Go and Preach No More - A Legacy Abandoned ~ My Life Reclaimed

Chapter 1

God’s Mustache

Sounds of gravel underfoot, locomotives champing at the bit, pressure valves erupting. All a blur now on the sepia print in my head. The dissonance which toyed with my three-year-old brain made me squeeze hard on the adult finger leading me to our passenger coach. Even now, my gut churns when a sense of danger overwhelms my instincts. I don’t much care for things that make me feel small or go bump in the night.

Now when I go back in time, I think more lyrically of that train depot, its obstacles, its charm. I imagine the concatenated iron stretching from one ocean to another, reaching out, connecting bright cities, and on their journey, seamlessly woven across our glorious land, gliding over purple mountains’ majesty and past amber waves of grain. That if you touched the cold steel at any point; all at once, you became part of Los Angeles, Chicago, and every treasure in between.

Dad, Mom, and Grandma Charlotte were setting out on a pilgrimage with a three-year-old boy in tow. I did not understand that the looming adventure was a part of my indoctrination into a cult-like belief and that it would have significant sway over my future. The man we were going to see believed, like his followers, that he was God’s Representative on Earth.

Johann Bischoff was coming from Germany to Chicago, and we were going to sit at the feet of this great man. My mother would have pointed to his prominence in our home as the date for our pilgrimage to meet him approached. He watched us from a photo in a narrow black frame that hung on the wall of our living room. His gray mustache looped like a roller coaster at the ends of closed, neutral lips. He always wore a black suit, a white shirt, and a black tie.

Years later, Grandma Charlotte would tell me about the great sorrow in her life that accompanied her to Chicago. She had been widowed quite young and was not invited to attend that Saturday evening’s service for active ministers and their wives. She shared how she wept that night. Her only solace had been to care for me, her first-born grandson, while my parents attended the service. Had her own Bill, my grandfather, and an Elder in our Church, still been alive, she would have been sitting at his side.

Men like Bischoff had formerly frequented Grandma’s home because her husband had been a somebody in the Church. They had sipped coffee together while Apostles and Bishops, the men having the greatest authority in the church expounded on God’s plan. Playing the parts of both Mary and Martha, Grandma had kept the coffee hot and her heart open to these spiritual messengers. Heaven is present on earth when faith is everything in your life.

Johann Gottfried Bischoff was der Stammapostel, the Chief Apostle of the New Apostolic Church[1]. Awe-struck ladies would cup their hands over their mouths if this man walked within ten paces of them. People referred to our church as the German Church when I was a boy because immigrants, including my grandparents, imported its doctrine to America.

I would notice later in my life how everyone acted differently when preparing for visits from men like Bishoff. The local leadership pecked at subordinates to get everything just right. Neckties straight, every folding chair placed perfectly, a warbling soprano or inattentive tenor chided. The heightened stress cascaded down every rung of that authoritative ladder, stating the obvious. God was coming to visit.

My parents and I arrived at the hall in plenty of time to get a good seat. I have no idea how long we sat, or how many times my mother leaned over to remind me we were in church, to be good, to be quiet. A toy would have kept me occupied on the train, but this was not a train. We behaved ourselves in church, which translated for a three-year-old into boring.

And then the mood changed. All of those practiced, local choirs, rising up like molehills to form a great mountain. As they pushed off from their noisy steel chairs, not one chair was left straight, a startling tremor quickly followed by silence. All the singers’ eyes were now fixed on the baton, and every soul in the hall was anticipating greatness, and then…goosebumps! Even as a three-year-old, I knew something wondrous was happening.

The rush repeated itself when, after the choir had prepared the congregation for the service with several songs, the entire hall fell silent again and then with a mighty chord, the organ summoned all the thousands of believers that had traveled here to their feet. The great pipe organ’s riffs and the unison of voices welcomed the guest of honor.

And there he was, that handlebar mustache up close. But I would not make it through his sermon, which was translated into English. I fell asleep, my head on my mother’s lap, while her eyes were faithfully focused on God’s Servant speaking at the altar, which was no longer just a piece of wood; it now represented God’s embassy on earth. Stern-faced ambassadors flanked it, their eyes fixed on the Rock upon which Christ once told Peter he’d build his Church, now my Church, now built upon the faith of one Johann Bischoff. I know that because I would learn to attach the same significance to the successors of those men among whom I would walk one day. My people and my mother had told me this would happen.

