It was late enough in both the season and the evening to gather out on the deck. A month earlier I wouldn’t have asked a Yankee to endure our Florida heat while dressed in a wool suit.

“We’ll start in the South,” Krissy said, tossing a stack of documents on the table. “People in the South love dynamic preachers and are more inclined to believe in miracles -- by the way, deputy Jericho will be going to at least a few locations with us, although we had to pay him more than we wanted. I should say former deputy. You knew he had to quit his job, didn‘t you?”

I didn’t know, but it didn‘t surprise me. Everyone associated with me had become persona no grata. I could imagine him being harassed. I remembered seeing him in civilian clothes at our last gathering. “I’m surprised I didn’t hear. You say ‘he had to quit.’ What were they doing to him?”

“That’s the funny thing,” Collins said. “He put up with the teasing, bad shifts, being denied vacation time even though he had the days. At first he just took it and kept his mouth shut, but then he started responding by witnessing, reading scripture to his co-workers and praying for them out loud. The chief told him he had to stop and when he didn’t, it was resign or be fired. He resigned and filed suit.”

I stood and walked to the edge of the deck, looking out at the ocean, the water dark in the failing light. I wouldn’t have many more evenings like this. I wished Collins had asked me about bringing Jericho on board. I sympathized with his situation but I didn’t want our tour to focus on the right to witness in the workplace. If I didn’t have creative control, this wasn’t going to work for me. I’d bail and go to Canada fulltime. I also didn’t want to be cast as a miracle worker. There was nothing miraculous in turning Jericho around. He was ready, the spirit was present and I helped him say come on in. That’s not a miracle. That’s business as usual. God’s Spirit is always there waiting to fill us as soon as we say we’re hungry.

I heard Ms. Collins coming across the deck in her high heels, following my path and standing close at the rail. I continued to stare straight out at the ocean, enjoying the sound of surf I could barely see as the sun set and the moon took over.

“The water is dark and beautiful in the moonlight,” she said. “Just enough light to see motion on the surface, but what’s happening below remains a mystery. … Is something going on below the surface with you Dietrich? Is something bothering you?”

“Not really,” I said. “I just want you to remember this is my show. I have to be comfortable with what we do or it won’t work. There are issues and ways of thinking common in some corners of Christianity that simply aren’t part of my belief system, or on my agenda. I have to have control of that. I want our message to be focused like a laser beam. Understand?”

“Yes pastor,” she said. “You’re the boss. I apologize. I’m so used to running my television show … if you don’t want Mr. Jericho we’ll pay him off and--”

“No, we can use him. He’s a good young man. I’ll speak with him so we’re all on the same page.”

“And I’ll be more than glad to go over my testimony with you too,” she said. “I’m sincere when I say you changed my life. I never meant to put my judgment above yours.”

I turned and looked in her eyes. She wanted this for reasons beyond creating a successful production. I knew that. An urgency had appeared in her face and voice when she thought she’d failed to please me. I put my arm around her shoulder and walked her back to our chairs. “We can review the details of the tour later,” I said. “Let’s talk first about what’s going to happen tomorrow morning.”

Ms. Collins had used the word “natural” to describe how they wanted our Sunday morning gathering to look on camera -- the same as usual. But when I arrived at 9 a.m. the production crew had already erected two camera scaffolds on the beach. I recalled her saying they would use steady cams and stay inconspicuous. Oh well, I thought, at least we have the permits this time.

The Beach Patrol had cordoned off a large area for us, but all the close parking spots beyond the yellow tape were already filled. Was it me they were coming to see? I was only a celebrity because Ms. Collins said I was. I’d been here preaching many times since the TV appearance and it had never been like this. They were coming to see her, or just to be part of a big event. I thought back to our first meeting here, to Mary’s memorial. Why had people come that day? To honor her? Partly. But mostly because her passing reminded them of their emptiness, and they didn’t want to die feeling empty. I showed them how to be filled -- through water and the word -- and as more and more were filled, the Spirit’s presence increased among us. But we remained relatively few. How many present today were looking to be filled? How many were here just for the show? Is spiritual showman to be my future? How often had the fires of doubt been extinguished only to flare up again? Once more God spoke to me, reminding me that what people come for and what they leave with don’t have to be the same.

Inside the bar, Jerry was setting up for business. He came to me, his arms spread wide to deliver a bear hug. “Gonna be a big morning,” he said. “I just wanted to say hi and tell you I have a list of names, people interested in going to Canada with you. I’ll get it to you later. No time right now. Lots to do. We’ll have quite a crowd in here after the gathering. Ms. Collins ordered up a bunch of food for her crew and all your people. Pretty soon, my friend, I’ll be one of the little guys in your rearview mirror so I want to thank you now for letting me be part of this … anyway, back to work; gotta help the girls finish stocking the bar.”

Jerry had three bartenders on the job and a few people were in the stools enjoying an “eye-openers” or Bloody Marys. Outside on the deck I spotted Ms. Collins with two of her sound techs going over the set up with our musicians. The production crew had brought a more powerful P.A. system, which made sense in light of the bigger crowd. At least we weren’t being pressured to replace our trio with a 16-piece band and a chorus of singers. Not today anyway.

