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Setting Essay If there is any place one would never expect me to fit in, it would be a church. My predisposition of enmity towards religion in general should be a good enough indicator on its own that a visit to such an establishment would not be an enjoyable one. However, I have never fully explored the reasons fueling these feelings. In order to better understand both myself and religion as a whole, I feel it necessary for me to visit this center of most religious activity, the church. Through my visit to this new setting, I would come to discover the reasoning behind my feelings about religion and develop new ideas about its effect on humanity. My journey starts at the ride over, in the car of Leslies parents; I feel it would be premature to bring up any conversation religiously oriented, so the trip is taken mostly in silence, without mention of our destination. However, it is the subdued, passive nature of this ride that makes the experience of reaching the church all the more mesmerizing. The buildings faade is a peculiar combination of subtle and strikingly awesome. Coming up on it, it almost seems out of place with its brick steeple reaching up towards the sky. At the same time, its construction seems humble; it is made out of simple, earthy colored materials as if it were not meant to stand out at all. Driving around the side, the building looks more and more like a school or a community center, with picnic benches and a childrens playground lining the outside. As we get out of the car, I am struck by the effect the recent snowfall had had on the building; even on this less impressive side, the inch or so of snow has certainly cast it in a positive light, creating a sort of mystical air to the otherwise bleak building. Going inside, the entranceway returns to the blandness of the outside, with hardly anything ornate associated with the small, metal door. Although this door leads into an equally bland, narrow hallway,

hardly a second after I step over the threshold I am met with something that would be a running motif throughout this experience. A friendly looking man with a subtle southern accent standing near the door welcomes us. This is obviously a rather simple gesture, but its hospitable tone exists as a precursor to the more hostile versions I was soon to encounter. In fact, as we reached the end of the hall, we arrive at the antechamber, which is the actual main entranceway and the first part of the interior I would call grandiose. The rooms impressive stature makes me feel, for the first time, like I am actually in a church, but more important than that are the people occupying it. The room is filled predominantly with elderly women, all of whom seem fully engrossed in the idea of welcoming. Realizing that I would rather avoid the embrace of these strange women, I follow Leslies lead and make my way through the large, wooden doors into the sanctuary, the main room of the church. This, I begin to realize, is where the building has been holding all of its secrets. The first thing to strike me is the enormity of the room; while not on the scale of the largely publicized mega-churches, it is an impressive sight. Although the pews do not exactly stretch on for miles, their uniformity and angles make the room seem all the more large. Overhead is the tall, slanted ceiling, which, oddly enough, is made up of workaday ceiling tiles. They stand in rather stark contrast to the ornateness of the stained glass windows lining the side of the room, casting their glimmering images of nativity and Holy Scripture upon the floor. In the front of the room, a large cross hangs overhead the communion table behind which the choir stands, and the preacher prepares for his sermon. Lastly, flanking the cross on either side are two large projector screens, displaying a looping PowerPoint presentation of church news while music from the speakers overhead welcomes the

churchgoers to their seats. Altogether, it is an impressive display, but by no means does it make an attempt to be showy or flamboyant. As the clock strikes eleven, the preacher, a man in his early fifties with graying hair and a modern-looking suit, takes his stand at the pulpit to start the introductory ceremonies. He takes no time in leading the choir in an energizing hymn, calling it, music and song to the Lord. After getting the congregation pepped up, he moves to a discussion of church business, specifically the emphasis they put on community and bringing new people to the church. This message is quickly lost, however, amid the sounds of his boisterous opening prayer. He reads the words with a calculated level of drama, creating an air of overzealousness, though I suppose zealot would be a perfect word to describe the man. As the prayer winds down towards its conclusion, the music picks back up where it left off as the preacher leads the congregation in, to no ones surprise, another session of welcoming. With upbeat organ music cheering them on, members of the congregations are expected to stand up and greet one another, perhaps with an embrace and some words of encouragement. Naturally, I take this opportunity to write in my notebook to avoid any such confrontations, but still I am accosted by an elderly woman placing her hand on my shoulder and expressing her delight that I came to the service. All I can think during these ceremonies is that if these people only knew who I really am, a homosexual atheist who is only in this room to fulfill the requirements of an AP English assignment and satisfy my curiosity, the tone of this welcoming might not be so positive. On the other hand, they may welcome me with even more open arms, glad to accept another soul to save. Then again, so far my experience has not been altogether negative. While being expected to hug old women is certainly an awkward experience, it is by no means a hostile one, and other than that, I can

