Way of the Cross

“We adore you O Christ and we bless you:”

“Because by your holy cross you have redeemed the world.”

The refrain trembled off my lips almost too easily. I didn’t even need to look at the booklet for the response. It’s been well over 20 years since I attended the Stations of the Cross; but on April 2, 2010, it was like it was only yesterday.

It was Good Friday and I was in the midst of the “Back In Church” Holy Week Marathon: Five Churches, One Week. It started with Palm Sunday at Bethany Evangelical Free Church on Madison’s Eastside. Then, the previous evening, I had taken in the meditative Maundy Thursday service at Glenwood Moravian Community Church in Madison’s Monroe Street neighborhood. Now, it was 6:30pm at Grace Episcopal Church on the Capitol Square in the heart of Downtown Madison.

Grace was a conflicted choice for my evening’s festivities. It’s close to where I live, but Grace was the first church I attended on my church smorgasbord (See my first posting in this blog.). So I wasn’t introducing myself to a new church. But my curiosity was intrigued by the opportunity to experience the Stations of the Cross outside the Roman Catholic setting.

From the time I was an itty-bitty Christian I’ve been intrigued by the Stations. If you asked me why back in my Christian hey-day, I would have said, “Because it makes me feel that much closer to Jesus when walking in his footsteps.” In third grade at St. Mary’s Catholic School, using markers and crayons, I created my own version of the “Way of the Cross.”

Growing up, I spent much of my life trying to live in Christ’s tortured footsteps. Striving to be closer to God, but always feeling a nagging sense of failure. No matter how many times I went to Confession, no matter how many communion wafers I ate, no matter how many prayers I recited, I was always foremost a Sinner. I could never be good enough or tortured enough for my religion to finally accept me as a good soul for heaven. Looking back on it, that’s what it was all about: Ending suffering in my life here on earth and making a place for my eternal life without suffering in heaven. Going through a ton of suffering to get rid of suffering. It looks paradoxical to me now.

If you are not familiar with the Stations of the Cross, here’s a quick run-down for you:

• The term “Stations of the Cross” refers to a series of 14 representations of events on Jesus’ journey from being condemned to death to his eventual death on a cross.
• In many churches, the “Stations” are identified by different plagues or signs in 14 different locations surrounding the interior of the church (or in some other significant location on the church grounds, such as a cemetery).
• The devotion of the Stations of the Cross includes passing before each “Station” in religious meditation and prayers on Jesus’ suffering.
• To see all 14 Stations in dramatic marker and crayon, please visit my third grade project at this link. Go check it out now. This is your last chance!

In St. Mary’s Catholic Church, parishioners would alternate between standing and genuflecting in their pews, as the priest, flanked by altar boys holding candles and a large staff with a golden crucifix, would pass from Station to Station. The priest would state the Station and recite some prayers, including: “We adore you O Christ and we bless you.” And the congregation would recite, “Because by your holy cross you have redeemed the world.” Many a Good Friday, dressed in a black robe with a white vestment overlay, I walked the Stations as an altar boy carrying a candleholder or the large golden crucifix staff. The recitation burned indefinitely into my brain.

About 15 people had congregated at Grace Episcopal Church on Good Friday to walk the Stations of the Cross for Holy Week 2010. At first, we each took our places separate from each other in the pews, but the pastor quickly gathered us in back of the church. She informed us we would follow the Stations together as a group; each one of us would be given the opportunity to recite a Station’s prayers from our booklets.

This was different.

First, the “priest” or “pastor” was a “she.” She even wore the white-and-black collar and the fancy vestments. I was raised Catholic; to this day, women still don’t get to be “priests.” The closest a girl can get is to be a nun. Although Catholics are now much more open than when I grew up. St. Mary’s now has girl “altar boys” or “servers.”

Second, where were the altar boys or servers? Why doesn’t any church other than Catholics have servers? The closest I’ve seen is a young boy who lit candles at a United Church of Christ service. It was nice to see the church prepped for Christ’s death though. All crosses and crucifixes were draped in black fabric and the altar area was stripped to its barest essentials. Still, it would have been nice to have a couple servers around for pomp’s sake. Call me “old-fashioned.”

And third, we would move from Station to Station together and we would recite the prayers. As a Catholic, I’m used to a priest leading me, not me and my other sinner brethren. At this church we would be involved in the process, not just a spectator. We as a church community were an involved and integral part of the ritual.

