This morning, at the salutary hour of 9 am, Lara knocked rapidly on my door in a series of short and robust knocks indicating that yet again, we were late. I opened the door with casual ease, not directly concerned with our small degree of tardiness. (Something that has become second nature over the years. And I say this with little shame.) “Um.. did I lock all the doors?” “HURRY UP! We’re late!” Out of the door, into the car, and onto the highway: windows down, our recently styled coifs let loose into the wind and fated to be devoured with something more natural than aerosol hair spray. The other day Lara and I decided to join forces in our quest to find a church. Not merely to “find” a church, as if all we had to do was spot a beacon of religious principle, but to locate a church that fulfilled our needs, something that I’m afraid has not been fulfilled in quite some time. Last night we talked about where to go and we great enthusiasm for cultural spirituality I suggested the Greek Orthodox Church. I envisioned us waltzing through the doors in tune with the solemn and ancient chant that had stretched over centuries to reach our humble ears. And thus, with pious dreams of iconic art and transubstantiation, we set out to reach our religious truth. After a few minutes of quality driving/listening to techno time, we found the picturesque little building and frantically - for we were late - searched for parking. The doors wouldn’t open. We soon spotted a note on the window pane: “We will not being having church today, but meeting with our sister church St. Anthony’s for a 10:30 service.” What voice of fate was this? All our spiritual fantasies devastated. Defeated, we got back into the car and proceeded to drive around down town mulling over what to do for an entire hour before the service at St. Anthony’s started. Just then we passed an enchanting looking Presbyterian church that was about to begin. Our good luck had commenced. The morning was like a dull sheen, mundane in strict definition but detected as beautiful by two girls enamored with the sullen wind. Immediately we were attacked...approached by a polite women who directed us towards what said was the “contemporary service.” Her lips lunged into terminology as she explained that the first “traditional service” was over, and although the message was the same for both sermons, the “contemporary service” was a bit more modern - eps. regarding praise and worship. This saddened me a little, because I felt like the day was demanding a more austere type of adoration, complete with hymns, candles, or the rich tonalities of bells. Once we had walked into the room, we realized that the word “contemporary” has various uses when describing certain articles. Obviously, our definition of a “contemporary service” did not entail the fragility of 75 year old women. The worship was far from ascending the inception of modernity. The pastor began to talk after a few worship songs that didn’t even have the ability to taunt me. His message was solid and he told it with the soft voice of a sage, yet still I failed to feel anything outside of drowsiness. (Which, I doubt, in this context, has strong spiritual repercussions!) Around 10:25, we left and I decided that today was the day for a back-to-back church visitation. Yes, we were about to speed away just in time to somehow find St. Anthony’s Orthodox Church, and savor the service. Alas, it was not until 10:45 that we finally stumbled upon the meager building. In my naive mind, I was hoping that THIS would be the place: the preternatural moment of departure from the terrestrial. Bread in my mouth like seraphim wings and all the saints in the highest places draping down their robes to sweep the forgotten head of a pathetic sinner. Realistically, I was not expecting a legion of spiritual force, at least not acted out with the melodrama of a celestial play, but, I was anticipating something a little less, well, boring. So with careful steps we awkwardly arrive at the door and crossed the line of demarcation - hopefully - into a holy realm of immortal icons. “And then the father said unto him, these are my people to whom ye shall bear witness.” The sound of scripture hummed in the air. “Ye shall be as a light and all of the world shall see my love.” The words of the Lord manipulated into a monotony of deep inflections. 1- 2- 3, breath, 1-2-3, breath. “Forever and ever Amen.” I turned to Lara and whispered, “So, THIS is what a liturgy is.” She stared back and her frozen body miraculously melted into a nod. “You go first,” she said. We were standing in the back, the only thing in view a sort of smallish box of sand housing lanky candles. “NO, you go first.” I replied. “Can we?” “I don’t know. Why are you asking me if we’re allowed to just walk in? Geez. What if the ground is like immensely sacrosanct or something else otherworldly?” “Go. Now. Just sit down.” “WHY ME? I DO EVERYTHING!” “BECAUSE!” “FINE. Follow me.” I tried to keep up a quick, but respectful pace as I crossed the middle of the aisle to sit in a narrow pew decorated in dried white paint drips. What had happened? Were we alive? Had the sinful surface of our shoes tread that which was holy, and now, was it possible we had been damned to eternal suffering in darker places? Hm.. it was sort of overcast day. And the voices! They rung in our ears! Or were they just still half singing/half speaking? Our presence changed nothing. The spiritual aura remained intact. Our foreign substance had been successfully integrated into the body of the church. A few pews back a child was crying as if he had been suddenly sent to the hell we thought we deserved. They kept on singing! It was more like a funeral song, or a reprimanding voice. Thirty minutes passed with little variation. A large Greek family piled in with an abundance of cute children who kept Lara and I happily entertained. It didn’t take me long to realize what a dead place this was. I looked around at the faces of all the standing people. They were empty, sallow, meaningless. This church was like a habit or an obligation. It felt like a church before the Reformation where the Latin liturgy revealed nothing about the glory of God. I thought, “why are these people here?” In a few moments everyone stood up to take communion; Lara and I slipped out the back and into the fresh air. “What’d you think,” she asked. “Well, I replied,” holding something, “these are really cool offering envelopes. They’re like art deco.” “Oh, score! We should go collage.” “Totally. I’m hungry.” With little else said about our purported life changing experience, we went to St. Louis Bread for tea and muffins. Maybe next week, we’ll go to a Mosque... but I can be sure of one thing, I am NOT going in first.