He paused for a moment's silence, then in the perfect still of a sanctuary at prayer, a voice cuts through, clearly. "I am the bread of love," it--she--says. An old woman wearing the headphones from the "hearing assistance available" shelf--it was a detail that seems important--is standing at the back of one of the aisles. She walks forward, slowly, with the speed of a new walker. "I am the bread of love." Over and over again, confidently, in a voice that carries through the entire church. Not so difficult, it's terribly quiet. She doesn't break rhythm, it's perfectly regular. "I am the bread of love." step, step. "I am the bread of love."
Gently, she's lead to the back of the church, but she finishes her circuit first, going in front of the first pew, past the choir. "I am the bread of love. I am the bread of love. I am the bread of love."
She says it one last time, then is led out the door, and we hear nothing else, the message over. There is a few seconds of silence--embarrassed, awed, reflective, I don't know, that's up to the individual.
The minister gets ready for his sermon. "If we must hear voices," he says, "That is a pretty good one."
Moments like these must be why the old and a little mad were considered sacred.