Anxious to be liked, mainstream Churches roll over and piddle on the floor regularly these days, and seem to do so with the greatest vigor in the spring, when the pasqueflowers sprout on virgin soil and the “renewal” comes to town.

Fundamentalist Protestants have had “renewals” for ages and call them “revivals.” Neophyte Catholics and mainstream Protestants make up the rules as they go along and have many names for the extravaganzas—Reach, Renew, Cursillo—whose true name is Legion.

In a moment of weakness last spring, my husband and I showed ah interest in attending a Cursillo weekend sponsored by my Episcopal church, to be held at a local high school. My curiosity was piqued when some of our more stolid parishioners (or is that redundant when referring to Episcopalians?) waxed breathless with excitement.

I grew even more curious trying to get someone, anyone, to tell me what would happen on that weekend. (Cursillos, for adults only, usually run from late Friday afternoon to Sunday morning.) Leaders of these events must undergo rigorous training, professional groups travel from church to church to emcee the affairs, and I just wanted to know what we’d be doing. All of the trained parishioners I asked looked off into the distance and struggled for the words to describe what I might find during the weekend. It was all ethereally vague: There was something about a speaker and guitars and prayer and breaking up into small discussion groups to do a lot of “sharing” (the deathless liberal shibboleth, perhaps because of its socialist implications—although, come to think of it, people who use it a lot love to “share” their feelings and opinions but rarely offer me any of their money).

I’m a slow learner. I should have caught on, but the more evasive they were, the more interested I became. Then, when we were poised to sign on the dotted line, the subject of sleeping bags came up.

Here was the deal: We’d sleep on the floor in the school gym for two nights, the men separated from the women. We were unusually lucky in that, if we wanted, we could take gang showers (with the men separated from the women, alas) on Saturday and Sunday mornings. Some renewal groups don’t have that luxury.

Now, I loved Girl Scout camp in my youth, but I gave all that up 20 years ago. I don’t ask for much in this life, but I do think I’ve earned the right to sleep in my own bed, next to my own husband, and take a nice brisk private morning shower in my own bathroom. I assured the man who was running the show that I’d be capable of much greater spirituality if he’d let me do it my way, and asked if we could participate but sleep at home.

Need I relate his answer? These weekends, no matter what they’re called or where they’re set, are as precisely and sternly choreographed as the June Taylor dancers. Remember the overhead camera shot of them flinging their legs in a circle on the floor? That must be what a Cursillo group looks like round about 2:00 A.M. Anyway, being undermotivated, spoiled, and slightly standoffish, my husband and I declined to attend.

Some renewals aren’t finished in a weekend but involve whole congregations or parishes and take a year or more. (No, God is gracious, and those year-long cheerleading marathons don’t involve floor-sleeping or gang showers until the very end.) In one North Dakota town, no married woman may participate until her husband has; the priest in that little Catholic church knows that if he doesn’t make such a ruling, only women will go through the ordeal. Who wants to sit on a tractor all day and then sleep with a bunch of snoring men on the church basement floor?

All of this is like nothing so much as a carnival sideshow: gimmicky, dishonest, and frenzied with desperation. Parishioners know it, priests and ministers know it, but the urge to do something is stronger these days than the wisdom to be still and watch for daily signs and metaphors pointing to the truth. So I offer here a verse from a medieval Christmas carol that in 21 short words puts it all within reach: Christ’s birth and passion, our redemption, two millennia of simple faith, and the peace that passeth all understanding:

The holly bears a berry
as red as any blood
and Mary bore sweet
Jesus Christ
to do poor sinners good.

Say it to yourself if you ever can’t sleep.