The voices grew louder and louder as the crowd became more animated. Then a man stepped onto the raised platform that spanned the front of the building, where he picked up an electric guitar and slung the strap over his shoulder. He plugged the cord into the base of the guitar, softly strummed a couple of chords, and adjusted the knobs of an amplifier. Then, turning to face the congregation, he struck a powerful blast on the guitar and let it ring and reverberate through the building as he beamed a great smile out upon the crowd. This was the opening call to worship.

I looked closely at the man. He appeared to be well into middle age—maybe late fifties or early sixties. He was dressed in work clothes—matching blue cotton pants and shirt—the kind of clothes worn by mechanics and shop workers all over the country. Above the pocket of his shirt was an oval white name tag, but from where I was seated I couldn’t read the inscribed name.

In spite of his age he was a powerfully built man, with broad shoulders, long muscled arms, a narrow waist, and long legs. He had a thick head of white hair combed back in an elaborate 1950s-style pompadour.

He looked out upon the crowd again and struck another powerful chord that sent vibrations resonating through the building. The buzz of voices died to a low hum. The people moved from the aisle and into the pews, but no one sat. The ones who had been sitting got to their feet, and everyone looked forward expectantly.

The man on stage looked out across the faces before him and let his eyes play across, and touch, every individual. Then, lifting his head and eyes to the ceiling, he tore into a scalding guitar riff that was so intense it seemed as though it would peel the very paint from the walls. The man’s fingers flew across the strings of the instrument like they were possessed by a will of their own. The music that cascaded from the guitar pulled a collective sound of awe from the throats of the people. More than a sigh, it was a prolonged gasp of admiration. Or was it, perhaps, exaltation?

Striking the final note, his head lifted and eyes closed, he worked the neck of the guitar until he had milked every last fading decibel from the pulsating string.

The place went hush—utterly quiet. The man opened his eyes, and with a beatific smile on his rugged face he addressed the crowd in a voice that was no less powerful and rich than the sound that came from his guitar.

“The Bible tells us.”

He struck a twanging chord, threw back his head, and called out in a loud voice.

“To make a joyful noise—unto the Lord!”

Another chord . . .

“Can I get an amen here?”