I Encounter a Zealot

"Instead of clearing his own heart the zealot tries to clear the world."

-Joseph Campbell

So, I was minding my own business, limping into Wegman's after sneaking off for a few minutes in the gym over lunch.

Yes, this Wegman's. The photo was snapped October 3, 2020, the day we arrived in Corning to start this crazy adventure.

Within five steps of my emerging from the truck, I was approached by a rather earnest, fifty-ish lady, hair pulled back tight and a ziplock bag of beige pamphlets bulging out of her unzipped coat.

"Excuse me, do you have a moment."

Do I have a choice? My gait slows a little, out of a mistaken politeness.

"I and my group are traveling the country, evangelizing for Christ. Are you a Christian."

I ponder on that as I continue walking, trying not to lock gaze with the now a little wilder pale blue eyes.

I nod sheepishly.

"Well, as you might expect, this ministry costs money. And we're trying to raise funds to keep spreading the message."

I don't inquire what the message might be. I notice the plastic bag inside the plastic bag just below her diaphragm, with a wallet and a small roll of cash. I know the shakedown, and cringe at the realization that I only have a twenty in my wallet. What was it Paul said about making change with the Gentiles?

"What denomination are you," I ask.

"Oh, we're nondenominational!", she announces. "Our church is for everybody. We're here for everybody."

So, no point in engaging her in a discussion of soteriology, or how accosting hapless strangers in a grocery store parking lot is aiding the mission. The freedom of being unburdened with dogma.

Finally I stop, fumble out the $20.00 bill, and hand it to her.

"Oh, bless you sir. Bless you."

"No problem. I could use the karma."

Her expression doesn't change, no surprise or ironic tittle at my ecumenical joke. Irony doesn't run strong with this crowd.

I start walking again, but this huckster for Christ isn't finished yet. She walks next to me.

"Are you saved by the power of the Holy Spirit?"

"I suppose so. I'm an old Episcopal priest."

I figured pulling rank by identifying myself as one of those collared types who'd been to seminary might soften her vigor. Or maybe in her circles "Episcopalian" is some sort of quasi-papist cult and she should shun me. Instead, I concluded she didn't know exactly what an Episcopalian might be.

"Then you understand! You understand being saved by the power of the blood! You understand you were saved by the Holy Spirit when you accepted Christ at your baptism!"

I was seven when I was baptized. I didn't accept anything, except perhaps the kickass electric football set and jewelry box full of minie balls and grapeshot Uncle Lehman gave me after the ceremony.

I don't respond to her query, but am pretty sure my face curled into an expression akin to the Grinch gazing down at Whoville before the cardiomegaly at the end of the show.

"Can I pray for you?"

Oh shit. She's not waiting for an answer. She reaches out and grabs my right breast. This causes me to stop, feeling it's all a little intimate for my taste. Not sure what to do next, I consider reaching out and grabbing her breast back, but am afraid of getting slapped or maybe being forced to take her to lunch. No, mostly I figure the good burghers of the Southern Tier plodding into Wegman's to buy a can of peas would stop and recoil in horror at the scene. Peer pressure is a thing.

So, it begins. I can't recount the exact text of the prayer, the usual Protestant jumble about Father God and the Holy Spirit entering my heart. At least it wasn't shouted, and she was blessedly short.

"Did you feel anything? Did you feel the Holy Spirit enter your heart?"

"I reckon." I will now say anything to make this end.

"Because the Holy Spirit will find his way into your heart, into anyone's heart. Unless you're living in sin. You aren't living in sin, are you?"

What an odd twist this has all taken. Is this how evangelists ask if you're seeing someone right now?

It takes me an uncomfortable pause to answer. I take inventory. I'm pretty sure I'm wearing two different kinds of fiber in these layers of clothes. I like shellfish. I like whiskey. The Bills thing could be seen as idolatry. I swear too much.

But I'm pretty sure that wasn't what she was asking, so I quit my little examen and answer truthfully, "Nope. Been happily married for a long time."

"Good! Good!" My new breast-grabbing friend feigns joy, but I can sort of see the light going out in her eyes. I step away toward the automatic doors.

"Good luck," I tell her.

"God bless you," she responds.

Not two minutes later I see her carrying a basket through Wegman's shopping with my $20.00 I suppose. If so, the joke's on her--twenty bucks at Wegman's won't get you enough to make a decent pot of beenie-weenies, or whatever they're eating on the road as they preach that the Kingdom is at hand.