I'm not a religious fella. Nor am I particularly spiritual. I'm more likely to feel the presence of a higher power listening to a Coltrane solo rather than a rabbi's sermon.

But like most people who appreciate art and architecture, I enjoy visiting inspired places of worship. Indeed, you don't have to be Catholic to be awed by the beauty of Notre Dame or Jewish to delight at Marc Chagall's stunning stained glass windows.

Although I'm not personally moved by the Almighty, I am intrigued by the fruits of artists' divine inspirations, a witness to others' enlightenment, if you will. So naturally, I was eager to visit the Shri Swaminarayan Mandir, a breathtaking hand-carved Hindu temple that sits like a diamond in the suburban rough that is Stafford, TX.

Despite my atheistic leanings, I decided to use this opportunity to get in touch with my spiritual side, to sit among the marble and limestone and meditate about the world beyond the material. For one afternoon I would bury the worries of work, sublimate the baseball standings, shut off my iPhone and concentrate on questions of faith.

I gassed up the car, plugged in my iPod and set out down 59 South towards Sugarland. My journey took me along one of the more unsightly stretches of highway in Houston, a concrete canyon littered with neon signs for every chain imaginable - Mattress Firm, Long John Silver's, Loehmanns, Ramada Inn.

As I passed Sharpstown Mall, I started feeling a bit on edge, unsure whether I wanted to go through with this spiritual exercise. Maybe I would just take a quick walk through the temple and call it a day.

Hoping to attain a sense of calm, I scrolled through my iPod looking for some soothing tunes that could prepare me for the mind-trip to come.

Joni Mitchell? Too wordy.

Leonard Cohen? Too somber.

Ravi Shankar? Too cliched.

How about Brian Eno? Perfect! The slowly unfolding ambient soundscapes of “Discreet Music” was just what I needed to regain my focus.

I made my way past the Beltway and exited at Kirkwood. As is typical of the newer subdivisions in Houston, the landscape is devoid of tall trees, shadows cast by strings of power lines rather than majestic live oaks. The houses are late 1980s vintage, each encircled by a gray wooden privacy fence. This is the kind of drab suburb that I fled for the East Coast twenty years earlier. Everything about it is soulless.

I followed a quiet street for about a mile from the highway when I spotted the glistening white domes of the Mandir peaking over scrawny trees. I turned into the complex, gave a friendly wave to the attendant at the entrance and caught a glimpse of the majestic structure, which rises out of the flat plain like a magical castle from a Disney movie.

Having grown up in Houston, I was used to seeing an odd mishmash of buildings, but the juxtaposition of the architectural wonder in front of me and the bland houses surrounding it was jarring. Yet this sense of the unexpected is what I love about Houston, and I bristled with excitement as I walked over to the base of the grand stairway that leads up to the Mandir.

Before making my ascent, I stopped, took a deep breath and just stood there, stone silent, gazing at the awesome structure before me— five towering gold-capped pinnacles, 12 elegant domes and 136 intricately decorated pillars, a maze of Italian Carrara marble and hand-carved Turkish limestone. It was a work of art, the ultimate symbol of faith.

After 15 minutes of taking in the splendor of the Mandir from afar, I climbed the steps and entered the temple. I slowly circled the interior, closely inspecting the ornate carvings that adorn the columns and ceiling. Sculptures of the Hindu gods looked on as I made my way through the marble maze. I felt comforted by the elegant limestone deities, as if they were guiding me on my quest to recapture a sense of spiritual feeling.

A stream of worshipers, almost all dressed in traditional Indian garb, made their way in for afternoon prayers. As I watched each one ring the bell, or Ghanta, to invoke the Gods, a feeling of envy and longing overcame me.

Growing up in a semi-observant Jewish household, I had spent countless hours in synagogue trying to find a connection to God. I yearned to believe, to enjoy the comfort of devotion so strong that any doubt melts away. In the uncertainty of life, it must be refreshing to have something that’s unwavering, that’s sure. But I never succeeded. Am I not hard-wired for faith? Am I lazy, shallow, or too rational?

I remained in the shadows of the pillars for the next hour and looked on as the worshippers paid their respects to Vishnu, Sita, Ram, and the other sculptural deities that inhabit the Mandir. I tried to soak up the spirituality surrounding me, knowing full well that it was an exercise in futility. But all was not lost, for I was in the presence of a magnificent work of art, and that in and of itself, was enough to satisfy my soul.

With the sun still beating down with all the fury of a Houston August afternoon, I headed down the steps and walked to my car. I turned to take one more look at the Mandir, and then drove off toward Highway 59 and the familiarity of the inner loop.