I got bored following along with the hymnal, so I figured I'd do a little fingerpainting on the altar. (Shrug.) Sure, I knew the father might get upset, but he was already emotionally out of balance anyway. I climbed my wobbly stepladder and spread my dripping blue hand over the polished wood, savoring the feel of the paint squishing through my fingers, and the look of the bright blue against the dark wood. The paint beaded up and rolled to the floor in happy little streaks.

I guess the church father didn't share my glee because, after he harangued me for my irreverence, he made me clean and polish the altar until it glowed with a uniform sheen, matching the rest of the sterile edifice. The wood of the church had been polished so often, and so vigorously, that it lost the gleaming lustre of youth and freshness and assumed the dull gloss of something that had been worked into complacency. The alacritous hands of the choir, carrying out the commands of the church elders, could be blamed for this excess.

Irreverence, the father had called my fingerpainting--I expected as much from the staid man whose tolerance and open-mindedness had suffocated beneath the choking threads of his collar. But I liked the word, irreverence, anyway. It fit well, if looked at from the right perspective.

I felt tiny in the massive church bearing the reprimand of the father. Over his critical tones, the mellifluous chorals of the choir resounded and echoed throughout the dark chamber, so passionate and absolute they were sure to rise to the very heavens themselves, always impeccable and laced with an enrapturing edge from the certain faith with which they were sung.

Still mumbling about my inappropriate behavior, the father shuffled me back to my place in the choir. A smile crept into my lips as I stood among the throng of apple-cheeked choristers and watched the paint dry on my hands. The choir sang magnificently, yearningly, wistfully for their sterling ideals, while I hummed a song of my own, content with my pewter reality. Lost in my tune, I began to crumble and flake the paint off my hands. I followed it with my eyes as it floated downward and created a rebellious little patch of blue against the dark floor.

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