BY PETER BRONSON
The Cincinnati Enquirer
My unscientific survey of the Cincinnati Yellow Pages discovered that churches outnumber golf courses by six to one. That's good news. I mean really good news, brothers and sisters. Can I hear an amen?
On any given Sunday, more than 1,200 churches worship, praise, pray and sing to God, each in its own voice.
The doors are open. You can choose a church named New Thought, New Life or Word of Life. You can choose God's Almighty Restoration and Deliverance, the Anointed Church of the Living God or the Revealed Holiness House of God.
Just don't choose to throw away a perfectly good Sunday counting and cursing the number of times you hit a ball with a stick. Don't choose to stay smug and snug in your own safe sanctuary, without ever visiting another. If you do, you will miss a lot.
I've been attending a different church each Sunday since my daughter was assigned to explore new churches for a high school class. So far, I have learned that what I know about the various ways people worship could fit on a communion wafer, with room left over for the Book of Psalms.
But I have also learned that it doesn't matter. Churches are like trumpets, French horns, cymbals, violins, flutes and pipe organs in God's orchestra, each playing different notes in the same heavenly symphony.
At Good Shepherd Catholic Church on Kemper Road, the huge sanctuary overflows with Casual Fridays Catholics in Dockers and polo shirts. In a suit and tie, I felt like a pallbearer at a pool party.
There were no "kneelers," but some Catholics still dip in that direction, just as the casual-but-neat service made a bow toward traditional Catholic rituals.
As a visitor, I sometimes felt like a rookie line-dancer at a cowboy bar. But the priest's message was as clear as holy water: "Thomas, because thou hast seen me, thou hast believed: blessed are they that have not seen, and yet have believed." (John 21:29)
A week later at St. James Orthodox Christian Church, we stepped into an old brick schoolhouse near Loveland, and walked into the Holy Land, taken back to the time of Christ by a priest whose authority flows in a direct line from the apostles. Clouds of exotic incense swirled around Byzantine icons, reflecting a golden glow from a chorus of candles. The Mass was chanted more than spoken, in a hypnotic sing-song of Greek and Arabic, with brief interruptions of English. It was a place layered in ancient mystery. Rituals left behind by Good Shepherd were thick in the air at St. James, like the smoky brimstone breath of God.
In some churches, sermons are punctuated by "hallelujahs" or stand-up applause. In this one, a phrase echoed through the centuries, telling of faith everlasting: "Always and ever and unto ages of ages."
On the third Sunday, we went to Solid Rock Church off I-75, south of Middletown.
I could feel the energy when we entered the sanctuary -- a vast room with a blue neon dove on the ceiling, drawing our eyes to the stage-altar, where a chorus bigger than some congregations lifted us to our feet on mighty wings of joy.
This place rocks the Holy Ghost.
I expected one of those churches I've seen in movies that mock religion -- men in sculpted TV-preacher hair and women in Tammy Faye makeup. But it wasn't Hollywood. It was the real deal -- a racially integrated, friendly, uninhibited congregation that knows how to worship, heart and soul.
If you can imagine Aretha Franklin with a gospel choir, backed up by kicking music, you can imagine why people drive two hours for a spiritual battery boost at Solid Rock. "If one soul is saved, all of heaven dances," guest minister Carol Kornacki shouted. Four people came forward -- and the place rocked and rolled with prayers of praise and thanks.
Message of the day: "God is soooo cooool."
There are churches like wax museums, where people treat worship as a spectator sport. When they're not watching their neighbors, they watch their watches.
There are churches that believe Jesus was a Democrat; and some that think God is a Republican.
And then there are churches that are no longer wilting on the vine -- they are blooming like wild mustard, spreading seeds of faith on the wind.
I love the warm and close-knit, farm-kitchen community of my church, Loveland Presbyterian. But discovering all these new churches is like stumbling onto a hidden library of great books by my favorite author.
According to my survey, visitors are not just allowed -- they are welcome. Imagine that. Instead of being a day that divides us by race, income and denomination, every Sunday can be an adventure in faith.
God is soooo cooool.
Can I hear an Amen?
Peter Bronson is editorial page editor of The Enquirer. If you have questions or comments, call 768-8301, or write to 312 Elm Street, Cincinnati, Ohio 45202.
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