A: Antioch Primitive Baptist Church, Oxford, Miss.

God directed us here. Working alphabetically through a list of churches in the county, we decide upon "Antioch Primitive Baptist." But the list gives no address or phone. The Saturday before, however, we stumble onto the sign, right under the water tower.

Providential. Primitive Baptists believe as much. Theologically, Antioch has not changed since 1836, the year of its founding (making the church one year older than Oxford). The acronym TULIP sums up the doctrine: Total depravity, Unconditional Election, Limited Atonement, Irresistible Grace, Preservation of the Saints. The same in 2005 as 1836 – or 1638 for that matter.

The church is elegantly austere. Each window has a simple stained glass dove. We walk into the red carpeted sanctuary. Forty or so men, women and children bow their heads in common prayer. We take our place toward the back on the right. Nearly everyone seems to be a relative of the minister, Brother Max Ewing.

Though a non-believer, I feel at ease with Primitive Baptists. Not for reasons of gender. Women do not preach; no point in arguing this tenet. But the fact of predestination means my fate is sealed. No calls to the mourner's bench today.

Brother Wayne leads the congregation through a string of old timey hymns. Men and women shout out a number, Wayne pitches the hymn, begins in a crystalline tenor, then church joins in four part harmony. We tear through the hymnal. My throat starts to parch.

Kids wander back and forth, families drift in, find their seat. Brother Max's sermon meditates on 2 Timothy 4: "For the time will come when they will not stand wholesome teaching, but will follow their own fancy and gather a crowd of teachers to tickle their ears. They will stop their ears to truth and turn to fable." There is but one way; the rest, fornication, "you tolerate that Jezebel, the woman who claims to be a prophetess" (Rev. 2 20). Brother Max defines fornication broadly: whatever veers from Truth. Like women teaching. And Sunday School.With a left hand (that is slightly darker than the right) laying on the Bible, Brother Max makes one last point. Church closes with "Amazing Grace." Versus three and four lead to a line of handshakes that thread throughout the congregation. The voices dies down to just one or two people, and the rest exchange greetings. I feel welcomed."That's it," Brother Max says. "

See you next week. Same time. Same place." A pause. Brother Wayne pipes in, "same doctrine.

C: Church of Christ, Oxford, Miss.

This one was Julie's call. Oxford Church of Christ, on North Lamar and blocks from the Square, sits on pricey real estate. The church has a complex of buildings, done in matching yellow stone, with a nifty playground resembling an ark. The marquee last week, "How to Be a Rebel for Christ," was aimed at returning college students. Julie said we had to go.

Minister Bob Brewer laid out the argument. Following a salmon colored insert and Power Point display, he drew a line between being Rebels for Christ and Rebels against Christ. The text was a hailstorm of chapter and verse, all from Paul – Epistles to Galatians, Peter, Ephesians, Philippians, Colossians, First Corinthians, and Romans.Midway through the sermon: "You may say, Bob Brewer, aren't you being a bit harsh?" Then he took a step forward. "But this is not Bob Brewer. This is Paul. This is Jesus' word." A Rebel for Christ casts out the sins of university life – homosexuality, promiscuity, drinking, cursing, evil thoughts, Ole Miss' bizarre campus cheer ("Hotty Totty, Gosh Almighty"), and again, homosexuality.

Lots on homosexuality.

I recall two, maybe three, references to same-sex love in Paul. Bob Brewer snuffed out half a dozen more. I glanced down the pew for a Bible, but the only scripture came from the blue screen. Jesus' word, passed through Paul, somehow became Bob Brewer's.

After the sermon, a young college student led the congregation in prayer. Then several young men took up collection. Then more young men passed around communion.

Julie scribbled on the bulletin, "I do not want to stay." For me, college was a difficult time. My future seemed uncertain, my head was full of ideas, my libido wandered, and I drank a lot. The tough questions did not have easy solutions (any more than the Bible can be reduced to paraphrased bullet points on Power Point). I wondered whether the lesson of self-loathing and casting out does young people more harm than good.

I do know this much: when the communion plate came our way, I let it pass.

C: Christ CME Church, Oxford, Miss.

