As I said after church, I’m surprised by the pride I felt seeing my brother taken by the spirit. At the rock show that is new Christianity, Joey was in the mosh pit. Front and center. Fearless. I was awestruck by his belief.

But there’s just one little problem with that belief. If you read the small print, part and parcel in that belief is that non-believers go to a rather unpleasant place called Hell. Jesus has yet to give me the tap, and I’m not about to fake it. So my brother could safely say, at this point, Hell awaits.

I came down here with the expressed purpose of talking to my brother about this most surreal belief: one of your closest relatives imagines the most horrific afterlife awaiting you. Burning in a fiery pit. For eternity. It’s unimaginable. The more I mull it over, it might be the very idea of Hell that most alienates me from his belief.

It’s a harder subject for me to broach than I imagined. Joey, regional sales manager of Patterson Dental, has 24 employees and twin babies. Not much free time to worry about our souls hanging out ad infinitum. So I broach it with his wife Monica. That’s easier for a number of reasons. One, Monica’s Alabama charm can make anything, even the torments suffered by sinners in Hell, sound somewhat inviting. Two, by bringing this up with Joey, I will finally be admitting to someone on my father’s side of the family that I’m not a believer. As far as I know, I’ll be the first non-believing Blalock in our two hundred year history in the Bible Belt. It feels almost arrogant to turn your back on the family tradition. Can’t I have serious doubts, and believe it when I see it?

Monica confirms my fears. I can’t. I ask when she began believing, and she tells me her “testimony”—the born-again term for telling the story of when Jesus establishes a “personal relationship” with you. On that day, she says, the whole world looked different. The sky. The street. Billboards. I explain my dilemma—that Jesus hasn’t spoken to me, as he did with her when she was a struggling mother in her teens.

“Why don’t you just try talking to him?” she suggests, “and see what happens.”

I consider it. “But what about talking to Buddha?” I ask. “Or Mohammed? Vishnu?”

She takes a minute. “That’s a good question. I’ll have to get back to you on that one.”

As hard as it is for me to understand actually speaking to Jesus, I think it is jut as hard for Christians to imagine believing in other things. Or in nothing at all. It’s fine with me that they pour energy into Jesus every day. It grounds them. Gives life purpose. I see the same fate for both of us, whatever that may be, in the future.

But the fate of my unsaved soul, for my family, is a different story.

Okay, cut the talk. Time to go to church. Wednesday isn’t a full service, it’s just dinner and some singing. But it’s still church. I don’t know if my brother is more nervous about it or I am. We haven’t been to service together since we were ten years old.

The one good thing about Northridge Church is that it’s huge (900 members). So I can pretty much get lost in it. In fact, I spot not one but two other people walking around with video cameras. Before I know it Joey has me handing out audio advice, and we’re negotiating for prime tripod spots.

I’m not sure if it’s a Christian or Southern thing, but everyone is strangely nice. People smile, say hello, hug each other. Some people are hugging me. I feel like an impostor being within these walls but not believing what they believe. In fact, I’m not exactly sure what they believe. The pastor says, “You won’t find a more conservative guy than me,” but one of his followers to my right has decidedly non-conservative ear studs, and another to my left has a pony tail growing from his chin. The music kicks in–file under Contemporary Christian–and people dance in the aisles in a style that evokes the Summer of Love.

Being surrounded by people whirling and twirling, possessed in their love for Jesus, I feel like the conservative one. I look around for some reassurance from my brother, but I can’t find him. After some searching, I see him in the front and center. He’s singing along with a rocking hymn, raising his arms in what looks like a deep spiritual moment. From my spot in the balcony, I don’t think we could be further apart in this room, but I find myself strangely proud of him for going for what he believes.

So I bought a Bible. And a guide to the Bible. And a criticism of the Bible. And, as instructed, I read Acts.

If my brother’s church is based on the book of Acts, then I should be seeing some dancing in the aisles, speaking in tongues, and if I’m lucky a miracle or two at his church. See, in Acts disciples Peter and John traveled the land spreading the word of Jesus and performing healings when they could. But in a few cases, if someone disobeyed the word of God, they were divinely annihilated on the spot. Jews and Gentiles converted to Christianity in droves, not only on account of the miracles they witnessed, but also out of fear of sudden death. Hence, I guess, the phrase “God fearing” Christian.

Joey may fear God, but I don’t think he fears anything else. We spent the ride from the airport filming with his video camera, which is normally used for capturing motorcycle stunts and ski crashes. His online videos get more hits than mine. Maybe we have more in common than I thought.

It’s a common belief that the media loves to pick on evangelical Christians, and who can deny that Christians feel the media is out to get them. The mutual dislike of these groups is pretty much accepted. But what about when that evangelical Christian, or that media person, is your brother?

Hi, I’m Jason. I’m not a Christian. Oh, I once was, but like most kids in the 1980s, I hit high school and went from faith to Faith No More.

My half-brother? Well, that’s a different story.

His name is Joseph. Can you get more Christian than that? Joey, as we like to call him, grew up with our Dad in the heart of the Bible Belt, while I grew up with my mom among the sun-worshippers of California.

Our dad really, really liked Jesus. Whenever my sister and I met up with Joey and our dad, no matter where we were, we’d go to church. Sunday school. The Oral Roberts Museum. Whatever we could find. I even remember our dad speaking in tongues. We grew up in our mom’s religion-free home, and I just didn’t get it.

When we were kids (less than two years apart), I always thought of my half-brother Joey as the wild one, our sister as the bookworm, and me as somewhere in between. But since our dad has passed away, the wildness has been replaced by a strong Christian faith. And it’s been good for him—he has a wonderful wife and family—but I still don’t really get the Jesus part, or the conservative politics that seem to go with it.

This week I’m heading to Florida to visit my Christian brother and his kin, and see if we can, somehow, “get” each other. Before I go, I think I need to study up–I’m about 20 years behind in my Bible reading. My first stop is a bookstore here in downtown Berkeley. It may be the heart of hippiedom, but they should still carry the Bible, right?