Indictment of Leader Polarizes Church : Religion: Some say the former administrator, accused of trying to kill his wife, has revived the parish. Others claim he may be taking advantage of Christian forgiveness.

It was a scene one bystander described as appallingly “un-Christian.” Two members of Immanuel Presbyterian Church stood on the steps of the soaring Gothic Revival edifice shouting accusingly at each other.

“Why not be part of the answer, instead of wasting your energy tearing things apart?” demanded Mitch Moore, who runs the Mid-Wilshire church’s youth programs.

“I am not attending this church anymore because I do not feel the Holy Spirit is working here!” fired back Shirley Williams, a former choir member who defected to a parish down the street.

The angry exchange one recent Sunday, in full view of passing motorists on busy Wilshire Boulevard, was inspired by the church’s charismatic and controversial executive administrator, who at the time was locked in handcuffs and en route to Texas for allegedly trying to murder his wife.

Walker L. Railey has since returned to Los Angeles, but quit his post at Immanuel on Sept. 16 in hopes of quelling what one member described as “an ugly uprising” at the church. “Too much effort is being diverted because of my position on this staff,” Railey acknowledged in his resignation letter.

In one of the most sensational criminal cases in recent Dallas history, a grand jury last month indicted the 45-year-old former minister for allegedly trying to strangle his wife in 1987 while he was pastor at Dallas’ prestigious First Methodist Church. The onetime civic leader, who had been the main suspect in the case for five years, is free on bail and expected to face trial in January.

Moore insists that the Texas castaway has been a godsend to Immanuel, where his enthusiasm and charm have won him a loyal following since he was hired to resurrect the troubled parish in May, 1991. But Williams fears that a calculating criminal has duped an overly forgiving congregation, bringing more harm than good to a church at a crossroads in its 100-year history.

Even with his decision to step aside, the feud between Railey’s friends and foes has polarized the dwindling 525-member Immanuel parish, once among the largest and most influential Protestant congregations in Los Angeles. Today, it is one of many inner-city churches struggling for survival amid dramatic ethnic and economic changes in their neighborhoods.

The rancorous debate has pitted churchgoer against churchgoer, raised soul-searching questions about good-faith Christian charity and focused unwanted attention on the parish’s internal problems, including years of financial mismanagement and two recent embezzlements totaling more than $250,000.

With Railey’s decision to remain a parish member--and the church’s intention to enlist his services as a volunteer--many at Immanuel fear that the divisiveness will continue.

“People are hoping his resignation represents a finality to the Walker Railey chapter of the church, and therefore the church can go into healing, but they are worried that perhaps it is not, that perhaps this is just another maneuver in the Walker Railey story,” said member Frank Chilton.

Carole Hatcher, a conflict counselor who has been advising Immanuel, said the congregation was not prepared for the trauma of Railey’s arrest and the onslaught of public attention. She said members were hurt and frightened and are just now coming to terms with those feelings.

“It is a very emotional time for the church,” said Hatcher, who serves on an advisory committee from the ruling Presbytery of the Pacific. “This isn’t supposed to happen in the church. . . . We aren’t supposed to fight. It isn’t nice.”

At a recent Sunday service, church officials reminded parishioners that Railey’s past was never a secret and that he was hired with “the knowledge that something like this might occur.” Parish President Diane Baxa appealed for calm as reporters and television crews poked around the church, which covers half a city block and is a favorite backdrop for film crews.

“We as a congregation must see to it that we not become a part of the problem, but rather are part of the solution,” said Baxa, whose governing board has remained unconditionally supportive of Railey.

After living in the Los Angeles area in relative obscurity for nearly five years, Railey was arrested Aug. 25 in his church office in the attempted murder of Margaret (Peggy) Railey, his wife of 21 years. The woman had been found choked nearly to death in the garage of the couple’s Dallas home on April 22, 1987.

Peggy Railey survived the attack, but has remained in a vegetative state, rendering her incapable of identifying the assailant. Several months after the murder attempt, Walker Railey relinquished his ministerial credentials, surrendered custody of his two children and moved to California. He was later joined by his lover, the daughter of a former pastor at his Dallas church, although friends say that relationship has ended.

Railey declined to be interviewed because of his pending trial. “I think the church’s place is on the front line, but not on the front page,” he said last week.

The former preacher worked a variety of odd jobs before landing his $63,000-per-year post at Immanuel. He drove a forklift, delivered phone books and processed escrow papers. For years, church work was out of the question, friends said, because Railey could not face it--and no congregation would have him.

But on Easter Sunday last year, Railey delivered his first sermon as a layman, speaking to a small Methodist congregation in Santa Ana. He had been invited by the Rev. Kenneth G. Heaton, who had befriended Railey after he left Texas. Heaton said Railey was depressed and reluctant to re-enter the pulpit, but changed his mind after seeing a videotape of his final service in Dallas.

“I told him to watch the video and see who you really are,” Heaton said.

