How do we craft spirituality in an age of engineered experiences?

Modern megachurches strike me as paradoxical. We crave primal, authentic connections—moments of awe, sincerity, and profound belonging—yet we meticulously orchestrate environments, shaped by technology and design, intended to make us “feel something.” New Heights Church in Fayetteville, Arkansas, managed to achieve this well, with only a few slightly off-putting bugs.

I expected pews and maybe stained glass but instead got pragmatic yet polished rows of folding chairs, and a talented worship band performing beneath stark industrial beams. Subtle, powerful drumbeats reverberated through bodies, prompting many bald, grown men to lift their phalangies skyward like praying mantises. Perhaps God’s satellite reception is stronger up there, a theory supported by seeing several shorter teenagers stretching their arms even higher than the men. The music was a stimulating auditory massage of our primal limbic systems, deliberately evoking shared feelings of unity and transcendence.

A pastor got up and inflected his voice while reciting some platitudes. He led us in a collective prayer while standing in front of a powerpoint with words we were told to repeat. The words on the powerpoint petitioned God for “the financial success of our building.” I’m pretty sure Jesus spoke against rote prayers, but I’m sure He’d make an exception this one time since, after all, somebody must fund the enterprise.

Just as cynicism began to creep in, a one-year-old child in denim overalls spontaneously smiled at some nearby strangers. Instantly, the solemnity—and occasional consternation—in faces around me melted into genuine warmth. It struck me then: perhaps religion’s truest purpose doesn’t have to be as overtly “Jesus-focused” as the worship songs implied. This baby’s innocent charm elicited more sincere smiles than even the pastor’s best jokes, succeeding more profoundly than thousands of dollars’ worth of audiovisual equipment in creating authentic, spontaneous human connection. Yet, paradoxically, you need the stadium to gather the people and that baby there in the first place.

Contemporary churches cleverly employ psychological and technological tools to guide congregants toward meaningful spiritual experiences, providing sanctuary from our fragmented, isolating modern lives. They invite us to reconnect with our innate humanity. My visit to New Heights softened my initial skepticism, helping me realize that building a megachurch in Fayetteville wasn’t the peak of irony I had initially imagined.

Ultimately, I appreciate religion to the extent it fosters genuine human connection—moments as simple and pure as sipping grape juice quietly, reflecting on Jesus’s personal significance, or, perhaps even more powerfully, the nourishing spirituality found in a child’s spontaneous smile.