Mega-churches have become a phenomenon in the cultural, spiritual and even political life of America. While much attention has been paid to the growth of these churches in the South and West, there has been little written about their growth in the northeast.

For half an hour, roughly 1,400 worshipers stand singing, hands raised and swaying, to contemporary Christian contemporary music that would sound more like Aerosmith than gospel if you weren't paying attention to lyrics like, "Forever, God is faithful."

The pulsing music at Faith Church in New Milford, Connecticut – which has 2,200 members – is the build up to the main event, when the smiling Rev. Frank Santora, "Pastor Frank" as parishioners call him, bounds onto the stage to a rousing ovation, his black hair slicked back, wearing a white T-shirt that says "I love my church" under his blazer.

Today's topic is The Da Vinci Code and why Santora finds both the Dan Brown novel and the Tom Hanks movie dangerously misleading. For more than an hour Santora, who shuns a traditional pulpit, prowls the stage preaching in his raspy, youthful, often passionate voice about the story's historical and archeological flaws and the Bible's historical and archeological strengths.

Brown's story reflects the dark side of modern culture, Santora argues, by undermining the truth of the Bible and creating moral relativism. "We believe in embracing and welcoming people who make mistakes. We are all sinners and we all fall short," Santora says softly, understandingly.

Then he cranks it up and declares his stance on gay marriage and abortion. "But we also believe in moral absolutes, in family, in one man and one woman and the sanctity of life."

A sermon about a Hollywood blockbuster isn't unusual here. It's not your grandparents' church. But it's not unlike the 1,200 or so other Christian gathering places known as megachurches, which have at least 2,000 members. Megachurches have doubled in number in the past five years. Their aim is to draw non-churchgoers, particularly young people, through lively services, charismatic preachers, pop culture themes and conservative values.

Faith Church stands out in a region where Catholic and Congregational churches have stood for a century, some even dating to pre-Revolutionary War times.

But it has company about 20 minutes away. Walnut Hill Community Church in Bethel also has almost 2,000 members.

Connecticut, not exactly the Bible Belt, is about as blue a state as you'll find in a region where church membership has steadily declined over the last 40 years by as much as half in some denominations. The megachurch phenomenon is more pronounced in the South and West, where some churches have as many as 30,000 people. Most megachurches (54 percent) have between 2,000 and 3,000 members, according to last year's study by the Dallas-based Leadership Institute and Hartford Seminary in Connecticut.

But these massive structures, scrapping hymnals and organs in favor of multi-media shows and jam sessions, are making clear inroads in this region.

More than 70 megachurches are in the Northeast, twice as many as in 2000, and six percent of the national total. It's a higher growth rate than the West, though not as high as in the South.

Faith and Walnut Hill say their membership has increased by about 400 members each in the past year. Compare that to the average total membership of 75 to 100 in most churches in the region.

Most Northeastern megachurches are nondenominational and like 56 percent throughout the nation, classify themselves as evangelical. Baptists make up about a quarter of all megachurches nationally, followed by Assemblies of God, the United Methodist churches, Calvary Chapel and other Christian denominations. Suburban Los Angeles has become a megachurch stronghold, along with cities such as Dallas, Atlanta, Houston, Orlando, Phoenix and Seattle.

But, "The number of megachurches is also increasing in the corridor between New York City and Massachusetts," says Warren Bird, research analyst for the Leadership Institute. In fact, they represent the only religious sector experiencing growth in the Northeast.

No traditional denomination's growth has kept pace with the region's population. Most mainline Protestant churches have declined here since the 1960s, says Scott Thumma, a Hartford Seminary professor writing a book on megachurches.

"The Northeast is also one of the least religiously active areas in the country — second only to the Northwest region of Washington and Oregon and in California," Thumma says. "It is also a region that is in the midst of a religious evolution. In terms of the survival of the fittest, the conservative congregations are winning out it seems. Megachurches are only one example of this."

* * * 

Faith Church is impossible to miss. The massive 80,000-square-feet building is topped with three giant white crosses, which face a major state highway opened last year. The building, beige and white brick, looks like an arena. Walk inside the $15 million facility and the lobby looks almost like a hotel, with sofas and coffee tables. That's in case the in-house coffee shop – called SonBucks – runs out of seats.

