Climbing out of CCM Purgatory

Bonnie Keen was on stage doing what she does best -- singing harmony -- when she heard an alarm clanging in her soul.

As a member of the trio First Call, she was singing behind one of gospel music's superstars. While Sandi Patty held the spotlight, Keen found herself paying especially close attention to many details of the concert.

Everyone talked about freedom and letting God take control, while the tightly choreographed show marched in lock-step with studio backing tapes. The stars sang about praising God, while bathing in the crowd's adoration. The show looked like entertainment, while people called it worship.

"It was like something hit me," said Keen, recalling the scene. "I thought, `What is this supposed to be? Is this a concert? Is it a worship service? What is this?'"

These soul-searching questions remain just as relevant today, as Keen and her veteran vocal partner Marty McCall begin climbing out of gospel-music purgatory.

It has been two years since the tabloids went wild covering First Call member Marabeth Jordon's extramarital affair with Michael English, who was gospel's rising star. Jordon was pregnant. Then came the divorces and news of a miscarriage. Gospel retailers yanked English's recordings off shelves and he has since begun a secular career. Jordan has quietly returned to studio work.

Keen and McCall were blindsided. While most stores kept selling the trio's music, one insider's words to an industry journal captured the mood: "As far as we know, two-thirds of the group is still on solid ground, as far as ministry goes." All outsiders need to know about the Twilight Zone called Contemporary Christian Music, or CCM, is summed up in those words, "As far as we know." That was the bottom of the pit.

"We were changed forever by what happened," said Keen. "The majority of people in the industry pulled away and that hurt -- deeply. ... Our experiences just didn't fit into anyone's little pigeonholes for how things were supposed to go."

After two years of silence, Keen and McCall recently finished a new album as a duo, with the simple title "First Call." Its opening song talks about life's burdens, while the chorus is both hopeful and defiant: "You gotta trust in the power of God, when nothing makes sense. ... In the wake of the tears of the innocent, let the healing begin."

The tears began long before 1994's scandal tore the roof off the sanctuary. In the early 1980s, First Call toured with the young Amy Grant. In recent years, Grant and her husband, singer Gary Chapman, have openly talked about how they saved their troubled marriage. Meanwhile, many Christians still attack Grant's profitable leap into pop music. First Call also sang with Russ Taff, who rose to stardom while doubting his faith. Even Sandi Patty got a divorce and married her lover.

Keen has watched the drama unfold in a business in which revelation can be part of the stagecraft. Industry leaders continue to debate where "ministry" ends and "performing" begins. Some insist that CCM is about "evangelism," while others admit that most of the music is entertainment for a Christian niche market.

It all comes back to that question: "What is this?"

Obviously, CCM artists are professionals who make their living performing on stage and in the studio. But for whom are they performing and why? They are not ministers. Yet it's clear many listeners look to them for spiritual inspiration and insights. They are rarely evangelists. Yet, like most clergy, they spend most of their time preaching to people who already believe.

"I think we're Christians who speak to other Christians ... about our own faith and what it means to try to live out that faith," she said. "But we're going to have to be honest about that. If we've suffered pain, if we've suffered loss, we need to admit that. ... Maybe the fact that we're still here -- after all we've been through -- can serve as an encouragement to people who have suffered loses of their own."

Tips for the Truly Pro-Life

The back of the Anaheim Hilton ballroom was lined with news crews, but the cameras were turned off while Cathy Brown and Laurie Wideman shared the spotlight.

They weren't "the news" on this day. The American Life League was honoring Pat Buchanan and, since this was his next-to-last speech before the Republican National Convention, reporters were dispatched to see if he would endorse, or attack, Bob Dole.

So this was a Religious Right rally, with all the trimmings. Singers belted out gospel and patriotic anthems, backed by cassette-tape orchestras. Talk-show hosts strafed the White House. Buchanan joked about this being a non-political gathering.

All Brown and Wideman did was talk about realities that lurk behind the politics of sex, abortion and single mothers. Their words last month may not have been big news, but they spoke volumes about life in millions of homes and churches. Their message: Parents still don't want to talk about sex. Thus, many respond poorly when a crisis pregnancy forces candor.

Brown said she was fortunate. She feared that her conservative Christian parents would reject her, since sex outside of marriage clashed with everything she had been taught. Still, part of her was excited about being pregnant.

