The starkness of the cavernous galleries, jutting out in angles, laid out on three levels, connected by an expansive staircase, silences me. On gray-white walls hang the exhibit, In the Still Epiphany, hosted by The Pulitzer Foundation for the Arts in St. Louis, Missouri. I finger the program, adjust my glasses, meander among the disparate art forms dating from 2000 BCE to the present, careful not to violate the three-foot rule. Somber-faced guards stand at attention. Hushed talk from serious connoisseurs suggests rapprochement with this world.

My unease deepens. Again, I study my program. I search for clues from the artfully conceived narrative by Gedi Sibony, the curator. Nothing.

I leave, perplexed, a void exposing my innards to no-where-land.

Admittedly, the exhibit’s title, In the Still Epiphany, had fired me to experience how other artists, from all over the world, had grappled with the Sacred, had given expression to the inexpressible. Perhaps they would enlarge my sense of the Holy.

Days pass. The experience of the exhibit still rankles. It demands a response.

Imperceptibly, it comes. It’s all about the soul’s inner landscape, its readiness to participate in the Void. I had been touched, and deeply, but not consoled. Perhaps I had been seeking the Garden of Eden.