Saints and Sinners: Gimme that storefront religion

The sanctuary wasn’t much — one end of a vacant store. Instead of stained-glass windows, worshipers looked up at empty shelves that once held things such as aspirin, cough syrup and spray cans of shaving cream.

The exterior wasn’t much either. It looked more like — well, a vacant drug store than a church.

There was a telephone number to call for information on healing services and prayers for the sick but anyone would have trouble reaching the number. One of the digits in the number was missing.

Storefront churches have long been a familiar sight on the dingy, down-at-the-heels urban landscape. The invitation in the window promises salvation and a better life to all who enter or pass by. Never mind that some of the letters in the sign may be missing or that some of the bulbs may be burned out. You will be made to feel welcome in the storefront church as you may not feel welcome anywhere else in the world.

There were only a few of us at the storefront church I was attending but we sang and clapped our hands and listened to each other tell what Jesus had meant to us. Even I got up to make a testimony. “Praise the Lord!” they all said when I sat down.

A little girl got up and sang “God never fails” without any accompaniment. Then came the prayers. Things the rest of us complain about — like riding the buses or having to get up in the morning — these people found a reason to give thanks for.

One woman who was born in the South thanked the Lord for bringing her to “this nice place where we can ride the buses.” A man gave thanks that “God woke me up this morning.”

The pastor was a big, good-natured man who was “saved” 20 years ago and has been preaching ever since. He is a parking lot attendant during the week.

He never prepares his sermons in advance. “I get a revelation from God when I preach,” he said. This Sunday he spoke on “Personal Righteousness.”

Services on Sunday start about 9 in the morning and end about 2:30 or 3. Evening services on Sundays, Wednesdays and Fridays start about 7 and end about 10 or 10:30.

Nobody looks at a watch, but by 12:45 I had to go. I had been there since 10:30. I got up and made another short testimony and said I would be back.

“Praise the Lord,” they all said again.

The pastor at another storefront church I attended washed cars during the week at a posh high-rise condominium. A quiet, dignified man, he became transformed in the pulpit. His eyes danced and he became animated and agitated.

A refrain ran through the sermon (which lasted an hour). “Do you hear me?” he would shout after he had made a point. The congregation would respond with a rollicking “Yes!” “Amen!” or “Go ahead!”

Such enthusiastic responsiveness would improve the performance of any preacher. But blank looks on the faces of congregants can kill many a preacher’s fervor.

When I was a parish minister, I would often take off my glasses when I preached. Because I am quite nearsighted, the congregation would then appear to be a big blur and I would imagine that everybody had eager, expectant looks on their faces. People didn’t know why but they said I always preached better with my glasses off!

I had never been to a church before that had an overseer who sat on the platform to maintain decorum. On this morning the overseer told the people that he saw “too much whispering, gum-chewing and walking to the bathroom.”

I didn’t notice any of those things. Actually, after hearing a young woman soloist sing “His Eye is On the Sparrow,” I couldn’t remember anything else.

(George Plagenz is an ordained minister and veteran newsman based in Columbus, Ohio.)