"My mom didn't cry out `Congratulations!' But she didn't scream and yell, either," said Brown. "She gave me a big hug and said we'd get through this somehow. ... Then -- and this is what I'll never forget -- she started talking about the baby. We both started talking about the baby."

Today, Brown has a 3-year-old son.

Things were different for Wideman. Her mistake had botched everyone's plans and they told her so. Still, she decided not to have an abortion, after struggling with the decision. Her parents took her to the clinic, anyway. When she insisted that she didn't want to go through with the procedure, Wideman said the abortionist slapped her and said: "You spoiled little brat. Don't you know that your mother is only trying to give you a future?"

Today, Wideman is married and has two children. Her aborted daughter, who she named Sonya, would have been 22 this year.

Both women admitted that it's a challenge for churches and parents to deliver two messages, simultaneously. No. 1: Premarital sex is sinful. No. 2: Pregnancy is not. What can people do, when asked to walk their talk?

• Be positive, yet realistic. A surprising number of parents angrily vow to force the young woman out of the house. Others act as if the pregnancy is a bad dream, caused by the mother-to-be. Others simply cannot hide their sadness. "Don't be sad," said Brown. "To feel sad means something is wrong. ... Kill a young mother's joy and you may kill that baby."
• Traditionalists know that young people have been baptized in mixed messages about sex outside of marriage. Thus, many fear that embracing those who become pregnant will only add to the confusion. It is impossible to hide this moral issue. "There will be a time and a place to talk about that," said Wideman. "But when someone tells you they are pregnant, that isn't the time and the place."
• While Brown is single, she still has an intact extended family. Instead of "single mothers," many others could more accurately be called "solo mothers." Churches must help fill this gap, providing both emotional and practical support.
• Remember that most young women who consider abortions are not selfish, evil or self-centered. Usually, they are scared and feel coerced. Often, they have been manipulated by an older male. "Remember," said Brown, "they're more afraid of not being loved than they are of being pregnant."
• Above all, pay close attention to what is said, because words inspire actions. Mere words -- such as "mistake" -- can "delegitimatize" unborn children, said Brown.

"We can say that premarital sex and single-parenting are not part of God's plan," she said. "But that doesn't mean that God considers my baby a mistake. ... My baby wasn't a mistake. For me, he was a wake up call. He was a wonderful surprise."

Where are the Catholic Voters?

It's time for Mass: do you know where the Catholic voters are?

This used to be an easy question. All but a few Catholics were found in pews in rock-solid Democratic parishes, part of a national political coalition that blended populist economics and working- class family values. Those days are gone.

"There's more than one Catholic vote now. All of the polls show that," said former Pennsylvania Gov. Robert Casey, a 30-year veteran of politics in a state in which 30 percent or more of the voters are Catholics. "Today you have to ask, `What kind of Catholic voters are we talking about?'"

Today, most researchers use labels such as rural, suburban, blue-collar or Hispanic when describing Catholics. But signs of another dividing line could be found buried in data gathered after 1994's political earthquake, when GOP candidates -- for the first time -- won a majority of Catholic votes. The best indicator of how someone voted in '94 was his or her "religiosity."

"Cultural issues were driving the nation's politics," said Casey, whose strong opposition to abortion has caused nasty clashes with other Democrats. "Average Americans seemed more concerned about the moral deficit than they were the fiscal deficit. ... My fellow Democrats may not want to talk about it, but the more voters go to church, the more likely they are to vote Republican."

Most researchers are focusing on the Religious Right. The Pew Research Center for the People and the Press, for example, noted that white evangelical conservatives have become the most powerful religious force in American politics, making up 24 percent of registered voters, up from 19 percent in 1987. The number of registered Republicans in these pews rose 9 percent from 1978 to 1987 and another 7 percent between 1987 and 1995.

Populist Southern Protestants were another key piece of the old Democratic coalition. But ballot-box massacres of Southern Democrats in '94, and a string of retirements, showed that millions have switched parties or are poised to jump. The big question: What about frost-belt Catholics?

"There's much more to this than the Christian Coalition. That's too simplistic," said Casey. "The real story is an underlying restlessness out there among church-goers of all kinds. ... This is linked to the issue of moral decline and, I would say, to the (right to) life issue."

