This place of faith and fellowship looks nothing like the churches in the movies. It\u2019s no cavernous cathedral; the space is devoid of stone floors and stained windows. The light fixtures\u2019 fluorescent hum matches that of the buffet-going congregation. It is more \u201cOffice Space\u201d than Orthodox, as if crusading cowboys came in and razed any cubicles to accommodate the throng of Thursday-nighters.<\/span><\/p>\n\n

Despite this, Bar None is still a spacious hall. Grey-beige walls flank a lukewarm carpet. Flags of our esteemed armed forces adorn the north side of the room. At the front is a mighty and powerful stage. Unvarnished wood rises from a carpeted sea, standing firm and receptive. Wide, wood beams the color of a splintered baseball bat. There\u2019s some farm equipment, too. Relics of bygone moments, when factories were still relegated to Model Ts and textiles. Lanterns and old posters hang on the unstained wood. <\/span><\/p>\n

I haven\u2019t been to church in a decade. I like my belief system like my Sunday mornings: free, open and lazy if I so choose. I\u2019ve prayed a few times. Once for baseball. It was the championship game of a July 4th tournament, and we were down a couple runs going into our last at-bat. I asked the umpire above to let us string a couple hits together. We won. That was a monumentally religious experience for me. <\/span><\/p>\n[aesop_parallax img=”http:\/\/urban-plains.com\/2016\/wp-content\/uploads\/2016\/03\/JesusSign.jpg” parallaxbg=”off” caption=” A sign off Interstate 80 beckons churchgoers.
\nPhoto by Cole Norum. ” captionposition=”bottom-left” lightbox=”off” floater=”off” floaterposition=”left” floaterdirection=”up”]\n\n

The population of Newton is 97 percent white and 19.3 percent 65 and older, but looking around the room, those numbers are a helluva lot closer to 100. I swear I\u2019ve seen every single one of these people in my life before. They smile and I smile back, hoping they don\u2019t see right through my unfamiliarity. I mean well, I want to tell them. I observe their every move; render their white auras in black ink. <\/span><\/p>\n\n

I pick up a free Bible from the merchandise table. It\u2019s the first time I\u2019ve held a \u201cgood book\u201d since I found one inside a Marriott end table. This one, \u201cThe Way for Cowboys,\u201d is smaller, Wrangler-pocket sized, a rendition of the New International Version, replete with glossy-photo inserts of mustachioed men on horses. Some are in the countryside, others in the rodeo ring. The first pages echo of nostalgic calls to open air and bucking broncos, howling wind and pulled-tight boots. Then come the tiny, tiny words about people meaning well many years ago. I don\u2019t plan on reading those. <\/span><\/p>\n\n\n[aesop_video align=”center” src=”youtube” id=”L9T9L3-b_Gk” caption=”Video by Cole Norum” loop=”off” autoplay=”off” controls=”on” viewstart=”off” viewend=”off”]\n\n

There\u2019s a staggering dearth of cowboy hats in the room, and I start to wonder if I\u2019ve been duped. Two beats; music yawns then sputters through the speakers; a recording of a song written and sung by Brooke Turner, called \u201cSaddle Up Everybody, It\u2019s Time For Cowboy Church!\u201d Everybody saddles but remains seated. Pastor Dave comes up and says a few kind words about kinder folks. His voice is deeper than our late-October sky, a wholesome rasp that settles in warmth. \u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n\n

He welcomes to the stage a group of string-strummers who play for longer than his sermon. Their Southern gospel rocks my socks. This is what it\u2019ll be like: talented folk challenging my godless childhood. My legs bounce and twitch with something greater than myself. For the first time tonight, I can feel <\/span>it<\/span><\/i>. At about 68 minutes in, Jesus starts tugging at my eyelids. I leave early, and feel good doing so. I couldn\u2019t give it my all on the first night, in my first church since before I started middle school. I plan to come back next week with my camera. <\/span><\/p>\n\n

