The Sunday Memory Drawer - 18 Easters Ago

For years after I left my childhood church in the Bronx, my only forays into any kind of worship were via weddings or funerals. And, most of the time, these were held in Catholic churches. Each time, I could feel the disdain of my grandmother from wherever her spirit now resides. But, as strong as my worship habit was when I was a kid, I just as easily fell into several decades of laziness. I became a card carrying member of that worldwide group.

"Spiritual But Not Religious."

I was sleeping in on Sunday mornings. I was reading the paper and doing the crossword puzzle. I was reveling in the comic strip exploits of Blondie and Marmaduke.

I wasn't going to church. Just like my parents, I had inexplicably and perhaps irrevocably shut down my religion.

Until I moved to Los Angeles.

Well, actually, the thoughts of returning to a church had begun during my last years in NY. I had looked around a little for a new Lutheran church that I could call home. The only problem was that most in my area were not fulltime organizations. You could show up at the building at certain times and find a Lutheran service. If you read the sign wrong, you'd wind up at a Chinese Buddhist service. Most of the Lutheran churches around me had to rent out their facilities to anybody and everybody.

After I moved west, the nagging desire for a bit more religion became a bit more acute. And I wanted to use the experience as a means of meeting some new friends.

Easter Sunday 1998 seemed like as good a date as any to begin the process.

On the Saturday before, I set out to find myself a church for the next day. By simply going through the church directory that is always printed in the Los Angeles Times. I knew that I wanted a Lutheran church not affiliated with the Missouri Synod, which is just an inch or two removed from the Third Reich. Location was also an issue. I didn't want to drive more than fifteen minutes. God was important, but he also needed to be damn convenient.

I literally reviewed the names of the churches in the directory. Hmm, that one sounds boring. Hmm, that one sounds a little too big. I was Goldilocks sipping the porridge of the Three Bears. Suddenly, a name sang out to me.

Village Lutheran Church.

Awwww, how homey.

On a street called Church Lane.

How hokey can you get?

I was sold.

An amazing thing happened as I entered Village Lutheran Church in the Brentwood Glen area of Los Angeles that Easter Sunday morning.

It looked just like St. Peter's in the Bronx. Almost eerily the same. I began to wonder if this was just another stop on the BX 41 bus route. And was my dad outside in the car reading the newspaper?

Oh, there were some head spinning differences. A lady pastor, for one. That alone would have sent the oldtimers at St. Peter's in the Bronx into cardiac arrest. But, other than that, the actual worship service was exactly as I had left it years ago. This was an extremely comfortable old sweater that still fit perfectly.

Nevertheless, I was completely self-conscious walking into this new unchartered territory. I sat way in the back.

And then another miracle happened. The Sunday after Easter, I yearned to go back.

I sat one row closer to the front. And felt an even warmer feeling. Even though I talked to no one. This was my equivalent of stepping into a swimming pool. I was going to get wet one skin pore at a time.

Each week, there was a coffee and cake hour in the fellowship hall after service. I was always invited in. And, each week, I always had something to do.

This was starting not to sit well with Florence, the old lady in the pew across from me. During the always uncomfortable "sharing of the peace," she'd always grab my hand a little harder.

"What's your name again?"

I'd tell her.

"So, Glenn, when are you coming in for coffee?"

Errrrrrrrr.

"Glenn, we're expecting you next week."

Errrrrrrrrr.

Florence meant business. I was convinced that, even weighted down with her walker, she could kick my ass. I'd later discover that Florence was an actress. She had done years on Broadway. She knew James Dean. She was one of the only two Broadway cast members to travel west to do the screen version of "The Rose Tattoo." The other was its star Anna Magnani. Later on, she'd be a regular on "The Life of Riley" with William Bendix. She'd play one of the hookers in "Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid." And portray Barbara Eden's mother on "I Dream of Jeannie."

But, for now, she was acting as a thorn in my very shy side. And the role was quite convincing.

The next week, I lowered my head and stepped into the lion's den for coffee. Talking to people I didn't know.

It was fine.

And, thanks to a lot of really special friends, I have been at Village Lutheran Church ever since.

I'm a Dodger fan because I met dear Barbara.  I'm a better writer because I got to use the adjoining hall for our TV project's table reads.  On 9/11, I went to the church, put the American flag outside, and opened the doors wide for anybody who needed to pray.   There were takers.   

And I've learned a lot about the business of running a church.  Why?

Because I do all the book keeping.   And I'm also currently the council president.

You offer a little.  You end up doing a lot.  I think that's what God had in mind.

Happy Easter to all!

Dinner last night:  Chicken ravioli and salad.