And so to the sermon. Or the address, or maybe the homily, or, as I prefer to think of it, the aria. Some listeners found it too long. I wanted more of it—hour after hour of oceanic incantation, wave upon wave. Martin Luther King, Jr., was name-checked within seconds. Fifteen minutes in, and Bishop Curry was just warming up, in the instinctive assurance that nothing of this timbre, or of this mettle, had ever been heard before in this sacred edifice. Behind him, you could just make out the Dean of Windsor; even in profile, his demeanor was that of a man who, enjoying a gentle set at his local tennis club, suddenly realizes that Rafa Nadal has started practicing his overhead smashes on the adjacent court.