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+++++++ How Much Can Your God Bench?

Any good Christian will tell you that salvation is free through Jesus Christ. But at the Lord's Gym, it's $34 a month. + Plus, there are certain rules that apply when you work out at a place that mixes faith with fitness. Cussing, for instance, is a big no-no. You must channel your outbursts in a more righteous fashion. Take the two heavily tattooed guys next to me, the ones spotting each other on the bench press. As one of them grunts under the bar, his partner shouts encouragement: "Give him strength, Lord, give him strength!" Upon finishing his last rep, the man drops the bar on the rack with a gasp. + "Praise God!" he says. + And consider that perky young lady across the room, the one going through her paces on the treadmill. Nice shape, great posture, a faint sheen of perspiration on perfect skin--lovely.

Not that I'm ogling her or anything. No, I'm admiring God's creation. Because if I was eye-banging her while working out at the Lord's in Gym, then that would surely pave my path to hell. Just ask owner Paul Sorchy.

"Most fitness clubs and gyms create an un Godly atmosphere. They are meat markets. They do not exist to praise God, which should be the object of everything we do, even when we work out," says Sorchy. "The Lord's Gym serves a higher authority."

He Layeth His Hands on People Sorchy is a 34-year-old Florida chiropractor with the dark good looks and toothy grin that could help him pass for one of the Baldwin brothers. He is waging a holy war to promote fitness, save souls, and combat what he and others see as the sinful atmosphere of secular gyms, where flesh is on wanton display and the heathen seek to glorify themselves, not God. Sorchy's crusade command post? The Lord's Gym, a modern two-story, 12,500-square-foot complex nestled between an Outback Steakhouse and a Coldwell Banker real estate office in the town of Clermont, about 25 miles west of Orlando, Fla. It's the launching pad for what Sorchy hopes will become a nationwide chain of gyms where faith and fitness go hand in hand.

There's nothing subtle about the Lord's Gym. Its logo depicts a really ripped Jesus Christ straining to perform a push-up with a cross on his back that bears the inscription "The Sins of the World." The most popular T-shirt among the gym's patrons, on sale in the gift shop for $15, features a similar illustration with the slogan: "His pain, your gain. Bench press this!" Receptionists at the front desk answer the phone saying, "It's a blessed day at the Lord's Gym, may I help you?" Parents can leave their children at "Noah's Parc," the gym's free babysitting center. And the juice bar sells smoothies with names like "Land of Milk and Honey," "John the Baptist," and "Joseph's Surprise." They come in two sizes--David and Goliath.

Head up to the second floor for a workout and the steps are each inscribed with a different line from John 3:16: "For God so loved the world that He gave His only begotten Son ... " A wall by the Stairmasters is covered with a floor-to-ceiling mural of "Daniel in the Lion's Den" painted by a local artist, Wesley Stout, who also runs a business called Leather and Grace, specializing in airbrushing biblical scenes onto Harley-Davidson motorcycles. Aptly chosen scriptures grace the spacious, airy room. Rep out on the Smith machine and read Ephesians 6:10: "Be strong in the Lord and in His mighty power." Take a bench in the free-weight area, and you're face-to-face with Zechariah 4:6: "Not by might, not by power, but by my spirit says the Lord." And the dozens of Atlantis exercise machines each sport a small magnetic plaque with a verse of scripture.

"It's like playing biblical roulette," says Sorchy. "We want you to see scripture everywhere you turn and focus on it as you work out. This is a godly environment."

Sorchy says the gym is the fulfillment of a dream he has nurtured since he was boy. Born with a hip displacement that made Nun "the most pigeon-toed person on the planet" and forced him to wear Forrest Gump--like leg braces, Sorchy credits a chiropractor with correcting his skeletal defect in the same year he became a born-again Christian.

"I was saved by chiropractic and the Lord. I became a chiropractor so I could help fix things. And I love the Lord, who is all about fixing things" says Sorchy, whose chiropractic office shares the building with the gym. "The concept of having a gym dovetails nicely with all of that. Everyone who works out wants to be at their best. But they need to ask themselves the question, Who are you being your best for? The answer is the Lord."

The original Lord's Gym opened in the early 1990s in San Diego, when it was launched as a nonprofit outreach ministry. The idea was imitated elsewhere, but in 2003 Sorchy and two Florida affiliates, in Jacksonville and Ocala, acquired the rights to franchise the Lord's Gym from co-owners Jerry and Julie Smedley. Since then, he says, there have been hundreds of inquiries, with about 30 prospective franchises now in the works, mostly in the South. If Sorchy's venture in Clermont is any example, there's a market for the wholesome, family-oriented environment offered by the Lord's Gym. While pastors at local churches get free memberships, Sorchy says the gym has signed on some 3,400 paying members since opening in 2001.

Hide thy Booty in God's House

The atmosphere at the Lord's Gym is decidedly upbeat. Contemporary Christian music, like the rock group Pillar's "Original Superman" ("Up, up, and away/He's saving souls in a new way"), plays on the sound system. The dress code is demure, and lest there be any confusion, it is conspicuously posted on a bulletin board: "No spaghetti straps are allowed even if there is a sports bra underneath. No bare midriffs. If wearing tight fitting pants or shorts, you must wear a T-shirt that COMPLETELY covers the buttocks."

Several trainers work the room. They are attentive, courteous to a fault, and while they might drop an occasional "Have a blessed day," they don't proselytize. According to Sorchy, about half the membership is devout Christian and the other half is either "not particularly religious or just beginning to seek the Lord." Still, there's no overt Bible thumping at the Lord's Gym.

"We have many non-Christian members and we welcome others to join. Do we want to save them? Do we want them to accept Jesus Christ as Lord? Of course, we do," says Sorchy. "But we're not going to interrupt their workout for a soul cheek."

Greg Snowton, a firefighter/paramedic who looks the part, with his rugged visage and take-charge swagger, typically visits the gym three times a week.

"I'm a Christian, but that's not everything that drew me here," he says. "I just like the wholesomeness of the place. Believe me, I enjoy looking at pretty women in tight Lycra as much as the next guy, but that can take away from the focus of a workout. All I know is that I work out just as hard here as I do at other gyms, but when I leave here, I feel much better about myself."

The Lord's Gym seems to have a particular appeal for married couples like John and Kathy Spark, who have sampled other gyms and been disenchanted by what they found.

"My husband doesn't want to be distracted by people prancing around and showing off their bodies, nor do I. There's just so much posturing that goes on at other gyms, so much vanity," says Kathy. "Plus, we can bring our children here and know they aren't going to be exposed to anything we don't approve of."

Like any full-service fitness center, the Lord's Gym offers a wide variety of aerobic and stretching classes. There's "Gospel Spinning" classes and "Kids for Christ" aerobics, and the Jazzercise classes are called "Praisercise." There is also yoga. Sort of.

"I know many Christians who would never set foot in a traditional yoga class. Yoga is based on Eastern philosophies that are definitely non-Christian," says Sorchy. "So we've developed our own approach. We use the basic yoga poses, but we might give them names that are more in keeping with a Christian outlook. For instance, instead of the 'sun salutation' we have the 'Son salutation.' And we don't call it yoga. We call it Yo-God!" It's very "McDowell's," from the movie Coming to America.