The sanctuary at Without Walls International Church is large enough that if you sit directly in the middle of it, the space actually does feel wall-less. The room fits 5,000 people, and from that center seat, just behind the two cameramen beaming images to the massive screens on either side of the stage, it's easy to feel like you're in a stadium. A stadium with incredibly powerful air conditioning.
Perhaps they keep it cool at Without Walls to make sure the hardworking congregation doesn't overheat. At the 9 a.m. Sunday service, the crowd is on their feet for the first 25 minutes. They worship along with the100-member choir, the production as slick as a Madonna concert. Hands fly up in unison, the choir's silky purple robes reflecting the stage lights back at the crowd. The lead soloist unbuttons his blazer, hits his high note, then almost falls to his knees. Next, the crowd stands to hear a woman testify from the pulpit. "One more chance," she says, her eyes closed. "God gave me one more chance, and he'll give you one, too." Dozens go up for the altar call, giving themselves over to the Lord, their tears magnified on the silver screens by roving cameramen.
And then the show starts.
Paula White is senior pastor at Without Walls, along with her husband Randy, and she's a rising star in the evangelical world. Guests are given a schedule of her upcoming TV appearances, and a pink offering envelope, when they enter the church. White has serious stage presence, with a touch of Stepford. Her blond hair never moves, her Chanel-esque black suit fits perfectly and her face is so used to smiling that the corners of her mouth point permanently north.
She starts with two rounds of giving. First she asks for the mandatory tithes, a biblical call for the congregation to donate 10 percent of their income. Next is the optional offering, for which White implores the crowd to stretch where they can. "Let's worship," she says as folks begin to file to the front, pink envelopes in hand. "And make our checks payable to WWIC."
White's message today is on relationships, and the crowd echoes each point with a round of "Amens." Be wary of who you commit to. Try to end things amicably if it's time to get out. And most importantly — don't revisit what you've decided to end.
"When God says it's over, it's over," the pastor tells her nodding audience. "Only a fool does the same thing and expects a different result."
White works the stage with the ease of a seasoned performer, delivering her punchlines in stride. She knows just when to take a break, too. "Got the Bucs game today," she says halfway through. "Don't worry, we'll get you out of here before the game starts." Her routine is practiced, every nuance of the production clearly thought out. Passages appear Power Point-style on the Jumbotrons just as she begins to quote them, and her Leno-esque sideband chimes in with slow jazz during her most heartfelt moments.
As she brings her hour-long sermon to a close, White asks the congregation to stand once more, and hold hands. There are easily 2,000 people in the sanctuary, and arms stretch everywhere — across aisles, over chairs, around poles. White leads them in prayer, warns them of temptation. She picks up her head. "And Jesus said?" she asks.
The clasped hands go up for the last time. "Amen!"
As the congregation files out into the 11 a.m. sunlight, Karolyn Walker tells me why she's been coming to Without Walls for six years, since the sanctuary was just a tent. "You feel the love in this church," says the aspiring minister. "They've got something new for you to eat every Sunday."
The line out the door moves slowly. There's no rush — cars creep bumper to bumper on the streets surrounding the church. Without Walls' massive sanctuary isn't the only stadium in the neighborhood.
Just across jam-packed Columbus Drive, Lot 13 is half full, and the Bucs won't kick off for another two hours. This congregation is clad in red.
Row after row of minivans and pickups line the grassy lot. Families sit in beach chairs, the grill smoking somewhere within arm's reach. Some play cards, others handicap the game. Radios cackle with sports talk radio.
Toward the end of the line, close to the walkway to Raymond James Stadium, Chris Herr takes a quick look into his cauldron and sits back down. "It's a shrimp boil, baby," he says to me. "That's our specialty right here."
Like most of the tailgaters, Herr offers me a beer. (At Without Walls, I was offered a book on the church's history.) But it's the shrimp boil that I'm eyeing — it smells like Louisiana. "It's a secret recipe," he says. "But I can tell you what's in it. Lemons, garlic, corn, shrimp, potatoes and andouille sausage." This is a guy who takes his food seriously; it says so on his apron. "If you don't like-a my cooking," it reads. "I break-a your head!"
Herr, 30, who started tailgating as a student at Auburn, thinks Lot 13 is pretty low-key. "I've never seen too much craziness here," he says. Apparently, he hasn't hung out at the giant pewter-colored school bus two rows over.
"We just get more and more people every week," says Bob Owens, who owns the bus with his twin brother, Dick. They've set up in the same spot for every home game during the last three years, and draw about 75 people every Sunday. The brothers hand out Jell-O shots, make a different dish for every opponent (Carolina gets ribs, New Orleans gets gumbo), and, according to a sign posted in front of their plot, offer complimentary pat-downs for female fans. "I'm 67 years old, and there's not another son-of-a-bitch in the world that has more fun than I do," says Dave Mort, a friend of the Owenses who's been with them for every game.
Theirs is the only tailgating party with a generator — how else are they supposed to power the 32-inch flat screen installed on the side of the bus? They're also the only party with a bottle-cap patio, the result of many games' worth of caps discarded in the grass. And for the Christmas game, Bob, who bears a striking resemblance to St. Nick, wears a Santa outfit and holds court. (In lieu of tinsel, Owens claims they decorate the surrounding trees with bras.)
"This is the greatest tailgating group I've ever seen," says Angela Larisey, who comes down from Orlando for every home game. "They love everybody. When they see us, they grab us, put out their arms and give us a hug. It's just wonderful."
Owens offers me a homemade bacon-wrapped jalapeno popper as he gets ready to go. It's 12:30 p.m., just a half hour before kickoff, and Owens has to get to his seats. "Do you buy all the food?" I ask. Everyone, it seems, is eating a burger. This tailgating thing must be pricey.
"We got a donation jar," Owens says, pointing to the buffet table. It's a big plastic bucket, with a note duct-taped to the side.
"Help God's children…get more beer!"
This article appears in Sep 20-26, 2006.