Through The Looking Screen<\/h4>\n

I\u2019ve been feeling iffy about hauling my camera equipment to this week\u2019s gathering. I don\u2019t want people to feel intruded upon. To a certain extent, I am using them. I\u2019m using their decades-long displays of faith for my hours-long immersion. I\u2019ve texted Dave several times to clear my intentions to film. He never responded.<\/p>\n[aesop_quote type=”pull” background=”#ffffff” text=”#a40000″ width=”100%” height=”auto” align=”left” size=”2″ quote=”I mean well, I want to tell them. I truly do. But now, I\u2019m recording them through lenses and wires, not just pens. ” parallax=”off” direction=”left”]\n

I\u2019m here in the front row\u2014Dave is nowhere to be seen. I approach the stage for B-roll footage of its cross-bearing lectern and rustic agriculture utensils. A man makes a comment about my camera. His name\u2019s Bruce. Bruce Punch: tonight\u2019s entertainment, along with the rest of his family, The Punches. They hail from somewhere far away in Missouri. I tell Bruce the story I texted Dave. Bruce mentions he was at a bus station in Pensacola, where I imagine is the setting of profound righteous epiphanies.<\/p>\n

Bruce met a girl who, for a story, renounced her wealth to live among homeless people. Dumpster-diving for full immersion.<\/p>\n

Bruce and Owen, his son, help me set up my audio recorder to pull sound directly from the soundboard. I go back to my seat feeling guilty. I don\u2019t want people to think I\u2019m using them. I mean well, I want to tell them. I truly do. But now, I\u2019m recording them through lenses and wires, not just pens.<\/p>\n

I\u2019m aware of things my second time around. That bear pelt tacked to the speckled wall between unstained windows. The custom bibles on certain chairs\u2014season-ticket holders who opt for $90 seat cushions. People shuffle to see me. I notice I\u2019m worried that I\u2019m not welcome.<\/p>\n

Buoyed by decent intentions and better camera equipment, I waltzed in here. I\u2019m immediately and inescapably aware of my ignorance to this all. Aware of how I thought I appeared. These bespectacled beings craning their necks for good looks at the boy in the front. My skin blushes. My mouth grinds.<\/p>\n

I look down, and see a coffee puddle and empty cup. I glance around the compass, thanking the barista above that nobody saw me spill. I stash my backpack on the puddle and begin the walk to replenish caffeine. The only path is down the middle of the room. I make it, but barely. Then, I spot\u00a0Dave. He eyes my camera as he continues talking to someone, and I want to shrink into a corner, but the closest is occupied by a pair of cowboy boots that have plants growing out of them.<\/p>\n

To escape the awkwardness, I take a sip of the coffee, burning six months off my mouth\u2019s lifespan. I try again, because I\u2019m nothing if not determined. Damn. Six more months. Dave gets up, making moves toward me. I can\u2019t move and I can\u2019t speak. My mouth is numb from the coffee\u2019s scornful heat. If I open my lips now, there\u2019s a very real, very serious chance I\u2019ll begin speaking in tongues.<\/p>\n

Dave is six-feet-forever tall, excluding his brown cowboy hat. I approach him because, again, I\u2019m nothing if not determined. I re-introduce myself, referencing my texts; he apologizes for not replying, and assures me I am allowed to film. It\u2019s a moment of serenity; apprehensions allayed momentarily, I return to my spot the same way from which I came: down the center of the room, parting the red seats. I feel like a tourist, with all the ignorance and none of the fanny pack.<\/p>\n

There is a man, who isn\u2019t Dave, walking around. He\u2019s most certainly in a position of authority. He makes his way up and down the aisles, shaking hands with everyone. I wait my turn eagerly. He nears me and I ready my introduction and my story, \u201cHey, buddy,\u201d he says. His face is my father\u2019s baseball glove, and from his leathered neck hangs a cross so gold it puts my favorite rappers to shame. Blinded by the light, I can only mutter, \u201cI… uh\u2026Well, I\u2019m Cole.\u201d He looks at me for a couple of seconds and nods, as if to mutter to my burning ears, \u201cYou\u2019re damn right you are.\u201d<\/p>\n

