I make my way to the bloodred chair in the front of the room. This can’t be a good sign, I think to myself when I notice it’s the only one of its color. Rebellious paganism compels me to sit anyways. Others start filtering in wearing their forced smiles and chatting along the way. When most people are seated, Bryce walks up to the front and introduces Jim, who I learn is an old friend of his family’s. Bryce beams with pride recalling precious memories. The lights dim and Jim begins his performance.

I’ve been to many churches in Cleveland, but I’ve never heard singing like this before. “He’s our saviorrrr,” Jim sings. “He walks with us,” he continues. It’s the whitest music I’ve ever witnessed in my life. In our churches, everyone gets to shouting and a-clapping and a-catching the Holy Ghost like it’s a festival in New Orleans. Beads of sweat roll angrily down the pastor’s dark brown face, landing in his handkerchief, which is already soaked from hours of prayer. The pastor gyrates and moans into the microphone, “Well, I wanna tell ya’ll something tonight. Can I tell you something? The lawwwd gave his only begotten son so that we may live out our lives on this good earth. And the lawwwd is the only saving grace in this world of sin. Can I get a hallelujah? Can I get an amen?”