Within weeks, a rejuvenated Railey was meeting with leaders of Immanuel, who had been searching for a dynamic administrator to turn things around at the troubled parish. Although some members had reservations about Railey, the church’s governing board, with little discussion, voted unanimously to hire him, according to several members. Railey’s success at the pulpit of a 6,000-member church in Dallas far outweighed “media allegations” concerning the attack on his wife, the members said.

In a teary speech before Railey’s return to Los Angeles, elder Jackie Herst reminded congregants to “judge not, lest you be judged” and recommended a “Christian response” to his predicament. “What would Jesus do in this situation? I feel Jesus would accept Walker just as he is,” she said. “That is what I intend to do.”

Herst’s remarks were greeted with applause, but some in the audience said later that the ovation was meant more as an endorsement of the Christian values she professed than a show of support for Railey. One member, who asked not to be identified, accused Railey’s supporters of using the pretense of Christian charity and church solidarity to shield him from scrutiny.

“They see him as a well-organized and well-meaning person, but they don’t see that people are walking out in protest,” the member said.

Williams, the former choir member, said many at Immanuel have been enraptured by Railey’s charm and charisma, which even his critics acknowledge helped make his summer class, “Healing the Hurt Within,” the church’s most popular adult offering in years. She accused members, however, of ignoring the darker side of Railey, the man who abandoned his comatose wife (he has not contributed to her medical care, according to court papers) and voluntarily gave up his children (divorce papers filed in Long Beach show he pays $400 a month in support to their legal guardians).

“Yes, there is a call for forgiveness, but there is also a call for accountability,” Williams said.

Several current and former members said more than 200 congregants and about half of the church’s 12-member staff have left Immanuel since Railey’s hiring. Several, including choir director Jo Anne Wasserman and accountant Richard Klabunde, said they identified Railey in their resignation letters as the reason for quitting.

Klabunde, a parishioner hired to help untangle the church’s finances, said Railey suppressed the release of bad financial news to the congregation and frequently exploded in front of staff members, his face red and fists clenched. As executive administrator, Railey oversaw all aspects of church life, including business operations and religious programs.

“The more I worked with him the less I liked him and the more dangerous he appeared to me,” said Klabunde. “It started to dawn on me that, whether or not he was guilty of anything in Texas, he appeared to be capable of orchestrating such a scheme.”

“He is so well rehearsed,” Klabunde said. “I heard him tell the same story four times about what happened in Dallas. He cried and had the exact same hand motions each time, whether it was the five-minute version or the 45-minute version.”

Former choir member Zeta Heiter, whose husband serves as an usher at Immanuel, said she left in April because of Railey’s treatment of Wasserman, which several members characterized as verbally abusive. Wasserman has referred to Railey as a “dangerous person,” but in a recent interview she refused to talk about her former boss, saying that her “final year at Immanuel was a very painful time for me.”

Church officials would not discuss staff turnover, citing the confidentiality of personnel matters. Spokesman Hayward Fong disputed claims that a large contingent of parishioners have fled. “There was no drop in congregational activities, membership or attendance,” Fong said.

Railey’s supporters said he became an easy target for critics who were unhappy about unpopular decisions to cut programs because of the church’s financial crisis. The music program was among those cut.

“Anyone who effects change, I don’t care what kind of institution, is not going to be popular with everybody,” Heaton said.

Railey’s highly publicized arrest could not have come at a worse time for his newly adopted church. Immanuel has been operating without a full-time minister since the resignation of the Rev. Gary A. Wilburn last spring, and the congregation was recently hit with its second embezzlement scandal in several years.

Church officials say Wilburn and Immanuel parted ways amicably, but several members said he was forced to resign. At issue, they said, were the church’s persistent financial problems and his inability to draw worshipers from the area, which has changed from a wealthy Anglo enclave to one of mostly poor Latin American and Asian immigrants.

Near the end of Wilburn’s stewardship, the church was running a deficit of nearly $500,000, according to Klabunde, and has recently attracted only 250 people each Sunday to a stately two-story sanctuary that can accommodate 10 times as many.

Wilburn did not return telephone calls from The Times, but several church members said Railey had assumed most of his non-pastoral responsibilities by the end of Wilburn’s tenure, and had tended to some pastoral needs, such as counseling members.

To the astonishment of some, Railey would also regularly seat himself behind the pulpit during services in what appeared to be the robes of a Presbyterian pastor. Railey--who has a doctorate in the Old Testament but has never sought ordination as a Presbyterian--explained to the ruling Presbytery that his robes were academic garb, not clerical.

The Presbytery considered the distinction meaningless and instructed him to stop wearing them. “As a parishioner sitting in a pew, it would be very hard to distinguish the difference between academic and clergy robes,” Hatcher said.

In the embezzlement case, bookkeeper Kenneth Austin Simms was sentenced to five years probation in February after pleading guilty to stealing more than $100,000. In an earlier incident, $150,000 had been stolen by other employees.

At his sentencing hearing, several church members encouraged the court to give Simms a second chance by sparing him from prison. Some church members said the parish’s show of charity toward Simms--and now Railey--demonstrates its emerging mission.

“Someone once rightly said of the church that we are not a ‘showcase for saints,’ but rather a ‘hospital for sinners,’ ” Wilburn explained in a recent letter about Railey.