Mark My Words: Worship in Concert

Unlike most of you, I deplore Christmas. I can think of two obvious reasons to explain this. First off, I don’t believe in Jesus. Secondly, the idea of a husky old man sneaking into children’s houses at night with a large sack is creepy. But to be real, I hate Christmas because the holiday was never meant for me—they don’t make Christmas stockings for my Jewish feet.

Because of this religious divide, I had always assumed that if I were to walk into a church Sunday morning, every person would immediately turn to see my colossal nose and run to guard the collection plate. And because of this fear, I had never been to church.

But because I would never do it, I had to do it anyway. Two Sundays ago, I went to church and praised my temporary lord and savior, Jesus Christ.

My dad and I drove to the Abundant Life Christian Fellowship of Mountain View, a megachurch—extreme. I thought maybe Tony Hawk would be skating a half-pipe in the middle of the sermon screaming “Amen!” every time he landed a trick.

But this was no Bible-induced monster truck rally, although the service had extreme spirit. There were at least a couple thousand people all praising so hard I was surprised there weren’t more external defibrillators at the ready.
I found the leader to be much less of a wise old owl than my rabbi and more like a celibate version of Mick Jagger. I wouldn’t have been surprised to see some church-goers lighting up a joint in the back row and really rocking out, but I figured all the repentance would get them high enough.

Then the service continued with a new guy, Pastor Dave, leading a cheery sermon on idolatry, which sounded very familiar. But unlike my rabbi who told us things in Hebrew, this guy told us things in jokes.

The service went on and surprisingly no one stared at my me and my dad, the lone Jews. When everyone introduced themselves to their neighbors, I said “John Smith” because my usual alias “Ari Cohen” would turn heads. But no one questioned; they just smiled because everyone was so extremely happy to be worshipping together.

And surprisingly, amidst all the Jesus praising, it seemed the lights of my traditions did not have to be extinguished. So when everyone hugged each other at the end, my dad and I shook each other’s hands and muttered “Shabbat Shalom.”

We drove home, and while I didn’t yet believe in Jesus, I did believe one thing—that other people may have good ideas, even if they are not my own. If you look past the ethnic names and facial features, all of our beliefs can basically fit into one large warehouse by the highway in Mountain View. Under that large roof, you can share your convictions too, but only if you can find parking.