For the moment I was alone. Wearing the same white linen suit I’d worn for Mary’s memorial, I sat at the bar and pulled my notes from the jacket pocket. I had titled my talk, “The Whole is Greater than the Sum of its Parts.” If you want to rise to the heights of God’s spirit, I would tell them, don’t try to go up alone. Take someone with you. I would begin with a metaphor on mountain climbing -- how a team of climbers can scale heights an individual could never dream of. I reviewed my main points and put the paper back in my pocket. Out past the deck, past the beach where a thousand would soon stand, the ocean was its steady self, impervious, no different than if we weren’t here at all, yet speaking directly to me in its eternal voice. Wave after wave of its watery jewels washed ashore, sparkling green under the climbing sun and turning to clear crystal as they spread before us on the sand. That voice, I thought, always speaking but rarely heard. I closed my eyes so I wouldn’t be distracted by the majestic sight of sand, sun and shining sea, and simply listened to the voice in the crashing surf. As each wave reached the shore, I could hear God’s Spirit saying over and over, “you are me, you are me, you are me …”

I opened my eyes to see the sand below the deck filling up. Some had set up folding chairs, others stood talking in small groups. Whatever their reason for coming, whether they came dressed in shorts, teeshirts, swimsuits or Sunday finery, I would do my best for them. I was ready and at peace.

But the enemies of peace never rest. “Well, well,” I heard behind me, “if it isn’t the famous pastor Waymire, or I should say Mr. Waymire, all dressed up in his fancy white suit and ready to meet his fans.” I knew that voice, and swiveled around to meet his sneer with a smile.

“Good morning reverend,” I said to Big Walt. “Glad you could come by.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t miss this … spectacle … for the world,” he said.

I saw my father and mother enter and looked away from the big preacher to get their attention. As they approached I returned to dealing with the barking dog.

“A spectacle? Is that what you call it? Well, yes, we have a few cameras here today,” I said. “But that doesn’t change the basics of what we’re doing, which is worshipping and inviting God’s spirit to be with us.”

“Worshipping? Huh!” If we had been outside I think he would have spit.

My parents stepped to my side and I looked away from Big Walt to greet them. But he wasn’t done with me.

“Tell me Mr. Waymire, you were once a fully ordained minister of the word, but it seems to me you selfishly squandered that authority. So tell me, by whose authority do you do the things you do?”

“What things are those?”

“Preaching, baptizing.”

“”That’s funny,” I said. “It strikes me that when the Pharisees wanted to accuse Jesus, that’s the same thing they asked him: ‘By whose authority do you do these things?’”

“I can’t believe your, your egotism … now you’re comparing yourself to Jesus?”

“No, I’m not,” I said. “I was comparing you to the Pharisees.”

Now he was in a full rage. I wanted to laugh but I held back. He stepped toward me, meaning I think to intimidate me with his hulking frame, calling me “an arrogant punk.” As he stepped close a glow of light enveloped him, almost blinding me. Had he been blocking that light before or had Jerry turned on some kind of spotlight? I could see Walt’s mouth moving, twisted and venomous, but I couldn’t make out his words.

That’s when I saw her, the woman who had appeared on the beach the day we baptized deputy Jericho, stepping out of the light from behind the ranting reverend. She was wearing a simple white sun dress. I don’t know why I thought of it, but I recalled that first Sunday she wore a black frock. She stepped between Big Walt and me, said “Shhh,” and touched his lips with two fingers. His mouth continued to move for several seconds but no sounds came forth. She pointed to a chair nearby and he dutifully sat in silence. What had I just witnessed? I would have thought it would take a gun to shut him up.

“Good morning brother Dietrich,” she said. Her cooling smile blew away the hot air Big Walt had left.

“Good morning,” I replied. “You have the advantage. I remember you, but I never did learn who you are.”

“I think you know Shakespeare, brother Dietrich. Remember when Hamlet tells his friend there’s more in heaven and earth than is found in his philosophy?”

“Yes, I do know that passage.”

“Well, I’m a part of that more,” she said, “but you can call me sister Sophia.” “Alright, sister Sophia, is there something I can do for you this morning?”

“Actually, I’ve come to help you.”

“Help is always welcome. How do you propose to help?”

“It came to our attention that you were worried about leaving behind your little flock here in Florida. We didn’t want you to be distracted from your mission -- or should I say missions -- so I’m here on a temporary assignment to help continue your ministry on the beach.”

“That’s very kind of you,” I said, “but my father, pastor John, has agreed to take over for me.” I turned to my dad and said, “John Waymire, I’d like you to meet sister--”

“Oh,” she said, “we’ve been knowing John for a long, long time. I know we’ll work well together.”

She put her arms around my father and, watching his reaction, I thought maybe he did know her. She released him and turned to me. “Are we going to do any baptisms this morning? I love baptisms.”

“If anyone asks for it, we certainly will,” I said.

“Oh, I’m confident they will,” she told me, and I believed her.

Ms. Collins came in off the deck with a tech who fitted me with a wireless microphone. Through the open windows I saw our congregation waiting. One thousand may have been an underestimate.

Krissy put her hands on my arms and asked, “Are you ready.”

“I’ve never been more ready,” I said.

“OK,” she said, “just to review. We enter on the opening song. When it’s over, you give the welcome, then introduce me and I give my testimony. We sing again. Then you do your message, followed by a song from your trio, another song from the people and … I guess that’s it.”

“Don’t forget the baptisms,” sister Sophia said.

Ms. Collins glanced quickly at her, then back at me. “Yes,” I said, “I’m sure some will want to be baptized.”

“And we’ll do that in the ocean?”

“Yes.”

“That’ll be great. We can use shots like … sorry, I’m always thinking like a producer.”

“Don’t worry,” I reassured her. “We’re all in this together. I pulled myself to my full height and straightened my shirt where it tucks in my slacks.

“You look fantastic,” Ms. Collins said.

“Then let’s not keep them waiting,” I said.

I had chosen One in the Spirit for our opening song. I nodded to the band and they began to play. The people joined in, loud and enthusiastic, a sea of smiling faces lit with assurance. As they reached the chorus, “and they’ll know we are Christians by our love,” I slid open the door and walked onto the deck, singing along and clapping my hands above my head. In my heart I whispered a prayer, “God bless them, God bless us, and may thy will be done.”