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AMERICA’S PASTOR

Billy and I descended on New York City at the same time, the summer of 1957. He was thirty-e ight and about to clinch his reputation as the premier evangelist of twentieth-c entury America. I was twelve and about to taste freedom. But not that summer. One humid night my parents packed themselves and me—e ntirely without my permission—i nto a subway car bound for Madison Square Garden. The Great Man was preaching.

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