O Father Where Art Thou?

Truth is, it may already have begun. Even in Eastern Europe, where religion has enjoyed a postcommunist resurgence and the church has eagerly claimed the stature it lacked in decades past, its elevation has come with a diminution of respect for the Christian hierarchy. People are choosing to fend for themselves. Church leaders "call on us to believe and be led in faith by them, but I doubt they have that faith themselves," says Galina Zubritskaya, 48, a Moscow translator. "When I do come to a church, I avoid making contact with the clergy," whom most Russians see as tarnished by their involvement in shadowy business practices. "The important thing for me is to have God in my heart."

GOD IS AMONG THE IMMIGRANTS
As dusk falls on a Tuesday, La Courneuve, a working-class suburb of Paris, is quiet. But the late-day stillness is pierced by a rousing chorus — "Praise be to you, O Lord!" — and shouts of "Hallelujah!" that bounce off the low ceilings and burst out of the open windows of the Parole de Foi (Word of Faith) church. Undeterred by a transport strike, 200 people — dressed in their Tuesday best, which is traditional African garb for some, neat shirts or tidy dresses for others — have made it to this evening prayer meeting at the Evangelical church, which meets on the second floor of a paint factory. Voices and hands raised to heaven, they worship their God. The electricity has gone out, and the room is stifling. But nothing can silence the song of Lucie G., 50, a native of the West Indies who says that "having a relationship with the Father is the most extraordinary thing. I wish it for the whole world."

Representatives of much of that world are right there in the room with her: almost all the congregation — 1,500-strong on most Sundays — hails from outside France. Pastor Selvaraj Rajiah, who founded the church 15 years ago with his wife Dorothée, is Indian. Other worshippers come from Congo, Ivory Coast, Martinique, even the U.S. Immigrants "find support in the church," says Rajiah. "We pray with them. We give them comfort. We give them counsel."

Across the Continent, immigrant congregations are thriving. Europe's newest residents are among its most faithful, a trend not exclusive to Christianity. Many Muslim immigrants arrive with little more than a suitcase and their religious devotion, which often clashes with the mores and even the laws of their new homes. And when Christians from the Caribbean and Africa move to Europe, they "bring with them habits of the heart," says Joel Edwards, the Jamaica-born general director of Britain's Evangelical Alliance. He notes that African churches are some of the U.K.'s biggest and fastest-growing, and that so many immigrants have joined that more than half of London's practicing Christians are now nonwhite. "If you go to a foreign country, you are cut off from your own country. Church can be a great source of solace," says Bernadette C. Hayes, a sociologist at Queen's University Belfast. "It can be a good employment center and a place where you find solidarity among like people." Bernard-Robert Wagon, 44, agrees. After moving from Congo to France in 1990, it took a while to discover Parole de Foi. "I couldn't find what I was looking for. I went to [other] Protestant churches, but found them too cold," he says. "I want something to descend into my heart. I found that here."

GOD HAS GONE USER-FRIENDLY
If you grew up going to church, you can probably still recall the feel of the hard pews and the drone of the sermons. So when Arto Antturi, director of Finland's Thomas Community, describes traditional services as "very bureaucratic," "obsolete" and "irrelevant," you may find it hard to disagree. "People still have those memories," he says, "of the church not being with the people."

Antturi's antidote: get the people involved. The Thomas Mass, a Lutheran-led ecumenical service celebrated by the community each Sunday in Helsinki, gives churchgoers more than hymns to sing and sermons to endure. Up to 100 volunteers participate, reading scripture, playing music, washing communion cups, brewing coffee and tea. The hands-on approach, as well as the acceptance of questioning — the service is named for the apostle Thomas, who the Bible says asked to see the resurrected Christ's wounds — have boosted the Mass's appeal. That the service now draws more than 800 people each week is "a happy accident," says Olli Valtonen, one of its creators. The founders wanted a service that would work for them. But they weren't the only ones who felt that traditional church wasn't meeting the needs of young urbanites; dozens of churches across the Nordic region have copied the model.

Timing was one issue — the Thomas Mass starts at 6:30 p.m., recognizing that people no longer feel obligated to be in a pew on Sunday morning. Other churches in Europe remember the Sabbath but also make other days holy, holding 30-minute lunchtime services or weekday breakfast Bible studies. "If they had a Thursday-night service, I would be more likely to go," says Alex Olzog, 24, a student from Munich who is an occasional churchgoer. "I want to relax on the weekends."

It's no accident that the minority of churches and movements that are growing emphasize accessibility, not only in timing but also in style. Take the Alpha course, a 15-session intro to Christianity launched in 1992 at Holy Trinity Brompton (HTB), an Evangelical Anglican church in London. Alpha's defining feature is curiosity. "Most people at some point in their lives say, 'Is this what it's all about? Can I start again? What happens when I die?'" says HTB vicar Sandy Millar. "They weren't getting the answers." Alpha seeks to provide them — and has spread to 38 countries in Europe and 96 others around the world; it now has 5 million alumni, and churches across the denominational spectrum use it as an outreach tool.