But as the song transitioned into its bridge, the tempo shifted. The choir rose behind Hammond, a wall of vocal strength that seemed to push back against the shadows of the empty room.
The heavy wooden doors of the sanctuary creaked open, but Marcus didn’t look up. He sat on the front pew, his head buried in his hands. The eviction notice in his pocket felt like it was burning a hole through his jeans. After twelve years of loyal service, the factory had closed, and Marcus felt the walls of his life closing in with it.
The church was empty, save for the faint hum of the air conditioning and the dust motes dancing in the afternoon light. Marcus felt a desperate need for something—a sign, a word, a reason to keep his head up.
"It won't work," he whispered. Then louder. "It won't work!"
The opening chords of "No Weapon" began to fill the quiet space. Fred Hammond’s voice, smooth yet grounded in a deep, unshakable authority, began to pulse through the speakers. “No weapon formed against me shall prosper...”
Marcus walked out of the church ten minutes later. The sun was setting, painting the sky in defiant oranges and purples. He still had to call the landlord. He still had to find a job. But as he started his car, he hit the back button on the CD player.