I have no time to dwell on this. The Punches land on the straw-strewn stage, throwing haymakers and left hooks of banjo plucks and bass grooves. I swivel my camera\u2019s LCD screen and I like to think the elderly women behind me can see better because of it. But I\u2019m watching this all through three high-resolution inches, and I feel that I shouldn\u2019t. I need to be closer to this experience, right? Removed from frills and fanciness; just flags of armed forces and free cowboy bibles. That\u2019s the Cowboy Way, right?<\/p>\n[aesop_audio title=”Standing By The Bedside Of A Neighbor – The Punches” src=”http:\/\/urban-plains.com\/2016\/wp-content\/uploads\/2016\/03\/StandingByTheBedsideOfANeighbor_MAL_AWC.mp3″ loop=”off” viewstart=”off” viewend=”off” hidden=”off”]\n\n[aesop_parallax img=”http:\/\/urban-plains.com\/2016\/wp-content\/uploads\/2016\/03\/Norum_CowboyChurch.00_02_08_21.Still002-1.jpg” parallaxbg=”off” caption=”The Punches, a family band, perform before the Thursday night crowd.
\nPhoto by Cole Norum. ” captionposition=”bottom-left” lightbox=”off” floater=”off” floaterposition=”left” floaterdirection=”up”]\n

The Punches wind down and Dave starts up with a sermon more energetic than last week\u2019s\u2014Psalm 23, or, as he calls it: \u201cRelief from the Rat Race.\u201d The towering pastor discusses a filmmaker in Los Angeles who befriended him on Facebook. Dave didn\u2019t know him, but the filmmaker told Dave he wished he had his life: this \u201csimpler way of living,\u201d of escaping the daily grind. Of freedom. Of living to live. I don\u2019t know what to make of it. I don\u2019t know if it\u2019s narcissistic to wonder if Dave picked the sermon about the filmmaker because he actually knew I was going to be here with my camera. I don\u2019t know if I\u2019m shaking from the coffee or the Holy Spirit or an unhealthy combination of both. I don\u2019t know a lot of things. But I got a free bible out of it.<\/p>\n

I sneak a peek at the last pages of the bible as I walk out the door. The ending is more postscript than epilogue, penned by a guy named Grant Adkisson. He asks me if there\u2019s something missing in my life. I read on, yearning for more nostalgia about places and moments I\u2019ve never known, like horses and haystacks and the pockets of peace scattered between.<\/p>\n

No. Grant talks about Jesus. About finding the same kind of \u201cway\u201d I imagine most folks do. And that\u2019s fine with me. It\u2019s beautiful, actually. Open-armed embraces under open skies. At this time though, the Cowboy Bible and its \u201cWay\u201d? Of weekly reminders about the virtues of a belief system to which I\u2019m not ready to subscribe and the way to a life that is simpler than the complexity I\u2019ve chosen thus far? Just ain\u2019t for me. Not now.<\/p>\n

But this is the best part of Cowboy Church\u2014 my favorite part of Cowboy Church: it\u2019s not grounded in absoluteness. And I\u2019m not more<\/em> or less<\/em> certain about anything,\u00a0just appreciative of the ticks and tocks between the two. And I know this now while my boots press seventy on the odometer, the wind howling against my windows, as I head west to taller buildings and colder coffee.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

A Church in Iowa explores the Cowboy way.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":4954,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_exactmetrics_skip_tracking":false,"_exactmetrics_sitenote_active":false,"_exactmetrics_sitenote_note":"","_exactmetrics_sitenote_category":0},"categories":[4],"tags":[382,380,383,298,381],"yoast_head":"\n