly was the obvious choice, as I stuck out fairly obviously as one who had no clue what the drill was.

A bell rang, we stood, and in marched the priests.

The Mass

The mass was conducted in Italian, and therefore my comprehension level was ten percent. mostly due to three years of Latin with Doctor Baade and Mister Burgess at Brooks in the mid-70s, three years of tedious declensions and genders that yielded a decent score on the SATs and enabled me to figure out some of what the priest was doing. The nice thing about morning weekday mass is the service is very accelerated and to the point. Prayers, a little Bible, Lord’s Prayer, the Credo, some silent kneeling prayer, some communion, greet your neighbor,  make the signo croce a few times, and all if over in sbout 30 minutes.

Of course there is far more than that going on. First off the priest’s words do some amazing things in a stone cathedral the size of the blimp hanger in Mountain View, California. Second, you’re genuflecting, kneeling, and praying in a space 600 years old, looking at a marble floor that is out of this world, and greeting the day under stained glass that was the 1400s version of George Lucas and the first Star Wars movie to the peasants.

More photos and details to follow when my internet connection improves.

Next, the Basilica San Marco in Venice

As I draw close to the six-month mark of this amazing and humbling experience, I find myself not so much losing interest as losing my motivation to make a move on Sunday morning to the next church. This is understandable given last week’s stint of five churches during Holy Week, and I have to admit there was no way I was going to consider another Christian church this fine morning.

So off I turned to my local guide, a page on the Cape Cod Times website that lists, in some detail, the local worship options. Today I found, after months of wondering if I would ever succeed on the Cape, a Buddhist service, the Cape Sangha; a small gathering who follow the teachings of the Vietnamese monk, Thich Nhat Hanh. This was my first Buddhist service, and my prior education in the faith has been limited to a reading of Herman Hesse’s Siddhartha, and a viewing of Bernardo Bertulucci’s Little Buddha starring a trippy recreation of Buddha’s life by Keanu Reeves. I have never visited a Buddhist temple nor worshipped/meditated in any formal sense of the concept.

I emailed the organizer of the Cape Sangha, Jim, and asked for permission to visit. He replied in the affirmative and so off I went for the 4:30 pm meditation session at the Unity Church of the Light Spiritual Unity Session in Hyannis near the Cape Cod Mall and the BMW dealership. I arrived a few minutes early, saw some others in the parking lot and followed them into the nondescript building and onwards into a nave-like space with about 100 chairs and an altar at the south end. I dropped my offering into a box, signed the guest book behind a large man with a big bushy white beard and a spring jacket with an eye painted on the back.

At the front of the “pews” was a small table covered with a cloth. On it was a candle, two framed photographs (of Thich Nhat Hanh I assume) and a small statue of Buddha. Around the table/altar was a ring of pillows for sitting in the lotus position. Around that collection of floor seating was a ring of chairs. As I cannot contort myself into the Lotus position I took a chair and sat and smiled at the two men in brown robe-like jackets sitting in the positions of prominence. I assumed one of them was Jim. By 4:30 there were 19 people gathered at the front of the church. A bank of candles flickered in the apse. There were no Christian symbols such crucifixes, but some potted plants and two tapestries which expressed sentiments along the lines of “Celebrate Community.”

I shed my jacket. I was dressed in jeans, clogs, and a polo/golf shirt — correctly assuming back home that a pair of grey flannels and a blue blazer with a bowtie would not be part of the Buddhist dress code.

What is the Cape Sangha? Let the website do the talking:

“The Cape Sangha is a group of folks who meet weekly to practice mindfulness meditation in the tradition of Thich Nhat Hanh, a Vietnamese Buddhist monk, teacher, scholar, author, poet and peacemaker. Our members are interested in numerous types of meditation, including Vipassana, Zen, Tibetan and nonsectarian mindfulness. You don’t have to be Buddhist to practice with us.”

The Service

I hesitate in calling it a “Service” per se, as there was no liturgy or rite aside from a benediction of sorts, the ringing of a handheld bell (in the shape of a brass bowl), and the prayerful hand gesture of namaste. Jim, the leader of the Sangha, welcomed us, encouraged us to move around and be comfortable, and then explained that there would be 20 minutes of meditation, followed by introductions and discussion, then another period of meditation before finishing in 90 minutes.

Shoes were shed, people sat very upright on the floor and in their chairs. Some sat with their eyes closed and their hands resting on their knees, palms up and fingers together. Jim recommended a deep breath to empty the mind, and then to focus on breathing — “Now I am breathing in. Now I am breathing out” — telling us that our “monkey-like minds” would think of the past and the future, but to focus back on the here and the now and the breathing.

I followed his advice and for 20 minutes found myself thinking about the bird outside (I believe it was a robin), the traffic driving past, and the sound of the airplanes taking off and landing at the Barnstable Municipal Airport just a mile or so away. I was conscious of random itches, and found myself speculating on the cause of a random itch, and how thinking about itching engenders further itching. A person coughed. I heard an occasional deep breath like a whale breaching. I heard people readjust themselves. My left buttock fell asleep. I fidgeted. I opened my eyes and looked around at the other people, freaked one of them would open their eyes and catch me peeping.

After 20 minutes the little bowl was tapped with a wooden rod, we opened our eyes, made the namaste sign, and then Jim asked us to introduce ourselves and give a “personal weather report” saying he himself was “partly cloudy.”

The others did the same — all saying their first names and hometowns (which were nearby: Mashpee, Centerville, Osterville, Cotuit, West Dennis), and delivering a little weather statement. There were a few “sunnies” and “clearings.” I introduced myself as “Dave, also from Cotuit. Visiting 52 churches and temples this year and today marks the exact half-way point.” Which I now realize was a statement in error, I am not at 26 yet. Today was 25 — but wait, actually, I haven’t written up second Orthodox church in Istanbul, and nor do I count St. Mary’s in Fall River ……

Then there was discussion of a recent PBS broadcast of a special about Buddha and Jim — who does not own a television — asked those who had watched the show to talk about it. This sparked an interesting discussion about Buddhism, historical evidence, the concept of the “middle-way” and the ecumenical nature of Buddhism which does not pray to a higher power, nor which makes any ecclesiastical demands on its practitioners to do anything or eschew anything in order to be saved or part of the program. I enjoyed that discussion very much. I thought about the surge in interest in Buddhism in the west, and remember my old mentor Bill Ziff scoffing at it. One of my favorite novelists is a Buddhist — Peter Matthiessen — as is Leonard Cohen.

A good number of people spoke — more than half of those in the room — and then we meditated again. This time I realized that like the Quakers I visited last fall, Buddhists put great stock in meditative prayer or silence and that the one thing that really appeals to me in the church/temple experience is the few moments of silence and reflection that worshiping affords.  At the end of the second mediation I definitely felt a little more relaxed and “emptied” than when I arrived, and I think I might try some meditation in the future to cut back on work stress and other psychic baggage.

At the conclusion I thanked Jim, put on my shoes and coat, and made the usual early exit. Before I could leave a lady stopped to ask me about the project, expressing her enthusiasm and encouragement.

Random observations:

• Women slightly outnumbered men.
• The Sangha is 14 years old.
• The group was mostly over 50 years old.
• It was a very refreshing experience after last week’s solemnity.
• The parking lot demographic showed a lot of foreign imports and some liberal bumper sticker sentiments.

Next week: I fly to Beijing on Sunday, so I may seek a Brazilian evangelical service some night this week, or a Jewish service on Saturday. I may try to get in a visit to the Lama Temple in Beijing, though I understand from my step-sister that it is more of a tourist thing than a religious experience.

