Chasing tales

For those in the pews, order of service booklets were doubling up as fans; passages from Corinthians, prayers and hymn lyrics flapping about unrhythmically. Up in the gods, we had no such salvation from the mid-May Manhattan heat and would have to console ourselves with our deistic view of the 30-strong choir, and the believers in their pressed and polished Sunday best.

"Our President has lost his way! He has forgotten the teachings of the Lord! But we, brothers and sisters, must heed what He told us. Man shall not lie with another man!" The preacher didn't need the microphone which cowered in front of him, his words effortlessly echoed up into the ceiling as several members of the congregation shouted 'Preach!' in solidarity. Beside me I felt my companion, Franck, squirm. Bringing a Parisian homosexual to a church service right after President Obama had signed gay marriage into law felt brave.

Tourists converged here every Sunday keen to hear the masterful gospel singers of the famous choir, and the Abyssinian Street Baptist Church could only keep their service from turning into Times Square on New Year's Eve by keeping us all in the upper circle. In front of us, a German woman with glossy blonde hair was being admonished by a regular worshipper who had clearly taken it upon himself to berate the heathen masses at regular intervals. If he only knew about Franck.

Painfully aware of the irony, I silently prayed for the preacher to finish so we could hear the music we'd made our pilgrimage for. When the choir finally got to their feet in their majestic red robes the fidgeting ceased and the whole congregation seemed to lean forward about 6 inches.

A woman with exploding curls and spectacles wearing a sharp business suit under her robes calmly came forward into a patch of sunlight coming through the window, an open hymn book in her hands. She closed her eyes, waited a few moments and opened her mouth.
“Jesus loves me, oh yes he does.” Goosebumps rippled across my arms as the bright, clear sound reverberated around the church. Her spotlight seemed to have come directly from heaven, as though some celestial being had made sure not to miss the performance. Particles of dust danced and sparkled in the shaft of light.
“Oh yes he does.” The choir blended effortlessly. As the divine harmonies rose to meet us in our seats, I glanced at Franck and noticed a little tear escaping his eye. Whoever said the devil had the best tunes had clearly never been to Harlem.