The congregation has disappeared, scattered to the four winds; the preacher left town, on to different pastures. The walls of the church stand.
America is covered in churches. Colossal cathedrals and simple wooden structures, they are everywhere; every denomination, every sort of building style, all up and down every road and country lane. I am moved to photograph the handmade churches. These buildings are folk art, built to hold the Mighty Power Of God in a modest and fragile package. Once, I am certain, the builders of these churches kneeled and prayed and knew that salvation would be theirs. If you listen carefully, on the right kind of day, you can hear the choir singing and the preacher preaching, hands clapping in unison bringing it all back home, another church on another American highway.