Part 2: A Day Late and a Photographer Short

Last July we got a hold of nauseating news coming out of BEAST affiliate city Rochester, NY that an evangelical church was conducting a program called "Spiritual Warfare." The pastor and his wife were dressing in combat fatigues, the congregation was encouraged to do likewise and – you may remember this – inside the church, they were proudly displaying an actual army missile! No sooner did I read this than my hand involuntarily started dialing up a photographer friend who eagerly accepted the mission. It was Saturday night, and we were going to the Sunday morning sermon, having heard the call of God’s explosive phallus.

With a combined 5 hours of sleep between us, the mission was off to a shaky start. Military garb could only be procured for me, and my photographer was severely hung over. After agreeing she would wear traditional church clothing, we hit a gas station, filled up her ride and absolved the previous night’s sins with bad coffee. We hopped on the Thruway and headed for the patriotic madness that awaited us at the New Born Fellowship Christian Center.

The trek east on the I-90 went quickly as we discussed our plan. She was to sit across the church from me and discreetly snap candid shots of the militaristic service, and I was to devoutly wave my hands in the air and be saved by Christ’s missile. I tried to imagine the level of insanity that might be reached by combining an ill-conceived god with an ill-conceived war. I could hardly contain myself and began practicing a robust “praise Rumsfeld” as we almost missed our exit.

We slowly drove past the house of worship and were a little more than disappointed to see the congregation gathering outside, all off them dressed in their Sunday best. Both of us looked down at my army issue jacket, camouflage cargo shorts and black knee socks, then to the sea of pinstripe suits, white frills, shiny loafers, flowered sunhats and neatly coiffed hairdos. “Oh shit,” was the general consensus. After assuring me on the drive she was ready to roll, my photographer was getting a case of the nerves.  We parked down the street and she told me she needed to gather herself a bit and she would see me inside in 15 minutes. Walking down the street toward the church, I actually prayed the missile would still be inside.

I tried to take a pew as inconspicuously as possible, considering I was a lone camouflaged atheist white man surrounded by well dressed, god-fearing black folk. I had a 3-day growth of facial hair, unwieldy bed head and marked bags under my eyes, yet everyone was pleased as punch to see me. I passed the rows, showered with pearly whites and everyone’s amiable attention. I must have appeared insane to a few as my eyes violently darted in search of the in house ballistic. A guy who reminded me of Delroy Lindo came up to envelope my hand and bid me welcome to this properly fucked house of god and guns. “Where is the missile?” I nearly screamed at him. He told me it had been returned as he ushered me to an empty pew. Bummer. All that visibly remained of the promised jingoism was one frame in a slideshow that looped on a large flat screen TV above the band. It read “Developing people of power, purpose and praise” beside 2 attractive black models dressed in uniform. We had missed Spiritual Warfare by a week. I was anxious for the sermon to start.

The pastor’s wife Perdita saddled up to me before the show began and told me she was glad I came. She gave me a cassette tape of sermons. “Praise Jesus,” she said, as a robed choir filtered in through the side door and lined up next to the band. Everyone stood and I followed suit, peering around to see if my photographer had yet arrived. I sang along for 3 mildly inspired songs, raising my hands to the sky and expecting to see her at any moment. An hour later, I was beginning to believe she was asleep in the car. Eventually the pastor’s wife took the podium to a chorus of “hallelujahs” and spoke about tithing as the baskets were passed along every row. Once the baskets were full and a couple more songs had been sung, it was time for the headlining act, Pastor Warren E. Meeks. Did he ever look slick. He hopped around stumbling over bible verses and preaching “power and purpose.” He claimed to have the spirit and several women around the church took turns shouting something that sounded like “wee-woo-woo-wee-a lalalalala.”

“The spirit’s got some of ya’ll speaking in tongues,” the flashy preacher groaned. Calls of “amen!” returned from his flock. I am glad he said so; otherwise, I’d have no idea what they were doing. I felt like I was on another planet.

Working hard on a Sunday, Meeks was breaking a sweat selling the bit. People seemed to be enjoying themselves, though. The premise of the entire sermon was money, and how god would mystically launder you cash if you helped pay for a bigger, better church. It was truly vulgar. Only now do I read on their website that their mission is to “ensure continual growth and development in our daily lives and our individual & corporate relationship with Jesus Christ.” I could sit through no more. Disgusted by the sermon and crushed by the lack of heavy artillery and potentially hilarious photos, I made like I was going to the bathroom and got the hell out of there.

Clearly, a photo of me, costumed and dancing about in the church, would have really made this piece. But, since my photographer passed out in the car, you’ll just have to take my word for this one.

Part 3: A Pie for Bauerle