“This could be a church,” he muttered. “Lord, that is the place.” Mr. Florian, a factory worker by day and a pastor by night, was desperate to find a home for his small congregation...Now, on most nights when the neighborhood winds down to rest, the fluorescent lights inside the room flicker to life, and the spartan, whitewashed space rattles under a sonic barrage of prayers, yelps and tambourines. As a teenage band pounds out bouncy Latin rhythms, men in crisp business suits that belie their dreary day jobs triumphantly pump their fists. Women in flowing skirts shout, stomp and gyrate...