photo "House of (STOP) Worship" by Tyler Malone
Estelle opened the door so quickly she forgot to check the viewfinder, something Harry insisted was important. The moment she saw the couple, she regretted her carelessness. The visitors didn’t need to introduce themselves; she knew who they were. Proselytizers for the religion-of-the-week.
She’d worked alongside of several Jehovah’s Witnesses at the local realtor’s office, and they were relentlessly cheerful even though their dogma disdained birthday acknowledgements, Christmas festivities, and pretty much everything one could think of that spelled out a good time: drinking, smoking, drugs, even presents. Still, the trio effused charm, never pitched their particular persuasion, and buyers loved their open houses. (Milk and cookies, anyone?)
Yesterday’s two young men were missionaries in waiter-crisp white shirts and black pants and, Estelle thought, faux smiles. She knew these cold-call door ringers were, literally, on a mission and when their term was over, they could decide their fate of allegiance or defiance. She was rooting for defiance.
Today’s duo were a Black man and woman, eager to change her reading habits which veered toward science fiction and the occasional wild romance. She had to laugh at the contradiction of their dark hands gripping illustrated pamphlets depicting a blonde, blue-eyed white man as their prophet.
The couple were impeccably albeit unfashionably dressed, trousers creased for the man, polished shoes for both, although Estelle noticed one of the man’s shoes was bigger than the other, probably an uncorrected club foot. It was strange to see winter hats on both; this was Los Angeles, after all, and 2026, no man wore a fedora; maybe kids wearing vintage, but not wool felt. And fascinators for women belonged at the Kentucky Derby. Especially with feathers.
“We bring you good tidings and a message of hope,” the woman said, nodding her head back and forth, clueing Estelle in on blindness behind the ordinary sunglasses. Estelle certainly wasn’t going to let a birth defect or blindness force her to listen to another pitch for someone else’s idea of religion. Hers was Mother Nature she would tell anyone who listened. Forest bathing. Mountain climbing. Fields of flowers. Birds singing and all those breathtaking animals in documentaries Harry and she loved to watch on PBS.
Estelle held up her hand and, from the safety behind her screen door, offered her usual speech: “I appreciate your earnestness and belief, but I’m not interested, now or ever. I’m shutting my door,” she added, stepping back holding onto the front door.
“But,” the man said. “we bring you good news!”
Estelle hissed, “I’m my own savior, and I’m doing just fine.”
“Thank you for your time, ma’am,” the woman said, turning in-sync with the man, heading down the front steps. “That woman isn’t doing so fine,” she told her companion, “not fine at all.”
“I heard that!” Estelle screamed. “Don’t you people know religion has done more harm than good? The Crusades! The troubles in Ireland! Everywhere in every age! And what about Katerina in our third-grade class whose parents refused to take her to the hospital because their religion dismissed conventional medicine? What about her screams of abdominal pain? Eight years old. Dead. Appendicitis. So easily treated, even all those years ago. What about Katerina?”
The silence of the dead don’t just speak for god, they speak for the absence of true love within us that names a god. ~ Tyler Malone