The Hound at the Door
I guess it was a little after ten when I heard the knock at the front door. I couldn't figure out who the heck it might be, but I got up from the computer and padded to the front of the house in my usual not-at-work garb, in this case charcoal grey gym shorts and orange t-shirt. The lunkheaded hound dog, who had perked up at the sound of the knock, unfolded his limbs and came down off the sofa like some kind of gigantic furry praying mantis to accompany me to the door.
Just before I pulled it open, I buried one hand in the dog's fur in order to grip him by the collar, thereby preventing him from leaping through the screen door and sprinting for the road in an insane bid for freedom. Then I gave the front door a tug and discovered two small, bespectacled, well-dressed women of an age somewhat north of mine; I'll put them in their sixties. One, grey-haired and silent, stood back from the door near the edge of our brick-bordered stoop. The other, with hair still (or recently) reddish-brown, bid me a good morning and noticed the large canine nosing at the screen, no doubt with vague notions of getting through it.
The brunette informed me that this was a church visit and they were interested in spreading the word about the Kingdom of God.
Immediately I shifted gears, no longer "curious" but instead "intruded upon." I understand that some people's religious practices involve going up to the doors of perfect strangers in an attempt to sway them away from their current religious practices to ones more in keeping with those of the visitors, but frankly, I find the whole business rather off-putting.
For one, it does rather presume that the visitors' view of the universe is better than the resident's, a presumption which is invalidated somewhat by their need to get out there and make the hard sell; generally, if the product is really all that good, the customers head down to the local supplier and make their demands. Second, it presumes that I will enjoy spending my precious weekend hours discussing matters of an intensely personal nature with total strangers (rather than the way I actually enjoy spending them: lying around the house in comfortable clothing, reading speculative fiction, eating leftover pizza, and farting around on the Web). Third, it presumes that I have, through either remarkable sloth or extraordinary lack of intellectual curiosity, made no attempt to work out the Great Truths of the universe myself, or indeed to try to find out exactly what all those big white buildings around town with the pointy things on their roofs might be.
But I'm too polite by half, so instead of explaining all that, I fell back on my standard tool for ending doorstep conversations about the Kingdom of God: "I'm Jewish."
Technically, it's even true. My mom was Jewish, and though I never studied for a bar mitzvah, speak no Hebrew, and rarely observe any Jewish ritual other than the occasional Seder or lighting of the menorah on the first night of Hanukkah, I am considered a Jew by the laws of Moses and the state of Israel. And I find it more emphatic than the more accurate "I'm an agnostic," which suggests that I might change my mind and convert if only my visitors would share their knowledge of the True Faith.
This lady, however, was not put off. "Well, then, you've thought about the Kingdom of God."
"Yes, I have," I replied, still bent slightly at the waist to keep my left hand's grip on the collar of the dog, who was still nosing the screen in an attempt to catch the scent of freedom.
"Well, given that you have had a chance to consider the Kingdom of God, I was wondering if you could share those thoughts."
Some people just can't take a hint.
"I'm afraid they are private," I replied, calmly but firmly. "And honestly, I'm not really prepared to discuss them standing at the door trying to keep my dog from jumping through the screen."
"Oh," she said, and bid me goodbye.
I closed the door behind them and finally let go of the dog, who slunk back to his still-warm spot on the sofa.
Only later did it occur to me what these people were probably saying to the other ladies they met for lunch.
"Well, Emily knocked on the door and this huge, hairy man opened it, but he didn't open the screen. He was barefoot, with nothing on but a dirty t-shirt and shorts, and he was holding the collar of this hunting dog. I swear, it was the hungriest-looking thing I'd ever set eyes on--you could count every rib! Anyway, she asked him if he'd heard about the Kingdom, and he didn't even invite her in. Turned out he was one of those Jew people--you know, the ones that killed Our Savior--but she didn't even bat an eye. Just kept right on with her mission. I was so proud of her! But he just said he didn't want to talk about it, and wouldn't even look her in the eye. He just kept looking down at that dog's collar, like he was thinking about letting go, until he told Emily we had no business being on his porch. And then, I would swear it on a stack of Bibles, he said he was going to let his dog come right through the screen at us! Well, we got out of there so fast it made my head spin, and Emily had to pull the car over just a little ways down the road to get her breath back. My land, I have never in my days seen anything like it!"