An ATM supplies those short on tithe money. The bookstore sells Santora's sermons on CD, and various Christian books, movies and music.

When Santora arrived, the church had 300 members. He used U.S. Census data for marketing purposes to learn the region's likes and dislikes.

Santora, who grew up on Staten Island, felt called to the ministry at 14, shortly after he was baptized. There was no epiphany; he simply knew what he wanted to do. He first earned an accounting and business degree at Rutgers University — very helpful, he says, as a CEO of a non-profit institution. After graduating from a Bible training center in Tulsa, he took an accounting job in New Jersey before he came to Faith, then called Bright Clouds Ministries, in 1993 as an associate pastor. His then-fiancé Lisa Dubois had taken a teaching job at the private school affiliated with the church. Santora became senior pastor in 1997, presiding over most of the church's explosive growth.

Now 34, he spends 50 to 60 hours a week on his job, sometimes working at home after Lisa and their two children, Nicole, 9, and Joseph, 6, are in bed.

The early part of his week is spent on managing the church's 63 employees and preparing his sermon. He meets with various staffers to brainstorm sermon ideas. Once a sermon idea is decided, he assembles video clips and music, writes the sermon on Thursday and polishes it on Friday. (He admits to sometimes rewriting it completely by Saturday.)

Santora has the charisma and the humor to keep parishioners from zoning out during services. Preaching on The Da Vinci Code, he used humor to demonstrate why Jesus' claims to divinity must be true. Facing crucifixion, Santora says, "If he were lying, he would say, 'Timeout, guys. I'm going to have to make a buck another way because this is not my idea of how to spend a Friday night.'" He gets a big laugh from his audience.

One Friday night, about 300 gather in the auditorium for a faith healing session, the first in the church's new building. The music is softer this time with more traditional hymns.

Santora is wearing a gray suit this time, though without a tie. "I know that a lot of you have just learned to live with certain pain," he says sympathetically. Then he shouts, "God says it's time for you to be irritated and frustrated with your infirmity. You need to just step up and allow God to do what He wants to do."

Faith healing has been prominent in some Christian circles in the United State since the Great Awakening of the 1800s, but it's not found in Catholic or Congregational churches that dominate Connecticut.

"I feel there are those here with stomach problems. I feel people are here because you have a pull at your eye because of a headache. If that's you, come down with me. I'll pray with you," Santora says. About 20 people leave their seats and approach.

With his hands on their cheeks, Santora prays out loud, "I curse you, in the name of Jesus. Right now, I pray this pulling never returns," he says, touching the face of a man complaining of a "pulling" in his eye. A few women, after the healing, faint into the arms of ushers waiting to break their fall.

The parishioners return to their seats and Santora paces on. "I feel several of you have a numbness in your left hand that comes and goes. I want to pray with you." Later he asks for all those in great emotional pain from broken relationships to join him, which brings a horde to the stage.

The session continues for two hours until Santora wraps it up by asking anyone whose ailment hasn't been mentioned to come forward. "We don't want to leave anyone out," he says.

* * *

It's not just the preacher that draws people to Faith Church. The church uses a mix of pop culture, small groups and appeals to diversity to lure congregants.

On many Sundays, Bob Faubel works in the church's control room as a production assistant. A retired police officer, he thinks the new style of worship should win hearts for Christianity. 

"New England is steeped in tradition," says Faubel, who is 56 and a one-time atheist. "Here is the land of the frozen chosen. They're so steeped in conservatism and religion. That's changing now."

Faubel has attended Faith Church since it began in 1983 after a police colleague asked him questions he couldn't answer. Now he's a police chaplain and helps out with the church sound system and multi-media shows.

"The church productions are as good as any Broadway show," Faubel says. "People are tired of old religion. They learn more from movies like The Passion (of the Christ) and The Da Vinci Code."

The entertainment focus doesn't stop with sermons and music. The church's bookstore stocks multiple Christian CDs and DVDs that borrow themes from popular movie and reality TV show themes taken from The Apprentice, American Idol,  CSI and others. The church is even installing a small movie theater to show Christian-themed movies like Left Behind and mainstream films with moral messages.