It’s been a while since I posted a church visit post. There’s a simple reason for that: I missed a week due to a slight case of the wine flu and I decided to post four churches in one post for Holy Week. So hang on for a long one. I don’t want to over clutter the blog with too much piety and devotion, so this will serve as a mega post in the project, befitting the holiest week in the Christian calendar. I visited five churches in the course of the week (I didn’t enter one due to the cancellation of the service because of the weather, so it will not count but I did drive three hours to find that out!). They were:

1. St. Peter’s Episcopal, Osterville, Mass.: Palm Sunday
2. St. Mary’s of the Assumption, Catholic, Fall River, Mass: Chrism Mass (cancelled)
3. St. Barnabas Episcopal, Falmouth, Mass.: Maundy Thursday
4. St. Michael the Archangel, Antiochean Orthodox, Cotuit, Mass: Good Friday
5. St. George, Greek Orthodox, Centerville, Mass.: Holy Saturday Easter Vigil

Fat Tuesday, Mardi Gras, Lent, Palm Sunday, Maundy Thursday. Good Friday or Holy Saturday. I had no idea. Seriously. I’ve never “given up” anything for Lent. I have never had ashes smeared on my forehead and until this past Palm Sunday, have never come home with a palm frond. My Easter knowledge is pretty much defined by Sunday School, Charlton Heston, Mel Gibson and the usual highlights of crucified, died, entombed, risen. Then there are the eggs, chocolates rabbits, peeps, hunts, and plastic green grass. Holy Week is a pretty intense round of church, and given that the Orthodox and Catholic/Protestant Easter calenders coincide this year, I decided to make the most of it and mix it up between different churches and different denominations. I did not get to a Catholic church  – I tried on Tuesday to attend the Fall River Diocese cathedral at St. Mary’s, but alas, it was rained out.

After the jump – five churches in one post, but only four count.

Palm Sunday: St. Peter’s Episcopal

I started off on Palm Sunday at my home church, St. Peter’s Episcopal in Osterville. It’s been years since I set foot inside of the little wooden chapel on Wianno Avenue, the church where my three kids went through nursery school, where my mother and step-father sing in the choir, where the sister of my boat building buddy is the music director. Yet … yet I don’t go to church there, and were I to become a faithful congregant, that’s the church where my paperwork is on file, transferred there from the Brooks School where I was baptized and confirmed in 1975.

The plan on Palm Sunday had been to head west, to Woods Hole, and the Episcopal church there, but I didn’t check the service times the night before and found myself at 7:45 am looking at an 8 am start time and a 30 minute drive. Being dressed, and having skipped the previous Sunday, I fell back on St. Peter’s and made the 8 am service a few minutes late. The plan had been to save St. Peter’s for the end of the 52 Church project, one of the last churches I planned on visiting — coming “home” as it were — but there I was on Palm Sunday, reading a sign on the front doors of the narthex telling me to enter through the vestry.

The church is located in one of the more affluent neighborhoods on Cape Cod, just steps from Nantucket Sound and East Bay and surrounded by some pretty amazing mansions and old summer homes gathered around the exclusive Wianno Club. In some regards St. Peter’s has the feeling of a summer chapel, but the interior of the church is very familiar to me, in the same wooden beam style that the Ashburn Chapel at Brooks evokes.

I came in through the side entrance, took a palm frond from the basket by the altar, and found a seat in the front pew — the first time I’ve sat in the front of a church — because the congregation was facing backwards towards the narthex where the reverend and his acolytes stood giving the first benediction and prayers of the service. I could find no program so I was flying blind during the service, with no idea what was happening or what to do when.

The Service

This was the 8 am early service, and the parishoners were older, with no children in attendance. Apparently the service began in the parish hall and followed a procession into the church to symbolize Christ’s triumphant entrance into Jerusalem at the beginning of Holy Week. Palm Sunday is a “movable feast” — not in the Hemingway sense of the term — but as an event that takes place on different dates from year to year, ie Christmas is always on December 25. Palm Sunday is the Sunday before Easter (and I have digressed at great length about the importance of Easter in determining our modern calendar) and kicks off what is variously known as Holy Week or Bright Week.  The main days are — Saturday before Palm Sunday is the Feast of Lazarus — to commemorate the raising of Lazarus from the dead. Then there is Maundy Thursday, Good Friday and Holy Saturday — the Sacred Triduum or three days leading into Easter Sunday, or in the words of the Orthodox, the Pascha.

The service at St. Peter’s was quite simple, but as I had no order or program to follow and bring home, I can’t recall the liturgy save for one point when the Reverend, standing in the aisle between the pews, read the account of the Passion of Christ, when Jesus was brought before Pilate, who reluctantly, and at the urging of the same mob that had welcomed Christ, ordered him put to death. I thought that was one of the more brutal and moving pieces of gospel I’ve heard read in the past six months, and it put a tone on the week that was hard to shake off.

I took communion and left hurriedly at the conclusion of the service, unsure of whether it was even over or not.

Random Observations:

• This was the best dressed congregation yet. One gentleman wore a double breasted blazer that looked like it came from Jermyn Street.
• The Reverend Thompson, an interim pastor, apparently was active in the civil rights movement in the 1960s in Mississippi.
• The chapel is adorned with donor’s plaques in memory of various parishioners.
• There is a nice organ in the chapel, but on the morning of Palm Sunday there was no music nor choir.

The Non-Chrism Mass: St. Mary’s Cathedral of the Assumption

I wanted to divide holy week between the three big liturgical Christian denominations: Catholic, Episcopalian and Orthodox. My choice for Catholic was the cathedral in the tired mill city of Fall River, some sixty miles to the west, because the mass was unusual in that it was when the holy oil, or Chrism, was blessed and distributed to all of the churches in the archdiocese (including those parishes on Cape Cod). It was also the Mass in which the clergy from each of the archdiocese parishes came together to reaffirm their faith.

I figured this would be a good chance, in a good church (built in the 1850s), to see some good Catholic pomp. So on Tuesday, in a driving rain, I moved my calls from my home office to my headset, and started driving all the way to Fall River in order to make a 4 pm Mass.

I got to Fall River (spotting a potential Hindu temple in an old mill for future consideration), found the cathedral, a grey battleship of a church made all the more somber in the late March rain. I fed the parking meter, patted my pockets for camera, notecards and pen, and crossed to the entrance. There was tacked a little sign: “Chrism Mass Postponed to Wednesday Due to Weather.”

I said a very un-Catholic word and drove back to the Cape as NPR told me that Rhode Island, the state across the Taunton River from Fall River, was underwater and sinking and more than the disaster area it normally is. Oh well, I said to myself, no Catholic church this week.

No service. No random observations. Just a snapshot to prove I made the $$%&#$%^%@ pilgrimage. That’s what I deserve for leaving the Cape to find interesting churches.

Maundy Thursday: St. Barnabas Episcopal, Falmouth, Mass.

This is the church where I started this project last November, and while I didn’t intend to make any repeats, my good friend and guide Paul Noonan is a loyal parishioner and deacon of this gorgeous stone church on the village green in Falmouth. Some time ago he stood in my kitchen and explained the sequence of Holy Week to me, the different liturgies and what they signified.  I knew firsthand how well the St. Barnabas choir sings, so I suggested to my wife that we take in the service together.

The Service

Maundy Thursday marks the Last Supper — think of DaVinci’s painting — and it was a Passover dinner with Christ and his 12 apostles. It is arguably the most important communion of the year in that it is the service that marks the creation of the concept of the “host” and communion, when Christ told the apostles that when they ate and drank they were to remember him.

This is also the end of Lent, the season of pertinence and self-denial kicked off by Mardi Gras. It is the beginning of the Three Sacred Days, the Triduum Sacrum. There is a lot going on in this service. It’s Christ’s last night alive. He knows he’s been betrayed, he knows what lies ahead. From the service program I quote:

“He gave his disciples a moving discourse on their unity and he gave them also the sacrament of unity, Holy Communion, as a concrete expression of his promise to be with them always. The word “Maundy” comes from the Latin word Mandate: meaning mandate or commandment. This comes from the phrase used by our Lord after he had washed the disciples feet: “A new commandment (mandate)  I give you, that you love one another as I have loved you.”

