On a Sunday morning, a group of college students in skinny jeans heard bongo beats thumping from the Clinton Houses. Peering into the squat brick building at 110th Street and Lexington Avenue, they saw a young pastor in horn-rimmed glasses, belting the Scriptures with a brassy voice and broad smile.

The latecomers decided to join about 40 members of the congregation in metal folding chairs, and sat behind a dad bouncing a toddler in his tattooed arms. The sound engineer, Butch Borst, amped up the clave beat on his soundboard.

When the pastor finished his song, he explained the biblical image of an open door. “If you are a woman of color,” he said, “you have experienced doors that are closed. That’s part of our history.” Then, he showed a picture of himself as a child, still unaware of the many doors he would confront. “That’s me on the left, the one who looks like a girl,” he joked.

The pastor, Johnny Acevedo, said he launched East Harlem’s newest church, Open Door Fellowship, to build a new neighborhood congregation with a relaxed vibe. Between songs, Acevedo cracked jokes about marijuana and masculinity. He and a handful of volunteers tried to draw in passersby by standing, fittingly, at their open door.

A sociology major, Acevedo uses such activist phrases as “challenge the system” and “community-led.” But because of his day job as a high school technology consultant at Talented and Gifted School for Young Scholars, he also can speak the language of a Barrio teenager.

Raised in Astoria by middle-class Puerto Rican parents, Acevedo said he wasn’t always the approachable pastor. As a kid, he felt superior to the Puerto Ricans in El Barrio.

“I thought I was the s—, it was terrible,” he said. “I needed to be challenged.”

Acevedo found that challenge at Westminster Theological Seminary School, where he struggled through Hebrew. At the time, he didn’t believe he would pass, an experience that helps him empathize with the children he tutors who struggle with math and technology, he said.
His fledging church faces difficulties, he acknowledged.

He didn’t want to sound like “the arrogant new kid on the block,” but said he’s seen many Harlem churches turn into commuter hubs, where “the community becomes your parking lot, and that’s it.” He decided to start his own church this fall because it was either “put up or shut up.”

To prepare for the launch, Acevedo appeared on Urban Latino Radio, started a men’s Bible study group, distributed 500 postcards and surveyed Harlem residents. In the one-page survey, he asked, “What do you have to offer?” Five volunteers work alongside Acevedo and, as fellow activists and friends, share many of his concerns.

With their surveys, they hope to show the community that they are a solution to problems with schools, health and housing. “We’re this group of six people, what are we gonna do about all that? It starts with us listening. We’re not the solution.” The community is, Acevedo said.

To realize their ambitious goals, the six volunteers raised money through family, friends and donors Acevedo knew from his previous churches. Their denomination, Christian Reformed, also provided a grant for new congregations. Combined, the funds cover their $300 weekly costs.

They hope to attract neighborhood residents and churchgoers of all ages and backgrounds. After the very first service last month, members of the diverse audience said they would return for Acevedo’s down-to-earth style.

“I like that it wasn’t churchy,” said Lenore Maine, 53. “He was trying to meet people where they are. And I like the ethnicities; there are lots of different kinds of people.”

“You feel closer to the religion and God because of how the pastor spoke,” said Arelis Cruz, 14. “He made you feel more comfortable with the jokes.”

Acevedo’s school coworkers said they believe his church will survive. Marshall Cho, a Bronx middle school teacher, met Acevedo at New Song Ministry in Harlem and asked him to make a guest appearance at his math class.

“He was really able to engage the middle school kids for hours, so he’s a gifted man,” Cho said. “He’s pretty hip.”

Dominic Lewis, 54, also met Acevedo at New Song and liked the “warmth” of his sermons. “He has an excellent ear for listening and giving feedback,” Lewis said. “He engages and walks people through their problems. He doesn’t just pray for you; he makes phone calls.
“He’s not just a Sunday pastor. He’s involved in the life of the people.”

Despite the confidence of his coworkers and parishioners, Acevedo stays realistic. “We don’t really know what we’re doing,” he said.
“Seventy percent of new churches fail. People with a lot more marketing savvy than I have, have failed.”

Tryfon C. Tzifas, president of community outreach at Greek Orthodox Community of St. George and Demetrios Church at 103rd Street and Lexington, said he’s glad Acevedo draws younger people; his own church attracts an older congregation.

“A good church is equivalent to a good school. They give an example of how to live properly,” Tzifas said. “I wish them success and good luck.”