DURING THE HYMN OF COMMITMENT

9 4 Y D U R I N G T H E H Y M N O F C O M M I T M E N T S T E P H E N K A M P A Probably all the choirgirls should be ugly, But this one isn’t, and it makes it hard To concentrate. She’s not my type – too thin Beneath her choir robe, freckled, hair too short – But then again, she sings. This morning’s anthem Was Dies Irae, which I love and hate. The Latin thuds along like pickax blows, Unearthing everything I’d like to hold More closely than – or maybe just against – The nervous God of if-thine-eye-o√end-thee, Of narrow gates and sheep and goats, God pure And definite. The singers’ voices blend Terror and triumph at the coming judgment, And I could take or leave it; what I love Is the huge minor chord that kicks it o√, As beautiful as thunder if only thunder Could enter you and rumble through your blood. The sermon text this morning came from Luke: ‘‘He is not the God of the dead, but of the living.’’ It should inspire me, but it makes me think Of Tennyson’s most terrifying line: ‘‘‘Farewell! We lose ourselves in light.’’’ Imagine A prism working backward, taking all Those gorgeous, separate beams – the sweet, bold red Of some girl’s dream bike, greens in the exact Shades of a high school diary she lost, 9 5 R The liquor-bottle blue of her favorite dress – And crushing them together, muddling them Until they have become the blank white light In textbook photographs, and the result is Tennyson’s dreaded general soul. I’m good At fear, but that’s just masterful: to be Afraid of darkness is a simple thing, But to discover fearfulness in light? A line like that one proves that if you choose To look more carefully at what you love, You’ll always find a little more to lose. I’ve wondered if the obverse would obtain – Something about observing what you hate Until you find how much there is to gain. I’d say that God must look at us both ways Except I don’t believe that; only love Could possibly explain such depths of anger, The way that I am angry when I think Of having to abandon certain things. There’s nothing that I wouldn’t want to keep. Walking one afternoon, I saw three crows Perched on a barbecue grill like three sleek gargoyles, Sifting through ash to feed on what was left Of the charred chunks of meat that someone let Drop through the grate. Devotion, of a kind. Last night while reading, I discovered Greek Has one more word for ‘‘love’’ than I had thought: Storgē: instinctive love. It made me wonder What other words we’re missing, whether some Endangered language has a word that means, ‘‘To love someone for who she’s going to be,’’ Or one that means, ‘‘to love a stranger more Than someone you have known your entire life,’’ Or one that means, ‘‘to love until you’re damned.’’ The one I really want would name this instant, When everyone is singing – loudly, badly – One of my favorite hymns, ‘‘Just As I Am,’’ 9 6 K A M P A Y And I am thinking exactly what I thought During the anthem: she is beautiful, And I believe I somehow hear above The myriad, blending voices just her voice. ...