Spanish praises, singing and occasional shouts of rapturous spiritual confirmation emanate from the orange-brick storefront confines of La Verdad que Liberta (The Truth That Sets You Free). Young and old, women and men, children and former gang-bangers comprise the mostly Latino congregation, and the service’s cast includes a troupe of excitable teens decked in biblical costumes who shadow pastor James Garcia, a colossal, Jesus-extolling, self-proclaimed magnet for those seeking spiritual transformation.
“He loves you! He can save your life!” Garcia says at Sunday services, closing his eyes and extending his T-bone steak-sized hands.
A bespectacled Guatemalan woman bursts into tears as the choir, called “The New Anointing,” starts up again, swaying more emphatically than before and driving parishioners to trade the customary clasped-hands prayer stance for a communal display of palms to the white-washed ceiling.
Occupying a space that used to be a basketball court in Chicago’s Pilsen neighborhood, La Verdad que Liberta’s recently remodeled interior has the air of a courtroom, with a no-frills, Beachwood and white-washed interior. The sanctuary is plain except for several pots of faux flowers all across the altar and a shiny network of cords and instruments that appear more suited to a rock club than a house of God, and visitors’ eyes are immediately drawn to the church’s central focus: a one-car garage-sized baptismal tub behind the altar where white-robed converts are submerged until they can feel God’s presence. According to 22-year-old parishioner Lucy Valdez, some have seen visions of snakes, red seas and floodtides of biblical lore, and some even speak in tongues from the tiled confines of the tub, which rests beneath a mural depicting waterfalls and rivers, the sites of old-school baptism. The painting, visible behind a plate of glass backing the altar, has the look of a craft fair bargain find.
“It’s a beautiful ceremony every time, absolutely breath-taking,” Valdez says of the christenings performed during regular services.
The congregation already boasts about 140 members, and Garcia says the count skyrockets with each passing year. In 2004, La Verdad que Liberta welcomed five new families, up from four in 2003. Garcia and active members urge parishioners to spread the Pentecostal word via personal evangelism and community outreach, such as distributing colorful literature and prosthelytizing door-to-door.
Garcia founded the church himself in 1982. Initially located in a more impoverished part of the South Side, La Verdad que Liberta opened its new doors in Pilsen three years ago. Garcia says the original parishioners have remained devout to their Iglesia Pentecostal, attending services and events despite the longer haul, and that the congregation has begun to draw members from its new neighborhood.
When asked about the religious background of most newly converted Pentecostalists, Garcia had a simple answer. His flock, he says, is composed “almost entirely of former Catholics.”
In an unprecedented demographic shift startling enough to have Vatican officials scratching their heads, Latino Catholics – particularly recent immigrants to the United States – are converting en masse to Protestant religions, particularly Pentecostalism.
According to James Halstead, chair of DePaul University’s department of religious studies, roughly 70 percent of Chicago’s Latinos currently identify as Catholics, compared to almost 100 percent 15 years ago. Moreover, the count of Latino Americans who claim they are “born again” is steadily on the rise.
Garcia says his congregation is not limited to any single Latino ethnicity. “I am Puerto Rican, and my wife is Haitian,” he says. “Our members are Central American, South American, Mexican, Spanish. They come from Honduras and El Salvador, the Dominican Republic and even Brazil.”
Halstead says immigration and the Spanish language unite all these ethnicities “Latinos are historically a very diverse, yet cohesive group,” he says. “Their experiences as newly-landed Americans have a common thread.”
One common thread that is loosening is Catholicism. Statistics published by various religious sources indicate that Pentecostalism is today’s fastest-growing segment of Christianity. According to Volume XVII of Christian History: The Rise of Pentecostalism, the worldwide figure rises at a rate of about 35,000 by the day. Throughout the city, Century 21 Real Estate agents report that Pentecostals have purchased land in former stores in business districts, apartments in residential districts and have established pavilions in parks and fields. La Verdad que Liberta occupies a former recreational center, and Pilsen roadways are dotted with “storefront churches.”
“Of the 37 million Latinos living in the U.S., nearly 5 million declare themselves to be either Pentecostal or Charismatic, and more convert each day, ” writes Arlene Sanchez-Walsh, author of Latino Pentecostal Identity.
