Three Church

Three firm knocks on my bedroom door pop me out of a hard sleep way too early Sunday morning.

“Daya...?”

“No. Go away,” I mumble, hopefully not loud enough for her to hear.

“It’s time to get up.”

Get up...? The words haven’t fully clicked in my brain when Joanna opens the door, and all I can see is her blurred silhouette in my squinty vision.

“What’s wrong?” I ask.

“Nothing’s wrong. I just want you to go to church with me this morning.”

She backs out of my room, and I track the sound of her footsteps down the hall.

I force myself all the way awake before rolling out of bed. Joanna’s in the living room, bent over the coffee table, picking up her wineglass and the crumpled remnants of the snack she had last night.

“Why are we going to church?” I ask, trying to keep my voice even.

“I go to church every Sunday,” she says.

I follow her into the kitchen.

“I know but... why are we going?”

She moves to the sink, runs water into her wineglass, swirls it around, adds some soap. She does all of this without answering me.

“Is this because of what we talked about last night?” I ask.

“It’s because we need God in our lives,” she says. “It’s that simple.”

But it’s not that simple.

Not for me.

I have God in my life. But in my way, not hers. Or should I say, not Suzanne’s.

“The thing is... I don’t feel like I need to go to church to be with God.”

“How so?” she says, looking skep as fuck.

I jump in to help her put away the clean dishes.

“I mean... God is everywhere, right? So, we could even... go out to the lake, and... and connect with Him there.”

She takes out her Sunday travel mug, a gift from the church to all new congregants, and pours her coffee into it like she’s done every Sunday for the past six or seven months. It says Made New on one side and Welcome Home on the other. But I can’t shake the feeling that Grace Redeemer won’t make me anything, least of all “new.” And I doubt it would feel like “home” for someone like me.

“Daya,” she says, like she’s reading my mind. “This place is different. It’s not like St. John’s, it’s... it’s hard to explain. I just... I’d really like to share this with you.”

I don’t get it. She had no need for church after my dad left. Zero desire to go or to make me go. In fact, our old church, St. John’s, had become a big ouch for Joanna. Still is, probably. So I have no idea how weird it was for her to step foot into Grace Redeemer after Suzanne pressured her incessantly for months. I only know that the God I connect to doesn’t seem like He’d hang out exclusively at a place like that.

As I look at Joanna looking at me, one thing becomes clear: I can’t refuse. Because that’s what my dad did to her. First, he rejected the church. Then he rejected Joanna. Then everything fell apart. Any feelings I have about not wanting to go slide backward down my throat. It’s funny how guilt and regret tend to switch places with even our best-laid arguments.

Neither of us says much on the ride to Grace Redeemer. I stare out the car window as street after street rolls by, watching the texture of Escondido shape-shift as we cross from the rough and splintered south side to the self-consciously manicured north side of town. Grace Redeemer is the uncontested crown jewel of the north side, where there are smooth, straight sidewalks in front of the houses, and the wrought iron bars in fancy shapes on the windows are more for decoration than for safety.

From the drone shot above Escondido, you’d immediately see a collection of steeples that seems like overkill—even for Arizona, where the ratio of churches to people is already higher than average. But the one steeple that towers above them all is the one that rises above Grace Redeemer Church. Religion has always been the anchor of this town. But from the way everyone talks about it, this church is, like, next-level worship—and not just for us, but for people who come from all over the county and beyond.

As we roll into the parking lot, I see that steeple is an inaccurate description. There are three steeples, actually. Three tall, sweeping facades, made up mostly of blue-tinted glass, angled at the top like arrows pointing to heaven, with a looming cross rising over each one. I’ve never seen this place up close. I had no idea how massive it was.

By the time we find a spot in the bumper-to-bumper parking lot, my hands are sweating profusely. I wipe them on my pants before getting out of the car, while Joanna checks her hair and lipstick in the rearview mirror. As soon as I open my door, I hear a bass beat coming from inside the building.

Wow—this definitely isn’t St. John’s. This place is... intense.

Joanna says hi to at least a half dozen people as we climb the shallow steps to the entrance.

“From my women’s group,” she says.

“You’re in a women’s group?”

“Mostly virtual, but yes.”

The wide glass doors open automatically as we approach, and a blast-wave of cold air and music and laughter pours out all around us. My eye-line goes vertical, up the towering wall straight ahead, to the floor-to-ceiling message in neon: MAKE ROOM FOR GOD.

Whoa. I’ve landed on an alien planet, where nothing makes sense. There’s another, smaller neon sign over the doorway of a side room that reads MERCH! like it’s a Beyoncé concert. Speaking of concerts, I’m totally peeping the crowded selfie station next door to MERCH! where a lot of people I recognize from school are taking pictures in front of a sparkly Great Wait logo. I’m definitely not surprised to see Lucy Davis taking pictures with her sometimes-but-not-always boyfriend, Javi Benitez. Also no surprise: our school’s Great Wait president, Nestor Camarillo, waiting in line for his turn.

“I’ll be right back,” Joanna says into the side of my face, since I’d never be able to hear her otherwise.

