But as I smoothed my hair and leered at my victim in a preparatory manner, I was distracted by the sudden appearance, inches above his head, of a large angel. An angel, I might add, of quite breathtaking vulgarity. Six feet tall, radiant from head to sandaled toe, and carrying a harp. He regarded me steadily, his lips fluted in a sort of celestial smirk. The word “otiose,” which I had been preparing to deploy, froze on my tongue. I heard murmurs from the audience. Was this a vision? A seizure? Some species of grand mal? The angel frowned slightly and made a small circular motion with his hand, as if to indicate that I should “get it rolling,” and I found myself suddenly and uncontrollably in full rhetorical spate, castigating and humiliating the unfortunate Baptist. My heart, as you might imagine, was not exactly in it.

I will spare you the confusion of the weeks that followed. Suffice it to say that the angel accompanied me on my book tour with more constancy than the most devoted fan. At every debate, at every reading, in every radio station or television studio, there he was — either hovering superciliously or (far more irritating) cooling his heels in the front row. And that was not the worst of it. Faced with a particularly indignant clergyman in Dallas, I felt my chest flooding with alien sensations of charity, as if I had eaten a curry rather too fast. Filled with fraternal love, I seized the man, embraced him, and promised him that we were all children in the sight of the Lord — I could not tell which of us was the more alarmed. On another occasion, I caught myself giving silent thanks before the glory of a sunset. Compared with these moments, I don’t mind telling you, the presence of a harp-carrying angel at my side was a picnic. I began — dare I say it? — to have doubts about my Doubt. What if . . . ? What if . . . ? Hour by hour, I monitored my unbelief, as a hypochondriac takes his own temperature.

But nothing lasts forever: on that point, at least, the proud skeptic and the addled theophile can agree. As suddenly as the symptoms of faith came on, they subsided. One day, somewhere deep in the waistband of the country, I glanced up from the lectern and saw that my angel was gone — not airborne, not seated, just . . . gone. A woman in the audience was in the process of inviting me to her church, where she assured me that all my blasphemies would be forgiven. I looked at her round, unsuspicious face and felt — Heaven be praised — a surge of the old contempt. What fun I was going to have with her! I smoothed my hair and took a belt of the refreshment. Crisis over. Like the Terminator, I was back.

Yrs ever,
Hitch