But while the 1994 elections demonstrated some Catholic restlessness, the Pew study made a crucial distinction when describing "Catholic voters." On the pivotal abortion issue, it noted that 70 percent of liberal Protestants, non-religious people and "progressive Catholics" support abortion rights, while "traditional Catholics," blacks and evangelicals are much more likely to be pro-life. Political leaders who covet the votes of America's 60 million Catholics must face this reality.

On a typical Sunday, millions of Catholics sleep late, read the newspaper, jog and enjoy the rituals that unite the unchurched. These cultural Catholics hold progressive views on both economic and moral issues. They identify themselves as Catholics, but most vote like secularists and liberal Protestants.

Millions of other Catholics go to church. They tend to be economic populists and moral conservatives. In the 1980s, many became "Reagan Democrats" and their loyalty to their old party remains strained. They are traditional Catholics and, more and more, they vote like evangelical Protestants.

Catholic voters -- both kinds -- still matter because millions vote in crucial "swing" states such as New Jersey, Illinois, Ohio, Michigan and Pennsylvania. Almost all of them reject the GOP's "economic elitism," said Casey. However, church-going Catholics have begun rejecting the "cultural elitism" of modern Democrats.

"Wags have been saying that the ideal presidential candidate right now would be a pro-life, New Deal Democrat who believes in school prayer," said Casey, whose fragile health canceled his plans to challenge Bill Clinton. "That kind of candidate would scare the Republicans, as well as many Democrats. But that candidate would be able to address the moral and economic concerns of millions of people -- Catholics, evangelicals and a lot of others, too."

Is Your Pastor a 'Tame'?

They are the worker bees who cluster in ecclesiastical hives.

They are the faithful company men who thrive in the downsized world of denominational bureaucracies.

Call them what you will, but an anonymous Roman Catholic priest has written an insider's guide -- a kind of "Primary Liturgical Colors" -- to understanding many modern priests. According to "Father X," too many shepherds are quietly guiding their flocks toward major changes in how they live and worship.

The key word is "quietly," because he calls these priests and bishops the "tames."

"In most controversial situations tames hedge their bets by showing mild support for both sides, ... only declaring allegiance when it is clearly to their advantage to do so," writes the priest, an educator writing in The Latin Mass, a conservative quarterly. "Tames are capable of professing directly contrary opinions within a matter of hours. ... Tames are liberal in liberal dioceses and conservative in conservative ones, but are willing to sing the same song as whatever group they find themselves part of -- whether it be a carload of fellow priests on the way to a beach house or a dozen older women at a communion breakfast."

The only thing the publisher would say about Father X is that he teaches in Europe and has had "quite a bit of exposure" to the American scene. The Latin Mass -- based in Ridgefield, Conn. -- has published a dozen or so previous anonymous articles by priests.

"I don't even tell my wife who half of these Father Xs are," said Roger McCaffrey. "In this case, it's a pretty delicate situation and I don't want to blow his cover."

• While the article focuses on Catholic priests, many of its details will apply to others. Tames are found wherever leaders stifle painful debates and promote gentle compromises. They make fine politicians and poor judges. So how does one detect a tame?
• Tames exhibit highly refined "people skills," yet, paradoxically, avoid the ties that bind, writes Father X. Why? Tames are, above all, ambitious and strong friendships "draw one apart from the crowd, and being out of the mainstream, on the margins, is something a tame cannot tolerate."
• It's impossible to discuss the priesthood without mentioning sexuality, since homosexual activists now claim that 50 percent or more of U.S. priests are gay. "Being tame is not itself a sexual orientation," stresses Father X. However, when gays and straights clash, tames dwell in an "emotional No Man's Land. This is not because tames waver between competing appetites like bisexuals, but because any definitive involvement risks isolation, and isolation terrifies them."
• Tames skillfully change their opinions and tastes to blend in. They may, for example, change clothes four or five times a day. But they are not true "chameleons, because in a sharply contrasted environment they will not adapt themselves to the majority if the minority clearly has greater power and prestige. Always and everywhere, tames will go with a winner."
• Because they are both energetic and highly flexible, tames easily slip into the ranks of diocesan management and often become bishops. In short, their single-minded emphasis on career gives them staying power. "If tames make up only 30% of a seminary entrance class, they may well compose 70% of those still working as priests 10 years after ordination," writes Father X.
• Tames may clash with loud liberals as well as traditionalists. But in an age in which orthodoxy is under cultural attack, the tame tendency to compromise usually produces incremental victories for progressives, writes Father X. When push comes to shove, tames act as if peace and quiet matter more than creeds and clarity.

