The Reverend Kirk stood in the center of the chancel and listened, holding up one hand for silence. The noise went on.

The Reverend Kirk looped the stole over his high collar and marched to the pulpit with it fluttering as a crimson stripe against his brushed black suit. The pulpit was a little platform raised three steps above the level of the congregation. He solemnly climbed the steps and bowed his head, then lifted his arms in a stiff V, palms out to signify, once again, silence. The murmuring continued longer than he liked. “Brothers and sisters,” he began. There was still some muttering in the back. A boot banged against a wooden pew. “Brothers and sisters, let us pray to Jesus.”

But before he could say anything more, a tall figure in gray swooped into the chancel from a side door and began to speak. “We can talk to Jesus by and by!” the gray preacher, Ivanhoe Grant, shouted. His voice had a high melody to it. The shout soared over their heads and hung there, resonating against the pulse of the congregation.

The Reverend Kirk could feel their eyes turning toward the interloper. He opened his mouth, but the words he heard were Ivanhoe Grant’s.

“Before we talk to Jee-sus, we got to talk to each other. Jee-sus doesn’t want to hear us whine and wail and bawl like little babies in the crib. Jee-sus wants us to settle our business. Jee-sus wants us to help ourselves!”

The responses were tentative, muted.

“Amen.”

“That’s the word.”

“Help ourselves, Lord Jesus.”

The Reverend Kirk said, “What right have you to come in here—?”

Grant turned on him with fury. “I am a preacher of the Lord! I have been called to preach to my people in their hour of trial!”

“Tell the word.”

“Preaching in the hour of trial.”

The Reverend Kirk felt the soul of his congregation escaping him. He could not hold them. He stood in the pulpit, nonplussed. Ivanhoe Grant was glowing. He stalked the chancel, and his whole body shone with a nimbus of light. Even Kirk could not take his eyes off him. All he could think was that it must be some sort of evil trick.

“I’m talking about earthly business, friends. The work of this world.”

“Tell about the work!”

“We all working for the Lord!”

Grant clasped his hands, bowed his head, and whispered so that they had to strain in absolute stillness to hear. “There is no more work.”

Then he said it louder: “There is no more work.” Then he thundered it into their faces: “There is no more work!” They shrank back. “The man has taken away your work.”

“The man!”

“Pity the workingman!”

The Reverend Kirk said, “Now hold on, don’t go stirring up—”

“Ah, yes!” Grant turned on him again, hissing. “Lower your eyes, boy. Yassuh, boss. No suh, cap’n. I don’t be needin’ no work, boss!”