This is a very interesting piece from the NYT Magazine about the birth of a new church in a soulless exurb of Phoenix that plays down the religion, plays up the laughs, hands out Krispy Kreme donuts -- and hints it might be tough to maintain friendships with non-believers.

Some excerpts:

In the spring of 1996, Lee McFarland quit his high-paying job at Microsoft, sold his house and drove his Jeep Cherokee from Redmond, Wash., to Surprise, Ariz. He had come to build a church. McFarland, who was 36 at the time, knew little about leading churches and less about building them: he wasn't even halfway through the correspondence classes he was taking to become an evangelical pastor.

McFarland did door-to-door market research.

''What's your favorite radio station?'' and ''Why do you think people don't go to church?'' The conversations grew longer, and McFarland's mission became clear. People in Surprise listened to rock music. And they didn't go to church because they didn't have any fancy clothes, didn't like being asked for money and didn't see how any of the sermons they had heard in the past related to their lives.

McFarland pledged to change all that. By the following August, he had hired a direct-mail company to send out fliers to everyone in Surprise -- or at least everyone but the Spanish-speaking farm workers who lived in the town's original square mile -- inviting them to Radiant. ''You think church is boring and judgmental, and that all they want is your money?'' it asked. ''At Radiant you'll hear a rockin' band and a positive, relevant message. Come as you are. We won't beg for your money. Your kids will love it!''

He attracted 147 people to his first sermon at the Radiant Church (billboard slogan: "Isn't it time you laughed again?"), but within a few years hit 2,000, which is enough for "megachurch" status.

One of the more striking facts to emerge from the 2004 presidential election was that 97 of America's 100 fastest-growing counties voted Republican. Most of these counties are made up of heretofore unknown towns too far from major metropolitan areas to be considered suburbs, but too bustling to be considered rural, places like Lebanon, Ohio; Fridley, Minn.; Crabapple, Ga.; and Surprise, Ariz. America has a new frontier: the exurbs. In a matter of years, sleepy counties stretching across 30 states have been transformed into dense communities of subdivisions filled with middle-class families likely to move again and again, settling in yet another exurb but putting down no real roots. These exurban cities tend not to have immediately recognizable town squares, but many have some kind of big, new structure where newcomers go to discuss their lives and problems and hopes: the megachurch.

Some of these megachurches offer counseling, athletic facilities, daycare and schools, the article says.

The Radiant Church has huge plasma TVs in the lobby, XBox for the kids, Starbucks vets making espressos, and no dress code.

When the church was under construction, people would occasionally ask McFarland if it was going to have stained glass or a steeple. ''No!'' he'd answer. ''We want the church to look like a mall. We want you to come in here and say, 'Dude, where's the cinema?' ''

The spiritual sell is also a soft one. There are no crosses, no images of Jesus or any other form of religious iconography. Bibles are optional (all biblical quotations are flashed on huge video screens above the stage). Almost half of each service is given over to live Christian rock with simple, repetitive lyrics in which Jesus is treated like a high-school crush: ''Jesus, you are my best friend, and you will always be. Nothing will ever change that.'' Committing your life to Christ is as easy as checking a box on the communication cards that can be found on the back of every chair. (Last year, 1,055 people did so.)

McFarland's messages are light on liturgy and heavy on what he calls ''successful principles for living'' -- how to discipline your children, how to reach your professional goals, how to invest your money, how to reduce your debt, even how to shake a porn addiction. ''If Oprah and Dr. Phil are doing it, why shouldn't we?'' he says. ''We should be better at it because we have the power of God to offer.''

The grand strategy of these churches seems to be gradually convince people to immerse all aspects of their lives in them. For example, Radiant has its own charter school, with 1,000 students.

People who live in Surprise tend to be married, white and lower middle-class.

These are people that the Republican Party has always run well with -- it's conventional wisdom among political analysts that young, middle-class couples raising children tend to be conservative -- and in 2004 the G.O.P. made a strong play for exurbanites. Megachurches were a key part of the strategy. Supporters were asked to supply the Bush-Cheney campaign with church directories so it could make sure these churchgoers were registered and planning to vote. ''For the first time we didn't just engage businesspeople or Second Amendment supporters; we engaged people who said they were motivated first and foremost by their values, and these people were often churchgoers,'' Gary Marx, a liaison to social conservatives for the campaign, told me recently. ''We asked them to reach out to their community, and their community is the megachurch.''

Maricopa County, in which Surprise sits, when 57-42 Bush last fall.

I found this disquieting:

When you ask people how Radiant has changed their lives, they will almost invariably talk about how it helped open their hearts. But there's a kind of narrowing going on here as well, which became clear a few minutes later, when Tom flipped to another passage from a recent sermon. '' 'Some seed fell among the thorny weeds, and the weeds grew up with them and choked the good plants,' '' he read, quoting Luke 8:7. Then he added his exegesis: ''We've had friends who were not Christian, and for me they were like the thorny weeds,'' he said. ''We've had to commit ourselves to friends who could help us grow spiritually.''

The following night I heard this same message, communicated more explicitly, at Radiant's youth service. ''If I asked how many of you have close friends who are unbelievers, a lot of you would probably raise your hands,'' the pastor told the crowd of about 150 teenagers, most of whom looked dressed for a rock concert. ''I'll tell you right now, if one of you is a believer and the other is not, your relationship is doomed.''