I sit in the church, eight pews back from the front. I'm not sure why. I've never been religious. So why do I feel...afraid? Afraid of disrespecting something I don't even know I believe in.

No sunlight pierces the stained glass windows like they say in all the stories. The air is still and thick. It's quiet. But not uncomfortably so. Peaceful.

I sit back, look ahead of me. Jesus Christ hanging on the cross. A white man, with long brown hair. Now how he would have been in real life. But I can see why artists portray him differently. They want to be able to connect to, to relate with, their savior. So they make him more like them if they must. That's something I can understand. I think everyone understands to an extent.

The figures painted on the windows stare down at me, angry I think. Angry at a non-believer intruding in this holy place. Maybe I should leave. But I won't. Because right now, it doesn't matter if I believe or not. I'm part of something here. Something bigger than me. I don't know what.

The tension in the room eases. Am I being accepted? By who? By what? I don't know. The aura of the room seems kinder, benevolent. Centuries of prayers surround me, lingering in the air. I don't know who answers them, if anyone at all.

But right now, I am part of something ancient, something beautiful, something powerful, something pure.

And in this moment it's easy to believe.