Mega-Church

Except for an occasional sporting event or news program, I am not a frequent television watcher, an embarrassing admission when you consider that my older son earns a living as a film editor. Like many males, however, I am guilty of periodically planting myself in front of our modest 28-inch flat screen and surfing through the wastefully abundant one-hundred-plus channels at my disposal, just to see what's on, rarely pausing more than ten seconds on any particular selection, a habit that never fails to elicit from my wife, when she can bear to stay in the room, exclamations of unmitigated rage.

Several times in recent weeks, while engaged in such exercises, I found myself lingering over a broadcast which not merely attracted my attention but so fascinated and intrigued me that I actually put down the remote for a good fifteen minutes: Sunday morning church services at Thomas Road Baptist Church.

The orchestra, the choir, the hymns, the stage production, the energy -- which even the filter of television could not dissipate -- the poised performance of Reverend Jonathan Falwell, all seemed more theater than theology, more entertainment than edification, more revelry than religion -- more watchable, really, than the dismal alternatives I had summarily discarded: the controlled, insulated violence of clashing football pads and helmets, punctuated by innumerable replays and interminable interruptions; the feverish fluency, expert eloquence, and plastic pronouncements emanating continuously from a bevy of talking heads; the inane, tasteless, slapstick humor of situational comedy; the artificial, hyperbolic, melodramatic depiction of afflicted lives whipsawed between triumph and tragedy and conveyed through the magnified facial expressions and cliched dialogue of every player; and any one of an overwhelming supply of narcoleptic B-movies, whose convoluted and incomprehensible plotlines demanded a more serious and extensive allocation of time and attention than this random viewer was willing to invest.

I thought to myself: if Thomas Road is this affecting on television, I wonder what it's like in the flesh -- as in the spirit made flesh.

My barber, Dickie P., is an interesting character. He's short, stocky, amiable, with a sly grin, pudgy cheeks, and a twinkle in his eye, a Santa Claus without the beard. He's a wellspring of local gossip (where better to unveil your innermost thoughts and secrets than in the comfort of a barber's chair?), a loyal, outspoken Conservative Republican, and a shrewd practitioner of his art, always managing to leave just enough foliage to necessitate a return visit to his shop every two-and-a-half weeks, a talent that has apparently served him well: he has a swimming pool (or had one; it's now full of dirt, but that's another story), owns a 1956 antique Thunderbird (concerning which, my query, "How much did you pay for it?" evoked the response, "I can't tell you how much I paid for it, but I'll tell you how much I want for it."), and drives a late-model shiny black Mercedes. A modulated aggressiveness lurks beneath his easy banter, a remnant, I suspect (but cannot prove), of an adventuresome and rakish past. Now, however, he's a bona fide, born-again, devoted Falwell acolyte, and, I recently learned, a church usher. When I mentioned that I might like to attend a Sunday service, his excitement was irrepressible.

"Come on over any time, Mr. Schewel," he exhorted, dreams of conversion dancing in his brain. "I'll show you around. But it's best to come at 8:15, when the crowd is manageable," he cautioned. "OK," I replied. "I'll be there, one of these days."

And so, I went, Sunday, November 4th, Friend's Day, as it turned out, auspiciously enough, but with a delayed launch time of 9:00, giving me the opportunity -- after I had arrived an hour earlier -- to savor a bracing cup of coffee at Starbucks, in case I might be tempted to doze off during the service, a totally unnecessary precaution, as it turned out.

At this juncture, it would seem appropriate to offer a few comments about my own religious beliefs. I do not intend to wax prolifically on this subject, simply because I am not as conversant in the tenets of my professed faith -- Judaism -- as I ought to be, although I was raised Jewish, attended religious school for ten years, was Bar Mitzvahed and confirmed, observe -- at least symbolically -- the major Jewish Holy Days (Rosh Hashanah, Yom Kippur, Hanukkah, and Passover), and support Jewish charitable organizations. If challenged to articulate the difference between Judaism and Christianity, my feeble, superficial answer would sound like this: Jews believe in the Word of God as revealed through a book, the Torah, and subsequent prophetic and rabbinical commentary on same; Christians -- with significant sectarian variations -- believe in the Word of God -- and the promise of salvation and eternal life -- as revealed through the birth, death, resurrection, and teachings of His Son, Jesus Christ.

