cheating on my church.

Salacious. Torrid. Sexy.

I had an affair this morning. I did. I cheated on James River.

I stepped into my favorite jeans, put on the pretty beads given to me by my mother, applied and re-applied layers of lip gloss. All in preparation to leave the house for some other church.

A drive down Campbell. And then, on my right, Central Assembly of God. It looks like a small hospital. Hmm. I step into the sanctuary. Not at all what I expected, given the website. They must be in the process of trying to hip themselves up. Man, they could start with dropping those suits. I feel a tiny bit self-conscious. Am I underdressed? The website said casual. I don't know if a church can have an identity crisis, but... Maybe this is just the blue-hair service. But the bulletin says that both services are the same.

The service is a mix of traditional and contemporary music, and rhetoric. They must be in the hipping-up process--there are hymnals everywhere, but the lyrics are coming up on the screen behind the choir. The very large and very robed choir. A few people are out front with mics, just like James River, ok ok.

As I look around, I think...this is how it could have started. And then realize...no, it's not. I struggle against some of what is said and done by my friends at James River, but my presence there four months ago was no mistake. Oddly, I think that what drew me to visit James River is exactly what kept me there long enough to change everything. Had I walked into Central Assembly that first Sunday, I would have left unchanged. Not that everyone does. But I would have.

All of this stuff going on right now. It's hard. I feel alone, and confused, and like I've suddenly got this whole new identity based on this one decision I made, to accept Christ. And I feel myself reacting against that, trying to fit the decision into who I am, instead of tailoring who I am to that decision. But I am not in control. I wasn't four months ago. I wouldn't have decided to take James River seriously. I wouldn't have decided to believe what was being said about Christ. To drop some of the cynicism and sarcasm for long enough to begin to love the people. To accept Christ. To be baptized. Those were not part of my plan.

Some guy is up there talking now. The sermon seems forever long. I have heard dozens of sermons, across several denominations, and have only really been moved by six pastors. This guy does put together a few clever phrases. But also tells a perfectly atrocious story about a man's dog burning alive.

I spend the last fifteen minutes of it trying to figure out what makes Lindell so good. I think it's flow. He must be an excellent writer to be such a great speaker. It's all about the construction of the thing--how the ideas flow from one to the next, and back to the beginning at the end. It also has to do with the use of volume and inflection. I wonder if he took a class on how to do that holding out the "s" thing at the end of wordsssss...

As we close in worship, they sing a song that is one of my favorites at James River--it's called "When I Speak Your Name," and it's beautiful. Something about the moment rises up to overwhelm me. This song, at this time, in this sanctuary, reminds me that God is everywhere. That my faith is not just a James River thing. Not just a southwest Missouri thing. That my place in the body transcends place and time. And suddenly, I realize that part of my backlash against JRA has been out of a fear that I'm being "taken." I'm afraid that my faith is nothing more than a product of the emotionalism, of the moment. But here, singing these words I love so much, I know that's not true. God is here at Central Assembly, just as He's at James River. He's everywhere. I can trust my faith. I can trust Him.

I close my eyes. And feel this incredible urge to lift my arms to Him. The song ends, and I pray aloud, joining the murmur I once found so jarring. Two things I never do at James River. What's the deal, A? Why will you show yourself here amongst these strangers, and not at your own church? I'm afraid. I don't want to humble myself. These people wouldn't know that I'm new to this style of worship, to a different understanding of the Gospel. My pew-mates and friends at JRA do. I'm afraid to humble myself, to bare myself to God, in front of them. In a sense, I'm afraid to be vulnerable not only with God, but with the people He has put into my life.

I think for a moment that maybe I should just change churches--start again somewhere new, where I could express myself in these new ways without self-consciousness. But no. That's not right. I won't leave James River without working through that. It seems important.

After the service, I go to the visitor's room. The best thing about checking out new churches is the free coffee. Brenda sits down with me for a chat. She's sweet. She asks me what kind of church I went to before coming down here. I say Episcopal, and her husband takes that as his cue to word-vomit every negative critique of the Episcopalians that he has in him.

I leave feeling oddly happy. I think to myself, "time to go home," get in my car, and drive to my regular 11:30 service at James River.