I stopped believing the day I entered a Buddhist temple on a mission’s trip.

I stopped believing when I saw the men taking off their shoes before they entered their holy place. When I witnessed their reverent bows, the intimacy with which they kissed the floor with their foreheads.

I was an 18-year-old girl fresh out of Bible School, on the streets of Vancouver, doing missions, and these men had more awe in their bare feet than I’d ever had of God, or than I’d ever witnessed in any church I’d been to. And I wondered if we weren’t just lying to ourselves.


(i’m over here at Prodigal Magazine today; follow me there, friends, for the rest of this story? i’d be so grateful. love you.)