"We are in a media-driven society, and I preach to a media-driven society," Santora says one Sunday after the service, sipping carrot juice in SonBucks. "I tone down the religion and look for more real life experiences."

Video clips and compelling music are as important as the sermon in reaching people who find church boring, says Charles Reid, the music minister.

"Every sense is exercised here," says Reid, a short, heavy energetic black man with an almost whispering voice. "The worship style, the music and all that, is a crowd drawer. People have so much now in their homes with interactive media. If you can't give them something they don't have at home, they will stay at home."

So, how does anyone make a real connection in a church so large?

One way, for men, is meeting at 7 on Tuesdays in the cafeteria that's part of Faith Academy, the K-12 school in the same building. They fill their plates with chicken wings, salad and cookies.

Small subgroups form the backbone of megachurch life by forging personal connections within vast congregations. Faith also has groups for women, youth, hikers, singles, young married couples and baby boomers, among others.

Associate pastor Ray Martin leads the men's group in prayer. The mostly blue-collar gathering joins hands.

Then, it's time for testimonials. Mike stands to speak about how the power of prayer helped him reunite with his wife after a separation. The others offer applause and a couple of amens.

Nice segue to today's topic: Gentleness. Pastor Ray pulls out a Men's Bible Study guide and asks a congregant to find the chapter on gentleness. It's not there; that's the point.

"We don't like to think about being gentle as men," Martin says. "We run away from that." He asks, "Do people see us as Bible-toting fierce warriors or do they see us a gentle peacemakers? While boldness and righteousness in Christ are important, if you don't have gentleness, you have lost it."

The men talk about how to effectively share the gospel. "My best friend says I belong to a cult," says Mike.

"Well, God bless him," Pastor Ray responds, smiling.

"I'm praying for him," Mike says.

The small group for little boys and girls, called KidZ Stuff, offers dancing to upbeat Christian tunes and skits starring "Rusty," who looks like Big Bird without a beak. In one night's plot Rusty is "scareded" to perform in a school play, until he discovers that "The inner assurance of God's peace fills us with confidence."

There's even an eBay group, run by Susan Ruiz. What does buying and selling on the Internet have to do with religion? The 46-year-old widow says eBay changed her life. When her husband died six years ago, leaving her to raise their three-year-old twins, Ruiz managed to remain a stay-at-home mom using eBay, and in fact just closed on a $500,000 house in New Milford.

"The girls and I would pray before going into a Goodwill that He would show us something we could sell," Ruiz explains.

Her triumphs included paying $5 for a baseball signed by Roger Marris (sold for $500); a copy of The Daily News headlining the New York Yankees World Series win (sold for $20), and a $5.15 pair of basketball shoes (sold for $250.) "God gets all the glory."

Another unconventional Faith Church group is the men's basketball ministry. The game, played each Monday evening, opens with a prayer by Edwin Rivera, the bearded, muscular, 6'5 leader of the basketball group. At half-time Rivera reads a Bible verse. It's a way of getting people who won't come on Sunday into a church, says Rivera, 37, a one-time gang member who changed his life. The rules that differ from street ball – no fighting, no cussing and everyone must help clean up after the game.

Such attractions can bridge the racial and economic divides often evident in church, says Reid, the music minister.

Now 37, Reid attended an all-black Baptist church growing up that only enforced separations. Schools had already desegregated, "where I learned about the differences," he says, "was in church."

The Sunday crowd at Faith includes many black and Hispanic families. Even among whites, affluent Fairfield County types in church clothes worship next to congregants in t-shirts or tank tops with jeans. A few could pass for motorcycle gang members.

Trish Davis is white; her husband Lewis Davis is black. They attended an all-black church before deciding they wanted a multicultural environment for their young sons. So they came to Faith Church. "This church, we both feel like we fit right in," she says. "No one has even given us funny looks."

Nationally, only 19 percent of megachurch attendees are non-white, but more than half of megachurches say they're making efforts to diversify their congregations.

"Megachurches have a much higher percentage of multiple races in one congregation," Thumma says. "The number of megas with 20 percent or more non-majority race is significantly above nearly all individual denominations — especially the mainline."