The service commenced with the procession, an impressive affair given the large choir in their black and white gowns. St. Barnabas has the best choir I’ve come across yet on the Cape, and certainly the music is right up there with what I’ve heard at the Grace Cathedral in San Francisco or the Orthodox Church of St. George in Constantinople.

The service was very interesting for two reasons. First, the homily by the reverend was about the scene at the Last Supper, a very direct discussion of Christ’s refusal to acknowledge the mob and claim the power the mob offered him, but instead to get down on his knees and wash his disciples’ feet. An act that confused them to no end.

The congregation was then invited to come forward and have their feet washed by the minister and her assistants. My wife and I demurred, but still, what ensued was one of the more intimate acts I’ve witnessed in a church. Basins of dirty water were taken out to the vestry, fresh water was brought back in large brass pitchers. And one after another the parishioners came forward, sat down, and had their feet washed.

We left at communion because I had a phone call with the China team at work, and thus missed the “stripping of the altar” when the all decorations are removed and the church is made harsh and austere for the day of Christ’s crucifixion, Good Friday.

Random Observations:

• The foot washing put me off, but I can see the role such a ritual plays in creating a bond within a congregation. The entire point of the power crossing from the servant to the master, that to lead means to serve … I get it, it was still strange to behold.
• The depth of symbolism in the liturgy is very interesting and seems to reveal more layers with study. I can see how a church service provided an immense amount of “entertainment” to a pre-media world where the architecture, music, and ritual combined to provide the average parishioner with the most stimulus of their day-to-day life.
• The liturgy notes in the St. Barnabas program notes were the best I have read.

Good Friday: St. Michael the Archangel, Antiochian Orthodox Church

At the northern end of Main Street in Cotuit is the village of Santuit —  the oldest part of the town with old colonials clustered around the disjointed intersections of Route 28, Route 130, and Main. Santuit once had its own post office (restored by my friend Fred) and has a different village feel than the center of Cotuit where I live. In the middle of it all is a building that once housed the EPAC Grotto, a village hall that could be compared to a Grange or old fashioned community center. The last time I was in the EPAC Grotto was in the early 1980s when my brother-in-law was the guest of honor at a going-away party there. It was a great party and I remember the beer, laughs, and his mother’s beef brachiole.

What does “EPAC” mean? My theory was it was an acronym for “Eastern Portuguese American Club” — given the annual June Portuguese Feast conducted across the street down by the Santuit River. Someone laughed at me and told me it was “Cape” spelled backwards, but whatever the origin, in the mid-199os the Grotto was sold and converted into an Orthodox Church, a classic example of why I started this project because of the hundreds of times I have driven past the place and wondered: “What goes on inside of there?”

Now I know.

On Good Friday I visited the St. Michael’s website and l learned the church would be conducting a Service of Lamentations at 6:30 pm. I arrived a few minutes early, parked, had a moment of entrance confusion, but went for the front door and stepped inside of a long building with an old fashioned tin embossed ceiling. The floor was the original old wood, stripped and varnished,  but the rest of the place was unrecognizable from the old Grotto, but familiar after my visit to the Church of St. George in Constantinople for the Feast of the Hierarch. I made a conscious decision at the beginning of the week to end it with visits to the two Orthodox congregations that I know of on Cape Cod. Easter, or “Pascha” is the holiest days in the Orthodox calendar, and this year is a rare year in which the Orthodox and Catholic Easter’s coincide.

So, back to the old EPAC Grotto: the biggest change was the presence of a modest iconstasis, the decorated wall that divides the nave, or main space where the congregation sits, from the apse, the sanctum that houses the holy altar. The iconstatis has three doors — the central door is known as the Beautiful Gates, and is flanked with two other doors. It was, to be frank, weird to see an Orthodox layout in a village I identify with scrub pines, blue bays, yellow sandy beaches and the Federated Church. But …. here I was, in my home town, in the most mysterious and primal of the Christian churches.

The Service

As I entered an older man smiled.I tried to act like I knew what I was doing, so I put some money in the box and took a candle with a plastic cup thing (a wind protector I suppose). There was a stack of black bible-looking books with a little sign saying “Holy Week Services $25″ – I was tempted, but because I left my wallet in the car, decided to take a pass and work from the printed program for the Service of Lamentations.

I sat in the far corner, out of the way, as I anticipated a full crowd given the solemn importance of the service. The congregation was a LOT older than most, and seemed, to my eye, to be a mixture of old generic Americans, some Slavs, and perhaps a dissident Greek or two. The Very Reverend Father Nicholas Manikas has a “hellenic” name, but from what I can gather, the church is part of a mainstream Orthodox faith known as the Antiochian Orthodox Church, which has a patriarchy and a national diocese system. Cotuit is affiliated with the Worcester archdiocese.

I will pedantically plagiarize from the St. Michael’s website and let you read what it has to say about the composition of the Orthodox Faith:

“Many Orthodox Christians in America proudly trace their ancestry to the lands and cultures of Europe and Asia, but the Orthodox Church in the United States can no longer be seen as an immigrant Church. While the Orthodox Church contains individuals from numerous ethnic and cultural backgrounds, the majority of her membership is composed of persons who have been born in America. In recognition of this. Orthodoxy has been formally acknowledged as one of the Four Major Faiths in the United States. Following the practice of the Early Church, Orthodoxy treasures the various cultures of its people; but it is not bound to any particular culture or people. The Orthodox Church welcomes all!

“There are about 5 million Orthodox Christians in this country. They are grouped into nearly a dozen ecclesiastical jurisdictions. The largest is the Greek Orthodox Archdiocese of America, which has about 500 parishes throughout the United States. Undoubtedly, the Primate of the Archdiocese, His Eminence Archbishop lakovos, has been chiefly responsible for acquainting many non-Orthodox with the treasures of Orthodoxy. His selfless ministry, which has spanned more than thirty years, has been one of devotion and vision filled with an appreciation of his Hellenic background and guided by a spirit of ecumenism, Archbishop lakovos has recognized the universal dimension of Orthodoxy. Hellas acted decisively to make this ancient faith of the Apostles and Martyrs a powerful witness in contemporary America.”

The service consisted of a small group of men and women singing, in English, a series of chants similar to those I heard in Turkey, but in … English, not Greek. The service had commenced with some pre-recorded chants playing through the speakers, but once the singing began I realized the service was beginning with Matins, or Orthoros, as the Orthodox perform the “morning” service the night before during Holy Week.

I quickly was lost, and just listened,  having learned to follow the lead of the rest of the crowd on when to stand and when to sit and when to make the sign of the cross, something Orthodox parishioners do quite a lot.

After 30 minutes of repetitive chanting and singing and a lot of pleading: “Lord have mercy. Lord have mercy. Lord have mercy,” there was some activity in the sanctuary behind the iconstasis. The Beautiful Gates swung open, and a very cool looking piratical priest in a black robe emerged (it later turned out he was a Lebanese Arab and an attorney who had taken vows, but I didn’t catch his name). He circled a flower-bedecked bower on which was placed the epitaphios, an embroidered tapestry bearing an image of the dead Christ. As parishioners had entered the church, some went directly to the bower and kissed the epitaphios, some prostrating themselves on the floors like a Muslim at prayers.

There was some smoking censer work by Father Nicholas, lots of chanting and signing, some reading of some gospel, and then, subtly, a shift in the service from Orthros to the Service of Lamentations.

This was my first time in a church on Good Friday, and as the very piratical looking priest explained in the homily, what I was witnessing, is, in essence, the funeral of Jesus. That was kind of heavy and a bummer, and confirmed for me the gravity of the triduum, and the entire culmination of Lent and then Holy Week. The sadness of Maundy Thursday was nothing compared to the bleak descriptions of a man dying in a brutal way.