Both religions present dilemmas for me. While reluctant to categorize myself as an atheist or agnostic, the term I prefer, skeptic, is, I admit, nothing more than a euphemistic avoidance of those pejorative labels, for which I would cautiously submit the following backdoor definition: a belief in a primary life-force is not a prerequisite for me to appreciate the miracle of creation, the wonder of the universe, the beauty of nature, the power of love, the rewards of righteousness, the joy of giving, or the mystery of mortality. And if it's one leap of faith to envision an omniscient, omnipotent, omnipresent deity, it's even more problematic to contemplate that deity incarnate.

That's enough on that subject. My trip to Thomas Road is strictly curiosity-driven.

Any uneasiness I might have anticipated is immediately dispelled by the gracious reception extended to me (and every other congregant). Here is a giant, jolly teddy-bear reaching out to smother me in a protective embrace and gather me to its bountiful bosom. As I climb the short stairway from the lower parking lot, two Wal-Mart-like -- but decidedly more youthful -- sentinels flash glittering smiles and repeat the formulaic yet nonetheless effective salutation: "Welcome to Thomas Road Baptist Church. Thank you for coming this morning." The sky is clear, the air cool and crisp, and I wonder whether they man their posts as faithfully in the cold, rain, and wind. Their hospitableness is reinforced by the fortuitous appearance of my friend Dickie P., ecstatic (and probably surprised) at seeing me, and only too eager to conduct me on a personal tour of the premises.

The imposing neo-colonial facade and entrance is Lynchburg's newest landmark. Four massive columns support a large overhanging porch that rises to a triangular peak fifty or sixty feet high and is flanked on either side by similar three-columned structures -- the naves of the cross, I assume. Of course, this is the former G.E.-Ericsson home, miraculously transformed -- by faith, prayer, and some outlandish gifts -- from a dour, industrial building into a sprawling, yet tasteful, religious and educational complex.

While the expansive lobby's quaint appellation, Main Street, conjures up visions of a small-town nostalgia, its design, amenities, and spaciousness are, to me, more suggestive of a luxurious (dare I say Las-Vegas-style?) resort hotel. Located on each side of the aisle are intimate social areas, with sofas and chairs arranged for conversation or study (on quieter days). Even at 8:35, twenty-five minutes before the service is to start, this town center is a crowded, bustling, flurry of activity, as people greet friends and acquaintances. The focal point is a coffee and refreshment bar doing a brisk business, oddly replicating the Starbucks I had so recently patronized, and a striking image of the pervasive, inviting, customer-friendly ambiance. Main Street is as much an interactive, social destination as it is a church site, as evidenced by the fact that, as I later learned, it is open twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week.

My guide is justifiably proud of the place. He points out two elaborate children's play areas -- one indoors, one outdoors -- each stocked with enough slides, tubes, see-saws, and climbing equipment to put a half-dozen McDonald's to shame. He insists I peek into the Sam Pate Chapel -- a small church in itself -- where the choir -- a small congregation in itself -- is rehearsing its repertoire. He leads me through a maze of Sunday school classrooms, where the walls, desks, tables, and play-to-learn paraphernalia are as bright, sparkling, clean, and colorful as the children milling about.

I beg off a tour of Lynchburg Christian Academy and its indoor track and gymnasium, having seen those facilities a few months before while attending a breakfast meeting, and an introduction to Jonathan Falwell, who, I fear, will remember a joke I told about his father (he was still alive then) on the same occasion, to which, I was informed, his reaction was a suppressed grimace.