Reverend Deldrick LeaSure asks for an Altar Call. Anyone not playing an instrument comes forward. I whisper to Julie, “do we go?” I catch the pianist’s eye. She nods. Julie gets the same message, so we join hands in a circle. “Holy Father,” Reverend LeaSure begins, “we thank you;” he thanks God for blessings, remembers Katrina, remembers shut-ins and those in need. Piano chords build against his prayer. Electric bass improvises against her chords, and the drum set kicks in.Worship here is in music. The service begins with a prelude that sounds like “This Little Light of Mine” then turns into “Amazing Grace.” At any point, the guitar or drums, piano or bass, join the spoken word. And the word itself is never read, but chanted or sung. The choir of four has a soloist whose voice shakes the rafters, but with the choir standing in front of us, I can’t quite place the voice.

Christ Temple is simple and small church: yellow brick and opaque windows, on a main street of Oxford, between Rebel Bail Bonds and the jail. The sanctuary has about 40 pews, with the altar and a baptismal pool in front. The only real luxury is two rows of crystal and brass chandeliers. Plus a big white Peavey amp, hanging from the ceiling. That’s where the voice came from. A church this size might not need the amp. But it sounds really good.

The worship service has a way of involving you. As a white couple in a black church, Julie and I figured we would not remain anonymous. Nor would this congregation let us. All visitors are asked to introduce themselves. When we do, we get a warm round of applause.

Reverend LeaSure calls out the day’s scripture, and waits for everyone to find their place. “Ephesians Four,” he says. Then again, “Ephesians Four.” Folks reach for their Bibles: “That’s between Galatians and Phillipians.” When he reads, LeaSure gives each syllable of the original King James its due: “walk worthy of the vocation wherewith ye are called.”

I am a reader. That’s my vocation, and the message resonates with me. After weeks of hearing the Word dictated from the pulpit, I like flipping through the pages for myself. I like being involved.

The service ends with a collection (thankfully only one, as we are low on cash), then the Benediction. Julie and I shake hands, chat, and walk toward the car. The choir soloist spots us across the parking lot. “Good morning,” she says. The solist smiles and explains, “I can’t let anyone leave without shaking their hand.”

Yes. If you come to this church, you cannot simply hide.

E & Q: Religion and Politics, Oxford, Miss.

Visiting different churches makes one aware of the ways in which God’s Word gets sliced and diced.

Services at St. Peter’s Episcopal flip between a photocopied bulletin and the Book of Common Prayer. A bulletin insert reprints the First and Second readings, The Gradual, then the Gospel. The Gospel is read in a particularly elaborate display of text. Following an acolyte, who bears a crucifix on a staff, the Priest carries The Book into the congregation. She holds the red and gilt Gospel aloft. She reads; the people chant back, “thanks be to God.”

Our message for today (Matthew 21:28-32) supports the sermon, to go into the darkest place of ourselves so we can be changed. Well enough, though thematics trump formal or aesthetic concerns. A passage from Psalms 25:4-9 presumes to anticipate Matthew: “All the paths of the Lord are love and faithfulness to those who keep his covenant and his testimonies.” Later, I check out the Psalm for myself. It is an acrostic, in which each line begins with the next letter of the Hebrew alphabet; starting at verse 4 (the bulletin actually says 3) is like asking a child to sing her ABC’s from the letter D.Ollie Rencher, the Assistant Rector, gives a sermon on the transformative power of God’s love. This brick gothic church somehow manages to be both establishment and progressive. William Faulkner worshipped here. Well-heeled visitors, in town for a football game and The Grove, take communion here. One congregant sports a bow-tie, impressively hand tied. Whatever changes come to Mississippi, the realist in me suspects, probably will begin at St. Peter’s Episcopal.

Next week, we attend a very different meeting, the Oxford Quakers. The group of twenty or so, until recently under the care of Memphis meeting, convenes at a member’s home in a sub- division just outside town. Service is unprogrammed, which may strike some as unstructured, but worship follows a ritual. Folks gather at the top of the hour. Children squirm through the first fifteen minutes, then head to First Day school. It takes another fifteen minutes to hunker down, to clear out job worries and “to-do” lists, then a communal silence develops. This silence is not so much individual absorption as an invisible, connecting chord. Sometimes someone has a message. Sometimes folks have lots of messages. Often, silence reigns.

