When the preacher begins laying his hands on foreheads, the energy in this storefront church surges. Thursday night is divine drama, eons beyond must-see TV. From below the pulpit a drummer keeps a lively beat and an organist accents the preacher's righteous words from an old Casio. The pews are full of women who, with gusto, shout the devil down. Soon you're shouting with them, clapping and dancing as the spirit takes hold. Now the preacher is moving about, laying hands on worshippers and speaking in tongues. High blood sugar is neutralized, a bloody nose is fixed, a path to the Lord is cleared, and ladies tumble to the ground. Everyone is welcome, no velvet ropes, no social hierarchy whatsoever. It's strictly come as you are. The spirit is infectious and the thrill ride goes on till late. Plus there's never a cover charge, though a modest donation is always welcome. The only real cost is that of not saving your sorry soul.