honestly say the church has been good to me so far. However, judgment must not be made so hastily, as I have yet to experience the main course of the mornings proceedings, the pastors sermon. The ruckus of the welcoming ceremony quiets down naturally, and the preacher, before starting the main sermon, begins a celebration of God. He encourages the congregation to bow down before Christ, and to love upon Jesus. He describes God as the King of Kings, and an awesome presence. While the other churchgoers concentrate on the words the preacher is saying, my thoughts are elsewhere. It occurs to me that, while I am only present this once, this church is in session each and every Sunday and Wednesday. Once or twice a week, every week, the same people flock into this room, the same words flash across the PowerPoint screen, the same hugs are exchanged, the preacher goes through his same spiel, and the same Bible verses are referenced over and over again. Church exists to teach the word of God through the Bible, but the Bible itself is a book just a few thousand pages long. Pastors and church members may come and go, but there are, in general, never any developments in teachings. No pages are ever added to the Bible, so nothing ever has the chance to be properly adapted to modern society. Perhaps, then, that is the role the church plays in the whole religious ecosystem, providing a means by which ancient text is interpreted and adapted to keep up with todays world, much like the way the Supreme Court of the United States exists to interpret the written law of the Constitution. However, unlike the Constitution, which can always be modified by Congress if the evolution of society demands it, no one is prepared to wholly rewrite the holy text of the Bible. Even preachers, who are entirely in the position to interpret the Bible as they see fit, seem locked in the past. Evolution is just not something built into religion, while it is critical if an

institution is to survive. How, then, has religion managed to go so long unhindered and undamaged? That is something I have not yet come to understand. While my mind was lost in these thoughts, I am snapped back to reality by the realization that the rest of the congregation is standing in preparation for a hymn. I duly mirror them, noting that doing so makes it more challenging to take notes on my surroundings. As I discard the thought of this being a conspiracy against my endeavor, the music picks up and the people around me begin to sing in unison. The hymn being a slow song, I am able to fully appreciate the meaning behind the lyrics that the obfuscatory tone of singing would normally obscure. Singing to God, the words scroll across the projector screen, I give myself away so you can use me. I look around in bewilderment as the words my life is not my own echo slowly around the room. While a few stragglers here or there do not speak up or meekly mutter under their breaths, the majority of the room is, at the very least, singing along. I am strangely reminded of English speaking teenagers in clubs dancing along to songs such as Dragostea Din Tei or sitting in their rooms singing along to a Rammstein album. While I do not doubt the churchgoers cognitive abilities to understand the words they are saying, it seems to me reminiscent of someone mindlessly reciting a song syllable by syllable as one would if it would written in a foreign language. The difference, of course, is the singers subconscious ability to process the words they are singing. While normally this might at most lead to an embarrassing mishap if songs are repeated in the wrong context, my life is not my own is a message with the sort of gravity it seems irresponsible to have, for lack of a better phrase, subliminally implanted in childrens minds. Although a single song is unlikely to have any sort of lasting impact, it is the repeated exposure to this sort of attitude that could be drastically influential on

a developing mind. It is incongruous to me to mix something as light hearted as song and dance with the immensity of the message these words imply. Whether it is intention on the part of the songwriter or the result of happenstance, this song number seems entirely influential. With those subliminally influencing songs out of the way, the next item on the mornings itinerary is the process of offerings. Deacons in suits stand at the front of the aisles holding collection pans, like soldiers lined with guns waiting for the order to fire. A member of the churchs financial department, the general ready to give the order, takes center stage to address her audience. She begins the process by describing all of the things over the past two years the church has used the money it has collected for. I actually find myself surprised by the seemingly good uses the money is being put towards. The only selfish expenditures listed are beautification projects, but other than that it seems the majority of the money collected is put towards community improvement. The church has raised money for childrens playgrounds, park benches, and even to directly donate to those less fortunate in need of monetary assistance. While I am sure some of the money goes towards less selfless acts, this is an instance where I would say the good outweighs the bad. Immediately following this, however, came the abrupt reminder that this was a religious event. The images on the screens surrounding us suddenly change to read Giving is worship, while the woman at the stand begins citing Bible verses about the virtues of giving. While I suppose this is more acceptable in a church than anywhere else, I am reminded of my aborted attempt to volunteer at Operation Christmas Child. While hard at work packing boxes for needy children, the voice over the intercom stopped us in our tracks to remind us that everything we were doing that night, we were doing for the Lords favor. Again, it should not be too shocking to have religion at a

