He's shaky, he knows he's new. He admits he's scared within the first few lines. Everyone can tell he's not quite sure of himself, but he's been preparing his homily a long time. It shows.
The people cooperate, with polite laughs and nods here and there. He rolls forward with the passionate energy every twenty-something has, once they find their niche. There's a dash of sweat on his forehead, he's trying hard to remember exactly which lines to quote, which verses to cite, and how to bundle them all together.
He wants to enlighten the masses. He doesn't want to convert, but to preach. Each word he says feels more like the inherent simplicity of Gandhi or Confucius than a Papal encyclical. Somehow, he pulls it off. His words reach those gathered there to listen. They're simple, elegant, and transcend his light accent and slightly jumbled grammar. His eyes shine over the smile on his face, knowing he's reached the people. He's done God's work.
Now to wake up tomorrow, and keep doing it.
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