Mega misjudgment: encountering the real stories of real Christians--even at a megachurch--teaches one Catholic that you can't judge a church by its cover.

The e-mail flashed across my screen at work.

"Who is available next Sunday, 10 a.m., to go to a church and pick up some items their fifth-grade youth group wants to donate to us?"

The message was from our volunteer coordinator at Spectrum, where I serve as executive director. Spectrum is a nonprofit organization in Burlington, Vermont that helps teenagers who are homeless, have run away from home, are disconnected from their families, in trouble with the law, or addicted to drugs and alcohol.

It's hard for many people beyond our state to believe that these problems exist here. They hear the word Vermont and think of rolling hills, skiing, maple syrup, farms, organic food, and Ben and Jerry's. But many of the problems that plague the rest of the country also exist here. The farms, the foliage, and the ice cream are all real, but so are the drugs, poverty, child abuse, domestic violence, and homelessness.

I hit reply and asked, "Which church?"

It turned out it was a church only two miles from my house, so I volunteered to go. But I did so with some misgivings. The truth is, I don't like that church. I don't trust it. It's an evangelical church. It's physically large and modern, and it reminds me of a Wal-Mart or Costco. To use the currently popular term, it's a megachurch.

I know this church because many of my neighbors attend it. In fact, one of them tried to recruit my wife and me the first day we moved to our block. Another neighbor, however, referred to it as "the Hollywood church." I also recalled reading a news article about the church expanding Sunday services to the local cineplex, with a photo of congregants gathered in the stadium-style seating.

This only reinforced my misgivings. My wife and I are Catholic. We have always attended Catholic churches and we always will. In my opinion these evangelical megachurches promote a pie-in-the-sky, feel-good spirituality bereft of any emphasis on social justice and reaching out to the poorest of the poor. Whatever failings the Catholic Church may have, it at least doesn't give short shrift to Jesus' central commands to feed the hungry, shelter the homeless, and challenge the underpinnings of a society and economy that create such suffering. It is the church of Dorothy Day, Oscar Romero, the martyred missionaries of El Salvador, and others I so admire.

A smiling male greeter opened the door for me. He wore a bright aqua polo shirt with the church's name monogrammed on the left side, with their motto, "Making Friends of Strangers," on the right. That, of course, did little to change my perceptions.

I found my way to the room where the fifth graders were waiting for me. About 20 children sat cross-legged on the floor. Four adults were with them, all wearing the same aqua embroidered shirts. I was introduced to the children and did my standard five-minute presentation on what Spectrum is, the young people we help, and why they are on the streets and without families.

Then one of the adults carried up a laundry basket full of the deodorant, toothpaste, and shaving cream they had collected for the teenagers at Spectrum. I thanked them, saying that I'd be certain to deliver them to young people who needed such items.

When I started for the door, this same fellow motioned for me to stay.

"Amy, please show Mr. Redmond what you brought."

An 11-year-old girl dragged a black duffel bag up to the front of the room.

"Amy, why don't you open the bag up?" he asked.

Amy unzipped it, and I peered inside, pulling out a set of sheets, towels, washcloths, and other items.

I started joking with the kids as I pulled out other things. "Hey look, here's some dental floss, everyone needs that, right?" They laughed along with me.

"Amy, show Mr. Redmond what else is in there." She pulled a Bible out of the bag. I could see a card sticking out, which he handed over to me. "To a Young Man at Spectrum" was handwritten on the front of the card.

"Tell Mr. Redmond why you and your family are donating these things to Spectrum."

"I had a teenage brother," she said, "but he died last year. So my family wants to give these things to someone like him who can use them."

I opened the card: "Always remember God is watching over you." A picture of her brother was taped inside--a smiling young man, happy, standing in front of a building. Under his picture was written, "Given in memory of Brad" with the dates of his birth and death. He was only 19. Also inscribed was "God bless you, from the family of Brad."

I leaned over to the adult and asked, "How did Amy's brother die?"

"Heroin overdose," he answered.

My heart broke. One of the main things we do at Spectrum is work with kids who are addicted to drugs or alcohol, trying to help them break free. Heroin is one of the primary drugs abused in Vermont.

I looked at the face of this young man, Brad. Somehow we missed him. Maybe he never heard of us. Maybe he was too ashamed to come in for help. Maybe he overdosed his first time using.

I'll never know, but it cut right through me to look at him there, smiling. I could feel the sorrow and pain of that family in the writing on the card.

I reached over and hugged Amy. I held her tightly, thanking her for her gift. I promised to give the duffel bag to a young man who was homeless and could really use it. I looked over at the adults in the room, and I could see they were near tears. So was I.

I gave that duffel bag to just the right person. A young man, whom we had been working with for years, had been in just about every residence and program we offer. He had finally gotten his high school diploma and been admitted to a technical college.

The day we drove him to campus, we handed him the duffel bag, complete with the Bible and card. We told him the story behind it and made sure he wrote a thank you note to Amy and her family. I have no idea what he wrote, but it must have been appropriate because a year later Amy's mother dropped off another duffel bag for us to give away.

I learned a lot that day in the megachurch. I was reminded that the heartbreak of addiction and death can happen not only to kids who have no families and therefore live on the streets but to kids who do have supportive families, some degree of financial means, and even attend church. I was reminded that addiction reaches beyond all socioeconomic and racial boundaries; it clutches where it will.

And I learned, once again, for the umpteenth time in my life, not to judge. I judged that church. I put all kinds of nasty labels on it. I regarded it with derision. I made fun of it.

But I was wrong. Like any other church, including the Catholic Church, there are good people there, people who care about others, people who want more than pie-in-the-sky religion. And some of those people are incredibly wounded, scarred by what life has dealt them. They go to church to worship, but they also go in order to find healing and comfort.

That's why I keep a photocopy of that card, including Amy's brother's picture, tacked up to the wall by my desk. I want to be reminded of that daily, with the hope that it'll keep me from judging any person or any institution again.

MARK REDMOND is the author of The Goodness Within: Reaching out to Troubled Teens with Love and Compassion (Paulist, 2003).