religiously oriented event, but it still disturbed me how it was presumed we were performing this charity because of God, rather than the innate goodness of our hearts. More pertinent, though, is the psychological effect of the womans message in the church. It seems to imply that, if one wants to properly worship God, as any good Christian is expected to do, one must donate to the church. With the conclusion of the womans speech, the music picks up once more, its peppy nature reminding me of the sounds of a casino, or the bonus round in a video game where the player is encouraged to try to earn as many points as possible. The deacons make their way down the rows, offering the pan to anyone who offers the contents of a wallet, and it strikes me how ritualistic this process is compared to anything else so far. While the greeting and the opening prayer were ceremonial in nature, and the hymns had their psychological effects, nothing to this point has seemed as precisely calculated as the ritual of collections. Newcomers are bombarded by the sounds and exciting speed of it all, being encouraged to donate to avoid seeming out of place, while regulars to the church feel the compulsion to offer due to the strict uniformity, and the expectation to go through the same process week after week. Even the list of projects the church has worked on plays its influence, giving each round of collections a name and date range even though they run the entire year. This glamorizes the process in much the same psychological way names like La Bestia and Trinity glamorize serial killers. Then again, the money is being used for mostly good deeds, so it is not entirely fair to make a connection with such a negative connotation. Still, the ritual of collections is perfectly demonstrative of the influential power religion can have. If this power is used to direct money into metal pans, even for good deeds, who is to say it cannot be used for more nefarious purposes?

The woman having stepped down from the pulpit and the average net worth of the congregation slightly lowered, the pastor takes his opportunity to, once again, excite the crowd in anticipation of his main sermon. He begins, naturally, with a mention of Satan, and cues the melancholy music to play overhead, thus immediately invoking an emotional reaction in those who know what comes next, and priming one for those who do not. All of a sudden, the tone of the music and the pastors voice take a turn in the opposite direction, picking up in pace as the music grows in intensity and the speech quickly transitions into a song like a piece out of High School Musical. People need the Lord, the pastor sings, as he says the Lord provides an escape from private tears. While I note in my journal how openly honest this is about the intentions of religion, the song once again transitions back to speech as the pastor begins his sermon. With the crowd completely aroused now, he shouts to the heavens the theme of the mornings sermon while it flashes on the screens surrounding him, It Must be God. It must be God! he repeats over a chorus of members of the congregation responding in the affirmative. Yes! Yes! It must be God! they shout, fully embracing the message before it is even delivered in its entirety. The pastor continues to explain, not once faltering from his boisterous style of speech, that God contains the power to gain victory over personal battles. Fair enough, I think to myself. Plenty of people turn to religion in tough times, silently noting that not all the battles fought with religion are the right battles to be fighting. Then, however, the sermon takes a direction that I would never have expected. The pastor explains that It must be God does not just mean that power can come from God, it means that power must come from God. When someone overcomes a personal battle through hard work and strife, it is not that determination that made them succeed because that is, to paraphrase, the work of the

devil. Like Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego, if it were not for God, one would have perished in the metaphorical furnace. The pastor shouts once more to the room, You cannot save yourself, it must be God, a phrase so completely abhorrent than upon hearing it I simply sat and stared at the man who was receiving so many cheers of jubilation from all around me. God is not just a path one has the option of taking when one is in a difficult situation; God is the only path to freedom, and any other attempts that do not involve appeals to God will result in, again, to paraphrase, Satan taking over ones soul. This declaration carried with it not only the irrevocable connection to God, but also, I realize, the absolution of almost all personal responsibility. If God is the one responsible for everything that happens to you, good or bad, what meaning is there to life? Well, says the church, the meaning to your life is God. This, however, is tautological and absolutely absurd. God, the church says, is the meaning of life simply because God is the meaning of life. However, as with any tautological conclusion, there is absolutely nothing stopping you from simply changing the input to completely reverse the outcome. If one were to simply make the assumption that one does have control over ones life, then suddenly God has no purpose for existence in this model. The problem people may have with this, of course, is that assuming personal responsibility for ones life is challenging, and outsourcing the job to God is just a lot easier. It is in this moment of clarity that I realize the source of my distaste of religion. It is not that way religion is simply a convenient moral compass, which is actually more of a positive than a negative. Nor is it its resistance to social change or the common rejection of scientific theories and inquiry, which I now realize are effects rather than causes. Rather, religion seemingly removes the need for any rational thought whatsoever. This also explains to me how

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religion can exist in a constantly evolving world. Sure, as I once thought, religion tries to put the brakes on social change, resisting it whenever possible, but that is not why it continues to exist. In fact, religion never wins that battle. The same religious arguments that are used against same-sex marriage today are the ones used decades back to argue against interracial marriages. Now, amid all but the most orthodox of religious groups, this is a commonly accepted part of society. How then, can religion exist if it entirely contradicts itself? I realize, in this brief moment, that religion exists simply because the apathy it generates towards rational thought can be turned back on itself. A religious person feels no need to think rationally about their religion, simply because religion, and the church they duly attend once or twice a week, has trained them not to. Fortunately, as the pastor began to calm down, I followed suit. Thoughts still swirling about in my head, the pastor began his next analogy, making his de claration that it must be God, and my subsequent conclusions seem hyperbolic. The pastor, surprisingly calmly, reads a quote from a translation of the Bible explaining that, with the power of God, no weapon formed against thee shall prosper. This, he explains, does not mean one would not face hardships in life, but that, by turning to God, none of them would last. God is a way maker, he exclaims. God will restore your peace. Though noting the irony of saying that God would bring me of all people peace, I realize that these statements were much more realistic and workable views on religion. Religion is not a catch-all system for dealing with lifes problems, but a simple tool that guides you in the right direction. In fact, depending on how one views life, one could accept religion as the great metaphor that it is, rather than taking any part of it literally. For a fleeting second, I begin to restore my faith in, at the very least, religion not being a tool of

