I beg to differ.

Ten blocks south of Graceland, just off Elvis Presley Boulevard, in the midst of a thoroughly inauspicious, middle-class Memphis neighborhood, The Most Reverend Al Green holds a weekly prayer meeting the likes of which you have never seen or heard. Welcome to the Full Gospel Tabernacle.

By the time we got there, things were in full swing. In fact, we were late -- an hour and a half late, to be exact.

Drawn by the music which enveloped us the moment we stepped from our car, we rushed for the building; fearing the worst; fearing that the service was ending. Judging by the cries of joy and anguish which reverberated from the church, whatever was going on inside had surely reached its peak.

In our haste we almost overlooked the security guard.

Security guard? Who cares about some squeaky-black-vinyl-shoe-wearing, tin-badged, frustated, Barney "Gimme another slice of pecan pie Thelma Lou honey" Fife, rent-a-cop?

Not me. But, this is no ordinary church and this is no ordinary security guard. Slouching regally on his tchotchke-covered Chevy impala, he looks more like an errant Star Trek conventioneer in search of the William Shatner autograph concession. His face and arms are covered with what appear to be homemade tattoos of stars, crosses and other assorted icons. A plastic badge is proudly affixed to his modish green suit. A pair of handcuffs dangle by his side. He exudes a diffident, casual coolness. In fact, heÆs bored. Usually he sits outside and plays his guitar but, today someone has borrowed it to play during the service. The service? "Yes, go right on in. TheyÆre just getting good and warmed up."We enter a nondescript, '70s style, squat cathedral to behold a riot of energy, sound and motion. All heaven is breaking loose.

And then itÆs over. Sweaty and exhausted parishioners return to their seats. The last rim shot echoes off the drum kitÆs cymbal and dies out. Like the calm after a storm, everything is suddenly, eerily quiet.

Just moments ago, the lady to my left, in the leopard-print dress with matching hat, was screaming to high heaven for Sweet Jesus to "come on down." Just moments ago, the grandmotherly woman to my right was clogging fast and furiously to a song of her own divination. Just moments ago, the sax player was wailing away with the fervor of Bill Clinton on the campaign trail.

But not now. Now, Al Green has ascended to the pulpit to introduce the first of two guest preachers. As the house grows quiet, an almost sexual tension pervades the church. 30 minutes of fire and brimstone pass like an eternity before Reverend Green returns to the pulpit.

When he does, his remarks are unremarkable, even reserved. Like the two preachers who preceded him, he speaks of redemption, forgiveness and salvation. Has conversion from secular to sacred music robbed him of the raw sexual energy that once was his trademark?

Hardly. For sexuality and salvation have always been kissinÆ cousins.

Slowly, the band, which for the past 45 minutes has been noticeably silent, starts to lay down a sultry, sensual bass line that slithers through the congregation like a snake inching its way toward its prey.

Reverend Green, attired in a flowing black robe, is now bounding back and forth, between the pulpit and his red leather, wingback chair, like a caged cat. You get the sense that though things may still be relatively subdued, they wonÆt stay that way for long. All the while, momentum is building, bodies are limbering up, all heaven is about to break loose once again.

And it does.

During the ensuing two hours, Reverend Green takes his congregation, along with a few visitors like me, on a holy roller-coaster ride of unbridled emotion. Singing in a piercing, ethereal voice, which to this white-bread boyÆs ears seems more of the juke than Jesus, Reverend Green whipped us all into a frenzy of motion and emotion. Men wept; women flailed; the whole building shook with a religious intensity strong enough to sway the most devout agnostic.

Spent, emotionally, physically and monetarily (do bring money for the collection. You will be asked, at the serviceÆs midpoint, to march up front with the rest of the folk to tithe as they do), we exited the building into the dark Tennessee night; popped a well-worn cassette* into the tape deck and sped off as Al, the secular, sexual Al, pleaded: Here I am baby, come and take me.

The security guard at the Rev. Al Green's Full Gospel Tabernacle gives visitors the thumbs up. (Photo by John T. Edge)