I wonder if this is how Grendel got his start.
Just before I pulled it open, I buried one hand in the dog's fur in order to grip him by the collar, thereby preventing him from leaping through the screen door and sprinting for the road in an insane bid for freedom. Then I gave the front door a tug and discovered two small, bespectacled, well-dressed women of an age somewhat north of mine; I'll put them in their sixties. One, grey-haired and silent, stood back from the door near the edge of our brick-bordered stoop. The other, with hair still (or recently) reddish-brown, bid me a good morning and noticed the large canine nosing at the screen, no doubt with vague notions of getting through it.
The brunette informed me that this was a church visit and they were interested in spreading the word about the Kingdom of God.
Immediately I shifted gears, no longer "curious" but instead "intruded upon." I understand that some people's religious practices involve going up to the doors of perfect strangers in an attempt to sway them away from their current religious practices to ones more in keeping with those of the visitors, but frankly, I find the whole business rather off-putting.
For one, it does rather presume that the visitors' view of the universe is better than the resident's, a presumption which is invalidated somewhat by their need to get out there and make the hard sell; generally, if the product is really all that good, the customers head down to the local supplier and make their demands. Second, it presumes that I will enjoy spending my precious weekend hours discussing matters of an intensely personal nature with total strangers (rather than the way I actually enjoy spending them: lying around the house in comfortable clothing, reading speculative fiction, eating leftover pizza, and farting around on the Web). Third, it presumes that I have, through either remarkable sloth or extraordinary lack of intellectual curiosity, made no attempt to work out the Great Truths of the universe myself, or indeed to try to find out exactly what all those big white buildings around town with the pointy things on their roofs might be.
But I'm too polite by half, so instead of explaining all that, I fell back on my standard tool for ending doorstep conversations about the Kingdom of God: "I'm Jewish."
Technically, it's even true. My mom was Jewish, and though I never studied for a bar mitzvah, speak no Hebrew, and rarely observe any Jewish ritual other than the occasional Seder or lighting of the menorah on the first night of Hanukkah, I am considered a Jew by the laws of Moses and the state of Israel. And I find it more emphatic than the more accurate "I'm an agnostic," which suggests that I might change my mind and convert if only my visitors would share their knowledge of the True Faith.
This lady, however, was not put off. "Well, then, you've thought about the Kingdom of God."
"Yes, I have," I replied, still bent slightly at the waist to keep my left hand's grip on the collar of the dog, who was still nosing the screen in an attempt to catch the scent of freedom.
"Well, given that you have had a chance to consider the Kingdom of God, I was wondering if you could share those thoughts."
Some people just can't take a hint.
"I'm afraid they are private," I replied, calmly but firmly. "And honestly, I'm not really prepared to discuss them standing at the door trying to keep my dog from jumping through the screen."
"Oh," she said, and bid me goodbye.
I closed the door behind them and finally let go of the dog, who slunk back to his still-warm spot on the sofa.
Only later did it occur to me what these people were probably saying to the other ladies they met for lunch.
"Well, Emily knocked on the door and this huge, hairy man opened it, but he didn't open the screen. He was barefoot, with nothing on but a dirty t-shirt and shorts, and he was holding the collar of this hunting dog. I swear, it was the hungriest-looking thing I'd ever set eyes on--you could count every rib! Anyway, she asked him if he'd heard about the Kingdom, and he didn't even invite her in. Turned out he was one of those Jew people--you know, the ones that killed Our Savior--but she didn't even bat an eye. Just kept right on with her mission. I was so proud of her! But he just said he didn't want to talk about it, and wouldn't even look her in the eye. He just kept looking down at that dog's collar, like he was thinking about letting go, until he told Emily we had no business being on his porch. And then, I would swear it on a stack of Bibles, he said he was going to let his dog come right through the screen at us! Well, we got out of there so fast it made my head spin, and Emily had to pull the car over just a little ways down the road to get her breath back. My land, I have never in my days seen anything like it!"
I wonder if this is how Grendel got his start.