This summer, Reid attended Megafest in Atlanta, a national megachurch convention where the nationally known black minister the Rev. T.D. Jakes spoke to more than 20,000 people at the Georgia Dome. One focus of the summit was integration.

Reid already uses some aspects of the black church tradition to rouse congregants.

You can see this in the Faith choir, whose members wear jeans instead of choir robes as they sway and clap.

"Let's hear a big shout out to the Lord," Reid says from behind the keyboard one Sunday. The congregation cheers as if at a sporting event and the choir's voices swell. The song's lyrics are displayed on the screen: "I'm trading my sorrow. I'm trading my pain. I'm laying it down for the joy of the Lord."

"Learn to celebrate what the Lord is doing in your life," Reid, sweating heavily, shouts into his mike. "Let's do a 360 to show how the lord has turned our lives around." Many in the audience turn completely around as Reid continues his impromptu.

In another attempt at diversity, Faith and Walnut Hill offer Portuguese and Spanish language services for the Brazilian and Hispanic communities in the region. "My children are growing up in the U.S. and I want them to learn this culture, but not abandon their own," says Marcus Binda, among the 40 Brazilians attending Walnut Hill.

* * *

Because of their  broad appeal, megachurches "are not a phenomenon exclusive to red America or the deep south," the Rev. Mark D. Tooley, director of the United Methodist Committee at the Institute on Religion and Democracy, wrote in The Weekly Standard, a conservative political magazine.

In Brooklyn for instance, the Christian Cultural Center began in a rented storefront in 1979 and less than a decade later moved into a 1,000-seat church. By 2000 the church — with 24,000 active members — had acquired a 6.5-acre campus that included a café, flower shop and newsstand. Next, it plans to build a botanical garden and senior housing.

Similar stories can be found at Christ Church in Montclair, N.J., which started 20 years ago with six people and has exploded into a 2,100-member congregation; and at Grace Chapel in Lexington, Mass., which once rented space in an office building and is now 2,200 strong.

As for Faith Church, it began in a private home in Danbury, moved into an abandoned Bethel movie theater – one that, ironically, showed only pornographic films – and kept moving during the 90s. It has grown 40 percent in the past three years, Santora says. Last year the 2,200-member congregation moved into its newly constructed home.

Walnut Hill also had humble beginnings, opening in 1981 as Grace Fellowship Church with services at a conference room in the Danbury Ramada Inn. It was initially a satellite for a large Congregational church in Fairfield, but the satellite church grew, renting school gymnasiums for more room. It broke off to become its own nondenominational organization and 10 years ago moved into a 24,000-square-foot building on Walnut Hill Drive, since expanded to 37,000 square feet.

Walnut Hill's senior pastor the Rev. Clive Calver came on board last year, a sort of celebrity catch. The former president of World Relief, an organization combating hunger in developing countries, he has traveled to Iran, Africa and Cambodia among other countries and appeared frequently on ABC's Nightline and the BBC.

Despite his congregation's rapid growth, Calver finds the Northeast a tough place to push the gospel.

"New England is like old England," says Calver, with gray hair, thin-rimmed glasses, and an intellectual air perpetuated by his native British accent. "New England has 9 percent evangelicals. Old England has 7 percent. Here in Connecticut, this would be a megachurch. It wouldn't be in Georgia."

Robert Strong, the teaching pastor at Walnut Hill, came to Connecticut 12 years ago and points out that it was one of the only churches in the region then to have a full-time position for youth. Sponsoring after-school programs, day care and activities for busy parents enticed new people to join. "They came from all over," says Strong. "Why? Because somebody else would take care of their teenager."

Responding to busy people is what will keep megachurches popular, says the Rev. Eileen Lindner, editor of the Yearbook of American and Canadian Churches, published by the National Council of Churches.

"To the degree that religion can be a consumer product, these churches attract people for the same reason Wal-Mart and Target attract people," Lindner says. "It's one-stop shop. These churches offer diverse worship. They offer programs like Alcoholics Anonymous and Bible study groups, all on one campus."

