The Ecclesiastical Siege

I earn the nickname Psycho. Again.

There are times when kindness backfires. In the depth of winter in my second year at Haileybury, I did one such kindness. I don’t regret the act; I do resent their taking advantage.

Our house had been out the night before, out till all hours. We partook of our time-honoured tradition of 2 am spaghetti dinner and hit the sack at about 3:00. I slept as only the truly self-medicated can, in a coma, rising as expected, awarded with the near-death experience hangover any reasonable human-being would expect given my overindulgence, my head splitting and my guts in knots, unbearably nauseous.
I shuffled to the bathroom, and fully intended to sleep the day away if that were possible, when I heard a knock at the door. I turned and faced it. Who the hell could that be, I thought. Wind buffeted the house. I could hear pellets of snow driven against the windows. There was so much frost on the door’s window that it was impossible to see who could possibly be visiting us at that time, in such weather. What time was it? I had no idea.

I threw open the door and was met with a rush of misery. It had to be -40*. Icy wind blew past and through my robe. Two obviously freezing young men hunched on our stoop. Even in my state, I knew exactly what they were. Jehovah’s. There to save my soul, and to get their quota of converts, so they might bask in the glory of their savior, forevermore.

“Good morning,” they said, far too chipper for my state, far to chipper for the weather.

“Morning,” I croaked, unwilling to commit to good or any other adjective. All I was willing to commit to was my unwillingness to stand in an open doorway, in my bathrobe, subjected to the fullest fury of winter. “Jesus,” I said, not caring a whit what they thought of my language. “You look frozen.” Fuck ‘em if they couldn’t take a joke. I then made my mistake of kindness. “Come on in for a couple minutes to warm up,” I said.

They did, unwilling just then to venture much further than the entry into our obviously tattered and tumbledown den of student’s debauchery. I had, after all, met them at the door in my bathrobe, clearly still in the throes of last night’s excess. I must have seemed quite a catch, someone clearly in need of saving.

I was, just not by them

“Cold out,” I said, shuffling into the kitchen, “isn’t it.”

They agreed. They introduced themselves

I asked them if they’d like some coffee to help thaw their bones. “It’s instant,” I said. Forewarned is forearmed.

They accepted, then began their spiel. Had I heard the Good News? Did I know our Savior?
Not personally, I said.

I mentioned that I was a practicing Catholic, and that I was not interested. Contradictory? Yes. But that’s what my mother always said at the door when they came to call and it always seemed to work for her.

The kettle boiled, I poured us each a cup. I sat down at the fixed picnic table that served as our dining room table. They remained standing. I offered them a seat. Another mistake, but I was taught to be polite.

I asked if they wouldn’t mind if I put some clothes on. I did. I also threw back a couple extra-strength Tylenols and about a litre of water for good measure. I lit a smoke, unmindful of my headache, addictions being what they are.

They set in on me when I returned, bringing out a battery of pamphlets, enlightening me on how Catholicism had got it all wrong, pointing out just how, and in increasing detail. I was well armed for such a debate, my mother having taken me in hand every Saturday night for Mass, and although I always brought a novel to read while waiting for Mass to commence, she always insisted I put it aside and pay attention. I did. I listened then, and I listened now, so, as far as I was concerned, the Jehovah’s had just taken the Catholic scripture, ignoring whatever bits they didn’t like, and reinventing it as they saw fit. It was all a mess as far as I could see. Jesus had brothers and sisters, whose names were conveniently the same as the apostles and disciples, etc. I always loved a good debate, so I perked up, pointed out those facts as I remembered them, and in time, thanked them for their time, informing them that I was hungry, and needed a shower.

They thanked me for the coffee, and gave me further reading material. Hard covers, this time. I begged off, tried to return them, but they insisted. Then they told me that they’d be back with one of their elders next week, just to introduce him. So we could all get to know one another better.

Crap! I thought. Idiot.

I saw them out. And promptly chucked their reading material in the trash without giving it a glance. I thought about giving the books back, but they’d pissed me off, intruding on my hangover as they had. I had enough confusion and uncertainty in my life; the last thing I needed was a bunch of bible-thumpers at my door, showing me the way to enlightenment and salvation.

Just as the books hit the bin, I heard every occupied door on my floor open. Jeff, and Joe Clark, and Neil and John all spilled out from their hiding to confront me and laugh at my good fortune.
“You idiot,” they said. “Now we’d have every Holy Roller in town at our door.”

“I fix,” I said.

And I did.

I made signs for our kitchen window. I made my own pamphlets for distribution. And I made a folder in which said pamphlets could rest until needed. Next Friday night, before collapsing into bed, I put them up.

JESUS SUCKS, declared the kitchen window signs. Were that not to deter them, I’d set the folder filled with pamphlets jammed in the front door, the pages easy to get at.

I was not awakened early that Saturday. I suppose they thought it better that they visit later in the day.
That sunny afternoon, I saw the two return, this time led by a middle-aged man. They took no note of the kitchen window papers. Perhaps they did not see them. They climbed the stairs. Paused for a moment at the door, then descended again.

Perhaps they took offence at my own ecclesiastical message.

An erect penis glared up from the cover of each folded pamphlet. Inside was the same penis, this time ejaculating. Above and below it was written: Jesus took the bread, and when he had given thanks, he broke it and gave it to his disciples, saying, “Take this and eat it; this is my body.”

We were never bothered by them again.

Yes, I was an irreverent asshole. But as I said, I was pissed that they’d taken advantage of my kindness. And I did earn my nickname anew that day. Word gets around.

Go in peace to love and serve the Lord.

Thanks be to God! Amen!