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| As I’ve mentioned in at least one other rant, most door-to-door salespeople for Jesus will pass my apartment, respecting the sticker that I have on my door indicating that proselytizers are not welcome. I get a few rude-asses here and there, which is to be expected. Well, friends, I got another one a few days ago; on the other hand, this proselytizer has a different tactic than your average fisher-for-Christ: stealth. That’s right, this does not make him or herself known to me—the targeted victim. I’m only sharing this incident because of one reason—it seems as though the proselytizer targeted my home and my home alone. I looked at the doors of about twenty of my neighbors; this individual had visited none of them. Of course, it’s possible that all my other neighbors had come out and removed the evidence before I got home to see it, but it is unlikely. I left my home for no more than ten or fifteen minutes, hardly enough time for the entire neighborhood to come out and remove a leaflet—which is the weapon by which the culprit attempted to afflict me with his or her beliefs. The devious one slid in, safe from detection by my absence, and left the leaflet, like a turd indicative of an alien dog shitting in your yard, pinched between my screen door and doorsill. Besides, many of my neighbors were still at work (some I knew to be still sleeping) and had no way of going to their door to remove a leaflet, had one been placed. I think the evidence is enough that I can reasonably believe that my home is either the only one that was given the honor of this person’s stealthy visit. (The person could’ve brought me the leaflet at any moment before or after I left—his/her vehicle was in the neighborhood when I left and still there when I got back, by the way.) This person visits my neighborhood on a regular basis in a big white van—for what I do not know. I do know that, at times, the van arrives loaded with people. They give the kids in the neighborhood goodies and lunch in the summer and, of course, an invitation to visit the church. It has been a while, true, but there was a time when my son was coming in several times throughout the month telling me that a lady from the church had told him that she would like to come and take him to church, where he would have fun and learn a lot of good and fun things (like mommy and daddy are going to hell—so will you, if you’re like them!). I’m not concerned about them inviting my son to church, though. I think it’s rude to tell a young child that you’re coming next Sunday morning and that the child should come along to church with you, rather than visiting the child’s parents first and asking permission to invite your child . . . but I can’t always expect everyone in the world to respect the wishes, and the parents’ authority parent according to those wishes by asking the parents permission before they attempt to invade a child’s mind with doctrine that may or may not be welcome in the child’s household. I do wonder, however, how that same woman would feel if I invited her children (if she has any who are young) to the local library for a Bible debunking study session. I have a feeling she wouldn’t take to the idea with much kindness, nor do I believe that she would agree with me that I have a right to invite her child to such a session. But, I digress. Moving on to the leaflet. There isn’t anything particularly interesting about it. It’s the usual: “Do you know if you died to day, that you would make it to Heaven?” followed by a series of Jesus forgives, God loves, Jesus is the way verses from the Bible—and an address. Not all pamphlets, tracts, or leaflets that I get have an address to the church from which the person leaving it belongs but, hell yeah! this one, I’m holding it in my hand, has it right there on the front. A door cracks open somewhere in a much neglected corner of my brain. Light spills through the crack, annihilating the shadows that had all but swallowed that door whole and left it for dead. I small, hairy foot protrudes. Moments later, as if the thing inside is considering some new and strange being that may have invaded his home during the time that he had been locked away in that closet—alone and forgotten. The thing, feeling compelled by an unseen urge to act—that thing that he is designed to do—to stimulate me to respond to that leaflet. The thing reluctantly (but courageously) leaves his prison and signs when nothing attempts to shove him back to his former place. If one could see him, a twinkle would almost be seen in his eyes. His brow lowers in the center, broad smile breeching his thirst-parched lips. It is time to be fed—and the sustenance of this thing is action—that kind that is not entirely nice, but useful. This creature is the perpetrator behind the boy who must, to teach his abuser a lesson, attack and destroy his abusers delusion that he somehow dominates that boy in some respect. It is that voice that tells us not to go to a higher authority, not to speak reasonably, but to kick back. To bite the hand that pinches you. He (the creature) pulls the door completely open as he leaves exits, the light spilling over the dusty corners of that part of my brain. Small critters scatter here and there, unaccustomed to light. He walks to his desk; grabs a fountain pen, dips it in ink; pulls a desiccated sheet of cellular paper from his drawer, splashes a drop of water on various parts of the paper to re-hydrate it; scribbles three words and signs the sheet. After sprinkling grains of eye-crust sand over the wet ink and dusting the sheet, he walks over to a vacuum-tube tangling not far from his desk, puts the sheet in the sending tube, and closes the door. The creature croaks out a hideous sound—a dry laugh. A laugh that hadn’t been used in too long, one might say. It grows and becomes a sound bellowing throughout the halls of my brain. If one could see me, one might see a twinkle in my eye. The thing hits the red button sporting four capital letters: S E N D. A small clerk-looking thing: thin, long nose, spectacles, pen behind his ear, suspenders crawling over his shoulders from behind and disappearing below the edge of the table, at which he is sitting. He is surprised in his own stoic way when a semi-dried sheet of cellular paper comes up the shoot belonging to that troublesome beast that kept the Master in detention hall and got Him suspended from school more than once. He pulls the sheet out and reads it: Do iT BacK! The clerk takes the sheet, contemplates sending it into the bad-idea furnace, and decides to send it to the Master. He walks the paper to a wall filled with various doors—each being written upon (in very neat print) with a name or description of every kind of thought conceivable to a human. The clerk opens a door with “Retaliation, etc.” written upon it. He tosses the sheet of paper into the open box, and presses the button that will send—for better or for worse—the idea to the Master. I’m suddenly struck with an idea! It occurs to me that I can do something back, in return. Remembering how certain stunts of retaliation used to get me in trouble when I was younger (I spent a great deal of time in detention, and I even got suspended a couple of times), I figured it would be prudent not to do anything bad—just something to make the folks at this church think about the rudeness of the paritioner (using the church van), or pastor who left the leaflet on my door—ignoring the sticker on my door, which make sit more than clear that I do not want to be proselytized in my home. What to do? Damn, I can’t seem to think of anything concrete. The idea that came to my mind wasn’t at all complete—it was just something alone the lines of get them back or do it back, something like that. Hmm . . . I do have their address. Ah! I’ll send the leaflet back, along with my own letter. I’ll be polite in the letter. I’ll explain how my wishes had been violated. The politeness by which I will send my message will make it all the more offensive to the receiver—because he will see that there is truth to what I’m saying, rather than being able to dismiss my letter as rubbish and vomit it out of his mind, as a result of harsh words or something rude being written in my letter. Wait! Better yet, I can even share the address with the people who like to read my rants. Ah, perhaps one of them will even be inspired to send their own letter to that church. I’m sure none of my readers would send anything rude, but something pointing out that they had read about how a member of that church—one who drives the van—blatantly disrespects the privacy and wishes of a person in his own home. Yes, that’s what I’ll do! Ah, but I mustn’t forget to provide the address. Hurricane Bible Church P.O. Box 151 Hurricane, West Virginia 25526 I wonder if anyone sends this church a letter would take the time to send me a note letting me know about it . . . hmm. |