Tom Lake: LUTZ — In the church on the stage by a tall white cross stood a man with a red guitar. He flexed his facial muscles as he played, the way guitarists do when they reach a crescendo, and the sound was swift and warm, like a solar wind. In his abandon he jerked the neck so hard that the capo went flying and bounced at his feet.
The man was Jeff Calhoun. He had searched a long time for the fleeting transcendence that comes when musicians lock together just right. He had tasted it in jazz clubs, in recording studios, at outdoor shows with the Lexington Philharmonic, but now he believed that feeling was nothing less than the physical presence of God.
Calhoun believed all good things were from God. He could see divine architecture in the curves of a lily and the seed patterns of a kiwi fruit. All through Scripture he could see people using their talents to glorify God: Solomon with the temple, David with the harp. Calhoun had a guitar, a Paul Reed Smith McCarty the color of a Lambert cherry, capable of emitting face-melting solos like those of Carlos Santana and Prince.
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