The explanation may not be that the Northeast has grown more religious, says the Rev. David Midwood, president of Vision New England, a coalition of regional churches. Instead, those who want to attend church here may have found a way to squeeze it in.

"It's a fast-paced lifestyle," Midwood says. "Megachurches have more contact points. People can go Saturday night or Sunday evening, and join a small group community during the week."

* * * 

Not all megachurches are the same, apart from their sizes.

Walnut Hill offers more traditional services than Faith. Its congregants sing old-fashioned hymns and its pastors wear suits.

Like Faith, it has dozens of small groups, but that that doesn't connect everyone.

One Sunday morning, Del Shannon, a greeter at the front door, introduces himself to Dianne Yetman.

"It's so nice to meet another brother in Christ," says Yetman. "How long have you been coming?"

"Nine years," he replies.

Almost embarrassed, she laughs. "Oh. Well, I guess this place is so big it's hard to tell."

Strong, the Walnut Hill teaching pastor, has traveled to Willow Creek Community Church, a well-known megachurch in suburban Chicago with about 20,000 members, and to other regions to explore how to spur growth. With his help, Walnut Hill now dispenses advice and research on growth to smaller New England churches and holds workshops for regional church leaders.

Beyond style, another big difference between megachurches is the view that a strong faith in Jesus Christ will automatically be rewarded with physical well-being and financial success. This philosophy, known as "health and wealth," causes handwringing in some Christian circles. Faith Church embraces it.

But Walnut Hill's Rev. Calver has reservations. "The big difference is that Faith looks at health and prosperity as evidence of God's favor," he says. "I would say someone starving, with cancer, could have God's favor."

Laura Seger says Faith Church brought her family success; the Segers marked one year at the church in August. She leaps to her feet during service, responds to sermons with "That's right" and "Amen," and wipes her eyes frequently.

"I can't leave here without crying," she says exiting the sanctuary one Sunday. "I feel the Lord here."

When she and her then-atheist husband were both unemployed last year, she says she spent a night crying as she read the Bible on her dining room floor. She believes she heard God's voice tell her to go to Faith Church, which she'd learned about from her daycare provider. She did and two weeks later got "an excellent job" as an administrative assistant.

"We've had nothing but blessings ever since," she says, after taking a few moments to compose herself. "It's remarkable, this place."

She prodded her reluctant husband David to attend too. After his third week, he came forward at the end of the service and became a Christian.

David Seger, who started his own heating and air conditioning business this year, admits he was initially reluctant to join Laura at church. His parents stopped going to church when he was six, and the memories did not inspire him to return or to bring his own two children.

"All I remember is them reading the Bible and boring you to death," he says picking up coffee and strawberry milkshakes from SonBucks to bring back to his family. "But the first couple of times we were here, we were going through the very things Pastor Frank was talking about."

* * * 

Does megachurch growth represent true church building? Or is it borrowing?

"The growth in some of the larger churches is transfer growth, rather than reaching out to new believers," Midwood believes. "That isn't really healthy growth."

But the evidence is mixed, Thumma says. "Are megachurches stealing flocks from other churches? Yes and no," he says.

Megachurches draw roughly 30 percent from active members of other churches, Thumma has found, and another 30 percent from inactive members – people who've stopped going to church. Another 30 percent transfer from congregations in other parts of the country when they migrate for jobs, family or other reasons. Just 10 percent are converted former atheists or agnostics, according to his research.

John Valentino, who shows people to their seats on Saturday evening and Sunday morning at Faith Church, was one of those who'd abandoned churchgoing. Almost six years ago, a near fatal car accident prompted him to attend Catholic mass again. But he found sermons from TV preachers like Charles Stanley more meaningful. Two years ago, when a friend invited him to Faith (then Bright Clouds Ministries), he eagerly checked it out.

"I would go to my Catholic church and feel like I would not be fed. Something was missing with my relationship with Jesus," Valentino says. He says at Faith, "I have learned so much in the last two years. After just three or four weeks, they asked me if I wanted to be an usher. I meet all the beautiful people that come in here. It's an awesome thing to serve the Lord. The way they do service here is something I look forward to. It's a shot in the arm."

