Evangelical Lutherans

       I still had another church to visit, and I really didn’t want to wake up that morning. I had worked the night before and was so amped up afterwards I couldn’t sleep until about twelve at night. I know that, as a college student, that’s still early, but, for me, it’s late. However, despite my sluggishness, I was able to roll out of bed, take my shower, and put something on; which was a good thing, because it would’ve been awkward still going if I hadn’t. I decided this time though not to go too over-dressed. I had to remember, “This is Oregon.” So, I threw on a blue polo shirt, a brown cardigan-esque Cabela sweater, and some kaki slacks. I figured it was yuppie enough, without being too formal. My ex had gotten sick during the week, so this time I had to rough it alone.

       The truth is, I hadn’t done any research on any particular church before visiting. I basically just jumped in my car and drove till I found one I liked. Then I spotted it, the perfect church to contrast with my last one, the Beautiful Savior Evangelical Lutheran Church located on Walnut & 13^th Street. I remember reading the words, “Evangelical,” and thinking, “That’s it!” Honestly, though, it actually scared the crap out of me. I suppose the main reason I had gone along with my ex the last time, was because churches scare me. I haven’t had very many good experiences in the past; so, this time, going it alone, into an evangelical church, would be figuratively and possibly literally like going into the depths of the lion’s den. However, despite my nervousness, I didn’t chicken out—although, I did go back to my apartment for a second to jump into some nicer clothes. If I was going to go, I was going to make sure I at least looked the part, or I at least had a tie in case they had a shirt and tie policy.

       Thinking back on it now, I don’t know if I really made that great of an impression. I arrived at the church about five minutes before the sermon was scheduled to begin. I waved at one of the gentlemen who had gone outside to grab his Bible from his car. “Hello.” I said. “How’re you doing? Did they already start yet?” I asked in my most Caucasian sounding dialect.

“Nope. You’re still good.” He yelled back smiling.

I laughed politely, and I thanked him as he held the door for me to enter.

As I went inside, I noticed that there was no reception desk to meet me, just two guys handing out pamphlets. One was a doe-eyed young kid, roughly about my age, dressed casually in a blue polo shirt and slacks. The other was a man in his fifties in a brown suit and tie. They both looked surprised to see me. Come to think of it, there weren’t that many cars in the parking lot.

“Hello.” The older man said. “How are you today?”

“I’m fine.” I said. “I just came out here to see what this place was like.”

I was too afraid to tell him the truth. I thought that if I told him I was there to observe how they worshipped, simply for some school paper, they’d be like, “Nah, I’d rather you leave.” I wanted to observe, so I shut up.

“Well that’s nice.” He said. “Are you a member of the wells?”

I stared at him for a second, trying to process his question. “The what?” I said.

“The wells—are you wells?” He repeated.

I had no idea what he was talking about.

“Uhh…No? I don’t think so. I’m Hispanic.” I said, thinking he was asking me about my race or ethnicity. I swore I thought he was saying Welsh or something; although, I don’t know why someone would ask me if I’m Welsh.

“Uh huh…No, wells, W.E.L.S.” He spelled out for me patiently.

It turned out that “wells” meant “WELS”, which stood for Wisconsin Evangelical Lutheran Synod. They were doing communion that morning and only members affiliated with “WELS” could participate. I humbly apologized for my misunderstanding, and we both laughed it off. I asked him if I could still attend. He smiled and told me, “Of course.” And he politely handed me a pamphlet and showed me to a seat in the back row. The kid never spoke a word beyond hello. I took my seat and waited for the sermon to begin.

       I looked at the pamphlet I was given. Compared to the last church, this one was basically a graphic novel. There was also a slightly intimidating picture of Jesus on the cover. His head was all glowing. “This could easily turn ugly.” I thought. So, I felt I had to be highly respectful; these people were serious. I felt like I had infiltrated their base, and was planning on learning all their secrets. I suppose in a sense I was. I wanted to know, why these seemingly normal people would believe in such weird and mystical things. Whatever it was, basically every single line anyone there was expected to say or follow, from sing to stand, was written out on that pamphlet.

       The service began with music. Somewhere in the room someone started playing the piano; however, I couldn’t tell from where. Then, suddenly, as if on cue, everyone in the room started singing; however, no one stood up. They just sang under their breath and continued to stare straight forward. I lip sang, while I looked around the room. Not a single person attempted to make eye contact, not even the old lady in the seat next to me. I was hoping my presence wasn’t making that big of an impact, but since no one even seemed to pay me any mind, I figured it was just their way. So, I went with the flow, sat straight up, and put on the most somber face I had.

       When the music ended, everyone stood up. A male priest in a white gown with some purple sash around his neck began the confession. Apparently I am an extremely sinful person who deserves God’s eternal damnation, and I’m sorry. I spoke the words, but I found them kind of odd. “They don’t even know me.” I thought indignantly. I also found it odd when the choir began to sing: not because they sounded bad, but more so from where they were singing, directly behind me, where no one could see them. I suppose they wanted to remain anonymous, inconspicuous, or non-ostentatious.

       I was beginning to feel a little uncomfortable. Also, the fact that I was probably the only minority in the room, made me feel a little isolated. There was a complete lack of diversity. When they started communion I felt even more isolated. As each group of five was given their communion, they each passed down the isle right past where I was sitting. Once again, not a single person made eye contact. I felt like a heathen sitting in the back row, and even though to some extent I am, I didn’t like feeling like it. When it was all over, everyone was all smiles once again, and I felt a little relieved that it wasn’t just me. I waited for the room to clear out from the front to the back, and I was the last one to shake the priest’s hand. I thanked him for the service and the opportunity to be there, and I told him about how interesting I had found it. “If he only knew how much.” I thought. I was still too nervous to mention I was only there for a school project, and somehow I suspect they expect me back next week. I don’t think that I will be attending though. I hope they won’t be too disappointed.

       Anyways, moving on, I remember one of the Unitarian administrators telling me that their church had a hard time attracting members from the working and lower classes. Now, that could very well be for many reasons, to include location and the lack thereof within the general vicinity to even join. I suppose the main difference in styles between this church and the Unitarian one is that they both speak to people on different levels. The Unitarians try to approach people on an intellectual level, to get them involved and thinking. The Evangelicals speak to people on an emotional level, scare the crap out of them, and get them to give in to what they’re thinking. In any sense as the sermon went on, I found myself enthralled. It was very fiery, and although the priest never seemed to let his voice reach higher than a monotonous drone I hung onto every word. It was very attractive, and it may have been that whole “something” I had felt missing from before. I had found it here, but I didn’t like it. In fact, it scared the hell out of me.

       I remember thinking about how much each person in that room seemed so serious, seemed so sure in what they believed; knowing everything I do, it was enough to make me doubt myself, if even just a little. That must be what blind faith is all about, when emotions are so strong and so powerful they can hold complete control over how you live your life that no amount of facts, scientific evidence, or reason can make you think even for a second that they might be wrong. Had I been brought up this way, if I had believed in anything he was saying, I could easily have found myself joining the “WELS” that day and going to church every Sunday, just in case those emotions, that blind faith might possibly be true.

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