So off we went. Unsure how this would turn out, and nervous about reading, I was quickly won over by this interpretation of the Stations of the Cross. From the accented prayers by Greek sisters who placed extra dramatic emphasis on the comparison of Jesus’ suffering to our own “retched states” to the nerve-racked college-age boy as he nervously stuttered through his reading to the beautifully African-inflected prayers from another woman to my own bland rendition of the Seventh Station, this wonderfully diverse and immersive version of the Stations of the Cross was as contemplative and enthralling as the Stations I grew up with.

This was what this “Back In Church” exercise is all about. To get away from what I’ve grown up with, to experience something new, to learn more about the different religious practices around me, and in doing so, to learn more about the people around me and in turn to learn more about myself.

The Shadows of Maundy Thursday

Thursday, April 1 7:00pm

Glenwood Moravian Community Church, Madison, Wis.

Holy Week had started with Palm Sunday. It was now Holy Thursday evening, 7:00pm. I entered a simple English Tudor style church near the University of Wisconsin’s Arboretum, overlooking oak savannah and Lake Wingra.

Sitting in a middle pew, I looked over the bulletin at the night’s proceedings: The Vigil of Maundy Thursday. Interspersed with Holy Readings, the bulletin claimed the night’s service was an adaptation mixing an early Fourth Century service with an Eighth Century service, with an added observance of Holy Communion. “Maundy Thursday” or “Holy Thursday” falls on the Thursday before Easter, commemorating the Last Supper of Jesus with his disciples before his death.

As of last week I thought I had heard of every Christian denomination – Episcopalian, Methodist, Lutheran, Catholic, Baptist, Evangelical, Pentecostal, and so on and so forth. Then, while surveying the Yellow Pages for my “Back In Church” Holy Week Marathon, I found something different: Churches – Moravian.

Moravian. What is Moravian? I imagined Morocco. African hymns sung to a tribal drum.

I was completely wrong.

I learned the Moravian Church is the oldest organized Protestant church in the world, 60 years older than Lutherans. Originating in the current Czech Republic (formerly Bohemia and Moravia), the area was initially converted to Christianity by the Greek Orthodox Church in the mid-ninth century, but soon fell under the Roman Catholic empire.

The Catholic thing didn’t seem to stick very well and people quickly became unsettled. Local priest, John Hus capitalized on this unease by leading a large protest against the Roman Catholic Church and its practices. And, as many rebellious priests have learned over the years, you mess with the Vatican; the Vatican will burn you. He was burned at the stake for heresy on July 6, 1415.

But the Bohemians and Moravians were not to be bullied by the Catholic juggernaut. Followers of Hus kept the reformation spirit alive, and in 1457 the Moravian Church officially began in the village of Kunvald, near what is now Prague. Throughout years of growth, persecution, exile, and further growth, the Moravian Church has become a small-but-worldwide religion with it’s own ministry and mission. Their motto: “In essentials, unity; in nonessentials, liberty; in all things, love.”

The church I attended on Holy Thursday, the Glenwood Moravian Community Church, was built in 1948. Although; this Monroe Street parish was founded much earlier than that in the late 1920’s.

As a young Catholic, I looked forward to Holy Week every year. This may sound kind of sick, but I enjoyed the somber, contemplative meditation of Christ’s betrayal, persecution, and eventual death. It was a side step out of ordinary church-life, a break in the routine. These services were different than the typical Catholic mass. Holy Thursday the priest would wash the feet of 12 parishioners. Good Friday always featured the Stations of the Cross. And Holy Saturday was the one time out of the year Catholics didn’t take communion. I volunteered to serve as altar boy at numerous Holy Week services to partake in these highly ritualized activities.

In fact, I still have a stone I received from a priest after serving a Holy Thursday mass at St. Mary’s in Mayville, Wis. The stone is smooth and curved perfectly for nimble fingers, polished to a glittering shine. I can’t remember the significance of the stone, but I remember receiving it as if it was a message from Christ himself.

But now let’s get back to Glenwood Moravian Church; I sat in a middle pew, one of about 20 people in the small church. A man in front of me turned around to talk before the service started.

“You ever been here for Maundy Thursday service?” he asked through a walrus-style mustache.

“No,” I confided. “In fact, I’ve never been to a Moravian church before.”

“Really, what brings you here?”

