Slow, aerial pan over a large city. Hover briefly over church after church, some large, some small, some traditional, some megachurches.
Bass drums start, barely audible, rhythmically throbbing, gradually increasing in intensity as the commentator speaks.
"Since our inception, we have touched the lives of thousands of people."
"Where there has been darkness, we have been the light."
"In times of war, we have heralded peace."
The aerial camera rolls toward one particularly pleasant looking church. Its doors are swinging open in invitation. We are beginning to catch a glimpse of mahogany pews inside, of smiling faces turned toward us.
"We take the love of God with us, wherever we go."
"And sometimes we go it alone."
The camera banks to the right, narrowly missing the church, and we are flying, slowing, over ghettos, over an abandoned cemetery, coming to rest in the midst of a small group of men and women, bundled against the cold. They sit on overturned milk crates, sharing coffee and laughing with other men and women in tattered clothes -- vagrants, the homeless, society's castaways.
A Bible is propped open on an old card table and a man reads, haltingly, looking up for encouragement after each word, while friendly faces smile and nod.
Light music mixed with the sounds of the city, honking horns, whining subway cars, swells to a medium crescendo.
"When Jesus was resurrected from the dead, he came to his disciples, even behind locked doors."
The sound of laughing children mixes into the city sounds, the music, the throbbing drums.
"We are the Body of Christ ...
The camera backs away from the assembled group, just enough to reveal the backs of church buildings, doors closed and windows barred.