Much of my life has been a spiritual quest. As a small child, if ever I had a question, my parents had the answer. But then one day, they didn't have the answers any more. By then I had taken to reading books, and I read a book on Hinduism which seemed to explain the various puzzles of the world I'd been questioning - "Why are we here? What's life for?" and similar such queries.

Later on, after moving to the city of Vancouver, I became interested in Buddhism. I read some of the Flower Sutra and the Tibetan Book of the Dead. I took a course in Zen meditation.

But there were no ultimate answers, none that satisfied the nagging voice inside - "But what's life REALLY all about?"

So my quest continued. I had read much of the Bible as a child, and found little sense in it. But in the later '90s I found myself reasoning thus: "Christianity is irrational. But the human mind is limited, and can only grasp at tiny fragments of the Universe and its reality. Is it not conceivable, then, that the true answer to the Universe is in fact rooted in irrationality? For it is impossible for a mind as limited as that of a human to prove conclusively whether the Universe is rational or irrational. Assuming that it must be rational, without proof, might be a grave error."

And so I decided to go to church. I attended a Baptist church for four months. I also attended Bible studies weekly. All the Christians seemed very nice and friendly.

Then one day, as I was entering the church, I was accosted by one of my new Christian friends. He began to ask me questions, staring into my eyes with an eerie intensity. Did I know who Jesus was? And did I know where Jesus was?

The latter question reflected a topic discussed in last night's Bible study. "In my heart," I replied by rote.

Bang! That did it. It brought forth an explosive congratulation from my friend, who then excitedly ushered me to where the pastor was sitting talking with a few colleagues. My friend interrupted the pastor to inform him "Bill has accepted Jesus into his heart!"

The pastor congratulated me with a handshake, and a deep gaze into the eyes which gave the impression of being intended to look meaningful. Instead it seemed quite plastic. I had given Christianity a try and found a heart of peer pressure and hollow ritual.

Now, before I'd started going to Church, I'd already been associating with a family of Muslims. Since moving to Vancouver, I'd been hanging around with a disreputable crowd of alcohol-guzzling marijuana smokers. When going to Church, I was quite open about my activities. The Christian response to hearing of my misadventures seemed to be "It's okay! Jesus forgives!" The Muslims, on the other hand, were more of the attitude that "What you are doing is wrong. You ought to stop."

Plus, the religion seemed slightly more rational - as opposed to the Christian practice of placing the burden of one's sins upon a man two thousand years dead, Islam emphasized the responsibility of the individual for their own actions. Yes, the specter of rationality was once again plaguing my spiritual opinions.

Additionally, these particular Muslims had discovered a fascinating mathematical code embedded in the text of the Qu'ran, one which seemed to be superhuman in its intricacy. So much more convincing did I find Islam that, whereas I had spent four months attending the Baptist church, I spent fully four years practicing Islam.

But, for such a seemingly sound religion, something was missing. The discontent of my soul grew steadily louder until one day, fearing for my sanity, I quit my job and fled to the remote North of British Columbia.