In a vulnerable memoir in which he tries to make sense of both his doubt and the faith that won’t let him go, the poet John Terpstra often finds himself surprised not only to be in church but to long for it. “This is the only place I know where time and eternity meet on a regular basis,” he confesses. No small part of this, he says, is the singing (which, as Augustine already pointed out, is an art of ephemerality in itself). “Where else do you sing with a group of people?” he asks.
