Torkelson: Scum offers haven for the unconventional

By Jean Torkelson, Rocky Mountain News (Contact)

Published May 8, 2006 at midnight

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Gentility, thy name is Jim Ryan. So when Ryan, executive director of the Colorado Council of Churches and an organizer of last month's Red Rocks Easter service, ran down the list of participants in his pleasant, soft-spoken way and ended with:

" . . . and music will be provided by Scum of the Earth," you just had to go - "Huh?!"

Yes, Scum of the Earth is a congregation, though the word is way too fussy for this crowd. "I'm sorry I couldn't be here before," said one regular at a recent Sunday service, "but I was spending too much time in jail."

On that night, a sea of Scum (about 400 all told) gathered as usual at 7 p.m. in the auditorium they rent from Church in the City at Colfax Avenue and Josephine Street. The flock flaunts its share of mohawks, tattoos and leather, but that isn't the whole story.

"Scum has become a haven for writers and poets, musicians and actors. I consider those people very valuable, both in the kingdom of God and in society at large," said Pastor Mike Sares, a 52-year-old former English teacher and musician who started Scum in his living room in 2000.

Sares' core group was Five Iron Frenzy, a Christian ska band that achieved an international crossover reputation before disbanding in 2003. (Ska? Think reggae speeded up to punk rock speed.) Scum is home to several bands; one performed at the Red Rocks services.

Over time, artists and idealists, the unconventional and the marginalized, forged into a church. They tend to be youthful, liberal, anti-Iraq war and pro-social programs, but also evangelical and Bible-centered. (The name comes from 1 Corinthians 4:11-13. The Web site is scumoftheearth.net.)

As Sares put it, "Not a lot of them are fans of George Bush, and that's odd when it comes to evangelical churches . . . But they tend to be for the underdog. If someone is slick, super successful, they tend to view them with skepticism."

On the other hand, even smokers can find love here. Actually, they're put to work when they go outside for a puff. "We designate them as the greeters," Sares chuckled. "It can be really scary walking into Scum for the first time, so we say, 'Be nice to the people walking in.' "

That night, a huge aluminum horse trough sat center stage. It was baptism night.

"We don't believe baptism is necessary for salvation, but as a public declaration that says, 'I love the Lord,' " Leanor Ortega Till, saxophonist for Five Iron Frenzy, explained to the crowd, which had grown intensely quiet.

In cutoffs and T-shirts, eight converts gave brief, pointed testimonies, then got dunked to applause. "I knew I was looking for something that couldn't be found anywhere in this world," said Ben Mann. "Thanks for listening, and thanks to Jesus Christ."

"I expected to be ridiculed, judged, like I would do," said Jesse Jacobs, a former Scum dropout. "Instead I was told, 'Glad you're back!' "

"I'm ready to take up my cross and follow Jesus. That's really all I have to say," said a young woman named Megan.

The baptisms went like clockwork - unlike many Scum services, where, Sares muses, "nothing goes smoothly. I forget my sermon notes. Fights break out . . . "

But for this crowd, spontaneity, however imperfect, is also part of faith's leap: "The slicker something appears, the less we trust it."

torkelsonj@RockyMountainNews.com or 303-892-5055

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