This is James River Assembly. Probably resembles your own church, on cocaine. I came here for the first time last Sunday, roughly 12 hours after having moved from the Chicago area (read: the North) to the Springfield area (read: the South). As you can see, these people are hip to the techno-times. They are hip in general, really, and there are a lot of them. The highway slowed to a crawl two exits before this place, and had I been street savvier, I'd have turned off at that first exit. The second takes you through a commercial intersection, where, due to the heavy flow of megachurch-ers, the police have shut down the lights and are directing traffic themselves. This should have prepared me for the acres of parking lots. I get out of the car. Holy Fuck. I got in my car at my house in Springfield, and am getting out at O'Hare.
The two girls at the start of the sidewalk barely look up as I pass by. Can you report greeters? What if I had actually been "unsaved"? My soul might have been lost forever in the time that it took for them to trade the secret to getting great bangs. All right, tone it down, Bunnell. You're here to explore, and learn.
I walk in the door and quickly realize--I'm gonna need some help. This place is huge. A kindly older woman guides me to the sanctuary. Holy Fuck, again, except this time I mouth the words aloud, my hand shooting up in time to cover the transgression. I'm five minutes late, due to my traffic and parking woes, so service is already underway, and by service I mean, rock concert. I wouldn't have been surprised to see Bono jumping up and down in front of the 100 or so choir members, all with brightly colored teeshirts, and perfectly bouncing hair. The worship leader is rocking out with an aquamarine-colored electric guitar, and the whitest teeth I've seen this side of the mason-dixon, made gargantuan on the three jumbotron screens flanking the stage. Thousands of people are waving their arms, and swaying, shouting out lyrics as though Jesus himself is hanging from the rafters, urging them on. I have walked onto a set of the movie "Saved." Something tells me this isn't dress rehearsal.
The preaching is actually phenomenal, though littered with phrases like "Let me hear you give it up to the Lord," and "You can't be a Christian if...". The guy's name is John Lindell, and he is laying it out on the topic of racial prejudice. You can hear it here, if you'd like. He points out that the church ought to be leading the fight for racial equality, and for the first time, I do feel like lifting my arms in victory. Granted, no one else is doing any arm-waving right now. About 10 people have turned to look at the token black guy who happens to be in my row. Awkward.
After the service, I make my way up to the Loft, where all new sheeple are supposed to go for free starbucks, and goodies. I've played this game before. I am quickly served some coffee out of a real mug (!), and Wanda sits down across from me to chat me up before the tour. Wanda asks me the basics--where I'm from, what I do, what kind of church I went to at home. I answer obediently, despite the raging impulse to shout out "I don't know the Lord!" just to find out what happens when you pierce the midst. Soon enough, she asks me if I've "ever really felt that I accepted the Lord." I say yes, absolutely, with tiny regret. There's still baptism..oh oh, or a re-commitment, they're big on that.
Wanda starts to wrap up her spiel, but before I can get up, she grabs my arm. "Let's pray." It's a command, not an offer. "Lord, Jesus please protect Ashley as she begins this new part of her life, and keep her close to your heart, oh Lord." I have the overwhelming urge to cross myself. "Well it must be quite different down here for you then, honey." I nod, and agree, and decide to shoot straight, "The biggest difference is how socially accepted Christianity is down here," I say. "Everyone seems to identify as Christian here." Wanda's smile drops away, she leans really close, and says "Honey, you have to be careful though because a lot of those people will say they're Christians, but not really be Christians, you know." I'm not sure what qualified Denise to make that call, but I catch her point. Watch out for the fake Christians in Missouri. Got it.
Then commences the tour of the 300,000 square foot facility. Thanks, John for the following tips: James River (JRA, popularly) sees between 10,000 to 15,000 people per weekly services. It takes 2,000 Sunday volunteers to make it all float. There are 3 cafes in the facility, all proudly serving Starbucks products, and 3 manned information desks. The River, the on-site fitness center, boasts a full set of aerobic and weight class, including Selah, the Christian version of yoga (which can't be called yoga because of its buddhist underpinnings, I'm guessing). There are separate stages and facilities for each age group, including a separate building that houses the high school ministries. "I love America!", the annual fourth of July party put on by the church, draws around 120,000 people. On, and on with this, and I begin to wonder...we know what Jesus thinks about rich people and heaven, what about rich churches? How much money is spent here that could be spent saving lives lost to hunger, or violence, or cold? My heart breaks a little, and I wonder why I'm here. And why I'm not doing a better job of leading the way.
That's the thing about this place. It's massive, and spirited, and very very trendy, but there's a passion and a power here that makes you think that The Church redeemed is not an unreachable goal. Unquestionably, this church is too trendy, too comfortable, and spends too much money off-target. As a result (an intended result), they pull a very stylized set, and, if I'm guessing right, don't equip it very well to deal with the reality of Jesus' morality. But look at what they've already accomplished, so much of it is on target. There are possibilities here. Oddly, this megachurch is beginning to redefine my role in the Church, and my relationships to other Christians. Not bad for a Sunday morning.
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