One night, after a long unproductive OA meeting in the basement of a Corvallis church, I felt compelled to make music. My piano at home had been lacking a middle E and C for some time, and I knew that there where at least three stately, frequently maintenanced pianos spread around the church. I had been trying to compose some music for the band my friends Scott and Mike and I started. It was extremely difficult, though, because I had to play the bass and treble clefs an octave apart. Here I saw a perfectly reasonable opportunity to get in some valuable well-tuned practice time.
	After searching around, I found the first piano, an upright in the main lobby that had seen its share of use. I made myself comfortable on the black leather bench and went to lift back the wooden cover as I inspected the choir songbooks stacked on top. It wouldn’t budge. I took a closer look as I tried opening it again. Directly inbetween the silver names of it’s company’s founders, the cover had a tiny key hole.
	Damn, I thought, and then changed it mentally to Darn. What if all the pianos have locks on them? I went up the small wheelchair ramp to the hallway with doors leading to little conference rooms and daycare rooms. I quickly found the room with the second piano, another ancient wooden artifact that had survived many hand changes. Making my way around its right edge, I spied a keyhole on its cover also. Another pull, and it too refused to budge.
	My hope waning, I went out into the hallway and made search for one more piano. Was there one? Would it be locked too? Finally I came to two sets of double doors at the end of the hallway. Entering the first, I came into a dark room at least three and a half stories tall, and twice as long. Moonlight streamed in through tall intricately painted windows, and the floor was separated into long straight rows of red seated benches. I had found the chapel.
	At last, before the frontmost row of benches and beside the priest’s speaking platform I made out a massive grand piano, black and glossy in the dim light. Reverently removing my hat, I made my way up the aisle and around it’s large sides. A beautiful piece of construction, modern yet not out of place in this most traditional of settings. To my joy I found the cover open and the keys exposed. Sitting down on the plush piano bench, I began to play.
	For twenty minutes I played, dancing up and down the piano like a madman, chanting half composed lyrics and making up the rest, feeling the notes flow out of me like a river, like a wave. I was lost in my playing, one song becoming another like an endless tide of music. Then suddenly it ended.
	The lights in the chapel came on. A blue suited janitor stepped from the first set of double doors and fixed me with a glare that could have withered flowers. I grabbed my hat, said good night and left the building.

	I’ve never felt so uneasy. I suddenly felt unwanted, unwelcome. I suddenly felt as though there was a person over my shoulder keeping an eye on me for fear I would break or steal something. Like a troublesome dog caught out of it’s leash, chasing livestock. It was more than the stout janitor fixing me with the evil eye. I felt as though the church itself was whisking me out.
	It made me think deeply about the nature of my music, and of myself. Am I unwelcome in a place of worship, I who so casually curse in the name of the lord and sin relentlessly throughout my days? Are these songs only the product of a wasted sinner’s mind, the rattling gasp of the damned flowing out through dying jaws? Am I so sensitive that I feel these things when there is really nothing there, never was?
	I still wrestle with these questions. Every time I see a church or a cross, each time I go over to Scott’s house…
	Scott is a devout Christian. His belief in the power of God is unwavering. However, his belief in Catholicism, Protestantism, and any other organized religion is not. Him and I have had several conversations about the nature of religion and it’s practitioners. Here is what I have learned:

	Mankind is not the servant of God. Rather, it is a relationship more closely resembling that of a bride. We are the completing half, the counterpart to a lonesome husband. Religion is founded on the belief that God demands constant attention, and if that attention is not maintained, he will fade from our minds and we will perish in sin. This is not true. If a person can keep the lessons of God close to their hearts and minds, then they need not fear, regardless of whether or not they are connected to the church.

	I believe that religion is wrong. I believe that some of what the Bible says is wrong. I believe that simply because another person or being has once said that some of my doings are “sinful”, it doesn’t necessarily make that so.
	I don’t think the Devil made me play the piano. I don’t think God kicked my smoking habit. I think I made my own choices entirely independent of divine influence. I’m not saying people who think so are bad people, I’m not saying that I don’t think it’s remotely possible, I’m saying that deep down in my heart I JUST DON’T BELIEVE IT.
	Worse than that, I don’t want to believe it. I don’t want to sit down with a priest and have a big long discussion about the nature of this Jesus fellow and the lessons He teaches. Many of His words I have ignored, and will continue to ignore until I feel it is wrong to do so. Call me selfish, but it just doesn’t make any sense to me to put my complete trust in a force I’ve never even seen. A force that has never felt the need to console me in my dark hours, join me in my joyous ones, congratulate my successes, punish my failures, or even speak openly to me, without hiding behind the mask of nature. If such a force exists, why must I believe in it? I would figure it could do whatever the hell it wants, regardless of what I believe.

	Am I a bad person?