Meanwhile, the Catholic head count, meanwhile, diminishes, and the Chicago Archdiocese in particular faces increasing funding problems and has had to shut down many of its parishes and schools in the past 10 to 20 years.
Halstead offers a widely-held hypothesis. “Modern-day church-goers seek a sense of community in their spiritual lives, and while the Catholic Church offers guidance, it does not extend the immediate warmth and redemption of Protestant sects such as Pentecostalism,” he says.
Archdiocese officials view the current exodus in a different light. “When someone else is waving the promise of instant salvation and unfounded cures and support under poor immigrants’ noses, that’s certainly going to appeal to some,” says the Rev. Claudio Diaz, director of the Chicago Archdiocese’s Office for Latino Catholics. “But the true Catholics are going to recognize the tradition and the value of our faith, of its rich history and the many it has saved, and those are the parishioners we want in our churches.”
Diaz makes no move to deny Chicago’s ebbing Latino Catholic count. “We can no longer depend upon Latinos to become active in our churches,” he says. “But those who hold true faith will remain.”
Recent converts say Pentecostalism’s appeal extends far beyond sensational promises and theatrics. “In the Catholic church, I learned obligation and tradition – here I have learned love,” says 39-year-old Marcus Diaz, who left the Catholic Church nine years ago when a friend brought him to a Pentecostal revival. Shortly afterward, Diaz says his then terminally ill wife healed miraculously, and the pair embarked upon the conversion process. “I have learned to accept Jesus in my heart, and that he loves me on a very personal level, entirely differently from my experience as a Catholic,” he says.
Pentecostalism emphasizes ecstatic religious experience, particularly that which is communicated through “gifts of the spirit.” According to Pastor Garcia, this encompasses visions, direct communication with God or Jesus Christ and a distinct feeling or cognizance of a higher presence. One demonstrates the highest form of all “gifts” by “speaking in tongues,” that is, Christ’s native language of Aramaic (a dialect closely related to Hebrew), and thus receives the spiritual blessing known as the baptism of the Holy Spirit. Divine intervention is a common desire and experience of Pentecostals. Services and messages are largely communicated to followers in the form of song and celebration, children and youths are often highly involved in services and in the church community, and women as well as men may serve the church in leadership capacities. James Garcia’s wife, Miriam, is considered the “first lady” of La Verdad que Liberta, and she leads the women’s services held every Tuesday evening.
According to anthropologist Alejandro Figerio, many poor immigrants and Latino Americans are drawn to Pentecostalism’s lively worship services and its promises of instant spiritual and material gratification. And mo
re and more are abandoning the Vatican’s strict rules on issues such as birth control and abortion in favor of evangelical Protestant groups that emphasize the here and now rather than the afterlife.
Halstead says another primary draw is the opportunity to worship in Spanish. Garcia leads most services in Spanish, but his son James Jr., 21, translates every word into English. The church provides those who speak English as a first language with headphones, through which they receive verbatim translation. On the few occasions when Garcia preaches in English, Miriam translates for Spanish-speaking churchgoers. Two young children in the parish translate his words into sign language for a hearing-impaired parishioner.
Catholic churches that traditionally lead masses in Latin and English are slower to transition to language demands, says Halstead. Spanish-led masses are becoming more commonplace in the Catholic community in only recent years.
Figerio also points out that Evangelical religions such as Pentecostalism serve as a type of rescue service, providing a support base for those coping with many problems that plague tough, impoverished neighborhoods. “We have some drug addicts in our church,” Garcia says. “We have alcoholics and gang members. Some are fully recovered, others are on their way. We are here to help them find the path of the Lord. We don’t judge anyone, and at the church they find role models and people to talk to confidentially.”
Halstead says Vatican officials are acutely aware of the large number of Protestant converts not only in Chicago and in the United States, but also in the developing world. “The Catholics have beautiful ceremonies and a rich tradition,” Garcia says. “But people are Catholic because their families have always been Catholic – not because that is how they have found a way to let God into their lives.”
Garcia himself was born and raised as a Catholic. His mother, Josephina, suffered from manic depression and often took her misery out on Garcia and his younger sister Claudia, beating and berating the children for minor misconduct. One day Josephina’s sole remaining friend convinced her to come to a Pentecostal revival just south of Chicago.
