75/398
♫ Noli turbare barbitos meos ♫
75/398
I enter the corridor to open the front door: The Jehovah’s Witnesses are back to proselytize; I saw them through the window. Last time, I slammed the door on them. How can anyone be so simple-minded and take the bit about the 144,000 who get into paradise literally?
People are always trying to sell me something at my door, and I always send them packing to hell. The two women with their Watchtower and Bible did make me feel somewhat sorry afterward, though. This time, I want to make amends. After all, I pride myself on being civilized, and at least the Jehovah’s Witnesses actually believe what they’re saying – unlike the vacuum cleaner guys, the frozen food people, the mobile phone contract sellers, and the magazine subscription hawkers who are always ringing my doorbell.
I don’t have to invite the Witnesses in, but I can at least politely explain that I appreciate their commitment to their faith and values. However, I’d prefer it if they used their own God-given reason, rather than just following what they’re told. My faith, I’ll say, to set a good example, doesn’t contradict reason; it complements it in the best possible way. And then I’ll politely send them on their way, confident that they’ll see me as someone who knows what he believes and believes what he knows. Someone who’s at peace with himself, who’s found his own truth. Yeah, that’s the ticket.
I open the door. It’s the same two women as last time. One of them is holding the Watchtower in front of her stomach like a shield.
“Leave me alone and go to hell!” I hiss and slam the door.
What got into me? Angry with myself, I stomp back into the living room. The spirit is willing, I think, but apparently it also likes to avoid the effort.