Like Valentino, most congregants interviewed for this story say they were raised Catholics.

Ruiz, the eBay master, says that's because the Catholic Church focuses more on tradition rather than spiritual growth. "My husband and I were devout Catholics with a capital D. Most people here are Catholic," Ruiz says. But after her husband died, she said she needed a different kind of church that promoted a "24/7 walk with God."

Megachurch growth doesn't concern the Catholic Church, says Joseph McAteer, spokesman for the Diocese of Bridgeport. "Our churches are growing. We don't consider megachurches a threat," he says. Like the megachurches, the Catholic Church is reaching out to the Brazilian, Portuguese and Hispanic immigrants.

"We would never rule anything out," McAteer says of new music or other options. "But that shouldn't be used to substitute worship with entertainment value. I wouldn't want to impinge on the sacredness and solemnity of the mass, and create a distraction for the entertainment value."

That's not stopping many Protestant denominations, who have adopted such megachurch tactics as using big video screens while ministers walk around the stage rather than standing behind a pulpit. Churches have also ditched organists for guitarists, drummers, and saxophonists who produce rock-tinged contemporary Christian music, says Tooley, of the Institute on Religion and Democracy.

Tooley doesn't fear these churches will raid mainline churches for members. "These denominations are already declining. Megachurches specifically pitch to people without a church background," Tooley says. "As a matter of style it [a megachurch] doesn't appeal to me." But he says for people without a church background, "I am glad they found a place that is exciting for their faith."

Still there is cause for caution, says Robert Strong of Walnut Hill, who worries that churches popular because they're trendy won't endure. "Do I think there is a future? Absolutely," he says of megachurch growth. "But it's not through more pizzazz, logos or gimmicks. People don't trust that. The church's role is to lead the way for service. If a church's goal is to be a megachurch, it will fail."

Though conservative in interpretation of scripture, most megachurches are not arms of the religious right, the Hartford Seminary/Leadership Institute study says. "Only a few are active with direct political involvement, some on the Left and some on the Right," says Bird of the Leadership Institute.

That's been true so far in Connecticut. Megachurches sat out the previous election cycles and even the same-sex civil union debate in the state legislature.

"We never hand out voter registration cards. We don't circulate petitions," says Strong, speaking of Walnut Hill. "We would never endorse a candidate for office, and we have Democrats and Republicans coming to our service every week, praise God. I can't say we would always stay out of politics. If the town tried to institute slavery, we would have to oppose it. But, we generally stay out."

Tooley doesn't find megachurches overtly political either.  "It's unfair to stereotype these churches as a Republican Party tool," he says. "Though some parishioners would probably be inclined toward the Republican Party, that's not why they go."

* * *

It's another Sunday morning at Faith.

Before the sermon, a clip of the 2000 film Charlie's Angels appears on the big screen. Its stars are discussing how Charlie never shows up in person. One of the girls asks over the cell phone how they will know Charlie really exists, to which Charlie's voice answers "Faith."

This week, Santora is preaching about, well, faith. He's wearing an untucked green-checked shirt and tells parishioners that "faith hangs on to God's will with the tenacity of a bulldog."

Whereupon he pulls out a giant white rawhide bone, prompting laughter.

Towards the end, he adds an encouraging note. "God arranges delay as a training ground for a miracle. Delay is not denial. It is the setup for a miracle. Delay allows faith to catch up with the miracle."

Santora has an almost rock star appeal to his congregants. For more than a half-hour after the service, parishioners keep approaching to talk about the service, and tell him "Great sermon." All smiles, he talks to everyone, eventually making his way back to his office.

There, he talks about his delight with the church's growth, and his plans to stay in New Milford for the rest of his career.

Faith won't stop reaching out to those who might not attend – even to the traditionalist finger-waggers who disapprove of his contemporary worship service, he says.

In September, Faith Church will expand to two Sunday morning services, a 9 a.m. service featuring traditional hymns with weekly communion and an 11 a.m. contemporary service.

"There are some hardcore traditionalists that feel this is not the way," Santora says. "I don't feel like the traditional way is the wrong way. What's sacred to me is the message — salvation through Christ. The method is secondary. To me, it's all about reaching people."