I informed him of my mission to attend a different church each week for the entire year.

“Boy, my wife would like to meet you,” he replied. “She’s the pastor of the church. She’s leading the service tonight. You’re going to like our church. It’s a lot of fun. Did you know the person who founded our church was burned at the stake?”

At this point, his wife, the Rev. Mary Lou welcomed us to tonight’s service,

“Welcome. Leave your worldly affairs outside and bring your whole self into this space. We will be commemorating and contemplating Jesus’ betrayal and death. Following in his footsteps with a symbolic Last Supper and the Service of Tenebrae.”

“Remember, the rule of silence will be strictly observed,” she instructed. “No conversation or greetings will be allowed other than the silent recognition of friends. Please turn off any noisemakers you may be carrying at this time.”

Tenebrae is Latin for “shadows” or “darkness.” As described in the bulletin: “The service symbolizes the declining loyalty of the disciples and the waning of the Light of the World as Jesus dies.”  A grouping of candles is gradually extinguished while a series of readings are recited. This is what I’ve always loved about Holy Week services, seeped deep in symbolic ritual, every action a meaning cloaked in mystery.

After reciting a prayer in unison, Rev. Mary Lou invited all of us to leave our pews and encircle the altar for Holy Communion. Gathering around the altar, I noted doilies on the altar in the shape of a cross. Each doily featured a small piece of bread and a small plastic cup of grape juice.

The Last Supper, Rev. Mary Lou related, was probably a Passover Seder meal. She then explained much of the symbolism of a Jewish Passover Seder. Reading from the bible about the Last Supper, she invited us to partake of the bread and juice.

“While they were eating, Jesus took bread, gave thanks and broke it, and gave it to his disciples saying, ‘ Take it; this is my body.”

“Then he took the cup, gave thanks and offered it to them, and they all drank from it.”

“’This is my blood…’”

We then took our seats.

As twilight descended outside, the minimal Glenwood Chancel Choir (two men, two women, and a pianist) performed a beautifully intricate “musical offering” of “A Scarlet Robe.” The haunting melody blended perfectly into the lingering light outside the stained glass window above the altar as we entered the Service of Tenebrae.

There were seven lit candles on a small table in front of the altar. I enjoyed that each candle was a unique, different shape, a different form, from thick to thin. Each one a unique individual. Two members of the parish took position behind two lecterns on either side of the table, lighting small reading lights on the lecterns.

The first reading was Matthew 26: 47-50 – The Shadow of Betrayal. Judas betrayed Jesus with a kiss. Rev. Mary Lou came out and extinguished a candle. Someone in the back of the church turned off some of the church lights. And from a doorway near the altar, a male member of the choir sang, “Jesus remember me when you come into your kingdom!”

The second reading: Luke 22: 54-62 – The Shadow of Denial. Peter denies knowing Jesus three times and the rooster crows. Another candle was extinguished, more lights were turned off, and items were removed from the altar. “Jesus remember me when you come into your kingdom!”

The third reading: Mark 15: 6-14 – The Shadow of Rejection. Pilate releases the criminal, Barnabas due to the people’s persistent request, calling for Jesus’ crucifixion. A third candle was extinguished, more lights were turned off, and Mary Lou removed more items from the altar. “Jesus remember me when you come into your kingdom!”

The fourth reading: Matthew 27: 24-26 – The Shadow of Injustice. Pilate washes his hands of the blood of Jesus’ death, sends him to be whipped and beaten, and hands him over to be crucified. The fourth candle was extinguished, more lights were turned off, and additional items were removed from the altar. “Jesus remember me when you come into your kingdom!”

The fifth reading: Mark 15: 16-20 – The Shadow of Torture. Jesus, adorned with a crown of thorns and a purple robe, is beaten and spit on, “Hail, king of the Jews!” The next candle was extinguished, more lights were turned off, and the final items were removed from the altar. “Jesus remember me when you come into your kingdom!”

The sixth reading: Luke 23: 39-43 – The Shadow of Ridicule. Jesus is hung on a cross near two crucified criminals; one hurls insults at him, the other rebukes him, saying, “Jesus remember me when you come into your kingdom!” The sixth candle was extinguished, the remaining lights were turned off, and purple wall hangings from behind the altar were removed. And from the vestibule, the chorister sang, “Jesus remember me when you come into your kingdom!”

