Aging Church’s Future Looking Up Outward-Looking Pastor, Inward-Looking Flock Didn’t Click At First

When the Rev. Rich Lang arrived at his new post last year, Spokane’s Central United Methodist Church, it seemed there had been a mistake.

The congregation was hoping for a young, dynamic preacher who would draw families into the dying church.

Lang was young, as preachers go - only 40 years old. But the congregation was not his primary interest. He was a missionary hellbent on serving the poor, the homeless and street kids who inhabit downtown.

After a year of feuding over money, hymns and sermons, the excitable pastor and the reticent flock have arrived at a certain harmony. The byproduct is a thriving urban mission dubbed Shalom Zone.

“Maybe God took the circumstances that were there and said, ‘Boy, I could make this work,”’ said the Rev. Homer Todd, a fellow United Methodist minister who has been an observer of the experiment. “Maybe this is the moving of the Holy Spirit.”

Lang took a job no one else within the denomination’s Northwest Synod wanted. He stepped up and volunteered to be the pastor at the white behemoth at the corner of Third and Howard downtown, so the bishop sent him there.

Founded in 1879, the church once had as many as 1,600 members. Now an average of 100 people attend the weekend service. They come from all over the city, but few actually live downtown. Most are lifelong members, who remember the church’s days of opulence.

Lang is the first to admit he was not interested in what was happening inside the church. He was drawn to the extreme poverty and despair surrounding the church. Between the street kids, the homeless men, gangs and people living in low-income apartments and hotels, it was an urban missionary’s dream.

“We have made a serious spiritual error in ghetto-izing the poor,” Lang said. “Separation leads to superiority. And that is not how God sees it.”

Lang envisions a church where the middle class and the poor worship together and form bonds that transcend their social stations.

Shalom is an idea adopted by urban United Methodist churches across the country. Shalom Zone churches draw borders around their neighborhoods - usually 16 square blocks - and assume responsibility for the social problems within that footprint.

While Lang served the poor in his area, he alienated the congregation paying his salary.

Although he tries not to show it, he often lets it slip that his heart is with the poor. “The middle class is boring,” he said. “A pastor cannot challenge a middle class congregation.”

Lang said that when he looks back on the last year, he sees his mistakes. “That was my sin at work,” he said. “There is a lot of hurt here because I have not been a good pastor.”

Worshipers at Central United were quick to pick up on Lang’s attitude, said Dexter Phillips, lay leader of the congregation.

“He really didn’t give the congregation enough credit,” Phillips said. “Sure there are some naysayers, but they are a minority.”

When Lang stood up at a gang summit conference last year and opened the church’s gym to wayward youths without congregation approval, he raised some hackles.

That was nothing compared to the controversy when he changed the music format at the services from classical organ hymns to spirited, guitar-led songs of praise.

Despite the dissension among the congregation, Lang’s vision outside the church took shape. Once a week more than 150 downtown residents gather for a dinner that looks more like a big family get-together than a charity handout. At first, only a few members of the congregation pitched in.

In the basement of the church annex, street kids meet for coffee and snacks most nights. And on a monthly basis, Christian punk rock bands rattle the stained glass windows while hundreds of teens writhe on the dance floor.

A new youth director has increased youth church attendance from four to 18.

With a core group of volunteers, many new to the church, Lang plowed forward with his vision.

One of Lang’s biggest victories was to convince the congregation to siphon 12 percent off their endowment every year, up from 4 percent. The increase means that as long as the stock market is strong, the church won’t cut into its principal, but if the market crashes, the endowment would dwindle.

One newcomer is Cerrell Tarr, who admits she was turned off by the congregation, but felt drawn to Lang. “I could tell Pastor Rich was pretty cool, even though he had all these robes and vestments on,” she said. “Because his shoes were all run down.”

Tarr attended the weekly community dinner and was shocked to find an elderly woman doing most of the work. Tarr offered to help and eventually took over. With a background in food service and a degree in counseling, she is perfect for the job, Lang said.

She assembled a crew of volunteers, many living across the street from the church in the St. Clair Apartments. Some of them live on the streets.

While a few of the old guard at the church were friendly, others were downright rude, she said.

“We were definitely not welcome,” she said. “And I don’t blame them. They’ve been ripped off so many times. But we didn’t leave. Rich wouldn’t let us go.”

Jana Kifer, a member since 1962, explained the congregation has always had a heart for mission, but felt like it was being overrun.

“We were instrumental in the beginning of Meals on Wheels and Crosswalk,” said Kifer, 52. “We have always been committed to doing missionary work. But the word we use a lot is balance.”

Many in the congregation felt looked down upon for their middle-class roots by Lang and the newcomers, Kifer said.

But gradually, more than a year after Lang assumed his post, something mysterious happened. The two sides moved closer together.

Lang changed the music back to the traditional organ hymns. He occasionally throws in a modern praise song, but he prints the words on a handout, rather than projecting them onto a wall.

More and more, members of the congregation come to the dinner as well as a new coffee hour after the Sunday worship service.

The congregation “is getting over the initial shock and starting to realize they can make a difference,” Phillips said. “Something is happening. Lives are being changed.”

Phillips began building personal bridges with his new pastor and many in the congregation followed.

“Rich had himself figured as a voice crying out in the wilderness and that if he didn’t do it, it wouldn’t get done,” Phillips said. “And we’re still trying to break out of our 19th-century parliamentary system we have built into this church.”

Lang said the unification required a certain amount of repentance on his part, before the congregation could trust him.

“I thought I could change this church quickly and that was sheer arrogance on my part,” he said. “I am not the Lord of this church. God’s opening doors, but it is not my responsibility to shove people through those doors.”

Phillips and his family joined Central in 1990, long before Lang arrived. He and his wife and their two children drove across the country and arrived at the Motel 6 downtown. His wife woke up Sunday morning and wanted to go to services. Central was the first church they stumbled upon.

Only now does he realize there was a plan.

“This is where God wants us to be,” he said. “It was dark here before it got bright.

“Now, this is a great position to be in. We are seeing God’s work almost every day.”

, DataTimes ILLUSTRATION: 2 photos (1 color)