A missionary came by my place last weekend. I try to be a pretty open-minded person when it comes to religion. “Judge not that ye be not judged.” Sounds like decent advice. People can believe whatever they want, so long as they leave me out of it. But there was something very off about this missionary.
It was around 9:30AM last Saturday when my doorbell rang. To me, Saturday is a day holy and set apart for sleeping off hangovers. Doing anything besides drinking coffee before noon is an egregious sin. Cursing, I rolled over, still half asleep, and groped around the bedside table for my phone.
My doorbell app showed a man standing on my front porch. He was well dressed, wearing a white button up and khakis. His hair was short and neat, brushed back and parted to the side. There was a Bible in his hands. A wide toothy smile stretched across his face, so wide that it looked like it hurt.
“Christ, a missionary,” I said, rolling back over. Missionaries coming by was a pretty common occurrence in my area. Just ignore them and they’ll go away. Usually.
I drifted off to sleep again. The chime of the doorbell brought me back to consciousness and sent pain shooting through my head. Goddamn, I needed to drink less.
The missionary was still there. Still standing in the same spot. Still smiling. And I still didn’t feel like talking to him. The guy needed to take a hint. I rolled back over and went to sleep.
I woke up at 11:30. Shuffling into the kitchen, I put on a pot of coffee. As the coffee machine gurgled to life and filled the house with its sweet aroma, I collapsed onto the couch. I felt like absolute shit and needed to eat.
As I was ordering some breakfast on my phone, I noticed something. 6 notifications, all from the doorbell app. The guy had rung my doorbell six more times over the past two hours and I’d slept right through it.
This was a bad hangover.
The doorbell rang again and I froze. This missionary was taking the whole, “Knock and the door will be opened unto you” thing a bit too seriously. The app showed the same scene out on my front porch. He was just standing there, smiling. It looked like he hadn’t even moved.
As the door swung open, I was already regretting it. But, this guy needed to leave. I wasn’t interested in salvation, or girl scout cookies, or anything else he might be offering. What I wanted was breakfast, coffee, an Alka-Seltzer, and more sleep.
“Hey man, listen. I’m not in the mood-”
“Hello there! So good to see you!” the man said, smiling. “I’m Brother Thomas!”
Brother Thomas stuck his hand out, expecting me to shake it. I just stared back at him.
“Well hey there Brother Thomas! I’m gonna have to ask you to leave.”
There was something unsettling about seeing the guy in person. He’d been out here for two hours, wanting to tell me about whatever brand of Jesus he was trying to sell. The smile bothered me, but not as much as his eyes. They were blue, bright blue. I couldn’t help myself but stare into them.
“I’m sorry if this isn’t a convenient time. But please, it won’t take long.” Bright blue eyes. So bright. For a moment, as I stared into them, I even forgot my headache.
“Maybe- Maybe you should come in.” Why did I say that? What the fuck had possessed me to say that? Before I had time to think, he was stepping through the door.
The next thing I knew we were sitting in my living room. Brother Thomas was sitting on my couch, hands folded neatly in his lap, his Bible sitting on the coffee table next to several empty bottles of Sam Adams.
“I’m here today, Mr…”
“Jeff,” I offered up to the man behind the bright blue eyes. “My name is Jeff.”
“Mr. Jeff,” His smile seemed to widen, “I’m here today to tell you about the gospel. Do you know what the word ‘gospel’ means?”
“Yeah, it means good news. I learned it in Sunday School, when I was little” Why did I give him that? Why was I telling him anything?
“I see. So, you’re familiar with Jesus’ teachings then?”
“Yes. I mean, Kind of. I went to church when I was little. But I don’t really believe anymore.”
“Good. But, perhaps you’ll understand the sense of urgency-”
The coffee was ready! My coffee pot let out a long, shrill beep. Pain shot through my head.
“Fuck!” I yelled.
Brother Thomas didn’t seem to care. The expression on his face didn’t change. I felt more lucid then. I would try my best not to look into his eyes.
Without looking, Jeff began to flip his Bible open to John. The whole time, he kept his eyes fixed on me. I rubbed the bridge of my nose, soothing my headache and avoiding his gaze.
“This is the good news, Mr. Jeff. In John 17, Jesus offered a prayer. He prayed and asked God that his disciples would be one, just as he and the Father were one. The gospel, Mr. Jeff, is not just a message of salvation, it is a message of unity. That’s the name of my church. Or, it will be the name of my church, once it’s built. Unity Church.”
“Listen man, I don’t have time for this. I’m just not interested-”
“I understand your hesitancy,” Thomas continued, smile unwavering, “So much of the Christian world is divided. Catholics, Orthodox, Protestants. Who’s right? Who’s wrong? Well, I had a vision.”
“Uh huh. You had a vision. So now-”
“Yes Mr. Jeff, a vision. I was a slave. A slave to my sins. I wanted freedom. So, I went up on a mountain and I prayed to God. I begged him to show me the way. And do you know what happened?”
“It went straight to voicemail?”
He actually chuckled at that.
“Humor. Humor is often a way that we avoid painful truths. But this truth doesn’t need to be painful. No. No Mr. Jeff. God spoke to me. God appeared to me, and he told me the truth. Just as he and Jesus are one, we can be one with them! We can have unity.”