"Tames have a morbid lack of curiosity about the first principles of things: metaphysics, the grounding of moral arguments, dogma," he concludes. "A tame may hold an office that obliges him to defend some moral or dogmatic principle as inviolable and he may do it competently, but always with an eye to the occasion; even defense of principle ... is itself not principled but simply a means to realize some practical good."

Rising Star on the Religious Right

SAN DIEGO -- As Star Parker faced the Republican National Convention, she struggled to stay calm and focus on the tightly scripted version of her life flowing across the teleprompters.

"Thirteen years ago I was on welfare, an unwed mother doing drugs, going to the spa and collecting my welfare check," she said. "As a teen-ager when I got into trouble with the law my white guidance counselor told me it wasn't my fault. I was the victim of institutional racism. ... Sounded good to me."

Then she reached the words GOP stage managers used to describe the time when some "people of faith" told her to quit cheating. She briefly considered rebelling and editing in the dreaded phrase "born-again Christians."

"Maybe I should have done that," she said, after her brief speech. "My whole story turns on that born-again conversion experience. ... Some people love my story and they love the American dream and all that, but they want me to cut out the born- again part."

Parker's on the rise. True, she was one of the only platform speakers whose biography was missing in action at the convention press office and one official schedule called her "Star Porter." But out in the hallways, society matrons in red, white and blue swooped in to kiss her cheek. The timing was right for a young, black, female, pro-life, talk-radio populist who can belt out gospel hymns. The line to shake her hand started on the right.

"We need to be listening to real people, right now, and Star is clearly a star," said Sen. John Ashcroft of Missouri, before Parker drew waves of cheers during a GOPAC panel on welfare reform.

Parker grew up in an Air Force family, before a "joyride" with friends in New Jersey took her to Los Angeles. The arrival of a baby didn't stop her from careening through years of drugs and multiple abortions.

"I was reckless and promiscuous and I had a good time. I didn't cry about any of it," she said. "The culture told me that you were supposed to do whatever you wanted to do. I did. That's an approach to life that fits right in with welfare."

In addition to working odd jobs, she sold chunks of her government medical benefits "under the table" to round up more spending money. Finally, she tried to get a job with a company that frowned on that sort of thing.

"They said my lifestyle was unacceptable," she said, and began acting out the scene in multiple voices. "So I was rather obnoxious to them. I said, `Says who?' They said, `God.' I said, `What?' So they got out a Bible and showed me. For some reason, I listened."

A year later, she decided that welfare was a sinful crutch. So she wrote her social-worker and asked to be taken off the welfare rolls. Next, Parker found three other welfare mothers to share an apartment and child-care duties. Later, she started a magazine for single Christians, before the 1992 Los Angeles riots shut down many of her best advertisers. Then she turned to radio.

Now she's married to a priest in the Charismatic Episcopal Church and they have a second daughter. Lately, Parker's wit and fiery opinions have landed her television work, including appearances on "Oprah," ABC's "20/20," "Politically Incorrect" and GOP TV projects. The British Broadcasting Corporation called the other day, too. Things are looking up for her advocacy group, the Coalition for Urban Affairs, and she has finished an autobiography, tentatively entitled "Pimps, Whores and Welfare Brats."

Parker said she has no idea what will happen next, but she has no plans to stop speaking her mind.

"As a black, conservative, woman, there are things I can get away with saying that other people can't," she said, watching another round of convention speeches begin on a nearby television monitor. "I made some big changes in my life because I wanted to please God. It may not make people happy to hear me say that, but that's what happened. That's the truth."

'Broad Minded' Church Growth?

Visit all of the churches in an American city on the same Sunday and the experience would feel something like channel surfing on cable television.

Click. A lecture. Click. Stand-up comedy. Click. Self-esteem tips. Click. A stone vault with statues. Click. A high-tech arena. Click. Classical music. Click. Bouncy pop. Click. People in three- piece suits. Click. Folks who appear to be doing the wave.

The ratings for some of these churches are way down and their age demographics are way up. These facts are hard to avoid.

