Save for the guitar solos, fog machines, swirling lights, and bouncing bodies, walking in late to a megachurch service is nothing like walking in late to a Weezer concert.

Weezer, for instance, does not provide child care.

A few Sunday mornings ago, after my wife and I deposited our daughter safely in the church nursery, where (as she later reported) she “ate snacks and went to the ‘bouncy room,’” we stepped into the megachurch auditorium a song or two into the worship service. The band was booming; and several thousand people were sing-shouting “I Am a Friend of God,” including a hundred-plus kids (young and old) near the stage who were bouncing up and down in what might be called a worship pit. The lead worshiper was worshiping with abandon; and the rest of the band — electric guitarist, bass guitarist, two acoustics, keyboardist, organist, trumpeter, drummer, deejay, and several backup singers, plus a 100-member choir — was following his lead.

So when I opened the door to the auditorium and my senses were flooded with all this sight and sound, it could have been intimidating; and it could have reminded me of walking in late to Weezer. But then a gentle man with a warm smile looked me in the eye, held up two fingers, and mouthed, “Two?”; and I knew we would be taken care of. Before the door had shut behind me, he had graciously led us to two seats just inside the aisle.

There’s a lot of talk out there about what’s wrong with contemporary praise and worship, especially at megachurches and large-scale youth events — how it is too much like a rock concert (too loud, too emotional, too much spectacle), or how it is not enough like a rock concert (too quiet, too emotional, too little spectacle). As someone who has argued both ways and many more, and as someone whose preferences run in the direction of the liturgical, let me, in this initial column, just say this: My megachurch worships like it means it. It is big and loud, and it can look just like a rock show. But anyone who describes it as mere spectacle is getting away with something. The megachurch means every decibel and every waft of fog and every swirl of light.

And if it’s true of mine, I have to believe it’s true of others and of small churches with rocking worship and of a thousand youth rallies with their spine-tingling choruses and multiple body piercings.

Call it “The Sincerity Principle.” Today’s worship might look like a spectacle, but it is fueled by a sincere attempt to live for God. Anyone ready to critique
trends in worship would do well to keep that principle in mind, because it may be translating into Christian lives that are many degrees deeper than the spectacle of modern worship styles might indicate.

The other day at my megachurch we sang a song by Jon Egan called “Here in Your Presence.” Like a lot of contemporary worship songs, the lyrics are simple and straightforward. But while some contemporary worship songs use their simple energies to evoke feelings rather than concepts (saying, “This is the way I feel about God” rather than “This is the way God is”), Egan’s song uses simplicity to conjure up a God who is massive, incredible, worthy. The crescendo-laden bridge builds to a frenzy with repetitive lyrics that declare majesty — “Wonderful. Beautiful. Glorious. Matchless in every way” — and pulsing rhythms that dare you to keep your seat.

With those words being sing-shouted all around you, cymbals crashing, guitars pounding, and at least a third of the 4,000-member congregation losing all inhibitions and dancing, bowing, looking up in wonder, forgetting about themselves and their jobscarsbillsiPodsTiVosMySpacepages, the trendy criticisms of trendy Christianity no longer add up. This kind of worship may be entertaining, but it’s still worship.

The Sincerity Principle is not a panacea. The medium can still communicate the wrong message. The fact that it’s easy to be amazed with guitars and light shows might mean that it’s hard to be amazed when all you have is a heavy Bible and the morning quiet. Worship always has to mean more than what happens in a Sunday service or an evangelical rally.

But sincerity means something: It means that however superficial modern worship can seem, however much it feels like an emphasis of style over substance and emotion over theology, it’s worth remembering that something deeper may be going on, too. A worship service may look everything like a Weezer show; but anyone who mistakes the former for the latter needs to look a little closer, listen a little better, and think a little harder.

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Patton Dodd is an editor for beliefnet.com and the author of the acclaimed spiritual memoir, ‘My Faith So Far‘ (Jossey-Bass, 2004).