The next Sunday, at last, I made good on my promise to return to the Lighthouse Church. I came in behind Arch, alongside Averett and Walsh and Lonnie, Arch’s assistant. We were led up to a reserved pew right in front of the pulpit. The church was packed; people stood in the rear and along the side aisles. My shirt was already stained with sweat before Rev Joseph and Terrence entered from behind the altar.

The service began with a series of hymns and a raucous performance by the choir, backed both by the organ and a full band, with drums, bass, electric guitar, and a horn section. The dislocation I’d felt years before at Louella’s funeral came flooding back to me.

Terrence spoke first. His skills had matured over the years. In terms of charisma, he was every bit Arch’s equal. The words seemed almost irrelevant. I was keenly aware even then of the irony: how, if you stripped away race and economics, style and culture, Arch and Terrence could easily have traded places.

“Jesus tells us,” Terrence said, “render unto Caesar what is Caesar’s. We know what matters in the kingdom of heaven, don’t we?”

Amens cascaded from all around.

“But sometimes, we got to do God’s work in the voting booth, you feel me?”

There were nods and murmurs of assent. Everyone there knew where Terrence was going.

“We got a choice to make, and we got to pray about it,” he said. “We got two folks who can lead us. I’ve only seen one of them up in Bordeaux. He’s right here today. Him and me, we go way back. I know his heart. Y’all listen to what he has to say, hear me?”

The crowd grew still and quiet. Arch stood, and Terrence embraced him as if they were the best of friends. Arch took the microphone.

“Thank you, Terrence,” he said, “for allowing me to be here today and share a few words with you all about my vision for the future of our city.”

He paid appropriate homage to the history of the civil rights movement in Nashville, from the early years of Fisk, the legacy of W. E. B. DuBois and James Weldon Johnson and Aaron Douglas. If anyone took offense or even felt cynical about the blatant pandering, they didn’t let on. It was a dance with which all present were familiar.