Inside the pink, century-old Queen Anne United Methodist Church, worship is a sparse, graying affair. Fifty is considered young here, and hip replacements and recent widows have been popular subjects for prayer requests.
On one typical Sunday, as the Rev. Rex Van Beek donned his white robe and began a sermon on human worth, he confronted not just sin and Scripture, but rows and rows of empty pews.
"I'm a sinner ... am I a worthy pastor?" he asked the scattered few. Cavernous silence greeted him, until a reedy, elderly voice piped up from the back: "We think you are."
A few Sundays later, 1,200 clapping, singing, swaying people filled the auditorium-sized Cedar Park Assembly of God in Bothell. Wearing a smart gray suit, the Rev. Joe Fuiten leaped to the microphone, surrounded by young couples, toddlers, bright-eyed teens, floodlights, two televisions, three video cameras and a nine-piece band.
"I know I'm looking at a bunch of failures today. Don't mean to be rude to ya. But hey! We're forgiven!" he told the crowd, popping a thumbs-up sign. A big-screen TV behind him flashed, "God wants you to talk!"
One fading, the other flourishing, the two churches illustrate a significant trend in modern Christianity. For decades, mainline Protestant churches have been losing millions of people nationwide, while "megachurches" – usually large, suburban and evangelical -- have blossomed.
While Northwest churches have followed the same path, the region's secular core adds a twist. Long considered one of the most unchurched areas in the country, Washington state ranked last in a study last year on religious beliefs, with 25 percent of state residents describing themselves as non-religious compared with 14 percent nationwide.
Unlike other parts of the country, where the social pressure to attend a long-established church is more intense, the Northwest's lack of religious tradition means fragile congregations struggle even more.
The lack of religious identity also helps megachurches grow. Religious scholars describe church membership in terms of "market share," and because no single religion corners the market here, some say the opportunity for megachurch growth is immense.
The Rev. Tony Robinson, of Plymouth Congregational Church in Seattle, compares small churches to "mom-and-pop stores." Megachurches, with their Sunday numbers in the thousands, pastoral teams and cornucopia of services are the "Costcos" of religion.
"The mom-and-pops are really struggling," he said. "There's something lost when you go from a mom-and-pop place to Costco. But there's something gained; otherwise, people wouldn't go to Costco."
Even for non-religious people, the growth and decline of local churches have much effect. When small churches close, neighborhoods lose stabilizing institutions and often see church-run services, such as shelters and youth programs, go by the wayside.
And large churches need space. Their effect on traffic and property values can ignite volatile land-use debates, such as the years-long controversy regarding church sizes in rural eastern King County.
"Generally, the impact we hear the most about is the visual impact, traffic, the general activity and the feel," said Karen Wolf, senior policy analyst in King County's office of regional policy and planning. "The feel of the area is broken up in a sense. ... There's a break in the landscape."
Experts disagree on the complex reasons for the decline of mainline churches, which has slowed in recent years. Some say the denominations -- which include Lutherans, Methodists and Episcopalians – are "institutionally weak," meaning they tolerate different beliefs and offer little in return. Some say the churches have become too liberal, losing members who find comfort in more traditional worship. Others say they haven't changed enough to remain relevant.
In contrast, megachurches tend to demand strong commitment, through evangelism and strict beliefs. They bolster worship with a bounty of classes and prayer groups. They market God well to traditionally indifferent churchgoers, such as baby boomers and singles. And megachurch pastors work hard to stay popular with the young, with some taking note of a study that showed that church with a median membership age over 46 is a "church in decline."
"Megachurches have been fabulous about evaluating popular culture and dovetailing it to the shape of their ministry," said the Rev. Peter Drury, of First Christian Church of Seattle. His church lost hundreds of members since its founding in 1882, and finally merged with a nearby congregation in December.
"At a megachurch, you design something that's going to feel as comfortable as walking into Starbucks, and they've grown fantastically," Drury said.
Losing the second generation
During fellowship hour at Queen Anne United Methodist one recent Sunday, grandmothers shared cinnamon bread starters, while elderly men in suits shuffled by with canes.
Originally built in 1892 in Belltown, the church once bustled with children, young couples and a weekly attendance of 200. But as families moved out of Queen Anne and social values shifted, the congregation aged and shrank. Today, the church counts about 35 elderly members who regularly attend.
"There was a different dynamic in the community then," said Carol Lura, the church's 65-year-old lay leader, over tea and egg-salad sandwiches. "The general public always knew you should be going to church."
