“Come on, Bobo. Of course it will. It’s a small church. Not many people even attend. It’d help me out if you’d do it. I’ve got to drive to Georgia. It’ll save me three days.”

Foolishly, I agreed and accepted the typewritten sermon. Its title was “This Little Light of Mine” and it was about the power of every person—regardless of who they were or what they did—to penetrate the darkness of sin with the light of goodness. A lot of little lights make a blinding glow, Raymond had reasoned, long before George Bush got the idea.

“You’re going to be one of those little lights for me,” Raymond said proudly. “I’ll be thinking about you while I’m on the road. I’ll probably be in Virginia when you’re speaking.”

Raymond was a man of great faith. He did not consider that some little lights get snuffed out by the winds of absurdity.

The lay leader of the church, a man named George Arrington, stopped by The Cave early on Sunday, after breakfast, and gave me a ride to the church. We met the pianist. “Don’t worry about a thing,” George said confidently. “I’ll handle everything except the sermon.” We took our seats behind the pulpit while the pianist played softly. And then they came. Not the few my brother had promised, but a crowd so large they filled every seat and stood along the back walls.

“My heavens,” George whispered. “Who are these people?”

The people were from the Pine Hill Inn, the guests who occupied my dining room. All of them. Nora Dowling and Carter had led them in. I saw Amy sitting with her parents, and Mrs. Mendelson, who, that morning, had complained again of her boiled egg. I saw the Schwartzes, the Cohens, the Levins, the Garfunkles. All of them were there.

“Do you know any of them?” George asked.

I nodded nervously.

“Some of them look Jewish,” George said.

“They are,” I told him.

A worried frown crossed George’s brow. Then he mumbled, “Well, they’ll get a chance to hear about Jesus, won’t they?”

I thought: Hear about Jesus? Not unless I do it in Yiddish.

Nora Dowling was overdressed. She sat proudly erect, knowing that she would be watched and imitated by the guests of the Inn. Harry and Avrum were sitting near her. Harry was trying to distract me and I determined not to look at him. I looked, instead, at Amy. She was beautiful. There, sitting behind the pulpit of a small, rustic church, I could sense her close to me, holding me. Her mouth was on my mouth, her body pinned to my body. I could smell the perfume of her hair. Her hands rubbed the muscles of my back.

“Praise Jesus,” George said softly. He smiled at me. “Let us begin.”