The seventh and final reading: Matthew 27: 39-50 – The Shadow of Mockery. Spectators hurl insults at Jesus, saying, “Come down from the cross if you’re the Son of God!” The reader shouted Jesus’ last words, “Eloi, Eloi, lama sabachthani?” which means, “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” And Jesus died. As the chorister sang the final chant, “Jesus remember me when you come into your kingdom!” Rev. Mary Lou did not extinguish the final candle but instead carried it down the center aisle, out of the sanctuary. This candle, or the Christ Candle as they called it, symbolized Christ’s absence from the world until it’s return on Easter Sunday. Even death does not extinguish the candle. A perfect metaphor for reincarnation and energy transfer if I’ve ever heard one.

In darkness, we sat in our pews in silence. The service ended, but everyone was allowed to linger in the church for as long as they liked.

There’s nothing better than a quiet, contemplative church.

After the singing is done and the talking stops, I feel that’s when a church comes alive. The wooden pews creek beneath your weight and the church breathes a deep sigh of release. That’s when I’ve experienced some of the most spiritual moments in my life.

Christ’s Triumphant Entry

Sunday, March 28, 2010

Bethany Evangelical Free Church

Palm Sunday Haiku

with palms made from

green construction paper palms

the kids parade

A Cathedral in the Cornfields

Saturday, March 20, 2010

As the road curved towards Beaverville, we noted the first sign of my familial connection to the area. A barn stenciled, “The Arseneau Farm 1912.” My mother’s maiden name is “Arseneau.” My Grandpa is Marvin Arseneau; born in Beaverville, Illinois in 1916. Many of the French Canadian families from this area, including mine, made the journey by boat down the St. Lawrence River through the Great Lakes from the Louisville area of Quebec, Canada in the 1800’s in search of farmland in the prairie.

On our journey down the asphalt highways from Wisconsin, Beaverville clings to the central Illinois flatlands like Hanover, Nebraska in Willa Cather’s O Pioneers!:

One January day, thirty years ago, the little town of Hanover, anchored on a windy Nebraska tableland, was trying not to be blown away. A mist of fine snowflakes was curling and eddying about the cluster of low drab buildings huddled on the gray prairie, under a gray sky.

Willa Cather, O Pioneers!

One March day, a couple weeks ago, the little town of Beaverville, less than 300 people strong, braved a cool North wind once more, after relaxing in unseasonalably warm spring temperatures.

As we pulled into Beaverville the first thing we noted was the large grain co-op along the railroad tracks. The railroad runs the length of town (about the length of a football field). Crossing Areseneau Street, a huge grain bin as tall as a small skyscraper looms across from the Beaverville Pub. Formerly Nick’s, this is where the men of the family would go after mass at the near by St. Mary’s Catholic Church (our destination).

Chicago architect, Joseph Molitor, built the current version of St. Mary’s Church in 1912, also known as “The Cathedral in the Cornfields.” A massive limestone structure with two large towers on either side of an immense round stained glass window and a broad conical dome, the cathedral is somewhat out of place among the humble homes of the townspeople. It is an eclectic mix of Romanesque, Renaissance, and Byzantine styles against a background of gray grain bins, endless cornfields, and 2-story family homes.

“My dad, your great-grandfather Leo, told me they brought in Indians to work on the tall towers and the dome,” Grandpa Aresneau has told me. “Can you imagine how they built that big of a building back then. They didn’t have cranes. It was all muscle.

To make his point, he flexes his withering biceps.

We drove into the driveway alongside the church pulling up to the rectory where Father Bob lives, the current priest. I arranged to meet with him that afternoon to search the old church records for my descendants. Hospitable and accommodating, Father Bob is a tall lanky man with short white hair and wire glasses.

According to Father Bob, a “Charles Arseneau” donated 25 acres of land to the building of the original church. Built in 1857, the original church stood in roughly the same site as the current one. Whether Charles was directly related to me or not isn’t sure. The founders of the church and town “consisted of … at least six Arseneau families.”

After researching records and taking pictures of family headstones in the cemetery, Michelle and I ended up reminiscing outside Baby Grandma’s house near the church. As a young boy growing up in northern Illinois for five years, I recall a couple trips to Beaverville to visit my great-grandmother, Madoza Areseneau, also affectionately referred to as “Baby Grandma” due to her size.  She was a short woman, only a little over 4 feet tall, but her friendly kindness made her larger than life. Her cute smile and her chuckling French accent would light up a room. She lived across the street from the church in a modest two-story prairie house where she cooked us “panny-cakes” for breakfast as I read Archie comic books on the floor. She passed away in 1987 at the age of 94 (my Grandpa’s age this year). The last time I was in Beaverville was for her funeral.