Lura, who joined the church in 1959, pinpointed the church's decline to the 1960s, when young families asked the church to provide more youth-oriented programs but older leaders refused to adapt. Families with children left in droves.
"Once you've lost that second generation, you've lost your future," she said. "It just grieves me, because Rex is an excellent pastor. But young people come once, they see the gray hair, and we don't see them again. It's so sad. You can't blame them; they want someone their age to talk to."
A gently humorous man, Van Beek has worked hard to rejuvenate his flock. He started a Bible class for newcomers. He added a new service with upbeat music to counter the sometimes musty 18th-century hymns. He polled community members on what they wanted in a neighborhood church. None of it worked, and his congregation now faces an uncertain future.
Van Beek, who is 54, said the disillusionment of young people in the '60s -- combined with the lack of traditional church ties in the West -- makes it difficult to run a local church.
"There's not the same kind of encouragement (to attend church) here," he said. "When I talk to people in their 20s to 40s, and they share with their co-workers that they're going to church, it's like, 'You are? Why?'"
A place to 'get plugged in'
Where mainline churches have failed, megachurches have boomed. Started as a movement in the '60s, megachurches grew in the '80s and '90s and now attract thousands of people uneasy with organized religion. Sermons are easy to understand; pastors wear suits instead of vestments; and churches are seldom decorated with overt religious symbols.
With an emphasis on evangelism, many churches intentionally look more like malls and theaters, in hopes of drawing more people.
"They don't want people to feel uncomfortable, so they want to use spaces that are familiar," said Patricia O'Connell Killen, a religion professor at Pacific Lutheran University.
Megachurches tend to cluster in suburbs because that's where pastors can find both land and young families interested in God.
"All I know is on Sunday around 10:30, you can hardly get down the street," said Cedar Park's senior pastor, Joe Fuiten. "You try to get from the freeway to Safeway, it's ridiculous. There's about a thousand people going to church within a mile from here."
With a home campus on 48 acres, a network of suburban churches and overall membership of 5,000, Fuiten's church is one of the state's largest. Like many successful megachurches, it feels intimate and appeals to the masses through an abundance of programs: child care, a bustling high school group, classes for all demographic groups, a hip "skate church" for teens.
"It's a place where you can get plugged in very easily, whether you're single, younger, older," said Philippe Vallerand, an enthusiastic Snohomish businessman, who attends Cedar Park with his wife, Laura, and their three children.
They initially went to a smaller church closer to home, but chose Cedar Park because of its energy. Like many members, they now consider the church the center of their lives.
"There are many types of church, and for some, it is almost like a job," said Vallerand, who is 47. "Coming to church should be a joy, a privilege, a celebration. Here, you have that sense."
A Pentecostal church, Cedar Park is known for its annual prayer for infertile couples and for Fuiten, who has been using his easygoing charm to help church members understand Scripture for 21 years.
During a recent sermon laced with humor, Fuiten preached how both Sept. 11 and the Super Bowl were golden opportunities to spread the Gospel.
"My personal mission is to turn people to righteousness," he said during an interview in his office. He added that savvy programming helps, too.
"Part of how you run a successful church is that you can't just be one thing. You gotta be a lot of different things for different people."
Marketing religion
Mainline pastors often laud megachurches for their verve and outreach, but usually with suspicion. Some worry that Jesus' message of standing with the afflicted is lost in the massive churches of well-heeled suburbanites. Others wonder if efficient marketing has turned religion into just another product for consumers.
"I think the megachurches have done some things right. They have ... reached a lot of people," said Robinson of Plymouth Congregational, who helps reinvigorate mainline churches around the country.
"The downside is when you turn religion into something that is market-driven ... which is about meeting people's needs. But at some level, religion is about helping people transcend their needs."
But the mainlines have taken a few lessons from the megas.
In 2000, after shrinking to a few older folks, Beacon Avenue United Church of Christ took drastic action. With the help of Plymouth, it reinvented itself with a lively new pastor who buzzed around the community, asking for comment.
It revitalized its program with gospel, taiko, Senegalese drums and bluegrass. It let members control the church's direction. It renamed itself Bethany, and with nearly 100 members, it is -- for the first time in a long time -- a growing church.
"This is very, very different," the Rev. Angela Ying said. "A lot of times, (churches) ring a pastor, and you have to follow all the traditional ways. Or you get a large church to support you, and they call the shots.
"For me, it's so hard to explain, but it's an incredible multiracial, multigenerational church in a whole new way. And kids -- we got toddlers out of the wazoo! I'm like, 'OK! We need day care here!'"