Visiting or itinerant preachers drove late-model Cadillacs of all colors and their wives wore tailored, two-piece suits and sported longish nails, a practice which meant no hard work, thank you, maybe some light dusting round the house is all. When they were home, that is. When they could book 30 weeks in a year's time, they travelled those 30 weeks. One preacher sang very well--a deep, rich voice--and his wife played the Wurlitzer. Memorable melodies with flourish and flair. We in the congregation were duly impressed by these talents and such unparalleled sophistication before our eyes in our own sanctuary.

The magic one felt was sort of like the atmosphere of an ice house in the middle of a tropical town--nimble, brisk. The couples led what seemed to be glamourous lives. The congregation led factory, storeclerk and firefighter lives.
These men of God, men on the move, weren't really preachers who, traditionally, are poor. These were evangelists who'd established themselves by oratorical and social excellence. Good track records.

In the end everybody profited--souls were saved, money changed hands, our cultural quotient rose another rung or two, and the piano had got tuned again. But even better, love once more had prevailed in our midst and, just as planned and predicted, we'd been redeemed and revived by the Blood of bloods.