Crucifixion is not a pretty way to die. As it was explained to me in prep school Latin, it’s a prolonged death that culminates in suffocation as the condemned slumps and collapses. Add in the whole hammer and nail thing and the description of what happened on the cross some 1980 years ago is about as harsh as it gets in any religious account.  The service at St. Michael’s did not dwell on the agony of the crucifixion. Instead it was conducted with a sort of dignified sadness and resignation that culminated when the priests lit the candles, spreading the flame through the congregation in a very nice neighborly gesture.

We followed the priests out the side door, through the parking lot, candles flickering, and stood before the front door as the epitaphios was held overhead as a sort of tent that the congregation ducked under as they re-entered the church. I did the same, never sure when to cross myself, but knowing the motion was from right to left with thumb, index, and middle fingers held together to signify the Trinity, and ring and little finger folded down to the palm to denote the fall of Man.

The cool thing about the Orthodox liturgy is its symbolic complexity. If you are into stuff like the DaVinci Code, then the arcane aspects of the Eastern Rite Orthodox liturgy will keep you occupied for a very long time.

Click here to view the embedded video.

Random Observations

• New churches with old rites and new lighting fixtures feel weird.  I was spoiled by my first exposure in Istanbul to a very old, very important church in Fener. This is not to denegrate St. Michael’s — every church starts new. But the icons and art …. I wonder where one gets the stuff to decorate an Orthodox Church? There must be some interesting religious supply business someplace, somewhere.
• This was a long service. Two and a half hours.
• I felt pretty comfortable throughout the service and not too weird being there. I continue to prefer the complexity of liturgical churches as opposed to the Powerpoint-driven enthusiasm of the Pentecostal/Baptist/Born Agains.
• I would recommend to any Cotusion that they take the time to check out a service at St. Michael’s.

Holy Saturday/Easter Sunday: St. George Greek Orthodox Church

True story. I am not making this up.

On Saturday night, as I left home to drive to the 11 pm Pascha service at the Greek Orthodox Church, I decided to drive down Main Street (instead of Putnam Avenue) to see what was going on at St. Michael. As I rounded the corner by the mini-horse farm, the dog leg curve, a rabbit (yes, a grey bunny rabbit) darted out from the left side of the road and committed seppuku under the tires of the car. Thump- bump.   Definitely dead and I wasn’t going to stop to confirm that fact in the dark.

“You have killed the Easter Bunny …”

I was pretty upset. Good atheists don’t make omens out of small woodland creatures who are crushed to death beneath the wheels of their German vehicles, but still I was upset. I mean …. I killed a bunny and there aren’t many of those around Cotuit. Squirrels? I get one or two a year. But that was my first rabbit.

On the night before ….

…Easter.

Racked with little animal guilt, I drove on to Centerville to the weird basilica of the Cape’s Greek Orthodox community, one that dates back to the early part of the last century, which had been serviced by a Green priest who would visit from New Bedford, but has now grown into a big congregation in a striking church built in 1980 on the corner of Route 28 and Strawberry Hill Road in Centerville near Lambert Fruit.

This is where the 52 Churches project started a couple summers ago. The church has a big Greek Festival in August, and being a total pig for gyros, souvlaki, tzatziki, and baklava I try to make a point to make the pilgrimage every summer. While sitting there, talking to my son’s friend parents, I saw the Father come out of the vestry wearing his finery and said to myself, “Whoa. Dude looks like he’s in ZZ Top.”

And so began my obsession with sneaking into strange churches.

Anyway, let’s wind up this holy week. This was indeed a supposedly cool thing I will never do again. Not because it wasn’t interesting — it was very interesting — but because Holy Week is a lot of work. It is hard being pious. I thought it was weird to think of people going to church 52 Sundays a year, but when I think about it, it is possible for a really devout person to add on at least another seven services between Christmas Eve and Holy Week alone.

I entered the church and immediately lighted a votive candle for the dead rabbit. I felt a little better and continued onwards, sneaking into the back pew and hiding myself behind a column. I definitely do not look Greek, having been compared more to the Big Lebowski-Dude version of Jeff Bridges than Anthony Quinn in Zorba The Greek. Bowties are also not standard and usual in the Greek-American community.

The Service

The title of the service was: “Orthros and the Resurrection Liturgy of St. John Chrysostom & His Catechetical Homily.” It  began at 11 pm and ran until 1:45 am, thereby officially spanning Holy Saturday and kicking off Easter Sunday, a day the Orthodox refer to as Pascha, which in term has its derivation in Passover. Easter is regarded as a pagan term more tied to the spring solstice and other pagan rites (rabbit and egg fertility images, etc.) where Pascha is the noble term for the Passion and Resurrection.

The service was sung in Greek but spoken in English. Three older men stood on the right side of the iconstasis and displayed considerable stamina in chanting and singing for nearly three hours. One man in particular had a very good voice and was a pleasure to listen to.

The church interior was cavernous, with a huge barrel vault framed by four immense wooden arches. The walls were lined with icons and brass plaques bearing the names of donors and memorials. The iconstasis was more ornate than the one in Cotuit, and the banks of flickering red candles on each side of the Beautiful Gates were extinguished before the service began.

From 11 towards midnight, as Orthros concluded, the church rapidly filled with more and more parishioners until the place was packed and standing room only. As the crowd filed in I found myself getting sleepy and had to fight to stay away under the hypnotic influence of the droning chanters.

The service transitioned into the Resurrection Liturgy, the Protopresbyter revealed himself, resplendent in a red brocade robe. He has the awesome name of Rev. Fr. Panagiotis K. Giannakopoulos and has a commanding presence, ordering in a booming voice the stragglers in the narthex to move inside and find a seat.

Everyone held a candle. The lights were turned off. Only the red glow of the exit signs cast a rosy hue in the darkness. As the chanters sang there was some fuss behind inside the sanctum. Then there was a flickering weak light reflecting off of the curved wall of the apse. The Beautiful Gates were opened and out came the procession of Priest and Acolytes with a single flame. It was one of the most dramatic things I’ve seen, as the flame was used to ignite other flames and the light began to build and glow throughout the space. Slowly it made its way back, and I saw as it moved that family members lovingly gave light to each other, to friends, and the mood swung perceptibly from the doom of the death of Christ to the wonder of his being resurrected.

And then the light came to me and I thought about killing the Easter Bunny but all was well.

Hymns were sung. Benedictions said. Greek chants were chanted. And slowly, imperceptibly, first the young people slipped out of the pews and out the door, leaving their more pious elders (who didn’t have any parties to go to that late Saturday/early Sunday night). I hung in until 1:15 am but the chants were more repetitive, the prayers more verbose, and I left quietly into the foggy night of Easter Sunday.

Random Observations:

• I have never eaten rabbit, but feel the urge building.
• The  best thing about Easter is deviled eggs and Reese’s peanut butter eggs
• I wanted to go to the Cotuit sunrise service on Loop Beach, but I was shattered from going to bed at 2 am and could not make it at 5:30 am
• The Smithfield Ham from Edwards Smokehouse in Surrey, Virginia is a fine thing for Easter Dinner.
• I am glad I made it through Holy Week and owe a lot to Paul Noonan for his guidance

Coming up: I would like to find some Mormons

Sunday’s clock change threw me a surprise, and a calamitous night of howling winds and slamming doors made it a doubly difficult morning, with me fumbling downstairs for the ritual of fetching the newspaper, watching the dogs relieve themselves, feeding them, feeding myself and reading the latest baseball news in the Sunday Times. As I opened the Times, the familiar clock graphic under the fold pf the front page reminded me I was out of time if I wanted to get myself to a church. I hadn’t picked a place and it was nearly nine, so I remember the suggestion from Paul Noonan that I might like to visit the Zion Union Church in Hyannis. A quick online search said services began at 10:45, so I relaxed, finished my oatmeal, then got on my way.

