Published: March 02, 2006 10:38 pm            

Stephanie Salter: Cross sends a message, but of what, to whom?

I don’t know about you, but I kicked off Lent with one heck of a contemplation: discerning the layers of the controversy created by a new 50-foot-tall, red-and-white, “JESUS SAVES” structure alongside North Seventh Street.

The contemplation brought to mind a number of Biblical quotations, from “Love thy neighbor as thyself” to “Render unto Caesar what is Caesar’s.” Matthew 6:1-5, about low-profiling our alms-giving, fasting and public prayer, came into play, too.

I call the structure erected by Cross Tabernacle a “sign” because that is what it looks like to me: a huge, white, T-shaped sign with 31/2 foot-high red lettering and a flashing red light on top. Soon, the church says, the structure will be floodlit at night.

The pastor of the tabernacle, Keith E. Taylor, says the giant structure is “in-your-face evangelism,” but not a sign. To the bewilderment of many people throughout the city, the Terre Haute Board of Zoning Appeals concurred. Jan. 4, it designated the cross-sign an “accessory building” and granted the tabernacle a 35-foot variance from the 15-foot height limit for such construction.

An official explanation of this decision is a tad disturbing, especially given that nobody I’ve talked to in the residential neighborhood around the tabernacle had a clue about the cross until it was half-way up and sunk into 13 feet of concrete.

“When we first saw this, we thought, ‘What is the purpose behind this?’” said Jeremy Weir, the executive director of the Planning Department, which reviewed the project then sent it to Zoning Appeals. “But they want to spread the word of God, and it is difficult for us to tell them how to do this.”

Uh-oh. The people of the Westboro Baptist Church in Topeka, Kan., want to spread the word of God, too. They do it by showing up at funerals of U.S. soldiers killed in Iraq and holding up signs that proclaim a soldier’s death “the wrath of God” for the United States’ tolerance of homosexuals.

STOP! I am not equating the giant cross-sign with the hateful insanity of the Westboro Baptist Church. No, no, no, I am not.

What I am saying is, when a government agency starts bending the law to encourage one group’s method of spreading its interpretation of God’s word, that agency creates a mighty steep and slippery slope. It’s why U.S. law traditionally has made such a big deal about separation of church and state — not to shut down worship, but to ensure this nation never gets to where there is only one “correct” way to pray to one “correct” version of God.

The Planning Department is, like all of city and county government, supported by public money, taxpayer dollars. Unlike homeowners or businesses, a church pays no property taxes. Yet the Cross Tabernacle members’ desire to spread their take on God won them an exemption from following the same rules that everyone around them must follow.

If the owners of any of the homes that line Seventh Street between Maple Avenue and Fort Harrison Road wanted to erect a 50-foot-tall Mickey Mouse head or Colts mascot or peace sign in their front yards, do you think the Zoning Appeals board would have given them the green light?

Ironically, one of the tabernacle’s nearest neighbors, J.J. Smith Flower and Garden Shop, is prohibited by law from using flashing lights that border its ground marquee because Smith’s is a business. The sign is 4 feet tall.

Last Saturday, I walked over to the flower shop to buy some blooms for my house. What I found hurt my heart.

Lois Dowell, whose family has owned Smith’s since 1970, was crying hard and saying, “I just don’t understand.”

Lois is 77. All morning she and her sons had been fielding angry, scolding telephone calls. People wanted them to know they were never going to buy flowers from the shop again. Never.

“They were so hateful,” Lois said. “I love Jesus, too.”

The Dowells had been deemed “bad Christians” because, in a Tribune-Star story published that morning, Lois’ son, Mike, said what many in the neighborhood had been saying in private:

Public notification rules were not followed for the cross’s erection, the structure is over-sized for the area it borders and it is visually unappealing to many eyes — not because it’s a cross, but because it’s a gigantic red-and-white sign with a flashing light on top.

As one of my elderly neighbors, a lifelong Christian, put it, “That cross doesn’t make me think of Jesus, it makes me think of a carnival.”

The Dowells had an added complaint: Anything as big as the new cross will affect the value of their undeveloped property, which they are trying to sell, because it adjoins the tabernacle’s land.

Suddenly, the cross had become a giant divining rod. Anybody who didn’t like it was branded a defective Christian or — worse — an enemy of Jesus. This included Lois Dowell who, I know for a fact, would crawl on her knees to church if that’s the only way she could get there.

In the news story, Pastor Taylor said the cross is part of “God’s timing” for his church “to assert a little more presence in the city.”

“It is quite an eye-catcher,” he told reporter Howard Greninger. “Travelers can see that somebody’s not ashamed of the cross and the Gospel.”

Since I read that, I’ve tried to remember the last time I heard anyone in this town say, “I am ashamed of the cross and Gospel.” I’ve held the little gold crucifix I have worn on a chain around my neck for 20 years and wondered:

When did the absence of a 50-foot-tall cross with a red flashing light on top imply Christian shame or defect? Is in-your-face evangelism the only way anymore to prove one’s commitment to the path of Christ?

Sunday night, I decided to visit the Cross Tabernacle, which until recently was known as the First Assembly of God.

The huge hall holds about 1,000 and was packed with folks of all ages. Everybody seemed electrified by the clapping, arm-waving, singing spirit of Christ. The musicians were terrific, and big TV screens flashed smiling faces around the church.

Before the service had begun, the TV screens had flashed meeting and Bible study announcements, calls to community outreach and service, and telephone numbers for Indiana politicians with the message, “Phone calls make a difference.”

Walking back and forth at the front of the sanctuary, a wireless microphone in his hand, Pastor Taylor talked about what a great week it had been and a great morning of saving souls. Many had come forward in the 10 a.m. service, he said, asking to be baptized.

As for the new cross, Taylor said the church had “no time” for the controversy.

“Yes, it’s a big cross,” he said, “but our God is a big God.”

Cross Tabernacle has targeted all of Terre Haute as its “mission field.” From meth addiction to riverboat gambling to a proposed strip club in nearby 12 Points, the church aims to fight, Taylor said, politically, as well as spiritually.

Anyone who doesn’t like the way Cross Tabernacle goes about worship, he said, should walk on down the road and find something that suits them better.

“This is no sissy church!” the pastor said, and the delighted congregation applauded heartily.

Several minutes later, I slipped out a side door. I was happy for the people of Cross Tabernacle and for the love of Jesus they so obviously have in their hearts. I just prefer my own church’s approach to worship, prayer and community outreach.

On Ash Wednesday, I began my 40-day Lenten observance. Along with penance and alms, I gave thanks for the freedom of a nation in which I am not forced to practice in-your-face evangelism and Pastor Taylor does not have to attend a sissy church.

Each time I pass the 50-foot-tall, red-and-white structure with a flashing red light on top, I think the same thing:

It is a sign, and it’s too big for the neighborhood.

Stephanie Salter can be reached at (812) 231-4229 or stephanie.salter@tribstar.com.

        

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