I walked through the single glamourless door briefly allowing the thunderstorming wetness to parade over the doormat. On the walls were a series of portraits spaced evenly between lights brightly illuminating the grey, water-stained ceiling tiles. The images were simple ink drawings of a panda composited over predictable, decorative bamboo designs. They called to mind stained glass Stations of the Cross. The booths and tables were predictably placed pews. At the alter, a woman told me what I wanted to hear. A Coca Cola faced clock and a bulky, heretical refrigerator provided a backdrop. While I waited for the sermon to what later would become unbearable intestinal penance, I saw three individuals worshiping their plates in silence. A cellphone hymn briefly ended the awkward monotony only to be stealthily set to vibrate. The brown bag with a single staple didn't come soon enough. I made my offertory and happily shuffled back into the rain.