The Zion Union Church is a Baptist congregation of mostly African-American and Brazilian parishioners. The service is delivered in English, but the scriptures are read in Portuguese as well, and a Portuguese translator does a real-time translation of the sermon — to whom I can’t say, perhaps some remote worshippers listening in via the internet or telephone. I saw no UN-style earpieces or translation devices on people’s heads. I’ve hoped at some point to see a very musical, “gospel” type of service, and on Sunday morning I found it at Zion Union. It was, in classic Baptist tradition, a very vibrant service with all the accompanying cliches of “Can I have a Hallelujah,”  swaying in the pews with arms held high, and a great choir with a particularly wonderful lead singer who would have given Arethra Franklin a run.

The church, a grey shingled, brand new affair, is on Attuck’s Lane to the south of the East-West runway at the Barnstable Airport in Hyannis. It’s surrounded by a bank, a women’s health club, and beyond a bunch of auto body and alignment shops.  There is no steeple per se, but a small cupola over the side entrance into the narthex bears a cross. The main nave is a large space with metal structural supports, some ceiling fans, and sunken lighting. At the apse is a two tiered stage; the band in back, then a row of seats and benches for the choir, then a low wall in front of which is a large podium and altar. Before the altar, on a cradle, rested a large Bible. Beside the altar were two large bouquets of spring lilies.

The pews were new — about a dozen on each side — and the carpet was blue. In the pew backs was a baptist hymnal and a hand fan with a local merchant’s advertisement on it. The tall windows looked out into the parking lot and some scrub pines adjacent to the property.

I took the back row, right side, sat down, and read through the order of worship. As is the tradition in “lively” churches I was warmly greeted by the Reverend Ronaldo Eloy and the Pastor Bernard Harris, Sr. Each asked my name, welcomed me, and moved on to greet other parishioners.

The Service

The projector bolted to a strut high on the cross beam showed a picture of a wooden cross in a rain storm. Fitting given the northeaster raging outside, keeping, I assumed, the parishioner count low. I think the rain and the vernal equinox conspired to knock down the early arrivals, but by the end of the two hour service the place was pretty full.

The congregation was younger than usual (I’d guess the media age at 30) with some older couples sitting here and there. As the order of worship indicated it was “Youth Sunday” there was a good number of kids in the pews and a few people dressed in bright purple robe/surplice things (purple being the color of Lent).

The service started when the keyboard player began noodling on his electric piano. The choir (also known as the Zion Union Church Praise and Worship Team) started rocking out as the Powerpoint let us following the bouncing ball with a couple peppy tunes essentially expressing the sentiment that “I love the Lord” and “The Lord loves Me.”  The deacon-in-training kicked things off with a prayer, and there was a lot more singing. A good 15 minute warm up designed to get the crowd moving. This is where yours truly starts clapping to appear somewhat engaged and not overly observational, but not getting down by engaging in the full side-to-side swaying,  the hands over my head (torn rotator cuff would prohibit the “Hey-Ho” MTV move anyway), and other physical displays that I was getting down with the music. Again — most dreaded words in the Churbuck language is “Everybody get up and put yours hands together.”

The only other white guy in the crowd was standing on the podium — he turned out to be the guest speaker, the headmaster of the local Christian academy — and he was dressed in a kind of cool blue robe that reminded me of something I couldn’t put my finger on. I watched him and tried to time my claps to his, as I am so devoid of rhythm that I can’t even keep time with my hands.  This was sad, and my self-consciousness rose as late arrivals straggled in and took a look at the big geek in the bowtie trying to act like he was moved by the spirit.

The scripture was read: Psalm 46:10 “Be Still and Know That I Am God” and Romans 8:28-39.

“²⁸And we know that in all things God works for the good of those who love him, who have been called according to his purpose. ²⁹For those God foreknew he also predestined to be conformed to the likeness of his Son, that he might be the firstborn among many brothers. ³⁰And those he predestined, he also called; those he called, he also justified; those he justified, he also glorified.

³¹What, then, shall we say in response to this? If God is for us, who can be against us? ³²He who did not spare his own Son, but gave him up for us all—how will he not also, along with him, graciously give us all things? ³³Who will bring any charge against those whom God has chosen? It is God who justifies. ³⁴Who is he that condemns? Christ Jesus, who died—more than that, who was raised to life—is at the right hand of God and is also interceding for us. ³⁵Who shall separate us from the love of Christ? Shall trouble or hardship or persecution or famine or nakedness or danger or sword? ³⁶As it is written:

“For your sake we face death all day long; we are considered as sheep to be slaughtered.”³⁷No, in all these things we are more than conquerors through him who loved us. ³⁸For I am convinced that neither death nor life, neither angels nor demons, neither the present nor the future, nor any powers

There was some youth choir singing: “He’s Got the Whole World in His Hands” and then the guest preacher delivered the sermon. It was okay, my mind wandered, and he covered a lot of ground with an occasional dive into specific  Bible citations. As he got going the Pastor Harris would offer some encouragement from the sidelines and the crowd would murmur its assent. People got into this service. This was not a passive or academic crew, but people who wanted to get pretty involved.

The Reverend Harris invited those who needed “Christian Discipleship” to come forward. This is the point where I expect Robert Duvall to come down the aisle and exhort me to come clean. There was a pause, then the offering took place. The deacons moved around handing out envelopes and one of the Brothers said some words about tithing 10 percent (which explains the nice new building I would imagine).

Baskets were held at the front of the altar and congregation was invited to file out of the pews and up to the baskets. Not being in the mood to move feeling particularly exposed, I stood put and effect stiffed the church out of its due.

The Powerpoint screen flashed the words: “Please refrain from unnecessary movement especially during Prayer, Scripture, Tithes and Offering and the Sermon.” That was not a problem for me, but it did beg the question of what behaviors had occurred that inspired someone to compose that admonition. Some mysteries of the church are unknowable.

Following the offering, the Pastor got everyone in the church (except for me an an old lady) to come forward and gather around. A prayer was said which resulted in a crying attack by the young man leading the prayer. He was very emotional and the deacons — all of whom wore white gloves (save for a woman who wore black gloves) went around the church with boxes of Kleenex. This made me suspicious and I wondered if the crying portion was planned or a weekly feature.

Announcements were made. A skit was performed to persuade us men to come to Men’s Fellowship. The people in purple and two little children did a dance to a pre-recorded piece of Christian pop music that consisted of them making coordinated hand and arm movements.

The benediction and “threefold Amen” was sung and we were done. I headed for the doors, shook hands with the guest preacher and the Pastor and was in the parking lot in a flash.

Random Observations

• Untucked shirts in preachers is a strange fashion statement. Dress codes are all over the map. The guest preacher was in a blue bathrobe sort of gown. The Reverend was tails hanging out. And I wore a bowtie.
• When the sermon concluded the guest preacher seemed to be emotional with a towel.
• The Portuguese simul-translation was strange
• I wasn’t in the mood and suppose it will show. I daydreamed a lot during the service and felt like an anthropologist. I need to recharge — as I approach the half-way mark I am starting to feel a bit bored with long church services, but I also realize this whole project is about devotion and trying to experience what it is like to be a devout church goer. Doing this 52 times in a year in the same church? That’s dedication.

Next week: Christian Scientists anybody?

The oldest synagogue in America is 70 miles from my home, so it was a given that at some point I would make the trip. On Friday night, prodded by the congregation’s website that seemed to indicate that services would end on March 6, I rushed to Newport after work, taking a phone call on the way.

Rhode Island’s reputation for religious tolerance in the face of intense intolerance by the Plymouth and Massachusetts Bay Colonies is renowned – fostered by the liberal attitudes of Rhode Island’s founding governor Roger Williams, who also established the nation’s first Baptist church.  Touro is the only example of a Colonial synagogue, the oldest Jewish structure in America and, as I said, the oldest synagogue. Visiting was a privilege, because if not for this project I doubt I would have had cause or inclination to set foot inside other than to admire the historical furnishings and architecture. As it was, I witnessed a moving, solemn orthodox shabbas service, met my first shabbas goy, and had a good historical experience.

