Unless you've been to a General Convention, it's difficult to imagine that a bunch of Episcopalians can take over a town - even one as sizable as Denver. Non-Episcopalians must scratch their heads in wonder at who these strange folks might be. Folks walking around town wearing funny-colored shirts and uncomfortable-looking collars. People clad in various T-shirts, often promoting their diocese or their parish, or, gasp!, even Jesus.

From the time one arrives at Denver's huge international airport, it is not possible to escape the Episcopal Church. Enormous banners greeting visitors to the 73rd General Convention can't be missed when one ascends the escalators from the subway in the airport. Signs in restaurant and shop windows near the Colorado Convention Center proclaim a welcome to the General Convention.

"Are you one of the Episcopalians?" asked the shuttle driver on the long trip from the airport to downtown hotels. I assured him I was.

"Are you Christians?" he asked with a note of sincerity.

"Yes, we are Christians."

"I am Ethiopian Orthodox," he said proudly.

Surprised that a member of an Orthodox church didn't know what an Episcopalian was, I told him we were close in theology and liturgy. He seemed pleased.

He said the city was already being filled with Episcopalians and they seemed to be nice people. I assured him many more were on their way. And they were, perhaps 10,000 of them from every diocese, every state, even from other parts of the Anglican Communion.

It is difficult to be in downtown Denver and not see an Episcopalian. How can you tell? For some reason, they wear their tags everywhere, even in the evening along the busy 16th Street Mall. They fit into a curious, eclectic mix of humanity on the busy street. Magenta-colored clergy shirts (and lime green and butterscotch and tan and yellow and various shades of plaids) mingle with skateboard-riding teenagers, many of them sporting hair colors which would make punk rockers proud. Grown men hug other grown men in the middle of the street while tank-top-clad young adults, homeless persons and young families look on.

It is impossible to walk very far along 16th Street, even while the convention is in session, and not see someone you know. Diners call to pedestrian friends from the many sidewalk cafes. Restaurants and shops seem to be full of Episcopalians. Buses, the only vehicles aside from police cars permitted on 16th Street, are full of American Anglicans. For a relatively small, comparatively insignificant church, Episcopalians seem to be taking over, even with a convention of physicists and other smaller gatherings in town.

"This is great," said a convention deputy from his perch at a sidewalk cafe. "If I stay here long enough I'll get to see the people I want to see."

Spirits along bustling 16th Street are high. People wave and hug and shake hands and engage in conversation, which must delight Presiding Bishop Frank T. Griswold. Temperatures as high as 100 degrees fail to wilt the delight of people who greet acquaintances they haven't seen for three years. Forgotten for a time are the inflammatory sexuality issues awaiting them back at the convention center.

Start preparing yourselves, people of Minneapolis, perhaps even folks in St. Paul. Episcopalians will be coming to see you in 2003. Reinforce the skywalks, bring in extra help at the Mall of America, open up some sidewalk cafes. They'll take over your town for a couple of weeks but you'll get it back. They're nice people, they'll spend money, and they'll want to see everything you've got to offer.

General Convention. There's nothing quite like it.

David Kalvelage, executive editor