Brother Dewey Sparks

Brother Dewey Sparks brings the Hidden Light Revival every Sunday at nine, sweating through the same gray suit he has worn for as long as anyone has a tape of him. He preaches a tent-revival gospel that turns out to be Gnostic if you write the sermons down and read them sober. The god of this world, he hollers, is middle management. The kingdom is in. The gate cannot hold you and was never built to. He passes a collection plate that comes back fuller than it left, which nobody at the station has chosen to investigate. The tent is invisible. He'll tell you that himself, first thing, like a man giving you the weather. He has never once explained where the folding chairs go between Sundays, and the congregation, whoever they are, files out into a parking lot that is not there.