History

The Jeshuat Israel congregation can be traced back to 1658 when Sephardic Jews arrived in Newport (then the capital of Rhode Island) from the Caribbean island of Curacao. Sephardic Jews emigrated — fled is more accurate — Spain and Portugal during the Spanish Inquisition, when Catholic jurists forced the conversion of  or put to death most Jews. An excellent, if exhaustive history on this topic is B. Netanyahu’s Origins of the Inquisition in the 15th Century. Those Jews who pretended to convert to Christianity, but continued to practice Judaism in secret, are referred to as Marranos.

For the first 100 years of their existence, the Newport Sephardim worshipped in private homes until 1750, when a wealthy merchant, Aaron Lopez, son of Portugese marranos, funded the design and construction of the Touro Synagogue (so named for its first cantor, Issac Touro).  Lopez became the wealthiest resident of Newport through his diverse business interests, but most notably his focus on the spermaceti candle industry — spermaceti being the waxy substance found in the head cavity of a sperm whale.

Lopez’ business interests in the whaling industry put him in close proximity with the Quaker whaling merchants of New Bedford and Nantucket, another religious minority subject to persecution by the Puritan/Pilgrim theocracies in Massachusetts. Peter Nichols in his excellent Final Voyage, describes the role the Jewish leadership of Newport played in establishing the state’s reputation for religious tolerance, as well as the profitable cartel Lopez formed with the Howlands of New Bedford and the Coffins of Nantucket.

The synagogue’s architect was Peter Harrison and is considered his best work. Being an architectural moron, I won’t compare the structure to any other examples, but it is distinctive and unlike any other building I’ve seen from the 1750s.

The synagogue made it on the National register of historic places in the 1940s, and has been lovingly restored. It is now part of the  National Trust and National Park Service.

The Service

I drove the 70 miles from Cape Cod and arrived 30 minutes before the 6 pm shabbas service on Friday night. Parking was a bit of a challenge — lots of one-way cow paths abound in that part of the old town — but I nailed one right behind the building and walked around the Loeb visitor center to the entrance on Touro Street. The gate has this strange device carved on it with three Hebrew characters.

I walked up the steps to the entrance and ran into a jovial man who asked me straight up: “Are you Jewish?”

“No. Just visiting, ” I said. “Why?”

“I’m not sure we’ll make a minyan tonight [the quorum of 10 worshippers] but come on in.”

He explained he was the shabbas goy, the non-Jew who performs tasks for the faithful on the sabbath when labor of all kinds — including the turning on of lights — is forbidden. We stepped inside and the room was sublime, a large space with a balcony overhead for female worshippers as the congregation pray segregated by gender, the men on the ground floor, women above. The space was brightly lit by a constellation of chandeliers which hung down from star-shaped sconces on the ceiling high above. The walls were painted a curious green — almost the color of old hospitals — but the effect was very soothing. The balcony was supported by 12 magnificent columns denoting the 12 tribes of Israel  – each topped with a Corinthian capitol, and each carved from a single tree.

My guide pointed out that there is a trapdoor beneath the bimah and that it may have led to the harbor. Legend hold that is was used by the Underground Railroad during years of the anti-slavery movement. The bimah is the raised dais where the Rabbi presides.

I took some pictures, but the goy told me while it was okay, to make sure I got them in before the service started. More people began to arrive, it appeared a minyan would be achieved. Women were steered to the upstairs balcony, the men — most older than me — seemed to know each other well and took a prayer book from the shelves behind the bimah.

I availed myself of a yarmulke (four-panel loaner, not the coveted six-panel described so well by my friend Glen in the comments to my Cape Cod Synagogue visit). Because of a recent haircut, the skullcap fit fine. I took a seat on the bench along the back wall, behind the bimah, and greeted each with a shalom shabbas.

The Rabbi, Mordechai Eskovitz arrived, wearing a great Borsalino hat. He greeted his congregation, and without much delay started the service.

I won’t go into the details — I took no notes out of respect to the congregation which was small and aware of my presence and non-participation. The Rabbi did most of the chanting, pausing to direct the worshippers to the appropriate page of the Siddur. I followed along, but foolishly forgot my reading glasses and was unable to follow the English translation of the Hebrew. At one point I did realize the congregation was chanting the words to the famous 23rd Psalm — “The Lord if my shepherd, I shall not want …”

During the service the shabbas goy read a detective novel behind a screened off area on the back corner of the temple. At least one woman worshipped from up on the balcony.

The service last only 45 minutes. Several members participated in the readings, and when it was over I made my way out the door and back to my car for the long ride home. I’m very glad I had the chance to visit this treasure of a holy place.

Random Observations

• I wonder if the congregation maintains an Eruv, or virtual holy enclosure, in Newport. The New York Times had a fascinating article on this phenomenon.
• I could spend a lifetime in and around Aquidneck Island — home of Newport — because of the amazing historical role that region played in the early development of the colonies (refuge during the King Philip War) and religious tolerance.
• I would strongly recommend any visitor to Newport to make a special visit to this gem of a  historical building. While the “cottages” of the town are world famous, The Breakers, Marble House, etc. — Touro is amazingly elegant.
• I continue to be impressed by the amazing barrier to comprehension and participation posed by Hebrew.

Next week: thinking Church of Christ Scientist …..

There has been a small Finnish community on Cape Cod since the 19th century and I am too lazy to do the research to plausibly explain why in this entry in the 52Church series, but they apparently, according to one local history, had a penchant for drinking and so a temperance society was formed at the turn of the century to quell their dipsomania. That society eventually became a place of worship and since Finns — and many people of the Nordic and Teutonic countries — tend to be Lutheran, so West Barnstable became home to the first Lutheran church on Cape Cod, the Suomi, or Finnish Lutheran synod to be precise. According to Marion Rawson Vuilleumier’s Churches on Cape Cod, services were conducted only in Finnish until 1943, when a second English service was added and the church congregation grew.

According to the church history:

“The Finns, even in the Old Country, were known as quite heavy partakers of strong spirits.  When they immigrated to this country, because of the difficulty in getting acclimated and in response to the weary life of back-breaking work and the uncertainties of nature, drinking became rampant.

The Finns finally decided to do something about it so they formed a Temperance Society and built a building on Plum Street.  Everyone who joined the Society had to take a pledge to stay sober and if at any time they got caught breaking that pledge, they had to pay a fine of 25¢ which represented at least two hours labor at that time.

The Society was disbanded in 1913, having served its purpose but the building continued to be used for many functions including classes in English.  Religious services and Sunday School classes were also held there.

This was my first visit to a Lutheran church. I went in with some stereotypes and pre-conceptions about German protestantism, the church of the northern Midwest, of immigrant Nordic farmers who enjoyed lutefisk dinners. This was the religion of Updike’s Rabbit Angstrom, a severe Teutonic faith of austere churches, bleak landscapes, and all the humor of a religion born at the Diet of Worms. My friend and advisor Paul Noonan told me I would enjoy the Pastor, Rev. Jonathan Ahnquist, and so, on a grey Lenten Sunday, I drove across the Cape on Route 149, took a right at the Rooster Church onto Church Street, and made the 8:30 communion service with ten minutes to spare. The church is a handsome shingle style building, unpainted and weathered a silverish grey. The steeple was low and also shingled with cedar. The parking lot in the rear of the church backed onto what may have been the parsonage and beyond that a pond, newly freed of ice but flat in the calm morning air.

