NEW YORK — A young man in a green beanie has both arms outstretched to the sky, palms open to receive, the top of his iPhone poking out from the back pocket of his jeans. He rocks back and forth on Nike runners, swaying to the steady strum of acoustic guitar that floats around the school hall. A few seats in front of him, a woman chews her gum to the beat of the drum box, tensing and relaxing her jaw in time. Da dum, da dum, da dum.

“What we’re doing is kinda just a free flow, you know? I think that word sometimes helps me process what it is that happens when we worship. We’re just responding.” The voice comes from one of the five musicians facing the Evangelical congregation at Hope Church on the Upper West Side at 163 W. 97th St. It’s the kind of voice that sounds as if it’s carved from mahogany, deep yet warm — a voice that could soothe a crying child. Rock it back to sleep. Tame a storm. Put out a fire.

The five performers stand separately but they breathe as one.

Oh, everything changed, it’s getting harder to recognise

The person I was, before I encountered Christ

I don’t walk like I used to. I don’t talk like I used to

I’ve been washed from the inside

The drums run underneath it all, the cool current of a stream; violin notes fall long and slow, like winged seeds of a maple; the alto and soprano voices are crisp air and sun on a winter’s day; piano arpeggios skate over the top.

From the first word, the energy shifts among the 50 worshippers. A sea of duffle coats and blue jeans begins to swing, like trees in an orchard blown by the same wind. One woman in Ugg boots and a rainbow sweater closes her eyes. A hairline crease appears between neat black brows. To her right, another worshipper clasps her hands tightly and shakes them to the beat, gold hoop earrings tilting with each pulse. A man in a plaid shirt with silver hairs peeking through his dark mop sings out of tune. Loudly. But it doesn’t matter — no one seems to notice, and if they do, no one judges.

People are someplace else now, some further away than others. The drummer cracks his knuckles one by one while the room floats on the waves of the music. The song rises like a tide. The drums pick up their pace, each thud like the step of a sprinter on the final leg of a relay. The soprano singer clutches her small frame through a white jumper. Her right hand rests on her diaphragm but her left reaches up toward the sky, fingers twinkling like stars. As she belts out the words, her tortoiseshell glasses reflect the lights of the hall.

Hallelujah, Hallelujah

I know it was the blood

Could have only been the blood

Could have only been the blood

The music transforms the school hall, with its glaring emergency exit signs, fire alarms, random bits of red duct tape and faded blue curtains, into a place of magic. It’s so cold that some people still have their gloves on, but the invisible vibrations warm the room.

The guitarist leans into his microphone, “Church, can we just sing that again?”

He doesn’t need an answer. The congregation belts out the refrain, over and over. They repeat the chorus five times, until the musicians bring them back down, gently and softly as a whisper.

Edited by Haley Duffy