Missionaries at the Door

When I was brand new at my first parish in Microtown, I was unpacking and loading dishes into the cabinets when I heard a knock on the door. I was delighted. I thought it was church members coming to meet me. Turned out it was two Jehovah Witnesses come to save my soul and pass on a copy of the Watchtower to make sure I got to heaven. Not long afterward, I learned a good way of coping with such events from my clergy friend Doug and his wife. Before entering ordained ministry Doug had been a corporate employee in Salt Lake City, one of the tiny minority of non-Mormons living there. He was on the regular circuit for Mormon missionaries to come visit. Two of them visited him at least once every other month.

One night he heard a rap on the door. He did not know it then, but what he was about to do would ensure that no Mormon missionaries, Jehovah Witnesses, or Fuller Brush salesmen ever showed up uninvited again.

At the time he was carving up a giant joint of meat for grilling. He was holding his red-streaked carving knife and had some blood on his apron. He opened the door to see two conservatively dark-suited young missionaries on his doorstep. He grinned at their look of surprise at his blood-stained garb and knife. "Hi, nice to see you," he greeted them. "Can you come back later? We're Druids. We're in the middle of a sacrifice."