The search for church One gal's quest for a little spiritual nourishment BY AMY MARTIN

Going to church was a childhood chore comparable to washing dishes. I dreaded both, but could avoid neither. No child should have to endure fire-and-brimstone ramblings, tone-deaf people singing hymns and clapping on the one and three, and fake how-do-you-do handshakes, but my mom thought we would learn morals (oops). By the time I had the choice to attend church, I was certain that God was a joke, as well as religion and the people who believe in it. There is no God, Allah, Jesus, or heaven, I thought. Years of observing Christians who strive to be "god-like" but disown family members for being gay or smoking pot, steal from the church offering, and have scandalous affairs with other church members were enough to turn me off.

But things change. You experiment with drugs, have a kid, graduate college, get a semi-secure job, and manage a semi-secure relationship (some would put those in another order, most could check off at least two or three from that list). With many of the big life building blocks in place, the next logical step was some sort of spiritual search.

And really, I’m a single mom, what else am I going to do with my time?

But how do you search for spiritualism or religion? I’ve read enough about Taoism, Buddhism, Paganism, and others to know the basics, but it’s not so easy to become spiritual without other people to guide and share experiences through this journey. So, I guessed it was time to go back to, gulp, church (or a church-like place).

Where once it was the last place I’d like to be, my dreadful disposition has evolved to a curiosity about organized religion. Now that I’m all grown up maybe I’ll feel something other than contempt and hate when I travel through those arched doorways. As a matter of fact, I want to be so touched that I bawl my eyes out like Jack did in Fight Club when he attended self-help groups. I want to have mystical visions. I want to be moved godammit, and I’ll settle for nothing less.

If this search for church doesn’t work out, I suppose I’ll do the create-your-own-spirituality thing, which has become quite trendy.

WILLISTON-WEST UNITED CHURCH OF CHRIST

Unsure of where to go, I sampled the church closest to home: Williston-West (32 Thomas Street in Portland). I wasn’t exactly thrilled about setting an alarm for Sunday morning, but having to walk just a few blocks made the journey more palatable. It certainly didn’t help that I had drowned myself in Southern Comfort the night before. The experience would have probably been more entertaining had I continued drinking throughout the morning.

A block away, I spotted the greeter. This is the person designated to welcome you with smiles and handshakes. Upon entering, a second greeter does the same, but gives you a full-color bulletin, which you soon find to be the newcomer’s support system. As not to make eye contact with anyone, I became unnecessarily interested in reading the bulletin. It listed everything from "Gathering Music" to "An Invitation to Look Inward" to "Parting Music."

During the "Moments for Welcome and Announcements," we were notified that the pastor was away, and the deacons were conducting the service. We stood to sing hymn #4, then sat down until the deacon came to the pulpit to tell us to stand again for worship. Then it got really scary. The "Call to Worship" is actually a written call and response between the pastor and the congregation. This robotic "worship" was followed by a mechanically read "Prayer of Confession." Listening to a united congregation of mindless communication, accompanied by a sit down/stand up regime was just creepy.

This feeling was heightened by the invitation to greet your neighbors. This is the part of the service when everyone gets out of their pew and shakes the hand of those nearby. I wanted absolutely no interaction with any member whatsoever. It wasn’t because I smelled like alcohol or because I hadn’t showered; I just hate generic interactions. I thought that staring blankly at the floor would repel all welcomers, but one man was not deterred. I shook his hand politely.

The best part of the service was the "Offertory Invitation," when I pretended I didn’t see the guy handing me the offering plate. What was particularly amusing was the musical accompaniment. A young soprano sounded very much like the "singing white girl" who sang the unspeakable thoughts of the black man on the first season of Chappelle’s Show.

Then, the deacons did their spiel about "soul resting," with minor scripture references. I wasn’t so sure what they were talking about because the echo was atrocious. I did hear the call for communion, which meant I’d either have to get out of my seat to walk to the front, or sit alone and watch the congregation take a piece of bread and dip it into a goblet of grape juice. I sat. I almost left, but the singing white girl began a new song, and I couldn’t walk out on the entertainment. Plus, according to the bulletin, there was only hymn #25 and "Commission and Blessing" left.

When it was all said and done, I thought I could break for the doors before greeters #1 and #2 blocked them, but they were as quick as NFL guards. Uncomfortably, I shook their hands and headed for home with no intent of ever returning.

EASTPOINTE CHRISTIAN CHURCH

Hungry for some real entertainment, I asked the only spiritual person I know, Todd Richard, where all the holy rollers hung out. He directed me to EastPointe. I was hoping to get a taste of the real crazy Christians, the ones who faint and speak in tongues. I didn’t find any of that, but I did find what seemed to be a well-rooted and surprisingly hip congregation.

First of all, the church gathers in a meeting room inside the Marriott at Sable Oaks, which made it seem very business conference-like. There were foldout chairs lined up with a center aisle leading to a stage approximately a foot off the floor. On the stage was a screen, about 4’ x 6’, which displayed a message that requested all cell phones and pagers be turned off and other announcements via PowerPoint demonstration. On the other side of the screen were instruments to suit a full band. Everyone was quite excited to be there. I was quite excited to be ignored. This is the kind of place you have to attend for months before you fit in.

The band began tuning instruments. I was anticipating this Jesus jam session so much that I hadn’t realized that the standard pray and greet had occurred. The guitar player, who was probably a teenager, announced they would open with a song the band wrote. Once the first chord was strummed, the screen miraculously changed to show a psychedelic background behind song lyrics. It must have been the Holy Spirit or something because I didn’t see an IT guy anywhere.

The band consisted of acoustic guitar, bass, drums, and fiddle. They were fantastic. They were playing original music and other non-hymns and playing them very well. Transitions between songs were so smooth I had to depend on the psychedelic background changes to cue the new song. The worship service went on for probably 20 minutes before the pastor came to pray quietly over soft acoustic guitar chords.

They held communion, prayed, shook hands, prayed again, and took an offering to the song "Don’t Worry Be Happy," which happened to be the theme of the pastor’s message. Before the sermon began, a very cheesy (but good-cheesy) slide-show presentation continued through the song. The pastor, who is probably in his mid-thirties, was charismatic in describing through national and personal demonstrations of how we should trust God and surrender our worries to him. It was also clear that he loves what he does. Although I’ve heard it presented by an alternate dogma, the message was clear and simple, but still poignant.

Magically, the bandleader knew exactly when to approach the stage to create holy ambiance with the pastor’s closing words. I left disappointed that no one fainted in the name of the Lord (maybe it was an off-week), but pleasantly surprised by the musical and technical aspects of the service. I would probably go back if they weren’t so into Jesus.