"Many times I have heard my colleagues say, as they look at the preponderance of people in their 50s, 60s and even 70s in major leadership positions in the church, `Where will my church be in 10 years?' This is a good question," wrote Father Christopher Chamberlin Moore, in a national Episcopal newsletter. "Where will the church be ... if we do not nurture future generations?"

This raises another question: Can churches make major stylistic changes without offending the faithful? Clergy fear -- with good reason -- that older members will stay home, or sit on their wallets, when drums appear in the sanctuary.

Perhaps the answer is "parallel development," a strategy that calls for adding the new without burying the old, said Moore, who served as communications director for the Diocese of New Jersey before moving to Holy Comforter Parish in Drexel Hill, Pa. One church might add a Mass targeting baby boomer families, another new self-help programs for its neighbors. A large church might even offer simultaneous Sunday services -- formal rites in the sanctuary and another in the fellowship hall for "seekers."

These are not new ideas in church growth circles. Still, many oldline church leaders have declined to take these kinds of steps, in part because they do not want to be associated with methods used by conservatives. Moore is convinced that adopting some megachurch methods does not mean adopting their theology. For example, he noted that a recent Connecticut study found signs of growth in some "Broad Minded" as well as "Jesus Focused" parishes.

But this raises yet another question: If growing churches offer more rites and programs, why not go further and allow members to set their own theological agendas? Spiritualities 'R' Us?

In the study cited by Moore, the Rev. Peter A.R. Stebinger of Hartford Seminary said that "Jesus Focused" churches focus on traditional doctrine, while "Broad Minded" parishes assume that, beyond sharing a few core beliefs about God, members will take different stands on other issues.

"Growth in holiness is linked less to a specific doctrinal stance and more to a subjective sense of deepening connection to God," wrote Stebinger. In "Jesus Focused" churches "holiness is inextricably linked to the person of Jesus Christ. ... The Bible is the key source of authority, a marked contrast from the Broad Minded congregations, where the locus of authority is largely in the individual's experience."

Moore said he felt relieved to finally see some data about growth -- even modest growth -- in a circle of liberal churches.

"For so long, it seemed like we only had two choices," he said. "We could go the charismatic-fundamentalist route and see our churches grow. ... Well, that isn't a road many Episcopalians or other mainline people like us will want to take. The other choice was to take the mainline-liberal road and face numerical decline. That's not much of a choice."

Conservative churches tell people that "Jesus is the answer," said Moore. "Broad Minded" churches must find a way to be just as urgent while delivering a more nuanced message.

"Jesus is the answer, but we have to have tolerance for the many ways in which people come to grasp that and the ways in which they try to live that out," he said. "Broad Minded" churches that want to grow will "teach that there are different paths people can take to God, but the church is still where they should go to take that journey. ... If we don't get that last part of the message across, then we'll be in trouble."

Bathsheba at the Beach

JEKYLL ISLAND, Ga. -- Every summer, Presbyterians, Methodists, Episcopalians and others flirt with making historic changes in their doctrines on sex.

But the debates that matter the most aren't held in convention halls and ecclesiastical offices. They take place when youth groups pack into church vans and travel to conferences and camps that function as unofficial sex education programs for thousands.

Each summer, counselor Jeannie Gregory faces rooms full of young women here at the Fun In The Son conference, helping them wrestle with sin, salvation, self esteem and sex. This week, she began her seminar with a parable she could have called "Bathsheba at the Beach."

"They always ask the same kinds of questions," she said. "They want to know what I think about America, these days, and why things seem so messed up. ... Then the questions get pretty practical -- like how much, or how little, should they wear at the beach."

So Gregory read a blunt story about King David. The Bible reports that, during an evening walk on his roof, he saw "a woman bathing; and the woman was very beautiful. And David sent and inquired about the woman. And one said, `Is this not Bathsheba ... the wife of Uriah the Hittite?' So David sent messengers and took her ... and he lay with her."

This story of adultery includes a pregnancy and two deaths. It's easy blame David, but Bathsheba made some bad choices, too.

"Many of these girls don't like to hear about that," said Gregory. "They don't like to hear that there are all kinds of choices that can lead to being pregnant and abandoned. ... Too often, we don't want to be responsible for our choices. Nothing is ever our fault."

When told that it might be wise to be more modest, the girls laugh. That's not what they see in thousands of media images or hear at school or the mall.

