God Won't Let Me Pee

On our way home from lunch just the other day, my grandmother suddenly turned into what I thought was a random parking lot and shut off the car. In my confusion I looked up and discovered we had parked directly across from an old church, standing tall with a large wooden cross protruding from the brick below it. To be honest the building was quite beautiful, having a sort of rustic feel about it, as if it were preserving some piece of history one could appreciate.

"I have to say a little prayer", murmured my grandma as she exited the car. I was a bit perturbed at this point, because I urgently had to use the restroom; in fact it is my belief that if I looked in a mirror the whites of my eyes would have instead been a pale shade of yellow. But, to my discontent, we were going to pay a visit to old St. Paul's Monestary. I shuffled in with as little interest as a Red Sox fan at a Yankee convention. You see, I am hardly a religious person, and quite frankly, churches have absolutely no appeal to me whatsoever. At this point the only thing I was wondering was if it had a bathroom....it did not.

My grandma entered before me and dipped her hand into a small marble bowl of 'holy water' mounted on the wall just inside the door. From the looks of the water itself, it seemed to me it had not been replaced in about a month, so if I had any intentions at all of touching it before, they were dashed then and there. I let my eyes wonder away from the bowl, taking in the rest of the church. To my suprise, I found it awingly beautiful. The walls were of some sort of smooth stone, and vibrant paintings and portraits spotted the walls on either side. The ceiling, too, was home to other paintings of similar quality, making the entire scene a true beauty to look at. Small wooden pews covered the floor with a narrow isle in the center, accompanied by thick, murky white pillars along the sides. The arrangement drew my eye to a large organ, and sculpture of Jesus on the cross just behind the pastor's pulpit. Again, I couldn't help but appreciate the rustic antiquity of the sight; it was something I had never seen before. I embraced a feeling of appreciative wonder; that's how I would describe it best. I became enveloped in a delightful trance, following the lines and colors of a setting that I would normally have disregarded. I truly did appreciate the building just for being there, just for housing such a wonderful creation; that is something I never thought I'd say about a chruch, ever.

Now, Im fairly sure my opinion of this place would have been slightly different had it not been relatively empty, including the absence of a pastor preaching god's word to me. In that case I suspect I would have scoffed and waited outside on the steps. But instead, I took a seat in one of the pews and took in the scenery new to my eyes. I believe it was that silence and feeling of emptiness that grabbed my interest with such a powerful grip. I was left to understand and perceive the church as I so chose, with no distraction, no manipulation, no infulence upon my senses and thoughts but the church itself.

Yet, I could not help but notice the three or four elderly people sitting in the rows ahead of me. All had their heads down so I assumed they were in prayer; either that or they had fallen asleep, which was just as likely. When one of them shifted his position I decided they were praying. To me though, it seemed they were waiting, waiting to die, more specifically. It was as if they came to a place of silence, of peace, and of sheer beauty to greet their departure from this world, for if they had nothing better to do on a friday afternoon, then just what were they doing?

I knew well what they were doing, and for the life of me could not stop the protests in my mind. I wished they simply had been sleeping, rather than using their time to speak to the soft presence of nothingness. What a way to waste such an inspiring place, with such architectual brilliance and masterful scenery. God took no part in it's construction, nor it's decoration, nor it's establishment. Upon seeing those elderly people bowing down to a sculpture of the protagonist in the most well-known novel this world possesses I silently shook my head and to myself declared the church a dedication to the wonders and capacities of mankind, in place of its actual purpose.

As I left the edifice, I noticed a confession. I did not dwell on it, nor slow my progress towards the door, for I owe nothing to god, and he owes nothing to me. I am mine own self, and he is a mere figment of my imagination, existing in reality if, and only if, I so choose. I left the church in admiration of it's asctetic appeal, yet critical of it's purpose. It was a wonderful representation of mankind's capability for brilliance, creativity, and more so its immense imagination - which in this case was perhaps the single aspect that fed the fire of my silent protests.

At the very least, the house of god could have provided me with the simple luxury of a place to urinate, but instead it left my search unfilled, and my faith weaker than ever.