At the top of the hour, the clerk shakes hands with the person sitting next to her or him, and the usual greetings begin. Much more happens after that, though I usually cut out.

I like Quaker worship for the same reason I could never follow the Book of Common Prayer. If the light of God dwells within each of us, we must decide for ourselves how to interpret the Word. I probably simplify. Just let me note that few bodies of worship (the Primitive Baptists excepted) leave time for silent prayer.

Attending a new church, even for a familiar denomination, takes getting used to. At Quaker meeting, Julie and I say our hello’s, then find two chairs in a corner of the back den. Mocha, the house pooch, settles down by the couch. A precocious pre-teen reads Hamlet next to me. At quarter after, the kids go to the basement for First Day school. I acclimate, check out the faces, the books on the coffee table, and photographs on the wall. Thirty minutes pass. I study the fringe lining the sofa. A communal silence builds. No one speaks today. At noon, the clock strikes twelve. Mocha sits up and wags his (or her) tail furiously. I make it a point to greet this good pooch by the paw.

I believe in the transformative power of Dogs.

Bumper Sticker, Oxford, Miss.

Bumper Sticker, outside Sterling University Apartments, Oxford, Miss.

"1 cross + 3 nails = 4 given"

G: full Gospel Tabernacle, Memphis, Tenn.

Al Green’s Full Gospel Tabernacle is not far from Graceland. The church is no different from others in South Memphis, a basic seventies building, but the minister is famous. The A.L. Green, soul singer of “Let’s Stay Together” and “Take Me to the River.”

Visitors come from around the world to hear him preach. Al Green wants him to hear his message – not just the music. Trouble is, he can’t preach.Today’s sermon was about “being in church, not just at church.” The visitors were mostly from a little Bible college in Indiana. Al Green asked folks to raise their hand when he called out states. Don Ho also does that at his nightclub act in Hawaii.

When we got down to “the Big Book,” Al Green worked through Revelation 11. But mostly the service was about Al Green. “Some folks come here expecting to hear my pretty voice,” he said. Then he dropped in a few lines of “Let’s Stay Together.”

“Like that guy in the back with his mouth hanging open.”

He was looking at me.

H: His Harvest Ministries, Lafayette County, Miss.

Maybe I underestimated Al Green’s preaching. The service closed with the usual call to Jesus. Inspirational music swelled and three people came forward, two black children and an older white women from Boston. The woman’s name was Pat. She wore an elaborate church hat. Al Green asked Pat her name (he forgot it later) and said “I have been waiting for you my whole life.” He prayed with his hand on her head. Pat from Boston received the full conversion experience.

The call makes me uncomfortable. This week I attended His Harvest Ministries, which meets in an old metal warehouse near the industrial park north of Oxford. The service defies all categories.

As I take my seat, three woman are standing on the altar speaking in tongues into the microphone. A choir of six women belts out hymns through a karaoke machine and kickin’ Peavey Amps. (Query: Peavey is based in Mississippi. Do the amps grow immediately from the needs of a southern church?) Twenty boys and girls in costume perform a choreographed lip sync. The lead speaker-in-tongues returns with another woman (both dressed in all white with a red smock) to perform an interpretative dance.

I am the only visitor.

The sermon has lots of Hallelujahs. The Preacher asks us to repeat the important words. Following First and Second Peter, she has us repeat, “I will gird myself for the Lord.” Everyone does. She tells us to “Wake Up!” Each member finds three people to remind the other: “Wake up! Wake up! Wake up!” A Deacon leads the congregation through a double offering.

Then the altar call. “Wave your hand if you are fully with me in spirit this morning,” the Minister says. I wave with everyone else. “Wave your hand if you accept Jesus into your heart this morning.” She pauses. “Wave your hand if you are interested in church membership.” I become very conscious that I am the only visitor. Another pause. “I guess we’re all alright then.”

