The Sunnyvale Sun

Letters & Opinions

A mass for the masses--Theology on Tap

By Carol Bogart

Enterprising, isn't it, how a Sunnyvale pub and local parish have "tapped" into two things: Studies find fewer people are showing up for church on Sunday, just as more are seeking solace in a world that seems increasingly insecure.

Whether it's natural disasters such as hurricanes and tsunamis, or manmade catastrophes such as 9-11, that parents would yearn for a solid footing for children growing up in today's world is no surprise, yet empty pews and shrinking congregations are evidence few are flocking into churches.

Whether other sorts of soul-soothing are on the rise, I don't know, but have learned through this week's cover story that "pews" at an Irish pub in Sunnyvale are increasingly a.i.s. (a_ _ in seat, as the Italian patriarch used to say in the long-running sitcom Everybody Loves Raymond).

For the priest in search of parishioners, this not-so-captive crowd has been sufficiently captivated by the message that the unlikely flock has begun to grow.

Devoid of ritual (no communion wine and wafer here, just beer and pretzels), the lack of "trappings" appears to be a draw, as is, no doubt, the libation-fueled conviviality of the congregation's fellow "faithful."

The faith reactivated at the pub is, evidently, largely Catholic. Protestant churches, too, are making their own attempt to put less-gray heads in the pews. When my son, Mike, was small, we attended a huge church in Denver. Cherry Hills Community Church was so big it had to hold its Easter services in an outdoor amphitheater. Its ministers were good, but the truth is, what really accounted for the growth of the congregation was the house band, "Holy Smoke." The band--so good it even sold CDs--sprinkled the service with simple praise songs that anyone could sing to.

The church boasted a "dream" congregation that numbered about 400, many of them young people in their 30s with small kids in tow.

Today, you'll often see services listed as "traditional" (the early one) and "contemporary"--at 10:30 or so for the less-than-early risers--maybe some of the same crowd that is attracted to a service in a pub (as well as families with small children).

When I was growing up, there were two services, too: a 9 a.m. and an 11. Since Dad was an elder (we were Presbyterians), we always went to the early service, and, with other teenagers in the congregations, I sang in the choir at the 11. My junior year in high school, the minister asked me to give the youth devotional.

I had a week to prepare and remember being terrified. Churches weren't empty in those days. In fact, every pew in that big steepled church was full, with even a scattering of people seated in folding chairs in the back.

In my choir robe, I stepped up to the microphone, swallowed my stage fright and read the short passage I'd been assigned, trying as best I could to do it from memory and make eye contact with my audience. (I was in the speech club at school and that was what we'd been taught to do.)

After the service, I was swarmed with well-wishers offering their congratulations--and they really seemed to mean it! That experience, plus being named my high school's Outstanding Senior Speaker (I was the only one on the forensics team to compete at state) gave me the confidence to pursue a career in broadcasting.

My "church family" was a strong influence in the security I felt growing up. Just as today's kids have been shaken by 9-11, my generation was shaken by the assassination of President Kennedy. I was 14. "How could that happen?" I thought. If a president isn't safe in a cavalcade traveling down a Dallas boulevard surrounded by Secret Service agents and police--how safe am I? Compounding that dose of dread were the bomb shelters some of my friends' dads were digging in their back yards. It was the Cold War era. Who knew what the Russians might do? Not 'til I was grown did I fully realize what a close call we had with the Cuban missile crisis--when, at the final moment, Russia finally blinked.

I credit my parents for giving me a firm foundation growing up and for dragging me to church at 9 a.m. when what I really wanted to do was sleep. Back then, there was no break in the service to pack small children off to Sunday school before the sermon started. Nope, we just had to endure it. About five minutes in, I'd start to fidget. To deflect any outright whining, mom would quietly slip me the mechanical pencil she always kept in her purse. I doodled all over the program until the boring part was over.

When Mike was little, the big Denver church had a plethora of kid-engaging programs. Mike was off pasting lamb and angel stickers on a blue construction paper as I attended the service.

Once we moved back to Ohio, though, he was older. He tried the new Sunday school at our small rural church a couple of times and didn't like it (lots of Sunday school teacher-reading-Bible stories to vacant-eyed pre-teens, few hands-on activities).

Since he couldn't handle the sermon any better than I could at 11, our deal was: If he sat still and participated through the doxology, I'd give him the car keys and he could go out and listen to the car radio until the service was over. (Parents of ADHD kids learn to be creative.)

Maybe the parishioners at the Scruffy Murphy's pub will find the message sufficiently compelling they'll want to take their new-found faith home to their children, sharing a security that can't be shaken, no matter what's going on in the world that we can't control.

Carol Bogart is the new editor of the Sunnyvale Sun. Contact her at cbogart@community-newspapers.com or call 408.200.1055.