"All I can say is, `OK, so you put on that bikini and you bounce out there, today," said Gregory. "Now, what do YOU think that says and is that what the GUYS think it's says? ... They know where they're leading the guys. The question is, do the girls really want to go there?"

People still ask these kinds of questions at Fun In The Son, one of a cluster of national conferences run by Presbyterians For Renewal. More than 800 attended this week's sessions, which have been held on this island for two decades. The week includes Bible studies, prayer time and sessions on subjects such as dating, college and coping with parents. Worship services mix rock music, low-key preaching and multi-media humor based on TV and movies -- entertaining evangelism. The leaders know these teens were baptized in church as infants, but have been immersed in media ever since. And then there's the free time.

"Fun In The Son raises some good issues about faith and Jesus Christ, but mainly it's a four-day hormone rush," said one girl, watching the parade to the beach. A bronzed guy loitering in the deep end added: "What's this all about? It's about looking pretty at the pool. Some people really get into that."

Youth pastors know this tension exists. They also know church kids have been touched by divorce, the hidden sins of parents and head-spinning church debates about sexual morality. Many of those who tote study Bibles at Fun In The Son also carry secret burdens. Polls in many denominations have yielded sobering results about premarital sex, abuse, abortion and broken hearts.

Yet most churches seek safety in silence.

"We're so concerned that people may think we're fanatics or something," said Gregory. "Many pastors and youth pastors are scared to talk about these kinds of issues because they're afraid people may leave the church. .... Well, we may have to cause some guilt. We may have to offend some parents. But how many will we save? How many kids will we prevent from making terrible mistakes? How much pain will we prevent? How many marriages will we save?"

Snakes, Miracles and Biblical Authority

Church historian Bill Leonard never expected to become friends with the late Brother Arnold Saylor, let alone grow to appreciate his theological insights.

Leonard is a scholar. Saylor was an illiterate country preacher who -- until he died of old age in 1991 -- would take rattlesnakes with him into the pulpit. Both men were surprised to learn that they wrestled with similar mysteries.

"Serpent handlers may be very, very weird, but they're not crazy," said Leonard, who was recently named dean of the new divinity school at Wake Forest University in Winston-Salem, N.C. "What people like Arnold Saylor can teach us is that we need to take second or third looks at some really important issues about the Bible and religious experience."

Millions of Americans say the Bible contains no errors of any kind. "Amen," say the snake handlers. Others complain that too many people view the Bible through the lens of safe, middle-class conformity and miss its radical message. Snake handlers agree.

Millions of Americans say that miracles happen, especially when believers have been "anointed" by God's Holy Spirit. "Preach on," say snake handlers. Polls show that millions of spiritual seekers yearn for ecstatic, world-spinning experiences of divine revelation. "Been there, done that," say snake handlers.

The bottom line: Snake handlers say they have biblical reasons for engaging in rites that bring them closer to God. They wonder why others settle for less riveting forms of faith, said Leonard, during a lecture series on Appalachian religion.

"What if every time you went to church you knew it could kill you? That would pick up the old Sunday service a bit, wouldn't it?", he said. "For these folks, taking up serpents is a kind of sacrament that helps them face life-and-death issues. But if this sacrament brings life, it also can bring death. ... It becomes the ultimate religious ritual, the ultimate religious experience."

The practice of handling snakes in worship began in 1909, when a Baptist named George Hensley joined a Pentecostal fellowship near Cleveland, Tenn. The result was a fiery revivalism that combined a rock-ribbed view of the Bible with a Pentecostal emphasis on signs and wonders. Hensley died of a snake bite in 1955.

Writers have always been fascinated by snake handlers despite the fact that, at any point in time, only 2,000 or so people have practiced these rites and as few as 75 worshippers have died. Some of the tackier media coverage attempts to use snake handlers as symbols of the South or of fundamentalist Protestants, in general. Others try to find complex psychological explanations for why these people do what they do.

Snake handlers themselves merely quote the end of the Gospel of Mark, where Jesus is recorded as telling his disciples: "And these signs shall follow them that believe; in my name they shall cast out devils; they shall speak with new tongues; they shall take up serpents; and if they drink any deadly thing, it shall not hurt them; they shall lay hands on the sick, and they shall recover."

True believers note that the verse says believers "shall" take up serpents -- not "may."

