On the morning of July 14th, 1940, Henry rose at three-thirty as was his custom, ate the breakfast Sara had left covered on the stove, dressed in his denim overalls and the hard hat with the carbide lantern fixed to the front, kissed his sleeping wife on the temple, and set out across the shanty town toward the wooded mountainside. He was walking toward the mine. He was walking toward something else entirely.

How Film and Television Borrow the Faith They Refuse to Believe A lit lantern glows on the bare floorboards of a dark, empty room; shadowy figures wait in the doorway beyond. There is a particular ache that comes from watching enough television. You start to notice the shape of a thing before you can name it, the way you notice a draft in a house before you find the window it comes through. For anyone who takes the faith seriously, the draft has a familiar chill: the Christia