| Church in … a bar? | |
Santa Monica congregation expands ministry to club crowd. |
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| by Julie Broad It's a quarter to eight on a Sunday night. Almost 100 people fill the Santa Monica nightclub "Lush." Some dance to the beat of the band playing mellow tunes on the leopard-print stage while others mingle at the bar, sipping a beer or a glass of wine. Couples and groups of friends chat in booths around the room. |
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Tucked in the corner, a juice bar, decorated with fruit-shaped lights and a straw-thatched
roof, offers mixed drinks for $6. Long strings of colored beads lead into a separate room,
which holds another full bar. As the band finishes its set, a few more people straggle in
after the bouncer checks their IDs and collects the $5 cover charge. The lead singer taps the microphone and quiets the room. He invites anyone who has something to share to come forward. It must be "open mike" night. The DJ plays something ethereal and guests focus their attention to the stage. As each person reads a poem, an essay or an impromptu rap - all based on the theme "Religion is …" - it's obvious these people are praising God. In a bar. Sanctuary Church hosts this controversial church-in-a-bar outreach once a month, in addition to its weekly Sunday morning service. Members call the evening "a mix between a '60s happening and a party." Barry Taylor, Sanctuary's pastor and lead singer of the band Wonderland, decided to bring his evangelical church to the nightclub last year because, as the church's Web site states, "chances are you met most of your friends in a bar." Also, Taylor realizes that many people don't feel comfortable in the church setting. "Barry is interested in blurring the lines between sacred and secular, in finding a place where worshipping God is like hanging out with your friends," said Eric David, a member of Sanctuary, who serves as the event's marketing coordinator. To justify the idea, members also point out that Jesus spent his life avoiding "religious" places. "When Jesus was on earth, he didn't behave as you see many religious people behaving today - they're more like the Pharisees in most ways," said Sanctuary member Dru Morgan. "If Jesus was here today, he would be in the streets and in the bars where he was needed." Although the group hopes people will be open to the spiritual experience, members say there is no hidden motive to gain members or publicity. "The purpose is not to sell anything," David explained. "It's more like we have something to celebrate and don't want to keep it to ourselves. All our friends are welcome to see what the heck we're talking about in a place they can relate to." Taylor, 44, never attended church when he was growing up outside of London. In fact, he didn't even open a Bible ("in a meaningful way") until about 20 years ago when he realized he needed a change of lifestyle. While Taylor toured the world with the heavy metal band AC/DC, he lived in the hedonistic environment of sex, drugs and rock 'n' roll. "I had become casual about a lot of things and it bothered me on a deep level," Taylor said. "[Traveling with the band] was fulfilling and exciting on lesser levels, but there were huge holes in it." Although he initially dismissed the idea of religion, a friend's conversion to Christianity raised Taylor's curiosity. He spent the next year on tour - ironically titled "Highway to Hell" - in thorough self-study of every holy book he could get his hands on. "There I was on the road - dressed in black, my voice croaky - with speed up my nose and a religious book in my hand," he recalled in an Los Angeles Times article in 1998. Intrigued by the stories of Jesus, a selfless man who forgave everyone from his disciples to lepers and prostitutes, Taylor finally turned to Christianity. "I found other religions much more interesting and appealing on many levels," Taylor reflected. "But it was the way that Jesus treated people, particularly women, that really hit me. I made this decision to model my life after Jesus and follow him." Taylor's path soon led him to California in the early '80s, where he led a congregation in Lake Arrowhead for 11 years. He also served a church in Westwood called the Hiding Place, and when he left the pulpit several members of the congregation followed him. In 1995, Taylor formed a new church and named it "Sanctuary" to remind people of a safe place where anyone is welcome, even with "baggage hanging out all over the place." Sanctuary, which calls itself "non-denominational, non-fundamentalist and non-judging," meets every Sunday in a Seventh-day Adventist church building (which Taylor admits is a bit too formal and traditional for his taste). About 100 to 200 people attend the church regularly - more fill the seats near Christmas and Easter - but there is no formal membership. Wonderland begins and ends each service with a musical set of Christian rock, funk, gospel and ballads. Some people dance in the pews to the eclectic mix, while others watch or sing along. Throughout the service, the hymnals in the pews remain untouched, bow-your-head prayers are rare and religious lingo is nearly nonexistent. "You're not going to get too many 'Praise the Lords,' 'Hallelujahs' or 'God bless you, brothers,' from me," Taylor told the Times. What you do get is Taylor's plain talk about popular culture. His sermons always tap into a current event, such as his observations last month about "Super Tuesday" (the California presidential primary) and "Fat Tuesday" (Mardi Gras) which both took place March 7. Because the majority of Sanctuary regulars are young artists - actors, writers, directors, etc. - Taylor, who is currently pursuing a doctorate in Post-Modernity, Popular Culture and Spirituality at Fuller Seminary, also tries to bring "media theology" into the mix. Sanctuary recently initiated monthly film screenings followed by Christian-based discussion. "We are interested in being Christians, not just talking about