"This becomes an ultimate test for the total truthfulness of the Word of God, a kind of slippery slope," said Leonard. "If handling serpents isn't true ... then none of the Bible is true. It's right there in the book, so they believe it. They can't understand why other people don't believe it."

Meanwhile, churches battles rage on. Many preach that miracles continue to happen. Others disagree. Some interpret every verse of the Bible literally, both as science and history. Others insist that biblical injunctions about peace and justice are "divinely inspired," while passages about sexual morality are out of date.

"What the serpent handlers keep saying to us -- whether we want to listen or not -- is that we all tend to emphasize the parts of the Bible that make us feel comfortable," said Leonard. "We try to make it a tame book. Whatever the serpent handlers teach us, they can teach us that the Bible cannot be domesticated."

The Human Face of Religious Persecution

So far, Robert Hussein has lost his wife, children and fortune and, right now, his only safe home is on the Internet.

The trouble began when he lost his Muslim faith and announced his conversion to Christianity. The prominent businessman -- he was worth $4 million before the controversy -- has lived in hiding since a religious court's May 29 ruling that he is an apostate.

Kuwait allows churches for foreigners and Arab Christians. However, Hussein is the region's first known Muslim to openly convert. His case is especially symbolic since Western leaders said one goal of the Persian Gulf War was to reinforce Kuwait's status as a relatively progressive Islamic regime. Still, tensions remain between civil and religious laws.

"They have taken everything that I have," said Hussein, in an interview posted at a World Wide Web site backing his cause. "Christians in the Middle East have been suffering. ... Enough is enough. In Algeria they have been killed. In Egypt and Saudi Arabia they have been beheaded ... and nobody is talking about them."

The Web site (www.domini.org/hussein/home.htm) is sponsored by a British religious coalition and contains government documents and media reports, as well as links allowing readers to fax Kuwaiti officials or to contact Hussein's protectors. The Islamic Court of Appeals will review his case on Sept. 15.

The May verdict noted that Kuwait's constitution guarantees religious freedom, but this "does not mean a Muslim should be allowed to convert from his religion to another." It also said an apostate "who is born of two Muslim parents ... must be killed. The Iman should kill him without a chance to repent."

Judge Jaafar al-Mazidi told Reuters that some might interpret the ruling as permission to kill the convert. This would, however, be considered murder under Kuwaiti civil law.

But to say Hussein will be protected by civil law ignores the pivotal question: Should those who commit crimes against Islamic orthodoxy be tried in civil or religious courts? Or, as Hussein asked a judge: "Your honor, how can a Sunni Muslim sue a Protestant Christian before a Shiite court?" The answer will affect moderate Muslims as well as members of other faiths.

"Obviously, it's hard to say where religion ends and civil authority begins in Kuwait," said Jeff Taylor, of the Compass Direct religion news agency.

Meanwhile, both the White House and Bob Dole campaign officials have rejected calls to address religious persecution issues. Why? "Oil is important and everybody knows it," said Taylor. "That can make it hard to focus on other issues -- such as religious freedom."

A U.S. State Department paper responding to the May verdict echoed Kuwait's view that its constitution protects religious freedom and that Hussein is in no danger. The statement also noted that, as an apostate, Hussein "loses his custody rights to his children and inheritance rights to his father's estate. ... These are the only ramifications of the court's decision."

This statement infuriated human rights activists because it seemed to assume such measures were fair punishment for the mere act of converting to another faith, said Nina Shea, director of Freedom House's work on religious freedom. Also, U.S. officials have downplayed calls -- by clerics and some in Kuwait's parliament -- for Hussein's death. Many in the Islamic world continue to believe that apostasy is a crime worthy of the death penalty.

"We simply don't know how much danger Hussein is in, right now. But he's keeping on the move and trying to keep his actions unpredictable," said Shea.

Meanwhile, reports continue about China's crackdown on house churches, ongoing persecution in North Korea, the demolition of evangelical churches in Cuba and Christians sold into slavery in Sudan. In Kuwait, many Christian converts live double lives -- waiting to see what happens next.

"What the Robert Hussein case does is put a face on an otherwise abstract problem," said Shea. "It's so easy for people to hear all of the terrible statistics from around the world and then slip in compassion fatigue. Sometimes, it's easier for people to identify with a single human face."