On Friday Isaiah asked me to go to church with him.

I was sitting in front of the television when he walked to the front door to leave and he turned to me. “Hey brother, you coming to church with me this Sunday?” I paused as he checked himself out in our hallway mirror.

I never expected to sit in the front row of an all-black Baptist church, but I just couldn’t say no. Isaiah’s obsessive faith has become a growing topic of intrigue for me and I figured attending the service would contextualize my religious housemate’s faith.

I should say, I have never been to church—not unless you count touristy experiences or the one time I played my violin at someone’s wedding. I am Jewish and proud of my religion.

At 11 this morning, Isaiah and I drove in our separate cars to the gargantuan church a few miles from our house. I followed behind his forest green minivan completely unaware of what I was getting myself into.

In our short briefing session, Isaiah told me the church is multicultural and very open to new people. He told me not to worry and said it might be different from what I am used to. “You know, we sing a lot and people are praying, sometimes in tongue. They are talking to God,” he explained. “You’ll see J, you’ll see.”

Isaiah and I pulled into the lot, parking our cars in the last available spots. Other members of the church were leaving their cars on grass patches as if the Sunday prayer session was a Phish concert.

As we walked to the front entrance of the church, Isaiah greeted every person warmly. “How are you doing Doc?” he said with a smile and a firm handshake—I’m not sure if he uses ‘Doc’ as a term of endearment or if he just can’t remember anyone’s name.

I tried to blend in but there wasn’t a chance of that happening. I stood out like a coffee stain on a wedding dress. Everyone was incredibly nice. I was hugged, given a welcome packet and for a second I didn’t feel too much like an outsider. Of course, when the service began and the church president asked all new attendees to rise, I stood hesitantly—my cover had been completely blown.

Isaiah, who is a minister of sorts in the church, was escorted to second row where he, his fiancé and I sat. By the time we had taken our seats, the youth choir was already in full swing and I enjoyed the lively music that had a full band’s accompaniment. The drums, organ and guitars were amped up, but they were nothing compared to the parishioners. By the time the adult choir got on stage, people were standing, crying, and praising God and Jesus.

I sat firmly in my seat. I felt very alone. I felt like I was betraying my faith. I did not understand anything that was going on around me.

Isaiah stood on his feet, jumping up and down like he was preparing to hear his name called in a Super Bowl lineup. Stage left there was a man weeping on the floor. Behind me a large woman spewed unintelligible utterances, clearly having a religious connection.

I sat, hands clasped very white and very alone.

Recently I wrote that Isaiah might be mentally unstable. I figured his nonstop prayers must have a connection to some mental issue. For now I am going to hold off on the idea that Isaiah is crazy. True, he is very different than me, but within his community, prayer is something to get emotional about. Prayer is something to cry and scream over.

When the song that I never thought would end finally ended, the pastor led us to a passage in the New Testament about a character named Bartimaeus. In the passage Blind Bartimaeus calls out to Jesus, hoping to have him enact the miracle of sight on him. Even after being told by fellow onlookers to “Shut up,” as the pastor explained, Bartimaeus did not abandon his effort. Eventually, Jesus heard Blind Bartimaeus and healed his blindness.

The passage was very interesting and from my secular point of view demonstrates the power of perseverance. Simple enough. Don’t quit just because someone tells you to. To truly enjoy this story however, I suspect one needs to believe in Jesus and his ability to perform miracles, which I don’t. This is of course where the pastor took the passage.

“If you do not have faith, if you do not persist, God will not hear you,” he screamed into the microphone. After each syncopated line of his sermon, the organist would play a chord making the words even more powerful—despite having no faith in anything the paster was saying, the organ and bass vibrated through my chest giving even me the sensation of feeling. I can understand how someone could be caught up in the moment.

The crowd rose and rested with the surging and silencing pitch of the pastor’s voice. He walked around the stage and sanctuary with a cordless microphone for effect, heightened but the twin televisions that broadcasted his every move.

At the end of the service there was a time to speak with one of the ministers, Isaiah included. It was a sort of one-on-one prayer session. Confess you problem or concern and pray with another member of the congregation. I found the idea to be beautiful. In Judaism, prayer in communal form is very important and I was happy to see it as a shared value. I didn’t want to participate, and though I was asked to several times, I remained in my seat.

This project has been about community. Organized religion is a community probably on the other side of my tech-based community, but it is something I respect and appreciate. While I found many things I saw today as strange and extreme, what is really important are the tremendous examples of interconnectedness—not only with a higher being, but with the other members of a community.

If someone needed a job this church would find someone to take that person in. If someone needed a home, the church would provide. And with regard to friends, Isaiah’s church would go so far as to claim you as family. If Craigslist is a one-stop shop, maybe churches are decent alternative. Then again, if you are looking for someone to live out your deepest sexual fantasies with you better stick to Craigslist.

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