At least I think it is a Church of God of Prophecy. The sign, which has stood as a sentry next to the sidewalk for years, is draped with a new vinyl cover, held in place with bungee cords, and sporting a non-descript, new generic name. I’m glad that the service times are printed on the sign in bright red colors as I hadn't found a website for either the new church name or the old one.
I’m not real comfortable this Sunday morning. As I’ve stated in the preview post, I have a grudge that goes back a few decades for the way this church and denomination handled a situation with their senior pastor and his son, my friend. I feel both defensive and loyal, which I realize weighs against the occupants of this church building even though I imagine there has been a significant turnover in the past 20 years.
They didn’t exactly roll out the red carpet or put out the welcome mat for me. One gentleman did shake my hand at the door and another followed me to the pew and pressed his hand into mine while giving his name. With both I felt that they were checking me out, not really being friendly; then again, I could just be paranoid.
There is no bulletin, no visitor card, no instructions for guests, and no sharing of the Peace. Once I leave after the service it will be harder for this church to follow up with me than it was for me to find out information about them.
The pastor is a gregarious man, much larger than life. He resembles a cross between the white-suited Boss Hogg from the Duke’s of Hazard and similarly clothed holiness preacher from the movie, The Apostle played by Robert Duvall. His voice carries over the congregation of the 70 or so people and he has no need for the wireless microphone that looks as if it was borrowed from a telemarketer.
The worship team has its own special set of wireless microphones that resemble Blow Pops, with a rainbow selection of round, foam windshields topping each one. The six singers all have their own assigned color, which must make it easier for the sound man to dial in their individual settings. The two men on the team, one tenor and one bass, hold very still during the song service- their feet don’t move, their smiles don’t change, the only way I know they aren’t the frozen chosen is that they occasionally open and shut their eyes while moving their lips. Three of the four women are dressed very conservatively. Their dresses travel from north of their necklines to south of their knees. They appear to represent the holiness quotient of the team. It is the fourth woman that holds my attention. She is dressed in a wild TigersBlood print dress and bounces around the stage like spring-tailed Tigger or a coked-up Charlie Sheen. Her lime green microphone and hand motions give away that she is the Pentecostal cheerleader for the congregation.
This church seems overly focused on style and severely lacking in substance. The pastor ends each sentence with an exclamation point and seems perturbed that he isn’t getting the same energy in return. “Have you guys been baptized in pickle juice this morning?” he chides. “Why the frowns?”
At least for me I’m sure I’m scowling because of direction of the message. Even though the season of Lent is historically about connecting with humility, sacrifice and death, this pastor declared they were skipping directly to the Easter message and would stay there until Easter Sunday. He verbally knocks the church down the street that has a representation of the Savior on their crucifix. He points out that the cross on the church wall behind himself is empty. He gets theatrical about the empty tomb as well, telling the congregation that you can go to Jerusalem and see the stone that had been in front of Jesus’ tomb for three days now some 50-60 feet up the hillside where the angels had launched it.
I’m beginning to understand my disconnect—the songs have all been about victory, the prayers have all been about healing, the message only about the resurrection. I’m not sure if this pastor has noticed, but three of the older ladies in his congregation are on portable oxygen machines that they carry into his service. They are dealing with deterioration and facing death. He can continue to claim healing until he is as blue in the face as his tenor’s microphone, but it won’t cause a fountain of youth to spring up in our neighborhood. I don’t like what I’m being asked to drink.
The illustrations the pastor used are all canned, like this one.
A young man who was graduating from college wanted a new car for his graduation gift. Finally, graduation day arrived, and his dad handed him a box. He opened it with anticipation, only to find a Bible inside. He was so angry and disappointed that he handed the box to his dad, walked away, and never spoke to him again. Years later, his father died, and it was his responsibility to go to his father's home to put his affairs in order. As he was looking through papers on his desk, he spotted the box. He opened it up, and sure enough, there was the Bible his father had given him. For the first time, he opened the Bible. There inside the Bible was an envelope. He opened it and found a cashier's check dated the same day as his graduation and made out for the exact amount of the car.
It was easier to find this story on BibleStudyTools.com then it is to find this Church of God of Prophesy online. I found another of the illustrations on inspirationalarchive.com and the third on sermoncentral.com.
I’m sad for the pastor as he wraps things up. He tries to give an alter call after promoting what an important decision he is asking us to make, but then tells us all to close our eyes because it “isn’t anyone else’s business.” He asks everybody to repeat his prayer out loud. The congregation has it down by rote. He invites people to come down to the altar; nobody moves. I make my way to the door.
I’m visiting the churches in my neighborhood this year, dealing with my biases, hoping to get to know my neighbors and understand them better. When I left the service on this particular Sunday, I knew I was moving in the opposite direction with this church.
I decided to talk to my friend who grew up in this denomination. His phone call helped me understand more of the CoGoP history, the organizational structure, and the pressure that these pastors are under. It gave me some empathy, enough that I think I could sit down with this pastor and have a discussion with him without being angry. Before reaching out to my friend for help, that wouldn’t have happened.
Some weekends this is a longer journey than I imagined.
