Because someone wears a robe and lights a candle on an altar, they’re closer to God? Highly dubious on all counts. 

I hear Him in the streams, where withered leaves quibble, 
O’er the lapping of a selfsame ripple. 
I smell Him in the fields, where husbandmen toil, 
In furrowed rows of smoldering soil. 
I see Him in the eyes, of the blinded who follow, 
The passage of lambs into a slaughter. 
    And in the faces of hedonic denial, 
    Hidden by the brims of loose-fitted cowls. 
I feel Him in the touch, of a cat’s prickled tongue, 
Purging the wounds of its precocious young. 
I sense Him in the air, when hope runs to clot, 
And morning’s sweet dew has beaded to frost. 
I taste Him in the bread, crusted in my chalice, 
The body of Christ that doth regale us. 
    And in the pinot that pools in my goblet, 
    Anointing the throats of lepers who quaff it.