“As the preacher spoke, he waited for the warmth of God to draw itself over him like a bath. He even sang, loudly, hoping to catch some of Him in his mouth. The stained glass reminded him of the colorful cereal he ate as a child. The tops of the ladies’ hats made him feel as if he was sitting in the middle of an English garden. He closed his eyes and dreamed he was a butterfly. He was flying in the Garden of Eden. God was posing for the Sistine Chapel and let him land on His pointer finger and said, “You are the prettiest butterfly I’ve ever seen.” His voice was higher than he had expected and he noticed He had long blond hair and breasts and, suddenly, She was guiding him away from the garden, away from the pews, into a field of blueish grass. She stopped in front of a low-hanging cloud. “Kneel,” She said, and he bent his four knees, because he was no longer a butterfly but a centaur and She placed the cloud on his head like a wreath of pillow stuffing. She kissed his forehead. A flower grew from the lipstick smudge. She held his cheeks as She said, “There are no gates to heaven. There are no doors to happiness. Go forth and love like a choir of mirrors. There is no collar on the beast of sadness, but it does not hunt for you. My darling, wake up. Wake up. It’s morning.”