When then drove out of town following my Grandpa’s directions to the house where he was born and raised. The house is still there with an addition on the front. So is the windmill where he used to fetch water. And, of course, so are the cornfields. In March, all that’s left of last season’s crop are stumps of cornstalk. Miles and miles of stump cornstalks stretch out before you on these lonesome roads.

After a quick pizza supper in Morocco, Indiana, just a stones throw from my Grandpa’s old farm, we attended 5:30pm mass at St. Mary’s in Beaverville. With the large star-filled conical dome above you reflecting the oncoming nightfall outside, St. Mary’s is an awesome spiritual sight. Towering marble pillars connected by arches, numerous radiant stain glass windows depicting Mary’s’ life wavering in lingering sunlight, an ornate smaller inner half-dome over the altar reads “Venite Ad Me” (“ Come To Me”), and large circular paintings of popes and the holy family adorn the cathedral. This is the “High Church.”

Father Bob leads the mass from a large marble lectern near a statue of Mary, Jesus’ mother, her arms extended to the parish. The wooden pews and kneelers creak throughout the mass. About 20 people fill seats that could easily hold 200. It’s a strict Catholic mass that follows the doctrines laid out over the years:

1. Introductory Rites
2. Liturgy of the Word
   1. First Reading
   2. Second Reading
   3. Gospel
   4. Homily
3. Liturgy of the Eucharist
   1. Presentation of the Gifts (Wine, Water, Communion)
   2. Eucharistic Prayer
   3. Communion Rite
4. Concluding Rite

Father Bob then made my requested announcement: “We have a special guest in church tonight from Wisconsin. He’s the grandson of Marvin Arseneau and great-grandson of Leo and Madoza Arseneau. If you knew Marvin, Leo, and Madoza or any other family members from our parish, he would love to talk with you after mass.”

As mass concluded, about 6 or 7 people stopped by to say “Hi” and find out who the wayward Arseneau was. I met relatives I never knew I had and heard stories I had never heard.

“You know Madoza was so short and Leo was so tall that when they danced her nose was in his belly button.”

“Before Madoza passed away, the church held a wedding dress show, highlighting some of the beautiful old wedding dresses in the parish. Madoza stole the show. She was the only woman who could still fit in her dress! She was stunning!”

“I remember when Francis [my Grandpa’s brother] came home from the service. He was so handsome!” At this comment, the storyteller’s eyes twinkled. Uncle Francis is, and always has been, a real lady’s man, an immense flirt.

“Is Marvin still alive?” they asked. When I answered, yes, he lives with my Mom and Dad in Mayville, Wisconsin, everyone’s eyes became watery and they all exclaimed thanking God.

As we proceeded to leave the darkening church, one fellow put his arm around my shoulders, “I’m sure glad you stopped by. If you are ever in town again, please look us up and let us know. It’s great to see family.”

I dedicate this post to the “Cathedral in the Cornfields” (St. Mary’s Catholic Church), Beaverville, Illinois, and to my family – to those still with us, to those who aren’t, to those I know, and to those I don’t.

“Back In Church” Holy Week Marathon

Schedule:

Palm Sunday: Bethany Evangelical Free Church, (Blog Post Coming Soon)

Holy (Maundy) Thursday: Glenwood Moravian Community Church, 7:00pm

Good Friday: Grace Episcopalian Church, 6:30pm, Stations of the Cross

Holy Saturday: Assumption Greek Orthodox Church, 11pm, Orthros of the Resurrection, Resurrection, Divine Liturgy

Easter Sunday: Madison Pentecostal Assembly, 8:30am

5 Churches, 1 Week! See you at church!

Also, new blog post coming soon: St. Mary’s Catholic Church, Beaverille, Ill.

