Turning the Tables on a Jehovah’s Witness

The morning after our 2:00 a.m. return from a recent vacation, still jet-lagged and struggling to shave without Sweeney Todd-ing myself, I noticed in the bathroom mirror that a cranberry-colored Ford Focus had pulled into our exceedingly long gravel driveway. I yelled to Joe in the other room that an unknown car was on its way, and we both watched in horror as a woman in a bonnet and her Sunday best alighted the Focus and proceeded to ring our doorbell. The dogs went nuts.

“You get it,” I said to Joe, and with barely more presence of mind than I had, he descended the stairs and opened the front door with trepidation.

“Hello, my name is Elder Price.”

Just kidding. Our interloper turned out to be a Jehovah’s Witness, not a character from The Book of Mormon.

“I knew new people were living here when I saw that Jewish thing on your door,” she said, referring to the beautiful mezuzah that adorns our door frame and symbolizes millennia of sacred tradition. But she was right: according to Jewish law, one of the first things I did when we took ownership here in 2020 was to affix the mezuzah to the front doorpost. It contains parchment inscribed with Hebrew verses from the Torah.

While I am barely a cultural Jew, I was taken aback by this Jehovah’s Witness’s chutzpah.

“Did you know Jesus was a Jew?” she importuned.

“No, we have never heard that before; tell us more.”

She handed Joe a flyer promising victory over death and featuring a modern-day Jesus who now resembled the actor who played Jim on The Office.

Joe handled the situation much less contentiously than I would have. He expressed appreciation for her commentary and insight, thanking her profusely as he gently and slowly closed the door on her bonnet-framed visage.

But I got to thinking “What if?” Joe likes to say he is half-Jewish, having enjoyed 23 years’ worth of matzoh ball soup and sat through enough Seders to know a shank bone and bitter herbs when he sees them. Thanks to the miracle of blended families, he accomplished this on top of being a former altar boy who attended parochial school for 12 years.

What if, instead of closing the door on our visitor, my gentle, gentile husband had taken “Jesus was a Jew” as a pivot point to turn the tables on our uninvited guest, asking her in for a bagel, shmear, and some Torah talk?

In my fantasy, polite, deferential Joe would have told her that “Jesus’s earthly father was a Joe” and hard-sold her on joining the ancient tribe (not the one that changed its name to “Guardians” a few years ago). (I know—God's chosen do not seek conversions—just indulge me.)

As this flight of fancy continued, I would join them after the completion of my shaving ritual and sit down for a conversation, making our visitor a new kind of witness -- this time, to our same-sex marriage. I might even ask her where she was on June 26, 2015 -- the day the Supreme Court legalized gay marriage in all 50 states.

I suppose that would have sent her racing for the cranberry conversion car faster than I could say, “Joe, bring me my leather chaps.”

Back in reality, I suspect we have not heard the last of our pushy proselytizer. Joe’s politeness almost guaranteed a return visit -- maybe next time with some of her friends.

If she does return, I’ll be ready. 3500 years of kibbitzing and kvetching have prepared me for the likes of her.