"It was the summer of 1977. I was fresh out of high school, living on my own, generally disinterested in the church but not yet an atheist. Once a month I attended the church I grew up in, and sat with my parents. They'd be happy to see me in church, and afterwards I could score a good Sunday dinner and use the washing machine.Elvis Presley had died a few days earlier, and to my surprise the pastor mentioned it as he began his sermon.Except he didn't eulogize Elvis; he ripped the dear departed icon a new one. “He called himself The King. Well, he was the King of nothing. There is only one King, and that is Jesus.” he said. After about five minutes of Elvis-bashing and equating rock and roll to blasphemy,a Danny Wiggins stood up and said “You're just wrong. Elvis was a good man. He sang Christian music when he wasn't singing rock and roll and he never set himself up as a competitor to Christ. Everything you're saying about him is just not true.” And with that, Danny walked out of the sanctuary and out of the building, while the pastor and a few church elders called out after him. From a different section of the sanctuary, an older woman and her husband took their toddler and wordlessly followed Wiggins out, while the pastor stood and sputtered at the pulpit. After a minute, he looked at his notes and resumed his sermon from the point he'd left off but the modern Exodus continued: two young men I didn't know walked out, followed a few minutes later by the only black guy in the congregation, and after that by a couple in their 40s. By the time the sermon ended, eleven people had left. Several of the church's younger members who hadn't stormed out gave the pastor a piece of their mind afterwards. That's my happiest memory of attending church. That minister had always been a mean old man, and he gave his congregation a choice — believe in God or believe in music. Several of them made a choice he hadn't expected. It was a Sunday that really rocked the church, pun intended."