You and the United Church of Christ

Sunday, February 28, 2010

You step out of the car, unsure what to expect from this new church. Every Sunday has been a new religious adventure since your New Year’s resolution to visit a different church every Sunday. Every church has been a new insight into the people you work with, strangers you meet on the street, the people who inhabit the same bit of land you do. Each church strikingly similar in structure and ceremony; differing in outlooks and beliefs

You’re a nervous person when it comes to new experiences and every week has been a test of courage walking into a building full of strangers. Wondering who will approach you, peddling their faith. Your curiosity and a long-lived rebellious streak compel you every week to find new churches for your explorations.

This time the sign outside the church, beside a slanted cross implanted in the ground, announces the times for worship service at Plymouth Congregational United Church of Christ on Madison’s Eastside. You wonder which door to enter, the side door near the parking lot or the large front door facing the street. Which one will offer you the least conspicuous entrance. You choose the side door.

Unfortunately so has everyone else. You stand in a line of parishioners slowly shuffling past a greeter handing out the church bulletins, a smile exploding broadly across his face. Chatting with every parishioner, he goes about his duties with a religious fervor. The front entrance reveals no line with a bored, daydreaming greeter.

‘Damn it,’ you reflect.

Shuffled between a woman with a walker and man wearing a polyester suit, you realize this parish is a bit elderly. There are not a lot of people here; but the people who are here shine in silvery hair. You note you’re one of the few 30-somethings in the crowd. And below your age are few and far between. The entire crowd numbers somewhere between 20-30 people.

“Welcome to Plymouth,” the greeter extends you a bulletin. You take it eager to learn more about the United Church of Christ.

“I’ve never been here before; I’m new,” you state. “Which way to the service?” You feel stupid for even asking, but realize the greeter is excited to see a newcomer.

“Well, thank you for choosing to visit us here at Plymouth. We’re happy you stopped by. My name’s Ted. The service will begin in about five minutes, straight through the doors ahead in the chapel. Are you from the neighborhood? Please consider joining us for fellowship afterward in the basement.”

He’s too excited to see you.

You stroll into the chapel taking a seat in the middle of the back pew to the right of the center aisle. This is a very small church with only five short pews on either side of the aisle.

No one else is in your pew. But this doesn’t last for long. As 9:00am approaches a woman your Mom’s age sits to your left. A man sits to your right. He fits the stereotypical crunchy, Madison-hippy-leftover. Not granola; more chewing gravel and raising protests. Baby-boomer age, unwashed hair, impartial rugged beard, his dirty t-shirt exclaims “Impeach Bush.” He’s mumbling something under his breath.

‘Damn. Cornered,’ you think to yourself.

The service is broken into five sections:

I.      We Gather Seeking God’s Presence And Grace

You watch as a young boy about 11 is given a long extendable candle lighter and is quickly coached regarding the lighting of the candles. He’s then sent down the aisle to the altar where he lights the candles surrounding the altar. He quickly returns back to his seat proud of his achievement.

Pastor Charles takes the stage and welcomes us to service with a few announcements (Please note: Names have been changed.):

“Zippy Cotton is officially retired as of Friday. Please help think of activities with which Zippy can occupy her extra time.”

“Pert Pangcaster has resumed most of her activities although she continues to suffer the residual effects of shingles.”

“Wes Knodding successfully passed a stress test but picked up a cold in the process which has kept him out of exercise classes.”

You are excited to be part of a congregation enthused to be a part of the service. Everyone is verbose and responsive. You find the excitement and vigor of this parish contagious and energizing.

Earnestly you sing the hymn of praise, “I Will Lift the Cloud of Night.” Then, you join in the Prayer of Confession, concluding with, “O God, how can we receive mercy when we are often reluctant to pass it on? Forgive us, O God. Grant us mercy. Help us to re-center our lives in your love revealed to us in Christ. Amen.”

Your hippy neighbor gives a, “Hrmph-humpf.”

II.      We Rejoice In The Knowledge Of God’s Love

Pastor Charles assures the crowd of God’s love for us, “Even when we are enemies of the cross, the God of Jesus Christ does not give up on us.”

You are shocked when the hippy greases out a loud praising fart that ripples through the pew cushion you both share. You look at him and note the slight grin across his face. Everyone else has now noticed the hippy in the back pew as they uncomfortably adjust themselves trying to not look back, but can’t help but take a quick backward glance. God may not give up on us, but what the heck are we going to do about the farting hippy?

