George Beres: An Easter Service at a Fundamentalist Church

[After a career as publicist for college athletics (Northwestern and Oregon), the writer became manager of the Speakers Bureau at the University of Oregon. He now is an investigative journalist, with sons as TV newsmen in Madison, Wis., and Nashville.]

Revelations. I know that as a chapter in the Christian bible.

Revelation. That's what I had when in early April I for the first time attended an Easter service in a fundamentalist Christian church in Eugene. The Easter morning experience was unique for me-- maybe because my adult views are more agnostic, tempered by weekly involvement in the Unitarian Church. Still, for most of my life, the Easter drama has been a familiar annual event.

As a boy in Illinois, it was an interesting mix for me. I'd sing in the foreign language of a candlelit Resurrection Service at midnight in All Saints Greek Orthodox Church of Peoria. Then on those Sundays (once every four years) when the Easter of East and West were celebrated the same day, I'd have a place later in the morning in another choir. This time it was St. Paul Episcopal Church. There the words were English.

As I matured, I found concepts of those words-- even when in my native tongue of the Anglican Church-- to be as confusing as in the Greek. I committed to memory prayers in both languages, and recited them with the congregation. Some still linger in my head. These concepts, as I began to give them thought beyond routine recitation, started to raise doubts. That led to my questioning what other regulars in church seemed to accept as dogma-- a matter of faith to not be questioned.

It hit home this Easter, when I was a curious visitor in a new church environment. Dominant impression was of how warm and welcoming church members were to me, a newcomer. It was genuine, as was the way they greeted each other. The setting was different. No altar, but a stage for a five-piece combo and five woman singers, modern incarnation of the old church choir and pipe organ of my youth.

There were no traditional anthems, but mainly up-tempo hymns which had even this stranger moving in rhythm. No hymn books, as words to the music were projected onto a large screen on the stage. No music notes were seen, but repeated verses and a high-volume combo got the congregation singing along in tune.

The minister did not fuss with vestments. He occasionally referred to scripture, but spoke in the language"of the street," as if he were talking to us on some corner. It was natural, interesting to hear. His words were not etched in stone (except maybe for the 10 Commandments), but they followed a main theme that was pounded in: you must believe, have faith, and all will be o.k.

There were occasional"Amens" from the pews. Questioning was not part of the pattern. Questions can lead to uncertainty. In this church, as among Anglicans and Orthodox and others, there is no room for doubt. The appeal is to the heart, not to the thinking process.

For all the good feeling passed on to me from members, this church has no room for me-- not if I have to check my judgment with my hat at the door.