II. “Amot Church”
May 11, 2008
Rena, Norway

Amot Church. The Norwegian “A” has a little dot above it, and this vowel, alien to Americans, is like a long “oh” sound. Oh-mot, or even awe-mot church. It’s a green church! And I’m not speaking ecologically. It’s painted green—on the inside. The exterior is log cabin style wood stained almost black, or merely weathered since its 1902 building date to be very dark. A small entryway sits beneath a tall bell tower with a few extra spires in the style of a stave church. It radiates strength sitting in the center of the village, and I’m sure all of the community’s residents have been here at least once, but I’m just as sure they are not here frequently.

Upon entering you will see the green. Green pews, green wainscoting, green on the altar furnishings, even the pulpit. But the green is mixed with gold and ivory. There is red brocade on the pulpit and rich maroon carpeting. Angels stand guard near the top of the reredos. Another is suspended above the font. The sanctuary is warm and sensually appealing. It’s unlike the Scandinavian sanctuaries of our ancestors that dot the Midwestern prairie landscape.
There is much that catches the eye within the walls of this place, but I was drawn to words written high on a wall near the entry. There was a list of all the pastors who had served this church. Their list dates back to 1537. That’s not a misprint or a typographical error. 1537! 20 years after Luther’s posting of the 95 Theses on the church door in Wittenberg. At Good Shepherd in Olympia, where I retired from, the congregation celebrated its 50th anniversary. What a contrast!
Today is Pentecost—Pinsee, in Norwegian—and it’s a national holiday. The weekend is extended because Pentecost Monday is the actual national holiday. Norwegians come to the churchyard earlier in the week to tend to the family graves, a bit like Memorial Day in the US. Today is made even more special because of a baptism. The service begins with a processional of the dignitaries. A 4 year old girl struts proudly in pigtails and Norwegian sweater carrying the processional cross, and the pastor follows holding high baby Solveig, the honored one who will be baptized. Bunad-clad family also walk proudly bearing witness to the colors of their region and their history.
The pastor ably led the service, and in English she added a special welcome to the American visitors during her greetings. She chanted her portion of the liturgy in a soft clear voice, and the congregation responded even more quietly. The hymns were led by the organist, and only one was familiar, “O Day Full of Grace”, by Nicolai Grundtvig. Clearly, the baptism was the center of the service. The pastor preached her sermon from a floor-level lectern, not from the elevated, gilded pulpit. And there was no communion; a tribute, I thought, to the low-church Norwegian Lutherans I have always known.
Rose Ann and I sat with relative Agnes Helgesen and her two aunts, Tante Nelle and Tante Kaste. They knew the songs, and all had been baptized here. The five of us comprised one third of the fifteen or so persons other than family members of Solveig who had come to church for the baptism. The family numbered about 30, so about 45 altogether sat within the walls of this sanctuary designed for well over 200, hardly a crowd.
A conversation with the pastor after the service proved most enlightening. She loves her congregation and is glad to be living and serving in this village, although she says she’s not sure why. This region of Norway is known for its anti-institutional reputation. Its Lutheranism was foisted upon it by political wheeling and dealing in the 16th century. Logging barons dominated the landscape for many years following the feudal era of farming, so Rena and this area has known “the man” and his power. Now they are still suspicious of government and those in authority. They love their land, their community, nature and all of its beauty, but they don’t feel compelled to express their gratitude in a house of worship. They would rather be independent and be proud of their church from a distance, and this pastor respects them and works within the limits they set for her. She was surprised and grateful to hear about Lutherans in the Pacific Northwest of America with a similar reputation because she thought all Americans faithfully attended church every Sunday. She and I agreed that churchly authority is highly overrated as a means of bringing vitality to a congregation.
Baby Solveig, the one baptized today, was an articulate witness to the ambivalent faith of Norway. Surrounded by her loving family, clothed in her long white baptismal gown, secure within the walls of a faith community in existence since 1537, assured by the baptismal waters of God’s unconditional love, she fussed just a bit as the pastor pronounced the name of the One in whom she was baptized, and then she looked out to the pews at the sparse 15 of us present representing Christ’s church on earth, and she yawned. She wasn’t impressed. That doesn’t minimize what had just happened to her. Still, she wasn’t impressed, and neither are most of the Christians in Norway. That doesn’t diminish them at all. It simply reflects their experience in a church co-mingled with the powers that be. I would probably yawn, too.