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ultimate destruction. But then I remember hearing the sound of the woman behind me. All throughout the sermon, the sound echoed behind me of an elderly woman chanting under her breath with a quicker and quicker pace the more the sermon went on, Praise the Lord, Praise the Lord, Praise the Lord, Thank you Jesus, Thank you Jesus, Thank you Jesus. While I am certainly in no position to medically evaluate anyone, all the sound reminded me of was the empty ramblings of a person suffering through dementia. As the mind empties itself of any and all substance, it leaves the body as an empty shell, a ghost of its former self that is only able to eat, breath, and sputter nonsense. This womans empty cries of praise towards her Lord and Savior bring about the realization that, no matter how much religion is simply a tool or a great extended metaphor, it is not going to be that in the eyes of its followers. To many of these people, including the seemingly empty woman behind me, religion is, and always will be, life. The logical conclusions that can be drawn from anything the pastor says go in one ear and out the other, while anything that can be parroted back is done so post haste. After realizing that some of what this pastor is saying, in essence, makes sense, I begin to gain a small bit of respect for the man himself. After all, he probably does not realize the powerfully negative effect the words he says has on the people before him. Then, however, his sermon reaches its conclusion, and he leads the congregation in its final activity, a ceremony he calls bringing your burdens to the Lord. Immediately, I am filled with a sense of dread, as this sort of thing sounds like an exact manifestation of the shallow interpretation of it must be God. As I feared, the pastor encourages anyone and everyone in the audience who is facing any sort of burden in life, anyone who is having a weapon forged against them, to bring it to the Lord. Like a wave spreading from the front to the back, people begin standing up either in place, or to

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walk to the front of the hall to achieve the position they feel suits them. While some stand, others kneel or even curl up into a ball in front of the altar where the pastor steps forward to place his hand on the persons back. Then, one by one, the people who have assumed their positions begin chanting, again in whatever way they feel suits them. The woman behind me increases the pace of her chants while others shout prayers to the ceiling, or even just howl at the Lord, all while soft piano music plays in the background. If only these people had green skin, the scene would be indistinguishable from that from a zombie movie. However, despite all this commotion, my vision focuses on one boy in the corner of the church. This boy, about my age, I knew had been attending the church for at least several months now. The story, as I heard it, was that during a more relaxed version of one of these sessions, wherein churchgoers were encouraged to come up and confess anything they desired to the congregation, the boy had come on stage to admit that he had been feeling homosexual tendencies. This would normally be a dangerous thing to admit in this sort of company, but the boy quickly clarified that he had come to the realization that his feelings were simply the manifestation of the Devil. The crowd cheered him on as he explained how, through seeking God, he had chased the Devil out of his body, and he was cured. This shouting pastor, the chanting old woman and the howling people curled up on the floor are not just sideshow attractions. They are the physical manifestation of the effects this sort of religious mentality can have on a person. My vision focused on the boy in the corner, I realize that throughout the entire mornings events, he had not once joined in any song, nor stood up without being prompted, nor got on the floor begging for help from God. In fact, he seemed just as apathetic about joining in the church activities as I did. What I do not know is whether he truly has overcome the influence the church held on him, and accepted

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himself for who is truly is, or if the church has simply sucked all of the life out of him, leaving him as empty as the chanting woman. As the pastor dismisses us and I begin to exit the church, I again follow Leslies lead to avoid embracing anyone wishing to welcome me once more. This time, though, I am certain that almost no one in this room is here to welcome me for who I really am. While the church does a decently good job making itself appear welcoming and friendly, the general negative outlooks on life and the hostility towards myself that I am sure I would encounter if I were to reveal myself makes its cover vanish. Thus, I must concur with my original assumption that a church and I would not be a good fit. Additionally, while I have the same feelings of enmity towards religion, I now have a more complete understanding of the reasons behind it, and my curiosity has been satisfied. In the right hands, religion can be a powerful tool, making it possible to overcome otherwise insurmountable obstacles. However, released upon the masses, and concentrated in locations such as this church, religion can be an entirely dangerous weapon that should not go unchecked.