When I was little, my neighbors invited me to go to church with them. I did, and I liked it. I liked the building, and the cookies they gave out, and being an angel in the Christmas play. I learned about stories from the Bible — the burning bush, the great flood — the whole shebang. I celebrated Christmas and Easter (and still do).

I walk into the building, immediately surrounded by the plush comfort of a warm silence. I can smell the faint scent of unleavened bread, and it combines with the scent of a recently vacuumed carpet to become what my nose recognizes as church. The sunlight falls in shafts revealing the undisturbed dust floating in the air, and I stand face to face with the pulpit.