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.