This past weekend, as I walked down my block, I saw a mom and two little boys, dressed for church, going door to door. Jehovah’s Witnesses, I guessed. A few houses behind them were two men in suits, a white guy and an African American brother. A small pack of further Witnesses worked the other side of the street.
As I smiled hello to the woman and her boys, I remembered back more than 30 years to the lone Witness who visited me every week for a while. I was secretly glad to be out walking and not behind my front door.
I dislike dealing with any solicitations, and the Jesus Saves variety are especially problematic. I don’t want to hurt their feelings, and yet I have absolutely no desire to hear what they have to say about the decaying state of my immortal soul.
So why did I let the Witness into my house in 1977? I didn’t know it then, but now I think I was lonely. I wanted someone to talk to. My husband worked long hours and I didn’t have children yet. I had detached from my old group of high school friends and had yet to replace them with the group of other young moms who would become my new friends.
My high school pals had been a rowdy bunch. My husband didn’t like them. And I, so dizzyingly in love, knew he was right to warn me away from my gang. We had started off innocently enough, smoking low grade pot and guzzling the occasional purloined beer, but by the end of high school, death by overdose stalked us, serious addictions set in, and drug dealers with guns showed up at our parties.
Those of us not heading down that road peeled off, one by one.
When the Witness knocked at my door, I must have been in dire need of conversation. It also didn’t hurt that he was about my age (22), looked nice, and had kind eyes. My position on Jesus freaks at the time was that they were hiding from their past. So many people I knew in high school got caught taking drugs one day and turned to God the next.
I think that’s what I said to him first, and then he told me that he’d been born into the faith, had never taken drugs, wasn’t running or hiding from anything. He went into long explanations about the details of his religion. I don’t remember a thing about it now except that I thought his God seemed like an angry and punative misogynist, not too far from my disowned Catholic one.
I explained that my idea of God has always been Ultimate Love. In 1977, I didn’t have much faith that such a God existed, and told my Witness as much.
That first meeting took place on the front porch. At the end of our conversation, to be polite, I accepted his Watchtower and gave him a dollar. I was surprised when, a week later, he returned. I thought I’d scared him off. Instead, here he was, ready to discuss the afterlife again.
I let him inside the house this time. I felt like I knew him; I knew he was safe. We talked some more. Neither of our positions wavered. I sensed he was going for a capture. I would not be converted, and told him so. Still, I gave him another dollar and took another magazine.
A variation on this theme went on for a number of weeks.
My husband finally noticed the Watchtowers. I’m not sure why I kept them around, as I hadn’t done more than glance through the horrific fire and brimstone scenarios. I have never been swayed by the argument that if I only join this faith or that one, I will safe, among the chosen. For me, everyone gets a ticket, or no one does.
The next time my Witness came to the door, I didn’t let him in. I gave him a dollar but refused his magazine. I told him my husband had said he wasn’t to come back anymore. As much as I’d enjoyed having someone to talk to, I’d learned something sad about him. He believed (as I did not) that a husband’s word was law. He would listen to the voice of authority and leave me alone. He did.
I don’t begrudge anyone their faith. My problem comes when religion divides instead of brings together. For awhile, I thought I had come together in spirit with my Witness, but what he really wanted to do was take me away from the rest of the world.
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