Twenty-Seven Seconds

 I found myself in a church on Mother's Day.  Not the church I have been frequenting at the request of a friend over on the west side but a larger facility out in Oakley.  Crossroads is a 'megachurch' in truth, a place with over 2,000 regular attendees.  You can tell.

Walking in was as daunting and disorienting as finding yourself in an unknown airport at the edge of the world.  The lobby was large and open, filled to the brim with people milling about, queued up for coffee, congregating around kiosks and seating areas, and going about their Sunday business. I considered lining up for coffee myself.  I love a strong cup of fresh coffee and perhaps some caffeine to properly energize my brain would make the service easier to follow.  Unfortunately the line was quite long and time a luxury.  It was Mother's Day, after all.

A bit before noon, right on time for the final service of the day, I confidently strode into a dark hallway that led into the main auditorium, no coffee in hand.  Dark as a movie theater already rolling trailers, I fumbled my way to an aisle seat towards the back of the first level.  It was a bit impersonal and surreal.  On stage there was a young man dressed in thirties attire at a desk with a typewriter.  Suspended from the roof there was a thin wispy banner of cloth upon which the words of a song were projected.  The band playing the song was one of the better church bands I have seen in some time though they only played the one song.  The man at the typewriter left the stage and the pastor came on stage.

The message, presented in plain, frank speech, was a continuation of the Easter series.  He presented the message of Christ's resurrection jumping around in scripture from gospel to epistle.  Emergent churches seem to love their epistles most of all.  At the end of the service communion was offered and I quietly slid out the back door to see if I could ask any questions and then beat traffic.  Sadly, the newbie kiosks were no longer manned.  I wandered for a bit in vain hope of being greeted by a friendly local or finding some yet unknown truth of the Crossroads and then exited when the small ember of that hope faded neath' the ash.

A barista friend of mine recently told me about hand pulled shots of espresso.  The ideal shot, he claimed, takes around twenty-five to twenty-eight seconds to pull well.  The best shots?  Twenty-seven seconds.

I think I'll try again this coming weekend.  I'll grab a coffee and be a touch more proactive in my questioning.  I'm a poor believer if anything and am used to churches and such centers being the ones to reach out and greet the newcomers.  Such a large place seems to lose a bit of community in the hustle and bustle.  A place like Crossroads seems to grow based on production values and retail religion.  Fashionable.  Marketable.  With that in mind I'll try again for a friend's sake and grab myself a shot in the dark.

This time I'll be counting seconds.