Dickie directs me into the auditorium from a side door adjacent to the stage, which gives me the opportunity to take in all 6000 seats -- including 1000 in the balcony -- from the pastor's point of view. Even if one supposes only a two-third's occupancy during the course of three morning services (on a normal Sunday), that 12,000 attendance figure represents a significant percentage (over ten) of Lynchburg's population. And it does not include any of the 9000 Liberty University student body, who, I am told, worship en masse at the Vines Center.

I take a seat slightly left of center and no more than ten rows from the stage. If this is to be my first and last visit, I certainly don't want to miss anything.

My attention is immediately drawn to two large television screens suspended high on either side of the stage, which are displaying silent, continuous announcements of a multitude of church programs: Christmas Eve Services, a Women's United for Christ Fitness Program, Mountain Blend (coffee, I assume) Tuesday Morning Bible Study, Mother's Morning Out, the Virginia Christmas Spectacular, LCA Choir in Concert, Thomas Road Flea Market, Kid's Sports Leagues, the Singles Ministry, the Barrick Family Revelation Celebration. No wonder Main Street is open around the clock.

The twenty-piece orchestra -- complete with strings, brass, percussion, and conductor -- takes its place in the center of the stage. The two-hundred-member choir positions itself in eight ascending rows on either side, not its usual station, I understand, which is a more dramatic arrangement on a proscenium now hidden by a black curtain and which has been usurped by the rapidly growing Living Christmas Tree, a spectacular production which I have yet to experience. The choir, even as it is, duly impresses me.

Three other objects occupy the stage: the pulpit, a fixture for the portly former pastor, but largely abandoned by his youthful, roving successor; a large upholstered pull-up chair, for the pastor's relaxation during musical interludes; and a kingsize i-pod, the metaphorical inspiration for the pastor's recent series of sermons (the last of which I will hear this morning): Life Lessons for the I-Pod Generation.

That series wasn't designed for me: I have no ear for music, do not listen to music (except as a last resort, when all AM talk radio signals have faded into a deafening static), and blithely confess a tuneless ignorance when it comes to Christian or gospel melodies. But, honestly, who would not be moved to exhilaration if not rapture by the symphonic strains of the orchestra, the soaring harmonies of the vocalists, and mellifluent tones of Charles Billingsley? As they break into song, most of the hymns are of a hand-clapping, toe-tapping, head-shaking variety that seems to combine all the elements of rock, country, and jazz in a melting pot reflective of the diversity of the 5000-member audience. Reverend Jonathan smoothly ramps up the enthusiasm with his rhythmic bodily accompaniment, a signal to his disciples to join in.

As the words flash up on the screen, I try to digest the titles or refrains: I Exalt Thee; To Only a God Like You Do I Give my Praise; These Are the Days of Elijah (in the words of Master Billingsley, one of our favorites, and with a familiar Old Testament reference, too); How Great is our God. And, later in the service, Oh the Wonderful Cross, and an emotional Billingsley solo, I Believe in a Hill Called Mount Calvary, which wrings beads of perspiration from his forehead and builds to a soul-stirring climax, at which point he implores his impassioned devotees to rise and sing along.

Religion and salvation come easily here. There are no cumbersome hymnals or prayer books to hoist and manipulate. You sit (or stand, when instructed), absorb the music and message almost by osmosis, gaze hungrily at the television, if you choose, to follow the song lyrics and the pastor's key points, and passively allow the service to rush over you, cleansing you of sin and soil -- that is, if you accept Jesus Christ as your Savior. In all fairness, I have been informed that more ambitious congregants will attend Thomas Road's Sunday School, where they are exposed to rigorous courses in theology and scripture.

Jonathan Falwell is a polished, professional preacher. He does not confine himself to the pulpit and read from a prepared text, but cuts himself loose like an eagle from its nest and roams the broad platform, addressing the huge assemblage in a pleasing, conversational manner. I watch his eyes to see if he is referring to the teleprompters nestled beneath the lip of the stage; but, no, either he has memorized his sermon or is a remarkably gifted extemporaneous speaker, whose words roll off his silky tongue like waves washing ashore with never a pause, misstatement, or ellipsis for thirty-five uninterrupted minutes.

