The Search for KLOVE

Back in December, I was in the awkward position of still living with my ex-fiance after I gave him back the engagement ring. My two good friends Nancy and Karen came out to LA to visit me. Our plan was to take a road trip to Portland, OR, and stop at all of the vodka distilleries we could find on the way. We decided to get a rental car so we could spend a little more time in Portland and fly back. It was a basic rental, no GPS or satellite radio, and we forgot to bring CDs. As we drove along the remote coastal areas of northern CA and into Oregon, the only music we could get was on the aptly named KLOVE, a Christian radio station.

The station grew on us. Thankfully, it didn’t spew fire and brimstone sermons; its message seemed to be one of love and inspiration. “Jesus Saves” was our favorite song, apparently popular with the Christian crowd as well; we seemed to hear it every time we put the radio on. As Nancy said, “You can tell they are Christian pop songs because they have catchy tunes, but you don’t recognize them.” I was dealing with a lot of loss, and the songs did offer comfort, as well as the chance to "raise the roof" with a little car dancing. The song sets featured a heavy predominance of male singers, and we wondered whether the station had a prejudice against female performers. Maybe it was preferred that women stay home with their families? Or maybe more Christian women did stay home with their families and were not as likely to become pop singers? At any rate, it was sweet and funny and serendipitous to hear so much KLOVE on our beautiful drive, with good friends, as we pondered the end of 2010.

In early January, just after I moved out of my ex-fiance’s condo, I had another KLOVE experience, at the dedication for my friend Geibi’s baby. Her family attended Hope Church in Santa Monica, an evangelical church that only baptized adults who had found Christ and were saved. The ceremony for the baby was something like presenting the baby to God and introducing him to the church, not a traditional christening. I knew nothing about evangelical churches and didn't know what to expect, but I decided to go.

The church was simple and tiny, maybe ten rows of pews, with cushions on them, so clearly my friends were not Catholic. There were a few small stained glass windows but no saints or statues. The parishioners were milling around and chatting. My friends arrived and had me sit with a couple they knew; none of our mutual friends were there.

The service started with the Dixie Chicks getting up on the altar to sing KLOVE songs! Okay, they weren’t really the Dixie Chicks, and they weren’t really KLOVE songs since women were singing them, but three young women were up on the altar singing Christian pop songs with cordless microphones. They were wearing fashionable little jackets with scarves and jeans with sparkly beads on the back pockets. They were not dressed identically, though they all did have on the same shade of pink lip gloss. There were two flat video screens up on the wall on either side of the altar with the words to the songs. It was Christian karaoke! (I was itching to request “Jesus Saves.”) They must have sung four or five songs; I was beginning to think that the woman in the center was the pastor and that the whole service would be made up of singing. In between songs, she would cry out, “Thank you, God! We adore you, God! We lift up our hands and hearts to God!” like she was in anguish.

For a woman (me) who grew up in an old, traditional coal mining town on the east coast and had only ever attended staid Catholic services (the ones where everyone lip syncs the words to slow, formal songs accompanied by an organ), this was all completely shocking. I kind of liked it! I forced myself to clap along stiffly, to participate, though I really felt like an observer looking in. I was invigorated by all the energy around me.

There was a man in the front row who was singing along, dancing like he was at a concert, arms outstretched to the beat, hip hop style. He looked to be in his fifties, blonde hair gelled into spikes, and he was wearing plaid pants that tapered at the bottom, pointy-toed shoes, and a bulky cardigan with big buttons. Every now and then he yelled out, “Amen! God is good! Yes!” It turned out that this was Pastor Barry, an Australian. (Had the Monsignor at the church I grew up in danced or dressed like that, I can’t imagine what the repercussions would have been.) Pastor Barry embodied the word passion. He was exceedingly enthusiastic, very charismatic, and hugely inspiring. I prayed for a drop of his energy, in my pinky maybe, so I could get a nudge to do all of the things I had planned for 2011. He quoted a lot from the Bible, Old and New Testament, and talked about it being a new year. He encouraged us to reach for our happiness despite our fear, asserting that God wanted us to succeed. He urged us to let Christ in, but I was contemplating his talk from my own angle of really needing to realize my dreams, to do what I was meant to be doing.

After the baby’s dedication (apparently the first one at that church which had only been in existence for about a year), people went to the altar for prayers. I was thinking that it would be like receiving communion in the Catholic Church, that the pastor would give me something to eat or drink and I’d say "amen" and go sit down. I wasn’t expecting that someone would actually stand over me and pray out loud. (How uncomfortable!) I approached the altar with Geibi and her parents, and a heavy-set Hispanic man with dark hair and dark glasses in a polo shirt and jeans, a lay person, asked me my name and whether there was any particular prayer I wanted. Dumbfounded, I nodded my head no. He took my arm, leaned over me, and started praying.

It was hard to concentrate. Besides my practitioner’s prayer, I could also hear the low rumble of Pastor Barry’s prayer to Geibi and her parents, to my right, and to my left, there was another person being prayed over. The central female singer from the service opening was at the piano singing too, a slow song about God or Jesus in our lives. When Geibi’s prayer was finished, she came over to me and hugged me (the man was still praying over me), which made me cry. She gave me a tissue and then I saw that she was crying too. Then another practitioner who was done praying over people came and stood behind me, touching my back, which made me cry more, just as I was settling down. Goodness! And the man was still praying over me. (Oh Lord, did he sense that I needed it? I was getting embarrassed that I was going to be the last person at the altar.) Finally he nodded that I could go sit down. There was a woman still up there who actually was sobbing, into the chest of the woman praying over her. Quite a few people were pulling tissues from the box being passed around.

I was exhausted, but I felt lighter. I can’t remember the thoughts that were going through my head; I imagine I felt sadness for the end of my relationship and fear over the uncertainty about my future. I was overcome with emotion and touched by the love and support offered to me. I’ve never understood why acts of kindness move me to tears. A place in my soul is stirred, feels honored, loved, probably a little unworthy. Is it a recognition, a connection with another soul that demands an expression of the most sublime emotion, which is tears? Or is it that an atmosphere of love and trust loosens old pain and allows it to be released in the form of cleansing tears? Maybe both?

I was driving around Los Angeles one Sunday morning after a hike, when I noticed how many people were congregated outside of churches and temples that I passed. In a city known for its liberal and often immoral bent, I was really surprised. It hit me that people – most people - were seeking some kind of spiritual satisfaction, and that this was a natural and normal part of the human condition. Certainly in many cases throughout history, religion has been used to control the masses, (part of what turned me against traditional religion), yet the search for God, or gods, or goddesses, the search for a connection with divinity, is hardwired in all of us. I was amazed and humbled by the realization.

Much as I enjoyed the evangelical service, I didn’t think it was quite for me. I decided to check out different churches and religious services around the city, a “search for heaven in 2011.” As I worked towards fulfilling my own innate need to know God, I might also find a like-minded community of people to support me in my faith and help improve my understanding. I might find my own version of KLOVE.