In an effort to find another venue for Robby to meet kids who will be attending high school with him, I
tried the neighbors' church this last weekend. They said it was called Cherry Hills "community" church, which sounded nice and friendly, kind of country homey, to me.

And I love my neighbors. Their children are models of good behavior, and Robby's almost-constant weekend companions. They find me amusing -- whether laughing with me or at me, I can't be sure, but still, I'm flattered. Their parents have helped me with many a household chore since I moved into their midst, loaned me rakes and weed whackers, fixed plumbing problems on a moment's notice, watched my son and happily accepted my meager offerings of gratitude: beer and gin. So I figured it must be OK.

So Sunday a.m., Robby and I set off on yet another in a series of religious experiments -- which, by the way, he hates with a polite, mostly unspoken passion. We pulled in with minutes to spare, but enough, I thought, to make the service. Then I saw Douglas County Sheriff's cruisers, parked near the entry, lights flashing. At first, I thought some horrible accident had occurred right at the church entrance. Then I realized they were directing traffic.

"Lot FULL," a sign before us read.

The deputy waved us into another lot, some distance from the church entrance - which appeared to be less a church than an institution, a massive brick expanse larger than most urban office buildings.

We found a spot and began our journey to the doors. It was a walk of at least three football fields.

But my neighbor and her son was waiting outside the entrance, and she waved away my apologies. We led Robby and her son to a mysterious room in which they would receive their own form of religious instruction.

I walked in like a lamb to slaughter, with a completely open mind and optimistic hope that I had finally found something -- less loosey-goosey than Unitarianism but not quite so heavy as Catholicism feels to me -- that would click with me.

I noticed the area most would call the nave was large. Too large for the word, I thought. But it had a breezy, open feel I liked.

Besides, music was playing, a woman was singing and it was awesome. The church had an amazing sound system and a full
band. Even screens up above that broadcast close-ups of the singer. A good idea since I later realized there were 3,500 people in the room, more of an auditorium with a second layer in the form of a full balcony than a chapel.

So, I was still impressed.

Then the preaching began. And very soon into it, the pastor - whose mike was set so loud that his voice boomed in my chest - said he believes that people who don't tithe will "go to hell!" And within five minutes of that, he said the words "evangelism" and "Billy Graham."

I realized I was in deep doo-doo and had naively walked into the very kind of church I rail agains. These types of churches were among the reasons I wanted out of Colorado Springs. The-Bible-is-rule, we're-right-and-you're-wrong kind of churches.

I suddenly felt like a traitor in their midst. And completely out of place. And I also thought, how amused my friends would be if they could see me now. Darn near front and center at an evangelical mega-church.

As his words sank in, many of them feeling almost like a physical slap to my face, I also felt a sinking sensation in my heart. I truly want to find a religious sanctuary, a place that resonates with me such that I can share it with my son in deepest sincerity, and a place brimming with children for Robby to befriend for years to come. But even for Robby, and even though I'm yoga-flexible, this was farther than I could bend.

I talked briefly with my neighbor later that day. She inquired about the service and when I expressed some doubts, her response showed me she was a true believer. She stressed that tithing was in the Bible, and that the Bible was written by God. Her voice held such a tone of insistence that I felt myself shrinking, as I always did from this type of discussion. She said she felt it was a bad first sermon for me to hear, but that not all sermons can be inspiring. This pastor, she said, with sermons such as this, teaches us how to find our own salvation.

"But isn't that," I wanted to say, "a bit selfish?"

I envisioned these Biblical orders as pennies dropping into a penny jar. Tithing amounted to a penny here and a penny there -- more money donated, more pennies in the jar. And eventually, when they had done enough of these Bible-ordered deeds, the full penny jar became Willy Wonka's Golden Ticket. Offer it up to the God you believe in, and the gates of heaven swing open. You have been saved!!

"And just how," I also wanted to ask, "do you know the Bible was written by God? How can you be so sure of any of these things? How can your faith be so unflinchingly strong when all I have are more and more questions?"

But I offered no further quarrel.

Religion and politics. What do they say? Don't talk about 'em. Just love your neighbor. Period.

Later that evening, I took a long walk with my friend Diane, who is of the middle-of-the-road, tolerant, sometimes admittedly uncertain Christian variety I like. She gasped when I told her where I'd been. "Oh God, Jane! If you'd told me where you were going, I could have warned you. That's one of THOSE churches! I can't believe you went there!" She proceeded to laugh uproariously.

This gave rise to a rousing theological discussion, which we both thoroughly enjoyed, and which ended, naturally, over beers and a cheese-drenched plate of nachos at Old Chicago.

Needless to say, Robby and I won't be going back. I will find a gentle way to tell my neighbors. Perhaps, I've thought, by saying that "it just didn't hit home for us," and hope that it won't hurt our friendship. Because they are loving people, I know we'll be just fine.

And as for me and Robby? The search may continue, or it may not. I may just have to simply accept that I will never have a sense of religious certainty, and go back to doing what feels right to me: Living the best life I can, helping to brighten the way for others through acts both big and small. Trying, always trying -- with remarkable - hopefully even amusing - imperfection.