There was a church that called itself

The Tabernacle of Love. I stood

outside it once to hear the singing.

There was a lot of unison.

But a couple of voices were louder than

the others, and either above or below

by half a step, the note. A third

called out the verses in a kind

of hastened chant. It wasn't much

of a tabernacle, the windows were plain

and the light that entered them went straight

and uncolored into the room. I stood

outside and listened. The preacher, when

the singing wore down and ceased, sounded

unpolished—there was a wavering

in his voice—but I can tell you one thing

I've thought about. Some people I know

who are perfectly intelligent

would find this too emotional.

They're not the kind to be engaged

in this sort of thing, and I can see

it isn't ever lasting glory

that's going on in there, and no one

is going to be illuminated.

It isn't going to change the world,

these people standing around singing,

some of them crying and whimpering

and some not knowing why they're there.