The man, the myth, the legend. Chattanooga's Rob Robinson. Photo by Luke Laeser
Dressed in around-the-back-yard hospital scrubs and knit shirt, Robinson is incapable of passing on the chance to insert humor into every situation. He does so, heart proudly on the sleeve, with the assumption that you’re not a Bible-thumpin, sexual prude. This being Easter Sunday our water bottles would no sooner turn into wine flasks than we would chance upon the devout. All those good folks are up-river, filling the white little Baptist churches bursting at their holy holler seams. He may have risen, but our Easter services begin and end on the sandstone sermons writ large on the wall, rising under our own effort with the miracle of cams to save our souls.
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