No, it wasn't a lock-in at a church, nor was it some kind of adult retreat; in fact, the people there would likely not define themselves in congregational terms.

A religious holiday? Special time of prayer and fasting? Concert by Christian musicians? Focus group on spiritual issues? Ecumenical enclave? Denominational conference?

No, no, no, nope, not, and uh-uh.

It was, as I said, a party at God's house. In a quiet residential suburb of a great metropolitan center.

I suspected it was God's house the minute I drove up. The house, set back under towering trees shading a well-kept lawn, was all decked out in marvelous bursts of color. Banners and lanterns and drapes and flags were festooning their hearts out all across the front.

From the rear erupted whoops of delight, and from an open door wafted the insane and tantalizing aromas of a culinary free-for-all.

As I went inside, voices and laughter mingled with the soft aural brushings of a koto.

Yeah, this just had to be God's house.

I was greeted by friends and strangers alike, pointed to tables riotously overstocked with food and invited to take my fill of the good things there. I did, and, having eaten to satisfaction, began to look around.

As I walked through the rooms - upstairs and down, in and out, over and under - my suspicions were confirmed: this was, indeed, God's house. I could tell it was God's house because it was full of the past: antique furniture, a rolltop desk, a Victrola. A counter filled with items from an old soda shop competing for space with a cast-iron tricycle and an open sleigh (life-sized, sans horse). Ben Franklin vying for attention with a suspended flying machine worthy of Baron von Munchausen. An antique foot-pump organ holding sway over the corner in one room; a treadle-powered sewing machine dominating another. (For some reason, the picture of God bent over a manual-driven Singer sewing machine works for me.)

I know what you're thinking: the boy was in a museum.

No, I wasn't in a museum, and I can tell you how I know it was God's house, and not a museum: Everything worked. These weren't displays - our host invited us to touch, use, play with everything in sight. From the overhead chain-pull flush toilet and Captain Nemo shower to the barber's pole that spins when you open the medicine cabinet. From the ornate fixtures in the kitchen sinks to the Victorian sofas and tables to the narrow wrought-iron spiral staircase leading to the studio to the snare drum (not a recording, but an actual drum) that plays when you ring the door bell - all of it was in use.

If I retained any doubts, they were firmly removed by two rooms I found upstairs. Two little rooms at the top of the house, each dedicated to maintaining, renewing and imagining.

One was a sewing room, with a couple of machines used for repairing old fabrics and creating new ones. Fragments of upholstery - that which covers, comforts, soothes and excites - were all about.

And a drawing room - literally, a room for drawing and designing - in marvelous disarray, littered with pages bearing earlier versions of this, that and tomorrow. Designs for making things easier, better or just more fun.

In another room, on a wall, two patents - for toys. Somehow it just feels right that God's house has a couple of toy patents.

This wasn't the past on display, or even on parade; this was the past as present - a rich tradition celebrated not so much by memory as by continuance. Not so much a long-separated "then" as an artfully extended "now." A past not forgotten and periodically brought out for ritualized remembrance, but a living, vibrant statement that there are some things which were, are and will be. Not the pieces themselves, not the charming bits of days gone by, the signature bits of Americana hither and yon - not those, but, rather, the lives, loves and laughter of the people who made, used and cared for those pieces. I knew it was God's house because there were more lives than people there.

But, being God's house, it wasn't just about the past; outside there was a wild array of rockets, fountains, spinners and flashes - bleeding-edge fireworks. These weren't little ink cartridge (ask your parents to explain) sized bits of cardboard to go "pop" if you light the fuse enough times for it to wear down. Not 10-inch sparklers taking five minutes to light and 10 seconds to burn out.

No, no, no - we had things that sizzled, screamed, soared and strewed the yard, the trees, the driveway and heavens with new lights (even if only briefly).

This was the future, the state of the art in celebrative mayhem. If it was brand-new, envelope-stretching, slightly risky and certifiably insane, it was there.

An eight-foot tube launcher sent rockets dashing into the skies, bursting with glares red, yellow, green and dazzling white.

Celebrants waved three-foot sparklers in graceful arcs and loops, painting the air with elegant tracings.

Fountains of fireworks roared off the driveway in mesmerizing and continuously reinvigorating displays of sparks, colors and smoke.

A tree-mounted spinner screamed, spit and spun with fierce energy - until it broke free and went ganging merrily aft aglee, spraying sparks hither and yon.

Another began as a little spiral of sparks on the concrete, then suddenly leaped into the air, rising straight up, lighting up the whole area and squealing utter mayhem.

The creation of the earth must have looked and sounded a lot like this.

It was magical and merry, noisy and bright, full of surprises into the wee hours of the morning.

It was also somewhat illegal. Fireworks laws, noise codes - you get the picture. If there were anyone within a city block whose peace wasn't disturbed, well, they were probably at the party with us.

And that, too, told me it was God's house. Not that it was illegal - illicitness is not, in and of itself, a hallmark of the Divine. But neither is strict adherence to custom, mores and legal codes.

Mountain ranges, old-growth forests and the duck billed platypus are not the work of someone who's meticulous about zoning laws.

Neither is a resurrection.

It wasn't disturbing the peace - it was evangelism. It was saying, "Hey, there's a terrific party going on, and you're invited!"

I knew I was at God's house because there were people there taking the past into the future. They'd neither forgotten where they came from nor lost sight of a magical future ahead.

God's house is full of surprises. A bit of yesterday, a touch of tomorrow, a hint of magic and a whole lot of friends along for the ride with you.