III.      We Hear God’s Word Of Justice And Grace

After reading today’s scripture, Luke 13: 31-35, Pastor Charles presents his sermon titled, “Conflicts with Herod.”  You are struck by his comparison of the 9-11 terrorists with the Christian search for Heaven. Adding comments regarding a weapons manufacturing firm imprinting biblical quotes on military rifles. He draws an interesting paradox between religious faith and fanatical fervor.

The hippy can’t “Hrmph-humpf” enough to these comments. Soon he’s standing, shuffling his feet, and heading out through the back door of the chapel.

IV.      We Respond To God’s Word With Faith And Gifts

After a few minutes, the hippy returns to his seat, uncrumples a brittle plastic bag filled with trail mix and begins eating raisins and nuts. Mildly annoying, you actually find his antics quite comical. You’re not sure if everyone else would agree with your sense of comedy.

Drowning out the hippy’s crackling bag and crunching mouth, the congregation loudly recites the Lord’s Prayer.

V.      We Go Forth To Share Good News With Others

Pastor Charles leads everyone in a rousing rendition of “Gather Us, Your Children”:

“Gather us, your children, safe beneath your wings; Rescue us from bondage to our earthly things.”

Relieved of gas and hunger fulfilled, the hippy decides this is a good time to leave the church again. This time he gathers his belongings, rumpled bag of trail mix, bulletin, and heads out the door.

You breathe a sigh of relief and receive Pastor Charles’ benediction,

“Go now in peace. Never be afraid.”

As the parishioners leave the chapel, you stay seated and enjoy the organ postlude. The deep, dark tone of the pipe organ conjures up deep thoughts and meditation.

Ted, the church greeter, sneaks up behind you, “What did you think?”

“It was nice,” you say. “Very reflective; stimulating.”

He then introduces you to Pastor Charles.

“What’s your name?” Pastor Charles asks.

“Mitch, Mitch Freund,” you reply.

“Ah, it’s great to have another ‘Friend’, he says.

“Well, actually its spelled F-r-e-u-n-d,” you correct him. “But we pronounce it ‘Friend’.”

“Well that’s ‘friend’ in German.”

After years of explanations, you assure him you know this.

“That’s a good German name,” he states.

The Frank Lloyd Wright Church

Sunday, February 21, 2010

“I’m going to go to the Frank Lloyd Wright church,” I stated with anticipation.

“I’m going to go with you,” Michelle jumped in.

So far on my journey of churches, Michelle has not joined me on my explorations.

But this church was different.

The “Frank Lloyd Wright church” in Madison, Wisconsin is the home of the First Unitarian Society of Madison, the largest Unitarian Universalist congregation in the country. Known more as a “Meeting House” than a “Church,” the original building was designed by Wisconsin’s, Frank Lloyd Wright in 1946; construction was completed in 1951. In 2004, the building was officially declared a National Historic Landmark.

Due to a growing parish and tight quarters in the FLW building, the parish created a new “green” Meeting House connected to the original. Constructed in 2008 by Kubala Washatko Architects, the new Meeting House is cozy with warm wood and red mud tones, balcony seating, efficacious windows, and omniscient space between floor and ceiling.

This church was different.

In fact, the Unitarians are not only known as a “Congregation” or a “Parish” but readily interchange the terms with “Society” or “Community.” Unitarian Universalists are not recognized as a Christian denomination, though they are derived from a liberal combination of Christian and Jewish traditions, they also add a mix of other religious traditions. An interesting mixture for sure!

As I’ve said, this church was different.

And Michelle likes different, and that’s just one of the many things I like about Michelle. Michelle and I have been together now for over 16 wonderfully, exciting years. So I was wonderfully excited that she would be joining me on my next church adventure.

From my brief research, the basic synopsis of Unitarian Universalist beliefs are:

• Unitarians believe that personal experience, conscience, and reason should be the final authorities in religion. This differs from most Christian churches I’ve experienced who believe God/Jesus Christ and the Bible are the final authority in religion and in life. A Unitarian brochure I picked up stated, “In the end religious authority lies not in a book, person, or institution, but in ourselves.”
• Unitarians encourage an open dialogue on questions of faith.
• Unitarians believe people should be encouraged to think for themselves.
• Unitarian Universalists believe in the worth and dignity of every person – hetero, gay, lesbian, bisexual, transgender, man, women, young, old, black, white. Anybody.