it," Taylor explained. "I think that involves engaging your whole life with the faith and the Gospels [I try to] provoke curiosity, pique some interest, challenge assumptions and generate a conversation about God into people's lives." Michael Schor, a 37-year-old comedian and one of Sanct-uary's founders, says Taylor's liberal approach to preaching is popular because most people can relate, and the message focuses on acceptance and love. "Our goal is to create a church that doesn't look like a church anymore," he said. "People see a church and they take off running, for good reason, because there was judgment there." Schor, who grew up in a Jewish home, says most traditional churches wouldn't even consider him a Christian. "I've never said the sinner's prayer," he said. "I've given myself up to God, but I've never been baptized. I honestly don't think that God really looks at you as being saved or being Christian. I think he looks at who you are and where your heart's at - whether you're filled with grace." What attracts Schor to Sanctuary is that it doesn't force anything on its congregation. People aren't required to attend membership classes, join the church or make any kind of long-term commitment. "It's our own decision not to 'baby' people or guilt them into coming," said Craig Detweiler, a 36-year-old screenwriter who preaches when Taylor misses church for mission work or vacation. "Hey, if they show up, we're happy. We don't care how they get here or when they get here." As carefree as this concept may seem, Sanctuary's attitude is not foreign to other congregations in the area. Malibu's Vineyard Church also lacks a formal membership process. "Some of your traditional mainline churches have a listed membership of about 900 people, and yet if you were to go to the church there are only maybe 200," said Brad Cummings, college pastor at the Vineyard. "Having a non-formal membership basically says, 'If you're here a lot and you're invested and involved, we'll know who you are.' " But Cummings also says he feels somewhat accountable for the people he leads to Christ. The Vineyard offers classes to help people grow in their faith and is continually looking for ways to increase the "company of the committed." Taylor, on the other hand, argues that for many people the word "church" evokes memories of "harsh judgment, disapproval and misunderstanding," and states strongly that Christianity is not a project. "There is no pressure for us to make converts," Taylor said in a sermon last November. "We have to walk with them and hear their story and learn to dialogue with them about the truth. And if they get a blinding light, that's their business." Dru Morgan, a 31-year-old computer teacher, attends Sanctuary with his wife Molly and 1-year-old Sierra. He says Sanctuary has been to him the "safe" place that Taylor intended, but he considers the church to be more of a stepping stone in his relationship with God. "I think I'm almost ready to move on to some place that really gets into the message," he said. He refers to the church as "the breast milk of Christianity" because its love-based theology is soothing to people who have never been exposed to spirituality or have been hurt or deceived by churches in the past. When Morgan was in high school, a friend encouraged him to attend the Hiding Place. "He told me, 'The music is what you've got to go for,' " Morgan said. Although he grew up attending Methodist and Presbyterian churches, Morgan said nothing grabbed him until he visited Taylor's church. "This one I could actually understand," he reflected. Before his daughter was born, Morgan attended the Lush event regularly, bringing friends who wouldn't step foot into a church. "To them, a nightclub is a non-threatening environment," Morgan explained. "The good part about Lush is that it can reach people who wouldn't otherwise have the chance to be exposed to Christianity." One such person was Morgan's father-in-law, a Russian Jew, who was willing to come to the event because he could "drink some scotch and didn't have to listen." Morgan acknowledged that even this small step could impact his father-in-law's life. Scott Lambert, a Church of Christ minister at Pepperdine University, says Lush sounds like a great outreach and agrees with the logic that Jesus would preach in the bars ("as well as the church"). But he also feels the event is not appropriate for people who might fall to the temptations of drunkenness and ungodly lifestyle that pervade the nightclub scene. "If you are strong and you're in a place where you wouldn't fall, then I think that's a ministry philosophy that's really good," he said. "But if the bar is a struggle for you, and if you're going to lose that struggle, you don't need to be there." Others, while open to the concept, say the event is just not for them. Ernest de Lagarde Jr., a Pepperdine sophomore, was baptized Catholic but now attends churches of all denominations. "For me, personally, I can't see myself searching for spirituality in a bar," he said. "That's just something I wouldn't be comfortable with. But as long as people believe that they're finding God through this practice, more power to them." After about a dozen people read their poems and personal essays, the band takes the stage to play a few more songs before it's time to leave. People swarm to the circular, sunken dance floor, and excitement rises as Wonderland plays the first few notes of the upbeat "Heart Burns." Taylor sings with intense emotion: What shall I do with my transgressions? They wrap around me like a vice What shall I do with my fears? 'Cuz they cut through me like a knife: But my heart burns for you Yeah, my heart burns … As they sing the familiar words, twisting and turning on the dance floor, it's obvious that Taylor's followers understand exactly how he feels. Sanctuary is an unusual but sensitive group that seems to be just what it claims: "People struggling to make sense of life and love in a very complex world."
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