After the preaching and singing, the last prayer and the benediction, a rousing organ interlude brought my people to their feet. We sang the threefold amen. My fist on sleepy eyes, I heard a blur of voices crescendoing on each amen and the harmonies assigned to them. And that was the closing parenthesis of the serious part of the service.

Then, more words. There’s only so much a three-year-old can take, and I was ready for some fun. But the adults were still in Heaven, and they crooned and swayed in ecstasy. I remember laughter, too, a pretty girl presenting a bouquet to the Chief Apostle, and then a last song, “Till we meet, till we meet, till we meet at Jesus’ feet.” The bass voices would growl the “till we meet” while the others held the final note. This song brought tears to every eye except those of us kids who had not yet fully understood what we had been born into. As an adult, the unifying spirit of that song would move me to tears as well.

Somehow, after the song ended and the adults realized the service was over, I escaped my parents’ watchful eyes. I was found wandering behind the stage by a man who would add a significant quantity of excitement and grief to my life a decade later. This man lifted me into his arms and walked to the front of the stage, where he announced that he’d found a curious boy. Would his parents like him back? I have little recollection of the moment. I may have been terrified or in tears or just glad to see over the entire crowd, which was bustling in conversation. It was probably my first glimpse of such a mass of people from a vantage point I would know better someday. The man’s name was Michael Kraus. He was an Apostle from Canada.

Although I was only three, many of the highlights of this adventure would stay with me my entire life. Subsequent events would reinforce my sense of belonging. The connection which I felt as a little boy, and which continued throughout my adult life would some day complicate my life as does gravity a rocket struggling to leave this earth.

After my parents reclaimed me, there was more to endure. The ritual of shaking hands with all the ministers and the Chief Apostle could take hours for all in attendance to touch the Hand of God. Belief in God was second to the belief in the men and the authority they claimed as Ambassadors of Heaven. This was Rule One, the very essence of the dogma of our Church. We were all taught the importance of looking up to those chosen men. What began literally, continued figuratively when we became adults. God demanded it.

Chapter 2

Counting Rafters

Imagination offers a magnificent virtual stage to all ages. It may be to blame for all the gods we curious sapiens have conjured. Imagination can become a secret friend to converse with, a library to ponder in, or an exotic paradise in which to play the pirate. As a child, I was a daydreamer and frequently set off exploring in my head while the preachers droned on. While I counted the rafters overhead in the church, sometimes I would hear something that would make me wonder…what were these adults going on about? Or I slept on the wooden seats because sometimes while my parents were at Saturday night meetings, we had stayed up late the night before watching Perry Mason or Lawrence Welk while Grandma dozed.

Church attendance was a given, a part of normal life and as constant as a heartbeat. We had to attend three times a week, whether in sickness or in health, but if we kids were seriously ill, Mom would stay home with us. Complaining did not help us, as much as it confirmed to my parents that they were teaching us longsuffering, a fruit of the spirit and a vital tool for life’s journey. There was always some challenge, and usually something I made a fuss about, that Mom would insist I endure. I remember, for example, having a strong aversion to short pants and scratchy sweaters, the only kinds available when I was a kid.

There was plenty of mischief to get into before and after the service, though during the sermon mischief was nearly impossible. No one would dare misbehave. But seeing our cousins and friends was worth enduring such indignities in church or out. This was our only social circle; it was my village.

Sunday morning kicked off a day of chore-free possibilities. Sunday School, held before the service, went in one ear, out the other. Sermons, like I said before, were a time to imagine being somewhere else. Pick a stage, cast the characters, sharpen your sword. After Sunday School and before the service, our large old church building and its grounds became a virtual game board. Scaring each other to death in the basement storage room was always good cardio and strangely fun. That old curtain covering the door…if it caught on your suspenders and held you back—yikes! Or, if one of us ran ahead and hid, popping out from between the old furniture piled up in there—boo! Terrifying! We’d run back up the stairs, imagining monsters on our heels. Out of breath, we’d line up at the old water cooler behind the vestibule. (When we were growing up, we didn't know that room had such a fancy name.) When we’d had our fill of water, every chin dripping, our wet ties and shirts often prompted a comment from the nearest adult: “Hey, what you all been up to?” Cue the giggles. “Um, bye!” We’d take another lap and meet back at the watering hole ten minutes later. A few of us led the brigade, and the rest made chase.

