You don’t have to believe in God, but you have to believe in Alice Coltrane. Her hymns are like reconciling moon and sun, lightning and oxygen, invisible chemistry and esoteric devotion; things you fathom in the abstract but can’t grasp. Her masterpiece, Journey in Satchidananda is magian prophecy, what happens when you divide by zero, a harpist on a Grecian urn reanimated in dazzling color with a lustrous coif. It is inexplicable epiphany, sacral devotion, and ancient transmission. It is all and none of these things. It is only Alice Coltrane.