Before the festivities began, I took a seat next to an old woman who already had her checkbook splayed and pen in hand ; a bribe for Saint Peter no doubt. After a few torturous Christian power ballads, complete with Jefferson Airplane-era psychedelic imagery projected onto screens stretched above the stage, it was time for the sermon. Pastor Jerry Gillis, dressed in khakis and a green plaid shirt, took to the stage for an informal rap session. From the view of him on the big screens, I would have to say his head is nearly 15 feet wide: a truly great man. Armed with both a clip-on shirt microphone and redundant headset mic, Gillis delivered his hip-thirty-something-you-can-relate-to-me-because-I’m-sitting-cross-legged-on-a-stool anecdotes to the mixed crowd of gray-hairs and younger couples. He invoked the names of Jesus and Corey Hart with a relaxed vigor.