She leaves me next to the gift shop and jogs up to a group of women she seems to know.

I turn and look through the gift shop window—I mean, the Merch! window. Church merch. I snicker at my own joke.

But the merch inside is no joke. Piles on piles of CDs. Bookshelves loaded with all the usual suspects, plus Christ-centered fiction and manga-style graphic novels for kids. Racks and stacks of clothes. Display cases full of jewelry—thin gold bands and slender gold cross necklaces. A row of travel mugs just like the one Joanna brings with her every Sunday.

It feels like Disney World in here. And it’s not just the neon everywhere—it’s the electric hum that practically pulses out of people. I’ve never seen anything like this in my life.

Joanna motions for me to follow her, and we end up at another set of huge doors. This is a trip, I swear. Considering we just walked through an actual Bible-themed mini-mall, I can’t even visualize what’s on the other side of this mammoth doorway.

A smiling usher greets us like he’s known us all our lives as he pulls on the foot-long chrome handle. The door opens into a massive space that has serious concert hall vibes, all the way up to the balcony section above our heads. There’s a stage up front—not an altar, like at St. John’s—flanked by some kind of scaffolding surrounding a giant screen. Off each side of the stage are two sets of colossal speakers you can practically see the music bouncing out of. The room is lit with beams of colorful lights that pulse and sway and swirl nonstop.

Seriously, this is not the stained-glass, marble-sculptured, gold-swept church I grew up going to every Sunday for the first six years of my life. I don’t even know what to call this. It’s an alternate reality.

Another usher escorts us to a row somewhere in the middle of the already-crowded church. He’s wearing a T-shirt that says Made New in big, bold letters—same as the guy who opened the door for us.

As we take our seats, I look around on the stealth for my aunt Suzanne and my cousins, praying we don’t end up sitting near them. I know they’re here somewhere.

It’s so loud, I can barely hear my own thoughts. But maybe that’s a good thing. It means I don’t have to talk to anyone if I don’t want to, goddess bless.

Before long, the music from the speakers stops, and a live band onstage starts playing. I almost think I recognize it as a Coldplay song, until the words Jesus and worship fill the auditorium. The audience sings along, and since the lyrics ticker out simultaneously across the big screen, I mouth along too. I have to admit, this music is pretty fresh. If it was about something more relatable than surrendering my life to a less accepting God than the one I believe in, I might actually be into it.

A man in a baseball jersey and a faded denim jacket takes the stage. He welcomes everyone, tells us he’s Pastor Mike. It takes me a minute to process this, because I’ve never seen a pastor who wasn’t at least in a suit and tie. For sure I’ve never seen one wearing Jordans before. His voice floats smooth and easy through the open space as he leads the room in prayer. The band continues to play softly behind him, a soundtrack meant to tug at our emotions.

Pastor Mike praises God for the work He’s doing both in the church and out in the world through His parishioners.

“Lord, I pray that You touch the hearts of every person in this room today,” he says. “I pray that every one of you here today has an experience and an encounter with God.”

All around me, folks raise their hands in the air. I’m probably not supposed to notice this because my eyes are supposed to be closed, but honestly... how could I not cheat a little? From the double-decker panorama of raised hands and tear-streamed eyes, to the murmurs of “Yes, Jesus!” and “Thank you, Lord!” a sense of near euphoria vibrates in every molecule of this air.

After Pastor Mike says, “Amen!” the giant screen behind him rolls out a video with two high-school-aged kids, welcoming us to this week’s announcements.

“At the end of today’s service,” the girl says, “don’t forget to stop by our Merch! shop so you can rep Jesus throughout the week!” She points to her Made New T-shirt that all the ushers are wearing today, while the dude with her shows off his True Love Waits shirt that’s super popular around school.

Next is an invitation to all the ladies in the room to join Grace Redeemer’s SHIMMER group. “My mom attends SHIMMER in person,” the guy says, and the girl goes, “My mom keeps it virtual!” and in unison, they say, “Shine and reflect Jesus with SHIMMER!”

They give a shout-out to the Great Wait meetings kids can attend at all area schools.

They plug something called the Redemption Baptism Experience, coming in June, and also the Revive Alive Conference happening in July.

“Music, games, workshops, line dancing, BBQ, and more!” they say together.

There’s a short clip about summer camp that looks more like a nonstop concert venue, with live bands, prayer tunnels, sports and games—even ax throwing—plus tons of awesome-looking food.

There’s a QR code you can scan for more information.

Man. This isn’t church—it’s a whole separate, self-contained world. A biosphere, where everyone speaks the same language and each individual heart beats at the same communal frequency. The banner hanging from the balcony says WELCOME HOME, but in spite of the inclusive language, I still feel more likethe extraterrestrial who doesn’t quite understand where she landed.

The video ends, and the band bursts into an Adele sound-alike that everyone seems to know. I’m shocked that even Joanna knows the words to this song. She closes her eyes and lifts her hands and sings along, and I look away, vaguely mortified.

Pastor Mike’s voice rolls gently over the top of the fading song.

