“God is an experience,” an old man said as he reached for another cookie.

I swear I read somewhere that your uncoiled intestines can reach the moon.

We stood by the window and watched the howling dark, even though this isn’t what you should do in a tornado.

There will always be demands and obligations, but they do not need me before eleven o’clock.

The Joshua tree was named by Mormons who thought they saw their prophet pointing to the promised land.

Yesterday in twenty-first-century America, I idled behind a jeep with an InfoWars license plate.

“Science shouldn’t explain everything,” she told me.

My first memory of God: I was five or six years old and feverishly rubbing a white crayon into a dark blue piece of construction paper.

The desert is a land of religious vision, the home of desperate saints and ascetics dragging themselves across the sand in search of revelation.

Maybe it's limbic and hardwired, this desire to see the divine rather than hear or touch.

This morning in the park, I sat across from a woman who was talking to the pigeons gathered around her feet.

Notes from an accidental visit to a temple in West Virginia.