P: First Presbyterian Church, Oxford, Miss.

First Presbyterian Church sits just off the Square in Oxford. Two octagon towers and a larger bell tower in front give the brick building, though tastefully set behind a lawn, an imposing presence. Inside, the sanctuary feels surprisingly close, with little room between pews. Is the seating scaled for the smaller people of a previous century?

Or does the order of service suffocate me? I grew up with the hymnal, the men in neckties, the Doxology, and Lord’s Prayer with its debts and debtors. Today is Transfiguration Sunday. Jesus, in dazzling white, appeared with Moses and Elijah before Peter, James, and John. Peter spoke. He offered to set up three tents. God replied from behind a cloud. He said, shut up.

Today’s sermon was about listening. Or being struck dumb. The pastor cited examples of when words prove inadequate. Like Hurricane Katrina: “anything we can say to explain Katrina is empty and trite.” There is no one to blame. I exchanged glares with Julie. No blame for the President? Or the poverty that turned the natural disaster into a human one? Or the refineries that compromised wetlands that could have absorbed the storm’s shock?

Delivered to a comfortable, well-healed Congregation, the pastor’s words felt empty and trite.

After church, Julie and I went to Bottletree bakery across the street. We bought a chocolate croissant.

K: Katrina Clean Up

Lesson One in hurricane clean up: Don’t open the fridge.

Katrina hit New Orleans in September 2005. Our volunteer group hit the Seventh Ward in March 2006. Six months leaves plenty of time for rot.

Catholic Charities, of the New Orleans Archdiocese, teamed up Julie and me with fifteen good-hearted students on Spring Break from Mount St. Mary College, in Newburgh, New York.

The Mount St. Mary kids forgot a key step, securing appliance doors with duct tape. The guys lost control of the refrigerator. Mold, mildew, and maggot-covered meat spilled onto the floor. A death smell filled the house. Students ran outside to wretch.The next day, Catholic Charities teamed Julie and I with a slightly more organized group from St. Louis University, supervised by two Jesuit scholastics (the step between novitiate and priest) named Mario and Robert. Robert came from New Orleans and knew the deal. We finished up an elderly woman’s house by the Palmetto Canal (which flooded when the pumps failed) and moved to a second home near Lake Pontchartrain.The owner, her daughter, and son-in-law greeted us. Son-in-Law jumped to work immediately. He commandeered me to ram a crumbling couch through the front door and almost sent me tumbling down the front steps.

The St. Louis kids formed a line and proceeded to haul a lifetime’s accumulation of stuff out to the curb.I grabbed a trash can and started on the pantry – emptying the shelves of rotten dish towels, an unopened carton of plastic Sunbeam bread bags, Hunts tomato ketchup (alarmingly, still red), bleach and laundry detergent, an ironing board, God knows what else. Why the woman owned a box of empty bread bags remains a mystery to me.Fifteen minutes before the day’s end, son-in-law asked for help with the deep freezer. I agreed. We turned the freezer on its side, causing melted waste to spill through the drain. The smell hit me low and deep in the stomach. I breathed through my mouth. We opened the back door, lined up the freezer, and heaved it down the stoop. I grabbed a handful of ruined shirts, mopped up the milky stream tracing across the kitchen floor, and kicked the clothes down the steps.

My boots still stink.

On the third day, Julie and I visited my aunt and uncle across the river. They took us to the Ninth Ward, the worst hit and most televised neighborhood in the entire city. We drove East from the center of town, following the river road with devastation to our left and the levee to our right. Julie and I pointed out the student volunteers, teenagers in white sanitary suits or matching t-shirts, easy to spot in the wreckage. The ruin stretched for miles; each house takes two days to gut. A few homes had white FEMA trailers in front. For reasons unkown, FEMA removed the far more cost effective port-a-sans, where volunteer workers could take a pee.

This is no job for volunteers.

Where is the army? Where’s the National Guard? New Orleans needs physically fit, disciplined troops, led by officers with a "can do" attitude and a plan. Not college students on Spring Break.

The devastation in New Orleans defies words. So too does the government incompetence. A quarter of my annual income goes to federal taxes. Where is that money now?