One of those glorious Southern city Sundays, winter version. Tall buildings turning two-dimensional in a high, hard sky. The Fuji blimp drifting leisurely overhead. Not so leisurely, people are on their way to church. The traffic almost jams around First Baptist, Atlanta's first, oldest, most pres-tigious, most powerful mega-church. But the deacons take control. The line of traffic containing my sputtering Nissan is guided off Peachtree Street around two corners to the parking deck, second level.

I'm glad to have a crowd to follow through the maze of buildings and park-ing lots to the sanctuary. We arrive just in time to greet the early service exodus. But there's no time for greeting. They are herded out and we are gathered in with expert efficiency.

I settle myself next to Camera One (of five) and bury myself in the program notes. They make it clear that worship is only a small part of the mammoth First Baptist experience. There are Bible studies, prayer meetings, support groups and political action committees, plus 'Here's Hope' seminars and a holy array of holiday happenings. Among them is an opportunity to buy a 'First Baptist Christmas Tree Ornament', a gold medallion of the church when it was founded in 1848.

The crowd begins to quiet as the orchestra enters Ð thirty-six pieces in black tie or gown. We are almost quiet by the time the one-hundred-member choir (the women in formal gowns of fire-engine red) is seated. We are silenced as the lights go up for the entrance of Pastor Charles Stanley, every inch the Southern Baptist minister, in a simple navy suit and conservative tie. Pow! The lights glare, the trumpets blaze. The service begins with a torrent of sound. Orchestra and choir combine to urge: 'Let us celebrate!'

What follows is an odd mixture of spectacle and intimacy. The music clamors. The pastor confides. He confides to our prayer and concern Colonel McNair, who rises ramrod straight to the introduction. A long-time member of the 'family', active in 'teaching the ten commandments to businessmen and world leaders', the colonel is about to run for governor of Georgia.

Pastor prays. The choir sings. Pastor prays. The choir sings. The orchestra plays. The choir sings. It's a wonderful show. Until the sermon. Because when Pastor gets out his Bible, we open ours, too. 'Come with me to the gospel of Luke.' With a rustle of pages we come. 'Come with me to Colossians, chapter two.' Flutteringly we follow.

Protestants in the American mainline may scorn First Baptist's service as nothing but theater, 'made for television', non-participatory. But participation in the proclamation of the word is no bad thing. From Luke to Colossians to Genesis to John, from womb to tomb, we're led to contemplate the divinity of the Jesus who 'lay in a manger made from trees he created', and died to save us from all our sins. 'Won't you come down and declare your faith in him?'

Some do. Pastor shakes their hands and deacons lead them off to who knows where. For the rest of us it's too suddenly over. Outside, the early afternoon sun is almost as bright as the spotlights.

This piece was first published in the magazine Leading Light.

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For other Service with a Smile reports, please click on your choice of edifying reading…

Preaching Without Oxygen – Simon Jenkins marvels at the Wee Frees of Inverness.

Pearly Splendour – Gillian Preece visits Holy Trinity Brompton in fashionable Knightsbridge, London.

Easter with Attitude – Simon Jenkins celebrates Easter, Russian Orthodox style.

At the Coca Cola Cross – Tom Davies rejoices in Greenbelt.

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