an outsider's view

I've never been much of a religious person, calling myself agnostic and feeling anxious when people start talking about any one of the many faiths out there, but something more than beauty exists within the churches here. I think it's the sheer age of them, the musty scent of ancient stone and decaying wood mixing in with the holy incense, the aged and barely visible life-size paintings of forlorn women holding sleeping babies in their faded and tattered frocks, the bowed benches that have supported generation upon generation of worshipers, and the stillness of it all combined. The silence that emanates from the stones, the paintings, the benches - all older than any living thing - is captivating. It's overpowering. I was walking through the city on a particularly hot day and was getting tired of the sun beating on my shoulders and the wind pressing grit into my sweat, so as I approached one of the Orthodox churches, I decided to go in. Churches have always had a cooling affect on me. I climbed the steps and walked through the doorway, a gust of old but pleasant smelling air brushed away the grit and calmed my shoulders down. A woman sat at a kiosk in the front room, selling various religious items, but was too busy reading a book to notice my entrance. I slipped through another doorway and into the main part of the church and walked straight out into the middle, relishing the fact that I had an arena of faith all to myself and breathing in the centuries of lives that had passed through the very same sliver of space. I turned around in a circle, taking in all those faded ladies carrying all those tired babies and, instead of wondering who they were, I pictured their creation, hundreds of years ago, on the walls before me. The silent space comes to life as people on precariously placed ladders carefully take trays of paint from a helper down below, gently dip their brushes in and let them soak up the proper amount of color, and then, as they bite their lower lips in concentration, they give their Saints the gift of sight. As the ladders and their occupants fade and the vividness of their paint disintegrates, I look up. He's there, staring down at me, much larger than life. I hadn't noticed him when I walked in, but I should have known he'd be there. He's always there. High up in the top of the tallest dome, bathed in golden sunlight and untouchable by anything. I nod at him slightly, as if to say "well, of course it's you". If he's as wonderful as they all say, he'll forgive me and my decision to disagree. A ray of light is illuminating bits of dust floating in the air just below his gaze, giving him a holographic and even more distant appearance. I can't picture the person who made this painting. It's too high up and too old to fathom its creation. I stare. He stares back. It could go on forever like this and at that moment, it was what I wanted to do for the rest of my life. The two of us just staring at eachother, observing, questioning, the church silently aging around us, the stones eventually crumble, the paintings dissolve, the benches deteriorate until nothing is left but a silent, inquisitive stare. Forever. After an unknown amount of time, a cough and some movement comes from the doorway and my head automatically snaps towards it, breaking what I thought was permanent. The lady who had been reading when I entered was shuffling and sniffing through my arena, flipping through some papers in her hand and taking no notice of me, still posed beneath the highest dome. It's work to her, it's her life. By the time she reaches the back of the church, I am shading my eyes from the sun and thinking about ice cream.