We pulled into the church auto parking area, (bikes had their own parking place), and I asked, “Okay, well, where is it?” “Right there,” my stepdad pointed out. “Where?” I asked again. “There,” he pointed to a small building off to the side. He had to be kidding. It wasn’t a church — it was a chicken house!

I urged the reluctant girls on, (they’re used to “traditional” church settings), and we went inside. Grabbing a spot on the back row, we ended up right in front of the refreshment table. (Yes, they served coffee, juice, donuts and other breakfast cakes all thru service.) I decided just to sit back and take it all in. The first thing I noticed was that the entire interior was painted Harley Davidson orange and black, even the ceiling fans had bright orange blades with black bases. When they took up the offering, they passed around motorcycle helmets in lieu of collection plates. The pastor (an ex-con) wore jeans with a leather vest, as did most of the congregation. Yet, what really got me was when a big burly biker stood behind me and whipped out a switchblade to stir his coffee cup… that’s just something you don’t see every day.

At the end of the service, I asked the girls what they thought. The oldest piped up, “Well, it was okay, but I wouldn’t want to go to church there every Sunday.” Me either, I supposed. Yet, I also realized that they had embraced a real sense of worship at that little chicken house church, casting off all pretensions, coming before the Lord just as they were, just as He called them... like that sweet old hymn, “Just As I Am.”

It would be great if every now and then Believers would all come together, toss off tradition, religious titles and preference, and just praise the Lord without walls or compromise. Wow — wouldn’t that be some different kind of Sunday!