“Yeah, it’s great and all, I just think it’s time for you-”
“You’re a slave to sin too, aren’t you, Mr. Jeff? A slave to the bottle? A slave to drink?”
He stopped staring at me and glanced down at the empty beer bottles sitting on the coffee table.
Brother Craig was beginning to really piss me off.
“Look man, my drinking is none of your concern. You need to get out of here. I’ve got breakfast coming and-”
Thomas stood up and stared into my eyes. Those deep blue eyes seemed to pierce my very soul.
“I was a slave too. A slave to gambling. A slave to debt. Money, the root of all evil. That’s what Jesus called it. You see, that’s what we are, Mr. Jeff. We’re slaves. We can never truly be free. We can either be a slave to our vices, or we can be a slave to Jesus.
“You drink because you think life is meaningless. Let me give you meaning, Mr. Jeff. Join us. Join us and we will remake you. We can be one. One with Jesus. One with one another. You can find true meaning in unity. You can be forgiven of every sin. You can find salvation.”
I fell to my knees. Thomas moved forward, hand outstretched like a priest about to give a blessing. His eyes seemed to be glowing. The longer I stared, the better I felt. He was right. I did drink because it all felt pointless. I did wish I had some sort of purpose in my life. Vanity. It all just seemed like vanity. So much purposeless toil under the sun.
Light filled the edges of my vision. I was slipping. I was losing myself to unity. My own voice in my head was fading away. When Thomas spoke, he sounded distant.
“Accept us! Choose to become one with us, Jeff!” It just felt so right. I wanted to slip away. I wanted to become something new. Something better. I wanted to experience joy. Pure joy. Everlasting joy. Salvation!
“I-”
The doorbell rang. Breakfast had come.
Thomas looked away for just a second. A second was all I needed. My splitting headache was back. It grounded me. This was real. I wasn’t a repentant sinner. I was an unrepentant drunk.
The doorbell had given me an opening. I leapt up and grabbed one of the beer bottles. As Thomas looked back toward me, I slammed the bottle into the side of his head. Compliments of Sam Adams. The bottle shattered and he went down, shards of glass stuck in his stupid smiling face. Blood ran down his cheek.
“What the fuck, Tom? What the fuck was that? You stay away from me!” I screamed, gesturing wildly with what remained of the broken beer bottle.
Thomas stared up at me. His smile was gone, replaced with a look of sheer terror. Tears welled in his eyes. His hazel eyes.
“What the-” He stammered, looking around, “Where- Where am I?”
“You’re in my fucking house, man!”
“How did I- Why- Oh God!” Terror washed over us both as we both came to the same realization.
“Please!” Thomas begged, “You have to help me. I didn’t know. The man out in the woods. His eyes. I just couldn’t stop looking at his eyes!”
“It’s gonna be okay, I’m gonna help you, just-”
Thomas started to scream.
“The voices! I didn’t want to do it- But they told me- He made me feel so good. He told me I could be free. I thought, I thought I was talking to God!” He smiled again, this time it looked real. He smiled and his eyes rolled back in his head.
Thomas fell to the ground and began writhing on the floor. It was like something out of a horror movie, like he was possessed. His cheek was bleeding badly, broken shards of glass still stuck in it. As he thrashed about, blood splattered all over the carpet. Finally, he stopped, and lay completely still.
“Tom?” I backed away slowly, still clinging to my broken bottle, “Tom, you okay man?”
Thomas got up slowly. He was smiling again and his eyes glowed bright blue.
“The spirit is willing, but the flesh is so weak,” He said, chuckling to himself. I pointed the jagged end of my bottle at him. With my free hand I covered my eyes.
“Get out! Get the fuck out!”
“Don’t worry, Mr. Jeff. I know when to kick the dust off my feet. But let me tell you, the gates of hell will not prevail against the church. A mustard seed, when it is planted, grows into a mighty tree. You may have hardened your heart this time, but God is the potter. You are the clay. Behold, we are coming quickly.”
When I uncovered my eyes, he was gone. I didn’t call the cops. There was doorbell footage of me letting the guy into my house, and him walking away with pieces of broken glass embedded in his face. Even if I did call them, what could I say? He was trying to brainwash me? That he had been brainwashed himself?
One look into his eyes, and the cops probably would’ve hauled me off to jail.
A few days later I noticed a missing person’s report on the news. A man had gone hiking up in the mountains near town. The man had been missing for several weeks. His family was still searching for him, but the police were ready to give up. Apparently, the man was in an incredible amount of debt, police suspected the worst, but his family didn’t believe it.
“Bruce, he was a good boy,” his crying mother said, “Yes, he had a lot of problems. But he trusted in the Lord. I believe he’s still alive out there, even if the police don’t.”
They showed a picture of Bruce. It was a picture of a man in his 30’s. A happy looking guy. He was smiling, and I would’ve known that smile anywhere. He’d had a vision and gotten a new name. Brother Thomas.
The news story mentioned a hotline you could call with any information. I called and left an anonymous tip to check out Unity Church. I wonder if they ever did. Maybe the cops traded in their blue uniforms for white button ups and khakis.
I’ve noticed more missionaries around town this week. They’re always dressed the same. Men in white button ups and khakis, women in white dresses, their hair neatly braided. Of course, they’re always smiling and always seem to have bright blue eyes. I wonder if any of them are missing people, but I try not to look too close.
Their mustard seed is certainly growing. I’m worried about what it will grow into.