My Church - A Photo Essay

Another slice of my Los Angeles life. Another Sunday at Village Lutheran Church. Or, as the big column here reads "Village Lutheran Church of Westwood." Interesting, because the church itself is not in Westwood. Who knows how that all got screwed up in 1946 when the place was built?

I've been a member of this now dwindling congregation since my first year in SoCal. I'm now on the church council and also the treasurer, which means I get to financially juggle all the bill payments every month. Since 1998, the church has slowly and methodically fallen apart both structurally and spiritually. The pastor, an ordained lunatic and raging liberal, has driven more people away with her idiotic political stances. She works to eliminate people as well as Combat works on cockroaches.

So, what the heck am I hanging around there for? Well, I actually love the challenge of keeping the organization solvent as the place is still reeling from years when the pastor was in charge of the finances and had us about two years behind on the phone bill. And, more importantly, I have made several wonderful friends there who will be with me for life. Definitely worth the pain and frustration of what can only be called heavenly dysfunction.

The front door to the brick edifice which grows ivy just like the outfield wall at Wrigley Field. There is a lot of history inside here. I've heard that, in the Forties and Fifties, my church was quite the celebrity magnet. Fred MacMurray was a regular visitor, which means there was little money in the collection dish back then as well. Rumor has it Marilyn Monroe, who lived nearby, used to stop in to pray for guidance. A lot of good that did. In my own time at Village, I assisted in giving communion to congregation member Tony Franciosa one Christmas Eve. He died two weeks later. Another Christmas Eve, I lit Harvey Korman's candle. I was the delayed Angel of Death that time. Korman died two years later. I understand that celebrities now avoid the church simply because word has gotten around about me.

In the narthex (that's a church vestibule for you Phillistines), there are two rest rooms. They haven't worked in years. No water attached. Yet, this hasn't prevented some goofy renters from using them. How do you use a toilet bowl that has no water in it? Quite easily if you're an idiot.

Even duct tape hasn't stopped these dopes.

The sanctuary and chapel is not huge. It seats probably 200 people uncomfortably. The only time you see 200 people there is if somebody dies. More likely, on Sundays, you can field a softball team without the extra outfielder. But, the altar is stunning and very reminiscent of the Bronx church my family helped to build in the Thirties. The set design is always exquisite. Why? Because I do it. I always provide the weekly challah bread and wine for communion. The service every week is like one of those old Mickey Rooney/Judy Garland musicals. "Gee, kids, let's put on a church. My dad has the barn. Jesus will bring the disciples."

About five feet to the right of the altar in the picture above, you'll find the Torah. Huh, you say? Well, the only way our church can survive is by renting out the facilities the rest of the week to other organizations. In the community hall on any given day, you can find alcoholics, drug addicts, food addicts, sex addicts, and yoga addicts. On Saturday mornings, our chapel is converted to a temple. It reminds me of what they used to do at Madison Square Garden. A hockey game in the afternoon and the circus at night. The temple covers any Christian inferences on the windows and the wall. And the Torah is portable. On wheels. Works well on our carpet. Probably not so good centuries ago on the desert.

One more element of the weekly Jewish transformation. We've gone to a few of the temple's events and they are an incredibly unorthodox congregation. One Passover, they were singing song parodies. "There's No Business Like Moses' Business." I wish I could tell you I was making that up. In the picture above, I have no idea what religious significance there is to that cartoon character on the floor.

One more hybrid by-product. If you're in the pews, make sure you're picking up the right book. If you're Christian, go for the green hymnal. If you're with the temple, the red book is for you. I am guessing some people have picked up the wrong book for the wrong service and didn't even notice a difference. Oddly enough, we also have two Muslim groups renting the place during the week and I am waiting for them to conflict with one of the Temple events. Fighting over spaces in the parking lot. The Gaza Strip. All the same thing.

Our Fireside room where congregation menbers have coffee and cake after the weekly service. As a matter of fact, there's a couple of folks who sometimes show up just for that, skipping the worship altogether. Praying to the God of Entenmann's Ultimate Coffee Crumb Cake. In this room, you'll find our pastor making one of her super-stupid liberal pronouncements and driving one more person out of the congregation forever. I now like to egg her on, sort of like what the Meathead used to do to Archie Bunker on "All in the Family," just in reverse.

Our pastor's office looks like Yucca Flats after the atomic blast. Anybody looking to pull up a chair and get some spiritual counsel from her would be hard pressed to find, well, a chair. But, you can find half-consumed cups of soda with Pepsi logos that were retired ten years ago. Also strewn about are her shoes, which I playfully always like to hide one. A church friend and I made her sign an agreement that she would clean up her office for Lent. She essentially neatened the piles. Oscar Madison would come in here and be appalled.

Here's one of the neat piles on the other side of her office, complete with the Easter Bunny's hat that leads the lone child through an egg hunt every year. Jimmy Hoffa might be in one of the drawers. And this also might be the exact spot where Osama Bin Laden has been hiding since 2001.

Still, I come back. Week after week. And our church has touched so many people, especially when our towering cross provides a shining beacon for those driving past on the 405 Freeway. Except it hasn't been lit in four years. Right now, we are staging a fund drive to get that cross illuminated again. We are raising money through the sale of commemorative bricks that will adorn the base of the cross. A wonderful lasting memory for those who enter these doors. And those who haven't. Two bricks will remember my parents and grandparents who never ever set foot in California.

And I will also contribute one other brick. "Dedicated to President George W. Bush."

Just to piss off the pastor a little more.

Dinner last night: Turkey Burger at the Cheesecake Factory.