The Morman Invasion

Christ’s salesmen marched down my driveway this evening just before sunset. Their visit was the first such visit I can remember having since I moved to Maine 11 years ago, and I was at a loss for a reaction. The length of the driveway and the obvious attire gave me just a couple of moments to consider how to politely tell them just how stubborn my personal beliefs are. Having spent most of the day alone, I decided a conversation couldn’t hurt.

Elder Allen; a stocky college-aged blond and blue from Idaho, and Elder Thyle a Doogie Howser look-alike from Utah, introduced themselves as members of the Mormon Church and got to work addressing the issue of my religious identity. Their fleeting posture and weary faces suggested they had had plenty of abuse from drunken locals on this Saturday evening. My own appearance was a little frazzled from an hour long epic through the same woods I got lost in last year (see “Lost in the Woods” and “Lost in the Woods: Part Two”). Blood dripped from a nasty scratch on my leg and sweat clung to my grimy brow. I stood a solid foot taller than the both of them, and I sense their unease with the visit.

After a brief introduction of my agnostic yet admiring stance on religion of all origins, I offered my ears and time to their crusade. The sales pitch was very similar to that of any other, starting with the traditional “things can be better than they are”. Their short-sleeved dress shirts and TJ Maxx ties only reinforced the feeling of a sales pitch. They were good at what they were doing. They used hypnotic eye contact and slowly delivered confidence in their attempt to convince me that indeed there is a 95 year old prophet of God living out in Salt Lake.

Elder Allen did most of the talking, and addressed my interest in the history of Mormonism with elaborate detail and whimsical tales. Elder Thyle (AKA Doogie) was far more the generalist, opting to speak in passages and unspecific “feel good” statements. They used the words of popular culture to infiltrate my apprehensive curiosity of the subject. The term “fellowship” was used several times in awkward sequence, subliminally suggesting that I might live in The Shire and have Elfin allies if I would take a copy of their book. I was genuinely interested in what they had to say, and talked for an hour before Tia came racing into the driveway with the iPod blasting something furious.

Although I doubt I will ever find myself spiritually affiliated with any religion, the visit made me realize a few things about myself and about religion.

Number one: I, like many people in this polarized America, generally consider firm religious conviction to be a social handicap, and often avoid the subject. My theory is that the story of most major religions is in direct conflict with popular reason, and trying to believe in such fables is just too Santa Claus for many of us (who turned out to be a total farce!).

Number two: Those people who embrace religion, more specifically; Christianity, have very similar interests in the topic –mainly, there’s a bright light at the end of this often-dark tunnel and the more deeply entrenched they are in their church, the safer they are from the murderous pagans who roam the forest.

Number three: The world has had more wars in the name of religion than any other subject. The 2nd coming is the only thing that can substantiate the ancient claims of western religion, uniting man, and finally putting to rest all those other whack-brain beliefs over there in Saudi Iraqastan.

Number four: Christianity is a great thing for a lot of people, and helped many folks cope with life on this cold marble. It’s what brings a lot of people together on even the coldest Sundays for an hour or two of reassurance and moral warmth.

Religion simply doesn’t work for me and my science; however, I feel that my own personal morals are strong enough to project the same love and respect at the core of most religions.

Long Time - No Blog

It would appear that my once-weekly habit of blogging has fallen victim to a beautiful summer and to the regular grind of life. Since the last time I blogged; Tia and I were married, we've honeymooned across east and Midwest, I've seen my immediate and much of my non-immediate family, I've partnered with a tremendously talented writer in a publishing ventured aimed at closet writers who are inexperienced in the process of publication, I was inducted as an honorary member of the Southern Maine Maple Sugarmakers Association (a group I was contracted to build a website for), and my skin has turned 4 shades darker in the rich sunlight Maine is bathed in for a couple of months a year.

It is this time of year and in these latitudes when the Earth starts showing off its ability to produce and host abundant life. Tonight, on this especially murky day, it would seem that all the necessary elements of land life are available for whatever creature wishes to live. The air is warm and heavy with moisture; the sky is bright with a flood of moonlight - dispersed evenly through the misty atmosphere.

The snakes that live in the shed and haunt my dreams have grown fat and long with the smorgasbord of insects scurrying unsuccessfully from under the shed to the shelter of the grassy carpet. I'd like to say that the almost daily exposure to the serpents has dulled my sense of alarm at the sight of the beasts, but I still shriek like a little girl when I see that coil of scales staring at me with eyes and tongue, and my feet still curl up nervously under my desk as to not brush against any suspicious lengths of cable while the squirmy topic is in mind.

I remember like it was yesterday the day my brother and I came across a grisly scene in the woods behind our little farm on Vancouver Island. A place which is home to a vicious and capable snake known as a Red Racer; after its tell-tale red stripes that run lengthwise down its often-huge body, a body which is un-tormented by winter in the mild Pacific West and left to grow for years and years. On this particular venture into the woods, we saw a Red Racer enjoying a giant slug (another beneficiary of Vancouver Island's mild winters) it had slithered out onto a log over the creek to munch on. Neither of us had any substantial hesitation in approaching the scene to get a better look. We were of the age when walking through the creek in shoed-feet was done without a second thought. We were within just a few noisy feet of the reptile when it decided the slimy snack wasn’t worth the risk of finding itself in a haphazardly constructed terrarium for a few days, and proceeded to pull its unhinged jaws away from the mortally wounded mollusk which lay paralyzed and oozing its juice on the mossy log.

Although the details which immediate followed the snakes regurgitation of the slug have become hazy with the swell of enzymes responsible for compulsive fear, what is blazingly clear is the fact that my brother chased me the six year old for nearly a quarter mile out of the woods and home through the field yelling at the top of his 9 year old lungs “Red Racer! Red Racer!!! It’s right behind you!!”, forever voiding my appreciation for the species. I forgave the bastard years ago for the incident, and he delivered a mushy toast at our wedding which touched, if only in spirit, upon the incident back in 86’. Aside from gradual forgiveness, I got the last laugh a few years later when he nearly cried at the theater during the dreadfully lame movie Arachnophobia, which detailed in all ability of 1990’s Hollywood special effects the subject of his nightmares… and I’m much taller than him!