There's a crazy stretch of highway on my commute where NPR suddenly dissolves away and the voice of a preacher booms out. It lasts only a few seconds, so I never get much of what he's saying before Bob Edwards fizzles back, but I do know this - he's got great audio engineers.

They make him sound like he's preaching from a packed, humid amphitheater. Of course, he could be for all I know, but the point is, that subtle concert hall sound - that miniscule reverb from big walls - makes you imagine all kinds of things. I can see velvet seats too warm to sit in comfortably with shorts and short sleeved shirts. I see sweaty faces turned up to face him, fanned by bulletin board handouts and prayer books. I see young children asleep, splayed out in their mother's arms. I see thick glasses that have slid down the nose of men near the age of retirement.

You can't help but listen and think, "Well shit, he must know what he's talking about, because they don't let just anyone preach from a concert hall. Do they?"