Jehovahlicious!

July 19th, 2005

We’re in the kitchen. I am putting groceries away, Sophie’s happily munching on her chosen lunch: two slices of bologna and two slices of watermelon. All of a sudden, the dogs bolt for the front door, barking up a storm.

I peek from the kitchen to see what the fuss is about. My fears are confirmed: a stern, shirt-and-tie–wearing man and a well-groomed, determined-faced woman, standing on our porch, peering inside, assessing conversion prospects.

I try to shrink back into the safety of the kitchen. Too late—they’ve spotted me. Big smiles, big hopes. I am bespectacled fresh meat, possibly smart, but definitely a sinner. They’ve taken stock. There is no Jesus fish on our car, no half-shell bathtub Virgin Mary on the front lawn, no crucifix hanging from my neck. I am just what they are looking for.

I leave Sophie with her lunch and trudge to the door, preparing for the onslaught of Jehovahliciousness. The smiles get bigger.

I open the front door, then crack the screen door, allowing only six inches of preaching space. The dogs continue to make a commotion, woofing and shoving their muzzles through to get a whiff of the Holy Human Spam. If these people appeared in my inbox, I would delete them faster than Jerry Falwell can shout out an amen.

But they are on my porch, and they are hungry for my soul.

“Can I help you?” I ask. I hate good breeding. I hate good manners. I want to moon them.

The woman centers her face in the open six-inch crack. “Hello! My friend and I are just in the neighborhood, talking about Bible study! We were wondering if you might have a minute to talk!” Her speech has the lilting, cheery rhythm of a talking doll.

“Um, no, thank you. This isn’t a good time.” If you people found me stranded on a remote island after forty years of no human interaction, it would STILL NOT BE A GOOD TIME.

The man steps closer, nudging the woman. Onward, Christian soldiers!

“No? We’d just take a little of your time,” she says, beaming Christian laser-light from her pious eyes into our dark den of lust and mortal sin.

I shove the dogs back into the hallway. “Uh, actually, we’re Jewish.”

As the words leave my mouth, rabbis everywhere are suddenly gasping and clutching their throats and weeping into their tassled shawls and bowls of matzoah ball soup. David thinks of himself as Jewish, and he fits the bill, as his mother is Jewish. While I feel I have a good working relationship with the Big Gal or Guy or Grooviness Upstairs, I’m not much of anything. I certainly haven’t gotten all jiggy, naked, and Jewish in a mikveh bath in front of the proper Hebrew parties. The last time I checked, there’s no clause in the Torah that allows me to say I’m Jewish just to fend off missionaries.

Unless there’s something in the fine print. Note to self: Check with that nice Rabbi Goldwasser at Congregation Beth Israel, pronto.

I recover from my sudden blast of non-Jew Jewish guilt and realize they are still standing there on my porch. They look a little hungrier now. It’s all terribly unnerving. Did they not hear me?

“Jewish!” exclaims the woman. “That’s very interesting! You’re the first Jew we’ve met in this area. Are there many of you?”

“Um. Well. There are some. Of us. Yes.”

My face is flaming. That’s it. Doomed. Eternal damnation.

“Well,” she says, “what parts of the Old Testament do you study?”

Er?

She waits for me to answer, then continues cheerfully. “Do you spend time with Deuteronomy and Genesis? Do you study Ezekiel and Nahum and Nahoom and the Heberkedees and the Schmiffabees and the Astrologicaltuffinezzallolotrees? And Knickerbockenegger?”

I have no idea what she is talking about. After twelve years of Catholic school, you would think I would be able to come up with a response, but all I can think of is the really mean nun who threw a big black stapler at the wiry kid in the back of the room, narrowly missing his temple.

“We’re gently Jewish,” I say. “Very gently Jewish.”

“We’re Jehovah’s witnesses,” says the woman. Damn! Here I thought you guys were from NASA. “Maybe we could start with the Old Testament.”

Talk about persistence. Holy crap. Pleading Jewishness doesn’t thwart them. If anything, they are quivering with excitement at the upped ante, the potential conversion of a Gently Jewish Family.

I adopt the gentle demeanor of my Newfound Gently Jewish Ancestors: “Actually, I have to feed my children lunch right now.” They’ve been wandering through a desert, and boy, are they ever starved!

“Oh, I see,” says the woman. “Maybe we’ll have a chance to talk again soon?”

“Absolutely,” I say. “Real soon.”

Entry Filed under: Uncategorized, Play nice! (Politics & Religion)