I grew up Pentecostal, the kind of Pentecostal that believed God could speak through dreams, tongues, and the occasional awkward silence between altar calls. We were the kind of church folks who believed in the Book of Acts like it just happened last Tuesday — the fire, the rushing wind, the miracles, and the warnings. We sang about being strangers in a strange land, pilgrims just passing through. And if there was one thing we were sure of, it was this: God didn’t need Washington to get His work done....