“Friends,” he says. “I want to talk to you today about honoring God’s purest gift to us—His precious children—made in His likeness.”

My gaze drifts to the guy playing electric bass in the band. He looks familiar, like maybe I saw him at Justin Tadeo’s party Friday night. I think he was one of the guys in the pool, talking to B’Rad.

“To call into question the nature of what it means to be a man or a woman is to dishonor the nature of God’s creation.”

These words hook me back toward the stage.

“I don’t want to offend anyone,” Pastor Mike says directly into the microphone, “but I’m going to say that again. Questioning our identity dishonors God.”

I’m locked onto Pastor Mike now. He looks like someone’s cool dad. Like a guy who would coach his kid’s Little League games and bring Happy Meals home in the middle of the week for no reason. He does not look like a hateful person. But what he’s saying is just that. Hate, wrapped in the kind of cake-soft God-love people seem to crave.

“Friends, God did not create His children as an experiment.” Pastor Mike lingers on this word. “He forged our precious little ones in the fire of His love and with intention. He knows what He calls each one of us to be, because He has made us in His image. Our job? Our job is to joyfully fulfill His plan! But there are those who would allow the children, created by our Almighty God, to question their identities. This is dangerous. This... is tantamount to letting our children play with fire. A fire that can burn their psyches. Fire that can harm them physically. These efforts... to allow our children to question the very nature of their existence...” He pulls a bandana out of his back pocket and wipes his forehead with it. “Friends, it just doesn’t square with what God calls us to.”

An echo of agreement ripples through the room, and my chest tightens.

“Lord,” the pastor continues, closing his eyes. “For anyone who might be questioning their identity, may they know that their identity lies solely in You.”

A collective murmur rises up, joining a sea of hands already lifted in praise.

“Let anyone searching, Jesus,” he says, his eyes still closed, “let them know that whatever they search for lies only in You.”

I look around to see if anyone else’s bullshit meter is going off. Instead, I catch a beam of purple-and-turquoise light spilling across the row where Beckett Wild is sitting.

Beckett... in living color. Beaming the same light she does every single day.

Pastor Mike says, “God tells us, doesn’t He, to love our neighbor?”

The crowd responds.

“That means our gay neighbor,” he says, punctuating each point with a jab of his finger. “That means our transgender neighbor. God doesn’t make exceptions about who. He tells us emphatically and unambiguously. Love thy neighbor... as thyself. We believe that God loves everyone. And He instructs us to love everyone. And so, we do. But sometimes... sometimes loving someone... means bringing them... to the truth.” He pauses every few words for dramatic effect. “That what they seek, they shall find in Him!”

A current of shared electricity seems to pass from one set of raised hands to another, bouncing off every Amen! and ricocheting against every Praise Jesus! The crescendo of euphoria builds as the congregation absorbs Pastor Mike’s words.

“God alone knows our true identity. Heck, God alone gave us our true identity. I’ll say that again. Your identity is the one God gave you. Can I get an amen?”

The crowd does as he says.

“God tells us, you will seek Me and you will find Me, if you seek Me with all your heart!”

This resonates with the room. With my mother. With her out-loud “Amen!” of agreement.

“Praise Jesus,” Pastor Mike says, dialing back his energy and his volume. “Praise Him for restoring the youth of this great state through The Great Wait, and through Grace Redeemer. Let us lift Him up in song.”

The band launches into a tune that sounds something like J. Cole feat. J. Christ, while all the kids from middle school and high school rush the stage. They raise their arms, jump up and down with the music, rap along with the lyrics.

I follow the beams of light until I spot Beckett again. She’s standing near the back of the group gathered up front. Swaying, not jumping, to the music. Singing along with the words.

As the song comes to a close, the band doesn’t stop playing—they just ease into a series of aching chords, playing softly behind Pastor Mike as he takes center stage again. This time, he talks about abundance. He talks about giving abundantly, about how generously God gives to us in our daily lives.

“We need to meet God’s generous abundance in all the ways we can,” he says. “To water the seeds that will grow God’s kingdom. To bring His truth out into this community and to every corner of the world.”

The music changes as Pastor Mike shifts his energy, whipping the crowd into a near frenzy.

“My friends. Brothers and sisters in Christ. We need to make Grace Redeemer into a soul... winning... machine!”

The band jumps back on that J. Cole number as an image flashes, then stays on the screen. Give Abundantly,it says, and below that:

Cash or check; or

GraceRedeemerGives.net—select the God Gives Tab; or

Download the Grace Redeemer Gives app; or

Text any amount to 33415.

I’m stunned as Joanna reaches into her purse, pulls out her wallet. Some folks take out their phones. Everyone is reaching for something that will allow them to give generously to Grace Redeemer Church.

I look over at Beckett again; Lucy’s next to her now. They’re bouncing in time to the music, hands lifted in praise, or worship, or whatever it’s called here, and suddenly Friday night seems like forever ago. Whatever it was I thought I felt from her that night... flirt... spark...?

It was nothing compared to the way she lights up here.

At church.

Where all she has to do is bring someone like me to “the truth.”