I think it was around the age of fourteen when I first started grappling with thoughts against my faith, thoughts contrary to everything I had learned about religion up until that point. One of my preferred places to mull over such ideas in solitude was, as it happens, the local church across the street from my house.
One day when I was there, the stained glass windows cast their light over me, and I sat in a pew with my head bowed down and my hands clasped during a period of transitory meditation. I was alone save for a bald-headed, dark-skinned man who approached me while I was in mid-thought.
The man was carrying a strange container under his arms. His meaty voice reverberated through the ecclesiastical walls.
"DO YOU BELIEVE?" he shouted. I was a bit startled and didn't respond. There was a pause. Then, more vehemently, he called out,
"DO YOU BELIEVE?"
I felt a wave of saliva graze my nose from this yell but kept silent, staring at the container he carried, unsure what to say. Finally, with a heaving sigh, the man pushed the container in my face, torched me with his eyes, and in a voice like thunder, rumbled,
"I'm going to ask this just one more time, boy! DO YOU BELIEVE?"
There was silence for a few seconds as I looked back and forth from man to container before finally responding. I kept my head down and solemnly shook my head, 'no'. I finally came to my epiphany that this was how I felt, and no matter how much I willed myself otherwise, I concluded that I can't believe it's not butter.
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