During the whole hour-long service I didn’t hear one mention of “Jesus” or “God” or “The Devil” or “Heaven” or “Hell.” Except in the traditional gospel hymns the teen choir sang at choral interludes. This nervous bunch of teenagers sang each rousing spiritual to reveling family and friends. From my understanding, concepts about “diety” are diverse within Unitarian Universalism. Some believe there is no god, some believe in many gods, some believe God as a metaphor, some believe in a female god, some believe in nature as god. Belief in a “God” is welcomed but not required in this church.

Overall, the service had a similar structure to other Christian traditions with opening and closing hymns, a sermon, the shaking of hands, and times for prayer/contemplation. Although there was the “Sounding of the Gong” at the beginning used for centering the parish. Then there was also the Lighting of the Chalice. The Chalice was a contemporary sculpture of intersecting wooden arches, which stood about 2 feet high with an oil lamp in the middle of it. From my research, the flaming chalice is the symbol of the Unitarian Universalist religion.

The service was lead by Kelly, one of three ministers. At one point she gathered the children of the parish to the altar for a story/teaching lesson. I noted this practice at Methodist and Presbyterian services as well. After the teaching/story, the children are escorted out of the hall for Sunday school.

Today’s story was an adaptation of “Sylvester and the Magic Pebble.” The story centered on Sylvester, a boy who collects pebbles “of unusual shape and color.” One day he stumbles upon a pebble that grants wishes. All the sudden a hungry lion is charging at him and in his haste he wishes he were a rock. “Poof” he becomes a rock. Well, he’s safe from the lion now, but unfortunately, as rock, the pebble falls away from him. Not in contact with the pebble, he can no longer turn back into a kid. He becomes quite sad as a rock. His parents can’t figure out what happened and mourn the loss of their child. One day, to cheer themselves up they go on a picnic. While picnicking on top of a large rock (aka Sylvester) they pick up a beautiful pebble they find near by and place it on the rock. “Gee, wouldn’t our wonderful son love this pebble of unusual shape and color?” And “Poof” Sylvester is able to wish himself back into a kid. And they all live happily ever after.

After a couple hymns and some poetry, Kelly offered her sermon, or as it was called in this church, “Reflection.”  Her reflection was titled, “Re-enchanting the World” and focused on finding “magic and joy” in a world that has become dull due to adulthood. To emphasize her point Kelly relayed stories about people who are changing the world for the better.

One story was about Will Allen, CEO of Growing Power in Milwaukee, Wisconsin. Allen’s Growing Power created a farm in inner city Milwaukee that provides disadvantaged urban populations with organic food and agricultural experiences. In fact, Allen spoke about his experiences and his organization at the First Unitarian Society in Madison on March 9.

During an enchanting flute solo, ushers passed around the collection baskets. Today’s collection, or “Outreach Offerings” as they called them, were going to be donated to the Okiciyapi Tipi Disaster Fund serving the emergency needs of people on the Cheyenne River Reservation. A few years ago, a strong relationship was formed when members of the church’s Youth Group traveled to the reservation on a Habitat for Humanity project. This winter, the reservation community suffered tremendous damage to their water and electrical systems due to terrible winter storms. The offering collected at the service would contribute to helping repair homes and systems.

Up next was a Testimonial by parishioner, Mark. Mark was not only a parishioner, but also a City of Madison Alderman and local computer programming entrepreneur. He relayed his story about how he and his family joined the First Unitarian Society of Madison a few years ago. Surprisingly to me, he confessed his love for the Frank Lloyd Wright Meeting House, and how he didn’t feel at home in the new Meeting House. I was impressed by his sincerity and candor in the face of his congregation. I realized this was a place of openness and acceptance, even if your views may not match those of others.

This was a church that was different.

This church asked you to not wear perfume or scented oils because some members of the parish are “chemically sensitive.’ This is a church that is offering a “Teen Defensive Driving Class” with a certified Environmental Safety and Health Trainer. This is a church bringing in the “Raging Grannies” to sing satiric protest songs at their upcoming LBGTQ potluck.

After service, Michelle and I were fascinated. Born a Lutheran, but raised in no religion, Michelle found a church she could accept. Ever the Catholic, I was more pessimistic.

“Where was the structure, the backbone,” I stated. “Where’s the moral compass? The guilt-inducers?

“I’m going to join their choir,” Michelle informed me. “I’m going to get them to sing Polyphonic Spree songs.”

As open and accepting as the First Unitarian Society of Madison is; I’m sure they will. They are just that different.