from which he drew to generate the climax of his message. Just as the tip of the index finger on his right hand hit its apex raised well above his head, his alto voice climbing fiercely upwards toward the balcony and pinching the delicate eardrums of Mrs. Earnestine Mason, two recent attention-payers in the back row yelled, “Amen!” in agreement, as if to compensate for their nodding off. A rare performance indeed, the preacher so surprising himself that he suddenly proclaimed an alter call. Not until the deacons rose did the faithful begin to rustle, and although it took nearly five minutes, and one extended rendition of “Come As You Are” by the Ladies Ensemble, for the pressure to pry some of the members from their pews, nearly the entire congregation came forward and knelt for prayer. Earlier in his tenure they had mentioned to him that the newly formed Worship Committee, composed of a dutifully serving member of each Sunday School department from the Young Adult Unmarrieds on up to the Methuselahs, had decided he should stand and greet the congregation in the vestibule after the Benediction, and made it clear that he position himself on the right hand side of the large door, and not the left. Some had taken issue with the long line generated when the previous interim pastor, who served only one solitary Sunday, parked himself outside the smaller side door of the sanctuary, which clogged the exit and made folks late for lunch. During the Benediction, a lovely vocal number offered softly by Mrs. Mason who had come down from the balcony, Brother McDermott headed toward the side aisle, gauging he could turn sideways if need be to fit his girth. Mrs. Mason eyed him from behind the microphone as if to say, “This is an appropriate volume, pastor.” He managed, and as he passed each pew tried not to make eye contact with those more curious than pious. He planted himself in the center of the vestibule, just as he was told, and waited. He confirmed that his top suit button was fastened
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