23

7

There.  Up the road a piece, about a distance of half a mile, the steeple of a church peeks out through a clump of trees.

CYRIL grins in eager anticipation.  At last he has reached his destination.  He nods to the ANCIENT BLACK SHARECROPPER, indicating for him to speed up.

The ANCIENT BLACK SHARECROPPER flicks the reigns sharply, makes a clicking sound with his mouth, shifting the draft horse into high gear.  Then we HEAR something in the distance, faintly at first, growing louder and louder.  A  GOSPEL CHOIR is SINGING a rollicking FOOT-STOMPING, HAND CLAPPING version of “This Little Light Of Mine.”

INT. BLACK BAPTIST CHURCH. DAY.

The members of the purple-robed GOSPEL CHOIR make a Joyful Noise unto the Lord.  They are SINGING their hearts out and raising the roof on the small church.

The packed CONGREGATION of poor sharecropping families STOMP their feet and CLAP their hands as they SING along with the choir.  They are attired in their Sunday-go-to-meeting finery: homemade cotton dresses on the women; many of the men wear starched overalls.

The shepherd of the flock, PASTOR MILLER, 40s, heavyset, grins from ear-to-ear as he claps his hands and sways to the beat in front of the church.  He is a true country-preacher to the bone—someone that loves hearing the singsong cadence of his own baritone voice as much as he loves the act of sermonizing.