“I was a 13-year-old altar boy when this happened,” Garcia says. “I didn’t know why we were there, but about halfway through, the singing just got to me in my heart. There were so many people and they were all so happy, I didn’t understand it at first. But then I began to understand that these people were displaying the highest form of happiness there is: They had found God in their heart, and they wanted other people to feel how they felt.”
Garcia says his whole family left feeling peaceful and filled with newfound love. The Garcias converted shortly thereafter. “My mother wanted to kill the whole family,” he recalls. “I really think she would have, too, if she hadn’t found the Lord in her heart. Our family was literally saved, and our hearts were saved by Jesus’s presence.”
Garcia explains Pentecostalism as the most strictly faith-based denomination. Adherents interpret the Bible almost literally, accept all recruits with open arms, and generally interpret their religious quests as an experience with Christ. “It is a powerful thing,” says the pastor after a service as he lies beached in a recliner, savoring a foot massage from two small Mexican boys. Carlito and George, Garcia explains, are the young children of parishioners, and they like to nurse their pastor’s bare feet back to health after an hour or two of the rapid movement that accompanies his charismatic preaching.
Garcia continues to offer the details of his personal spiritual transformation. “God came to me again when my wife died in gallbladder surgery,” he says. “She was in a body bag going into the morgue when she awoke and saw God. I felt His presence there with us too.”
Halstead says experts often term this mode of religious interpretation “health and wealth” theology. In its emphasis on healing and miracles, this particular dogma appeals to man’s desires of success and prosperity. “Serve God and you will be rewarded,” Halstead says is the idea. “We have parishioners who have miraculously survived fires because they believed. They spoke to God in a time of need and related to specific passages in His Bible. Jesus can save you. Jesus will help you succeed.” This seems to be the message, and it does not fail in its mission to foster hope within many.
“When you are a Pentecostal, you truly believe,” says Garcia, rising from his sprawled, barefoot position. “There is not doubt in your mind,” he adds, nodding at Carlito and George, who return the nod earnestly.
Leaving la Verdad que Liberta and searching for St. Pius, the former Catholic base for so many of its flock, one sees Pilsen’s brick-building sidings that bear murals of smiling Latinos graduating, celebrating, earning and otherwise achieving. Almost all depictions include relics of the Virgin Mary or Jesus’s crucifix spray-painted in the background. Shop windows display communion dresses by the dozens, cheap candles representing the Stations of the Cross, prayer cards and crude paintings of treasured saints.
Evangelical messages advertised from billboards, signs, statues and tiny revivalist churches are not nearly so common, but are a presence nonetheless. The newly emblazoned Gospel messages contrast sharply with the rugged look of the Catholic murals and statues.
Worlds collide on the streets, but inside St. Pius’s red brick, imposing structure, the Catholic tradition is alive and hosting participants. No one speaks audibly, echoes reverberate hauntingly, and traditions are painstakingly preserved. Visitors sit amidst haggard parishioners asleep on the pews, observing others as they bow their heads solemnly before glowing relics of the Virgin or of St. Pius. Fervent Spanish whispers are faintly detectable from bowed, stoic-faced men and women kneeling in prayer in the collective red glow of hundreds of novena candles.
Maybe the somber nature of the Catholic Church, particularly apparent in the steepled confines of Chicago’s old-world churches, seems augmented after a day spent with those who have abandoned its hierarchy, its structure, its rules and its word. The vigor and immediate spirit of Pilsen’s Pentecostal foil is noticeably absent within the wooden expanses of St. Pius. But the church has a distinct aura – there’s the feeling that it appeared and felt just like this a hundred years ago, and that there would always be a contingent to fight for its preservation, to struggle with its rules and sanctions and then strive to find meaning and enlightenment. Perhaps it will continue to diminish – maybe it will wax and wane – but the church’s presence will always be felt by many.
“If the Catholic Church is losing some, then they aren’t the dedicated Catholics who are going to uphold our ideals presently and carry them on to the future,” says Diaz. 4
Medill junior Katie O’Reilly is a PLAY writer. She can be reached at [email protected].