I entered, wearing a bowtie, and was immediately greeted by the pastor who complimented me on my cravat. Bowties nearly always elicit expressions of surprise when first sighted, especially anywhere other than the summer lawns of Cotuit and yacht club cocktail parties where they are abundant. I spoke to the Pastor, (erroneously addressed him as Father) explained my mission, and he welcomed me to his “table” as all were permitted to take Communion. He asked if I would introduce myself to the congregation, but I plead shyness. I took a starboard side pew, middle of the church, put on my reading glasses, and waited for things to begin.

The Service

As my friend Noonan explained one night this week, there are liturgical churches and there are non-liturgical churches. Essentially, the liturgy is the ceremony and the rites, or order of prayers, hymns, gospel, creed, collection of donations, communion, etc.. Communion is technically called the Eucharist, and the denominations that regularly offer a Eucharist service are the Roman Catholics, Episcopalians, Orthodox and Lutherans (my devout friends are rolling their eyes, exclaiming, “Durrrrr,” but this is new stuff to me). Other faiths may perform a communion service once a month, quarterly, but Lutherans are part of the Big Four when it comes to that aspect of the liturgy.

The Pastor, dressed in a floor length white robe, commenced with some brief announcements delivered from a raised, octagonal altar. This altar was ringed with a railing for kneeling communicants. In the center was a large, carved wooden table draped with a purple cloth. Behind the altar, the apse consisted of two flanking green and blue stained glass windows and a row of chairs. The choir was adjacent on the port side of the nave.  The pews were very full at this, the first of two morning services.

A prayer of confession and forgiveness was given by the Pastor and people together: “Have mercy on us and turn us from our sinful ways.”

He retreated to the narthex and a girl entered as a procession of one with a staff topped with a flame. She lighted the two candles on the altar table. A hymn was sung: The church has a good organ and a good organist to play it. The pastor has a fine, ringing voice that filled the church. I am further convinced that the preeminent talent for becoming a minister, pastor, reverend, imam, rabbi or priest is a fine singing voice. Without it one is doomed. With it one definitely leads a flock.

The hymn ended and the pastor greeted the congregation with a prayer, followed by the singing of the Kyrie — that ancient Greek plea to God to have mercy.

The liturgy was very formal and formulaic – meaning it had multiple components and took up eight pages of program to describe. The first reading, given by a woman sitting to the right of the lectern, was from the first book of the old Testament, Genesis 15:1-12 about  Abram having a discussion with God about being childless. God told Abram to get a cow, a goat, a ram, a dove and a pigeon. Abram sacrificed the animals (cutting them in half except the birds), drove the vultures away from the carcasses, and then the verse gets pretty bleak(er):

“…and a deep and terrifying darkness descended upon him. When the sun had gone down and it was dark, a smoking fire pot and flaming torch passed between these pieces [of dead animals, ed.]“

Powerful stuff. The second reading was was Philippians 3:17-4:1. The dark, Francis Bacon-image from the first reading didn’t leave my mind, and puzzled me until the “Good News 101″ portion when the children in the congregation was called forward and talked to by Lynn Tozier, the associate pastor. She explained two things: she said things tend to get a little bleak this time of year in Christianity — it’s Lent and people are doing without, fasting, getting prepared for the holy days of Maundy Thursday, Good Friday, Holy Saturday and Good Friday. She then described the origin of the pretzel — when a German baker prayed with crossed arms andwas inspired to invent the twisted snack .

The Gospel according to Luke 13:21-35 was read — about Christ being warned to feel Jerusalem because Herod wanted to hill him.

Pastor Ahnquist delivered a strong sermon that made me reflect and feel glad and comfortable with the visit. Here I need to admit that some sermons are either boring … and I either nod off or daydream; or they are obscure to the point of being nearly mystical; and others are too “familiar” or anecdotal for my taste. Ahnquist’s was none of the above and ranks among the better of the one’s heard to date.

Following along in the service. Another hymn was sung, the Creed was recited, and then prayers of intercession were delivered.

The basket was passed for the offering, the choir sang an interesting offertory song called Lonesome Valley, and another hymn was sung. The pastor prayed over the offering, and then a series of sung-spoken chants were delivered: a “dialogue” that went like this: “The Lord be with you.” And the congregation said “And also with you.” Another chant – Holy, Holy, Holy – was sung. Then the Lord’s Prayer was recited. And again, there was a special Lutheran twist to the familiar words:

“Forgive us our sins as we forgive those who sin against us/Save us from the time of trial and deliver us from evil.”

(note to self, compile variations on the Lord’s Prayer)

Now, communion. I don’t take communion ordinarily. I view it as the main expression of faith and since I am agnostic, I think my personal participation would be hypocritical. Thus I sit back except in admittedly impulsive situations such as the opportunity to kiss the Patriarch’s ring in Istanbul at the Feast of the Three Hierarchs. I decided to take communion with the Lutherans for the simple reason that the Pastor made a firm point of inviting me to when I arrived. I’m glad I did, as I’m not familiar with the process.

Please excuse the digression into transubstantion and the sacrament, but it is a very interesting rite, definitely the climax of the liturgy, and for the devout, a real, immediate, and tactile connection with the faith where the words and music and sights become very tactile and real — after all what is more “earthy” than eating and drinking? Particularly when one is either believing they are literally consuming the body and blood of their Saviour or, participating in the symbolism of the Last Supper.

Two golden brass trays were brought forward by the deacons and placed on the altar table. The pastor stood behind the table and uncovered a bright red goblet or chalice which had been covered by a perfectly draped purple cloth. What followed is the mystery part — the preparation of the sacrament, the blessing, and the point where the ordinary communion wafers and wine are “turned into” the host. The brass trays were brought to the head of the pews and were filled with small shot glasses of wine. When the pastor was ready to give communion the deacons shepherded a group of about two dozen parishioners out of the pews and forward where they knelt around the octagonal railing surrounding the altar table. The communicants took a shot glass from the rack, brought it with them to the railing, and waited, on their knees, hands ready to receive the wafer from the pastor. The pastor placed a wafer in their hands, saying “The body of Christ” and he was followed by the associate with another cup of wine with a drip cloth neatly wrapped around it.

When it was my pew’s turn to go forward I sort of shrugged, followed the lady next to me, took a little container of wine with me, and knelt down and waited for the wafer. Along it came, I put it in my mouth, it was more like a slice of edible foam than bread, and I drank down the wine. Paused, then stood and followed the people next to me back around the long way, depositing the empty cup in a rack and taking my spot.

All in all it was a little bewildering and somewhat disingenuous to participate, but I’m glad I did as it gave me cause to think about the significance of the rite.

Once communion ended the service wrapped up with a prayer,a blessing, a final hymn, and the Dismissal:

“Go in Peace. Serve the Lord. Thanks be to God.”

I stood, I left, I thanked the Pastor and his offer of coffee and cakes, and drove off.

Random Observations

• The “Aalto” architectural influence of the Nordic design gestalt was evident on the interior of the church. A little stark and very Scandinavian.
• I need to find the time to read the Bible as this project goes along (same for Torah and Koran) especially given my ignorance of who was writing what and to whom. I’ve read it in the context of its literary impact on English poetry (pre-Romantics like Milton, Spenser, etc.) but not in terms of the liturgical ritual.
• Close to half way and I am becoming humbled by the diversity I’m finding from one weekend to the next. I think a lot about the common points between the churches — not just Christian, but Jewish and Muslim — and the commonalities are very interesting anthropologically. More on that later, but patterns are emerging.
• I noticed a lot of Finnish names in the congregation like “Aalto” and “Toivo” — Finns prefer adjacent vowels.
• BMWs in the parking lot which is fitting for a Teutonic faith

This weekend: I need to head to Newport before Touro suspended orthodox services for the spring/summer season.

Over the Christmas holidays while visiting in-laws in San Francisco, I was invited to a party at a wine marker’s cave in the mountaintop town of Angwin, California. As we wound up the steep road my friend said, “This is a Seventh Day Adventist town and university.” We flashed past a big church, the campus of the Pacific Union College, and then on into the back roads to our destination.

