It seemed to Gerry, at seven years old, as he craned his gaze upward to the distant vaulted ceilings painted dark blue, lustrous golden stars nestled between their beams, and down past spiral columns of sandstone and marble and granite and who knew what else, to the polished darkwood pews, and red velvet carpet, and sweet waves of incense smoke tumbling from curlicued wrought iron holders, it seemed to him that God must exist. For who else could possibly deserve to live here?