Black Rock City, NV Words & Photos by Andrew Wyatt The first time I was born again, I was no more than a 12-year-old tadpole of a kid wriggling his way through chilly baptismal waters of my father’s tiny, rural Southern Baptist church. The first time I was born into the narrow confines of evangelical religion. The second time I was born again, I was a gangly young man born into the big, wide, roiling sea of the infinite universe. And it all happened on a pirate ship and a wacky dance club at Burning Man. In 2002, I was a self-doubting preacher unsure whether to continue a fledgling career calling, when a voluptuous mountain guide neighbor asked if I would join her on a week-long experience at Burning Man. “After the week is over, and you still want to preach. Then great. If not, then you’re welcome!” she piped up. Hesitantly I agreed. “Burning Man,” wrote journalist Daniel Pinchbeck in his book, Breaking Open the Head , “is more decadent than Andy Warhol’s Factory, more glamoro