At least they didn’t wedge a lime-green New Testament between my teeth. Dressed in the impeccable attire that is their standard, two well-shaven, gel-haired young men approached me on campus today, and, intercepting, deigned to inquire if I’d ever heard of the Church of Latter Saints.
Well, if you’re going to ask, then hopefully you’re prepared for the answers.
In response to several polite but persistently personal questions about my familiarity with Mormonism, whether or not I believe in God, what lead me to my current beliefs, and what I think the meaning of life is, I talked about reading the Bible, how I came to view its inequities in terms of the humanness rather than sacredness it exhibits (nod to Mr. Ewy), how the reality of death effects life, and how morality can be derived from existentialist thought.
Then he told me how blessed he felt to be Mormon.
Well, bake yourself a cake.
I liken evangelism to a grapevine-intoxicated, fairweather friend. It’ll extract your most tender, intimate confessions, then, with the formulaic proficiency of Freud, slander those things precious for its own acclaim. And no matter how nicely it’s dressed, it is still that creature.
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