This church has no denomination and is not recognized as a religious institution by any but the ninety-six members of the congregation—them, Father Frank, and his personal staff. The church is made from limestone and stands like a white scar on a green hill overlooking the Pacific Ocean. The weather is mostly fair and still, as if Time had paused there to appreciate a perfect moment of rest. This nameless house of worship comprises a large room with long, plain, sun-filled windows and eight rows of simple hardwood benches separated by a slender aisle. That Sunday, Father Frank, wearing all black as usual, stood before ninety-three souls of the ninety-six parishioners. There was no pulpit or even a podium from which his sermon was given, just a round circle of light-colored stones. “My words here this Sunday morning are a miracle,” the tall, willowy white man said. “You, hearing these words and making some kind of sense from them, are a roomful of miracles. The spider that is dying in a crevice far above our heads is the same as my words and your understanding.
