Starting a church is not as simple as purchasing premises and unlocking the door. Not in Sweden. In the country that hasn’t been at war for more than two hundred years, people have had plenty of time to think up regulations for most things of a peaceful nature. There are, for example, clear stipulations that must be followed by anyone who has experienced a divine revelation and wants to share it with others in an organized fashion.
The priest happened to know that the authority in charge of applications to register religious communities was Kammarkollegiet, or the Legal, Financial, and Legislative Services Committee. Since she, the receptionist, and their intended religious leader had no address other than a camper van, she chose to visit the committee in question, on Birger Jarlsgatan, in central Stockholm.
She nodded “good day” and said she wished to start a new faith community because she had seen the light.
The official at the committee, a man of upper middle age, had dealt with many seers of lights in his eighteen years at the same place of work, but he had never before had a customer come calling. “All right,” he said. “In that case, all you have to do is ‘see’ a few forms and complete them in the appropriate manner. To which address may I send them?”
“Send?” said Johanna Kjellander. “But I’m standing here among you, as the Lord almost puts it in Leviticus.”
The Kammarkollegiet official happened to be an organist in the Church of Sweden and had a good memory, so he was on the verge of responding that the same book said that a person who did not follow the statutes of God would be struck by terror, consumption, fever, and more besides. Blindness, if he remembered correctly.
The official’s problem was that at no point had the Lord stipulated that the necessary forms be sent by mail. Now that a real live addressee was standing in front of him for the first time, he could hand them over in person.
As the official spent a brief moment reflecting on this, the priest (nimble as ever) had time to switch to another angle of attack. “I forgot to introduce myself,” she said. “My name is Johanna Kjellander and I am a former parish priest. In my previous role, I was expected to serve as the congregation’s bridge between the worldly and the heavenly, but all the while I was aware of my own inadequacy. Now I have found the bridge in question. The real one!”
The official did not allow himself to be carried away. Even if this was his debut for direct contact with an applicant, he had seen a lot over the years, including one group who wanted to register their belief that the root of all goodness could be found in a windmill in northwestern Värmland. In fact, their last two members had frozen to death up there one winter, while the contents of the windmill had not intervened in the least.
The salient point about those frozen believers (before they froze, that is) was that they had statutes, a governing council, and clear objectives, like gathering for common prayer and meditation outside the windmill each Sunday at three p.m. Thus there was no reason to reject the sect’s petition. Meditating each Sunday in zero-to-ten-degree temperatures and five feet of snow was plenty religious.
The committee official decided that the rules allowed him not only to hand over the forms, which he had already pulled out, but to be helpful as well.
And thus he filled in everything that could be filled in for the former parish priest; he asked all the obligatory questions and made certain that they received proper answers. When it came to the name of the new religious community, the official informed the priest of the requirements. The name must differentiate the community’s activities from those of others, and it must not be in poor taste or contrary to law and order.
“With that in mind, what would you like your religion to be called?”
“The Church of Anders. After our spiritual leader.”
“I see. What might his last name be?” asked the official, absently.
“His name isn’t Anders, it’s Johan. Johan Andersson.”
The official looked up from his forms. He read his evening tabloid each day on the way home from work, and this caused him to say spontaneously (and a mite unprofessionally), “Hitman Anders?”
“He has been given that name in certain contexts. Beloved children have many names.”
The official cleared his throat and apologized for getting personal, then nodded and said that this was such a true observation, about beloved children and so on . . . Thereupon he informed her that it cost five hundred kronor to start the Church of Anders and he preferred payment via bank transfer.
The priest placed a five-hundred-krona bill in his hand, yanked the stamped forms from his other hand, thanked him for the good service, and walked out to the waiting camper.
“Pastor Anders!” she said, as she climbed in. “You need new clothes.”
“And a church,” said the receptionist.
“But how about some communion first?” said the pastor.