Intrigued, I did some research on the religion. Here are the basics: an American denomination formed in the middle of the 19th century from the s0-called “Millerite” movement, and was formally organized in 1863 in Battle Creek, Michigan (remember Battle Creek), largely around the writings and vision of its prophet, Ellen G. White, a native of Gorham, Maine who wrote prolifically of her visions which began after she was hit in the face by a thrown rock while fleeing a 13 year old girl in Portland, Maine.

The Millerites were a group formed around 1850 in upstate New York who, based on a close reading of the Bible, predicted the Second Coming would occur in 1844. It didn’t. Again, I will spare you my borrowed pedantic knowledge and point you at the Wikipedia entry, which, as I assume with all Wiki entries, shares the input of the church, its members and officials and is as balanced a definition and history as you can find anywhere. The church is unique in several respects, notably the observance of a Saturday sabbath, a high proportion of vegetarians and abstemious practices, and a strong tradition of extroverted charity and public works from hospitals to higher education. Tithing is encouraged — more on that later — and church members do not join unions or other organizations aside from the church.

I believe there is only one Seventh Day Adventist congregation on Cape Cod. I live about five miles from the church on Route 28 in Osterville. It is a modest, contemporary structure set slightly back from the road in a stand of pine trees.

The Service

The parking lot was full — most churches seem to be enjoying strong attendance these days — and I entered the narthex along with a herd of young people dressed in their Sunday best. I was warmly greeted at the door, handed a program, and made my way into the main church hall where I took the customary back-pew-right-hand-side seat. As I settled in I put on my glasses to read the program but the temple piece fell off, victim of a lost screw. As I flustered around trying to fix the specs, a jovial man introduced himself, a local attorney who it turned out was also the church pianist. We talked for a few minutes, me explaining the purpose of my visit, he telling me about his beginnings as a Catholic. Before I could ask him about his conversion the pastor, Rev. Mark Gagnon introduced himself. The welcome was warm and effusive and I was made to feel right at home.

I noticed the dreaded PowerPoint set up of a big enormous screen behind the pulpit and behind the pews a glass-walled “multimedia booth.” On the right of the church, near where I sat, was a small area filled with microphones and chairs and electric pianos.  A pair of traditional grand pianos flanked the apse, one had a rack festooned with cordless microphones. The room had a high vaulted ceiling, large wooden beams, and skylights, one set was covered with a sheet of black plastic, perhaps due to repairs. The pews were large, upholstered, and the backs had racks with Bibles (King James version) and collection envelopes.

I put a $5 bill in one of the envelopes and noted that it had details on noting if one’s gift was part of one’s tithe commitment, which, according to the envelope, was a suggested 10% of one’s annual income. “Gross or net?” I thought to myself, doing the math and realizing that 10% was a stack of cash. The envelope also had a suggestion about how to leave the church in one’s will.

More deacons came to me and shook my hand, asked my name, and where I lived. Everyone around me was nice and wished me a happy Sabbath. I will never get over my self-consciousness while lurking in churches, but I’m used to it now and expect it. The first few churches were very difficult in terms of feelings of embarrassment and intrusion. When it comes down to it — as long as you’re well dressed, respectful and smile, you can pretty much go anywhere in this world.

The service started with a rousing Song of Praise sung by the “Praise Team” which consisted of several women, the pastor, the cordless microphones, and the pianist, a bass player, and a guitarist.  The words were flashed onto the screen over inspiration images of sunlight through trees, flickering candles, and waterfalls. I think the skylights were blacked out to let the projector do its work. On each side of the screen were two traditional hymnal guides — the racks where the old hymn numbers were inserted. I think hymnals are doomed like newspapers and magazines, and have been replaced by the cursed PowerPoint. Sigh.

A call to worship was read — Psalm 37:4 ,5 another hymn was sung from the screen, then the offering was made. I put my envelope in the basket, but sure enough, there was a second collection on behalf of the Sunday School replete with children carrying little straw baskets. Me, who does not want to lug my wallet into the church, had no extra cash, and hence came off Scroogish when the basket was passed. Reminder to self: always carry a back up bill for the occasional double-collect.

Announcements were made — an international supper was happening that evening at 6. Cuisines under preparation included German, Jamaican, Brazilian, Dominican, Greek and Thai. I began to look at my fellow worshippers. Average age 40. Even mixture of genders. High percentage of people of color, perhaps 33%.  Large collection of children under the guidance of a Sunday School teacher, and a block of teenagers dressed semi-hip/hop in front of me. A deacon showed some clips of some DVDs available for borrowing. One was an animated interpretation of Moses receiving the Ten Commandments which put me in the foul memory of the despised Davey and Goliath cartoons my brother and I would watch in lieu of the Tasmanian Devil on Sunday mornings when there were no decent cartoons on the tube. A clip was then shown of a movie about a farmer in Africa who gave his life to Christ: Faith Like Potatoes.

The Sunday School teacher led her charges to the altar where they read their Valentine’s Day prayers to God. After all the poems were read the children dispersed into the pews and gave their Valentines to random people. I was one of the random and received  the following:

"God's love for man compares to nothing on this sinful

earth. He defines love with words like compassionate and cheerful.

The true meaning of love burns from the root of the soul, till it's

singing out the words of joy. So, pure and perfect love from

Mary's baby boy. The words He speaks are soft and humble, like

when He speaks, you can't hear him mumble.

Everything that's done, I want it done His way,

so now I must say ......

Happy Valentine's Day!"

The children gathered in the first two rows of the center bank of pews for a Children’s Story by Reverend Gagnon. The subject was tresures. Rev. Gagnon has a charismatic, warm personality and was very entertaining, pulling from a shopping bag the things that he considers treasures: his wife’s kindergarten report card, a hospital identification bracelet worn by his infant son, a framed collection of faded pressed flowers. He ended the lesson by saying Christ’s love was the greatest treasure of all, one that did not fade like the flowers.

A prayer followed. People were invited to come forward and kneel at the dais to have their personal prayers heard. A gentleman took a microphone and gave an adhoc prayer. Amens were said, the congregation sat back, and the sermon followed.

Rev. Gagnon’s sermon was fairly long — I didn’t time it but it ran over 30 minutes by my guess — and was on a series of topics keyed to a bible passage which was based on Christ’s last words, Acts Chapter 1. He tied his lesson to his own personal experiences and delivered an exhortation to led God help us realize our full potential and not wallow in the lukewarm world of mediocrity.

There were some affirmative amens from the congregation. I confess my mind wandered a little in reverie, but I imagine that is the point of a sermon — to make one reflect.

A closing hymn was sung, the benediction delivered, and I was out the door in an instant, shaking the pastor’s hand as I departed.

Random Observations:

• The Seventh Day Adventists, Baptists, Jehovah’s Witnesses, Assembly of  God ….. none deliver a communion like the Catholics, Episcopalians or Orthodox.
• All seem to favor Powerpoint.
• The Battle Creek connection to the origins of the church is significant as a Mister Kellogg — was an early adherent of the faith and the promotion of grains and cereals as a healthy breakfast has its connections to the church’s reputation for clean living.
• For more on this, I recommend T. Corraghessen Boyle’s The Road to Wellville, a movie starring Anthony Hopkins and Matthew Broderick was made from the novel. Adventists were found to have a higher life expectancy in a recent California census.
• The service was remarkably cheerful, not very gospel or scripture focused as I expected, and in all one of the brighter services experienced thus far.
• The greatest controversy surrounding the church seems to be around the reputation of Ellen G. White, the founding prophet. Her story is fascinating and I found this discussion of the role her head injury played on her spiritual awakening on a site called http://www.ellenwhiteexposed.com.
• All in all I would declared this to be a very uniquely American religion in terms of its origins.