Having watched Jonathan on television, I know by now that he structures his sermons logically, by identifying specific topics and explicating them using Biblical references. I also know that, although the themes ostensibly vary, the message, ultimately, is repetitive. This is not in any way meant to disparage the energy, expertise, or sincerity which he invariably projects.

This Sunday's life lesson is on prayer, the last of the i-truths, which you might think puts me at a disadvantage, since I haven't heard about the others; then again, all the New Testament (and most of the Old) -- from which Jonathan will quote frequently -- is foreign to me. Furthermore, prayer is not in my realm of behavior, nor do I believe in its efficacy -- when conducted by preachers or anyone else. Jonathan has some real convincing to do.

The sermon is previewed by a brief video, which is intended to illustrate the futility of praying for material gain. It features a familiar Liberty professor posing as a genie, the humor of whose role-playing is lost on me since I don't know this individual.

Stretching for differentiation in my view, Jonathan defines prayer as our ability to call on God in our time of need, our opportunity to depend on God, a time to commune with God, and the realization that we need God's help in our lives. He introduces five principles of prayer, cleverly employing the acronym i-p-r-a-y, and uses verses from the Bible -- all New Testament, I believe -- to develop each principle.

Prayer is an individual choice. Prayer is a personal conversation -- with the God who loves you. Prayer expresses our relationship to God and -- the crux of the matter -- it is a relationship based on the salvation granted us by a merciful God, who saves and cleanses us only by that mercy and not by our works or righteousness. (I know this is what Christians believe, yet it startles me in its bare simplicity.) In prayer we are given God's assurance that he can count on us (for what, I wonder, other than to believe, which is all that is really required). And, finally, in prayer we yield to God, give our lives to Him, that is, to Christ, who died for our sins.

It seems to me that one could take any number of words -- not just those beginning with i-p-r-a-y -- and construct a vocabulary that would enable one to understand prayer. But that's not the point. If a listener can remember "i-pray," then he has a reasonable chance of remembering five words -- individual, personal, relationship, assurance, and yield -- which, today, offer him a pathway to grasping the Christian concept of prayer. In that sense, the message is clear and perfected.

The conclusion is inevitable and -- not to sound cynical -- probably the same one that any number of these sermons portend. Jonathan's five principles of prayer are valid only if one accepts without reservation God's love through Christ and surrenders to it. And so he beckons those in the audience not yet saved to come forward to the altar and receive that love, asking other congregants to close their eyes, so prospective converts will not be intimidated or embarrassed.

Not surprisingly, about twenty persons make their way to the stage, where they are welcomed by Jonathan as brothers or sisters in Christ. If others feel the urge but are still reluctant to make a public declaration, they have only to complete the form conveniently provided in every pew and turn it in to a church official, and the pastor will give each and every one a personal call.

As I stand and watch the proceedings draw to a close, I am struck by two compelling revelations of my own. First, the summons to salvation is very seductive; all that is required here today is faith, submission, and acceptance. And as one looks around and studies the thousands who have rejoiced in song, sermon, and show, who exult in a love of God which inspirits their minds and invigorates their bodies, and who fear not death, confidently anticipating a glorious resurrection, he is sorely tempted to join the party.

Finally, the presence of the late Dr. Jerry Falwell is palpable; he smiles upon and blesses his creation like a proud father; he permeates the atmosphere and circulates through the prayer venues, classrooms, and social spaces like -- excuse the analogy -- a Holy Ghost. One cannot enter the place and behold its grandeur and substance without reflecting on the passion, genius, determination, and vision that created this huge enterprise. However one views the man's politics, his sanctimonious morality, and his self-aggrandizement, one cannot help but admire his monumental achievement and respect his powerful legacy.