[When asked if he used to go onstage dressed as Jesus with a watercolour beard]

He was young and black and beautiful big eyed, perfect skin an' he played my guitar like a lightning storm like twirlin' feathers in the wind he could make it sound like the end of the world a fire, the flick of a knife he could squeeze it slow and masterful like the hand that brought the world to life

from the stage, I could see his eyes lighting up and

I was completely dumbfounded but I actually had this vision of . . . of Jesus, and I'm sure it was Jesus. [...] But it wasn't this crazy theological thing; it was just this figure who was the most perfected human being - full of light and full of love. And completely accessible. Any of us could be like that. There was light coming out of him holographically, simply because he was unclouded. But any of us could become that as human beings.

When a man makes a reverent face before a face that is no face — that is idol worship!

He attracted the eyes of the whole congregation by the fervency with which he sent up his prayers to Heaven.

The heart of Jesus glowed, because it was holy. Holy things glowed in general.

"He was like a worn small rock whelmed by the successive waves of his voice. With his body he seemed to feed that voice that, succubus like, had fleshed its teeth in him. And the congregation seemed to watch with its own eyes while the voice consumed him, until he was nothing and they were nothing and there was not even a voice but instead their hearts were speaking to one another in chanting measures beyond the need for words, so that when he came to rest again against the reading desk, his monkey face lifted and his whole attitude that of a serene, tortured crucifix that transcended its shabbiness and insignificance and made it of no moment, a long moaning expulsion of breath rose from them, and a woman's — woman's single soprano: "Yes, Jesus!

He was just there, looking fantastic... the bastard.

A soul as white as Heaven.

He had a face like a benediction.

Even if they were society's pariahs, they were going to be angels in a marble white heaven and sit on the right hand of Jesus, the Son of God.

He pulled away, but his eyes held my eyes like hands.

No money shots! No shifting, grinding, joyfully thrusting crotch shots. It didn’t matter. It was all there in his eyes, his face, the face of a Saturday night jukebox Dionysus, the shimmying eyebrows and rocking band.