Sunday afternoon service, now that was a harder pill to swallow. A major interruption after Sunday dinner, which almost always included cousins or company. Sometimes company meant we had to behave at dinner and, worse yet, sit and listen if a minister wanted to talk Church before dessert. Sitting still for more preaching could chafe considerably when all we wanted to do was play in the yard. Only half the members present in the morning service came to the 5 p.m. service, which, as I got older, gave me plenty to think about. Why did we have to go if others could stay home? What annoyed me most was why the leadership kept insisting on that custom. My father used to say that church members voted with their feet. Meaning, if they didn’t like something they knew they had zero say-so about, their feet either took them out the door to another life or refused to take them to church on Sunday afternoon. My feet were never given that choice.

Once a month, the Sunday afternoon service was called a children’s service. I think it was a riff on Art Linklater’s show, House Party, later known as “Kids Say the Darndest Things.” In our church, the minister would come down from behind the altar and get us chatting. (The altar was still just a piece of furniture to me at that age.) We sat up front where the choir usually sat. He’d stand in front of us kids and lean in close like a friend. I can still see his compassionate smile and his wavy silver hair. We called him Uncle Carl, but he wasn’t one of my real uncles. Uncle Carl was also an amateur magician and finished each children’s service with some magic tricks. We had to stand when answering a question, and sometimes I guess I got too nervous. I remember sharing a Sunday dinner with Uncle Carl, my stomach erupting and my lunch ending up on his pants and shoes.

Wednesday’s service started at 8 p.m. Before we were old enough to stay awake for the whole service, and because all the free babysitters (i.e., aunts and grandmas) were at church, we were “tucked-in” on the pews. My dad, who was an assistant priest (aka associate pastor in most faiths), sat to the side of the altar. One night, he left his seat during the service and came down from the podium. It turned heads, but one of us kids was snoring. He got half-way to the back of the church with his cargo before he realized he’d grabbed the wrong kid.

As we got older, and too big to carry, Mom or Dad would wake us when the service ended, and we’d know it was time to go to the car. One night, when my brother got the tap to wake up, he went out to our car to resume his dreams. Except it wasn’t our car. The church was in a residential neighborhood, and he got in the back seat of the neighbor’s car by mistake. And as if that wasn’t bad enough, the neighbor needed to go somewhere and drove off with him. The man was very upset with my dad. It was bad enough that so many cars crowded his neighborhood three times a week, and I guess finding a strange kid in his backseat was just too much to handle.

A couple times a year, the Apostle would visit our area. It was a big deal. In those days, travel was challenging. He lived in Chicago and would spend a week in our district. On Saturday night, his first service was just for the ministers and their wives. (Grandma would babysit us at home.) Sunday morning was a district service when all the congregations in Los Angeles came together in one place. (My home congregation at Highland Park served as the district church until we outgrew it.)

The week of the Apostle’s visit meant a week of travel for our family because the Apostle visited the outlying congregations around Southern California, one per night, and we would show up for each nightly service. To do this, we’d pile into the car as soon as Dad got home from work.[2] Each night was a road trip. If we had to go all the way to Fresno, dinner would be a picnic in the car. Each morning, Dad was off to work, and we went to school, but when we got home, it was off to San Diego, San Bernardino, Fresno, or some other city. Each night after the service, we’d stand in line to shake hands with the guest of honor. Crazy, you say? Yeah, today I’d say traveling those distances on a school and work night, to see the same person each time, made our lot unique. But dozens of families whose fathers were ministers joined this caravan two or three times a year.

My dad once told me the FBI visited our services during World War II. I’m sure it was standard procedure back then to ascertain if such a concentration of German citizens posed any threat to U.S. interests during wartime. That didn’t stop German members of our proud village from conducting sermons in their native tongue, even a decade after the conflict ended. There were lots of German members who’d pounce on anyone speaking German in a supermarket or on a bus. My dad referred to their tactics as test-a-fighting, their version of “testifying.”(Or proselytizing, which at the time, meant insisting our church was the only way into heaven.) That’s how the church grew in the United States, German members insisting their church was the scheisse (the shit - in English). For years, I heard our church referred to as the German church.