His challenges are varied, he says. “I have to see how to ask for help to repair the church … and get used to coming to the bar.”
He couldn’t imagine drinking a beer at a bar in his Salvadoran hometown after Mass. “But if this is where people gather and how people socialize here, this is where I have to be too.”
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But the momentum — in terms of church attendance and energy — is going in the other direction, toward the burgeoning ranks of Pentecostal and other evangelical congregations.
Many of those congregations rent space in industrial buildings on the outskirts of cities and towns — often filling them with zealous worshippers even as many large, centuries-old Catholic churches empty out.
One such Pentecostal venue in Salamanca has as neighbors a large carpentry shop and another evangelical church. On a recent Friday night, it hosted a rite of passage for Melanie Villalobos to celebrate her turning 13.
Two of her friends escorted her in a slow dance to a wall where a video was projected. There, her father appeared from Venezuela, wishing her a happy transition into adolescence. Onlookers from Honduras, the Dominican Republic and Brazil, seated at tables, were moved to tears.
Pastor Nedyt Lescano, 62, who came from Argentina in 2000, was mostly silent during the ceremony, but invited everyone to meet again Sunday morning.
Among those greeting the faithful was Roberto Siqueira, 32, a Brazilian who works in a cheese factory on the outskirts of Salamanca. On Sundays, he plays guitar and sings in a Christian rock band that performs dance-inducing songs in the Pentecostal church.
“This life is worth very little and the relationship with God is worth everything,” goes one of the lyrics.
It’s a bit like karaoke. The lyrics are projected on the wall, people sing along, gesturing and gyrating to the rhythm. Some seem in a trance, others cry out with emotion.
About 50 people are on hand, trying to comply with coronavirus social-distancing restrictions.
Lescano doesn’t say much during the ceremony, letting the worshippers testify about challenges they faced and prayers that were answered.
In Lescano’s services, there’s a moving moment when she asks for help in paying the rent for the premises, along with other expenses, and the faithful, one by one, put an envelope in a cloth bag.
“Unlike the Catholic church, we don’t receive any subsidies. We do it all by our own efforts here,” Lescano says.
Indeed, Spain’s Catholic church — though no longer recognized as the official national faith — received 301 million euros (about $340 million) in 2020 under an agreement with the government. Spain’s evangelicals — though now accounting for more than 4,500 registered places of worship — received a symbolic 462,000 euros (about $523,000).
Lescano often feels like a psychologist, as well as a pastor, for those flocking to the makeshift church.
“Immigrants feel lonely and isolated, in a strange country, and here they receive love and hugs,” she said. “Here they come and share, take pounds of weight and anxiety off their bodies and minds.”
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Associated Press religion coverage receives support from the Lilly Endowment through The Conversation U.S. The AP is solely responsible for this content.
This article originally appeared here.
