Say it to me now!

Spent the evening in what is probably the most ethnically mixed place I've ever been in. (I don't attend ballgames, they might be similarly diverse.) It's on Times Square, and in a ridiculously opulent theater, but it's not a show, though it's as gripping as anything else on Broadway. It's the Times Square Church, a nondenominational Pentecostal church started two decades ago when Times Square was the armpit of the universe. It still speaks of a world crumbling, in its last days, but that's true of many Pentecostal churches. (I found the pic below on Flickr.)
I've long wanted to go to TSC, but the spirit's never moved me on a day when they have a Church Service (Sunday and Tuesday). But it's vacation, so a Tuesday evening was free. And besides, the silent Buddhist retreat was only half of the religious exploration I wanted to try this summer - the other half was the opposite of silent, and a Pentecostal service fits that bill perfectly.

I'm not sure what to tell about the two and a half hour service... We started with half an hour of praise songs, with a big gospel choir and the words on the screen above. At one point everyone prayed aloud for the petitions in the community's box, as well as for our own cares; Pastor David Wilkerson, founder of the church, spoke of economic worries, reminding us that the Lord had got us through depressions and receptions before. Then we had "communion" (pardon the quotation marks), brass trays of tiny square wafers of unleavened bread and little plastic vials of grape juice were passed out to all, and then the chief minister read the Biblical origins of the words of instantiation, and everyone ate their mini-matzoh, then downed their juice like a shot, and all belted out an anthem about Christ's blood having vanquished Satan. More worship music, the offering, and then a long sermon by a visiting preacher from Montreal on the importance of honoring each other, and not letting the ways we had been dishonored by others in the past stop us from honoring others. An altar call drew throngs of people to the foot of the stage, and then we were each to lay hands on another - men on men, women on women, or husband and wife - and pray for each other, honoring each other. One more worship song and then it was over.

This wasn't a service where one could just blend into the background! But I'm happy singing along, no need to raise hands in the air, and my prayers were in English. (It tells you something of the nature of the service that one of the announcements on the screen before we began was You may feel free to sit at any point during the worship!) There being no available man near me for the last prayer, the kind woman at my right reached out a hand, and I honored her charity, while mumblingly calling every blessing and reward on her and her family. Before that I considered the experiences of dishonor which marred the lives of the marchers in Sunday's parade. Oops?

I didn't linger once the curtain came down again - most other people were hurrying home, too, though I noticed two big black men still wrapped in a hug, their cheeks tear-stained. No question that this kind of service could lift you up, crack you open, and give you the strength to go on. The place veritably crackled with energy (except during the sermon, which was focused on the preacher, except when he called for a response, as when, on explaining that one word for honor was eulogia, something we alas only do when people are dead, we were asked to say to someone next to us "say it to me now!"), wounds opened and dressed. A powerful experience, and a vision, perhaps, of the next Christianity.