For many years I worked the phone bank circuit full-time, in various customer service, sales and collections positions. For those who are allowed to keep their mouths shut as they work, it may be difficult to understand that there are physical as well as emotional demands that come with this territory: micromanaging lackeys (that is to say “team leaders”) abound and do things like limit drinks, even raw pure water, as call after call comes through each line with a break seemingly not in sight. At the end of a shift, the jawbone aches and the throat is often scratchy and hoarse on top of the frayed nerves that come after trying to sell people crap they don’t need.
Relying largely on the NFTA for my way to and from such places, it was easy to develop my personal policy of absolutely no unnecessary conversation for a minimum of one hour after work. Limiting my speech to “Good evening,” “Large double-double please,” and “Jack and Coke” afforded me the rest, relaxation and refreshment required to recharge after some sleazy “team leader” wrote me up for wearing a barrette that did not fit within the office dress code while taking abuse for eight hours straight. Two buses and the white elephant that Buffalo calls its subway train, a little over an hour’s worth of ride time as I juggled the double-double and a stack of CD’s and a portable player, and I rode happily in my own speechless world.
Thus it was a great day when the Lord dropped the Mp3 player down from the heavens in a pool of white light, to settle upon fresh and innocent daisies amidst the joyous song of larks. Now my Shut-the-hell-up time was made that much more convenient as I could control my happy music with the push of a thumb while I sipped my double-double without fear of wearing it home. Its convenience and lightness, however, are also its drawbacks; unless your headphones look like something you’d wear at the firing range to avoid blowing your eardrums out along with the paper target, no one is going to know you’re deliberately locking yourself into your own little padded cell of sound.
I had been for some days enjoying the increasing days of Spring with my new little toy as I walked the several blocks to my bus stop and waited. And one day, I got a tapping on my shoulder and I turned expecting the usual requests for some kind of handout—change or cigarettes, although I’d quit the cancer-sticks a very long time ago.
No such luck.
“Do you know Jesus Christ as your Lord and Savior?”
I honestly would have preferred Change or Cigarettes at the moment. Most people unless they’re sociopaths go on their merry way when you tell them “Sorry, I don’t have spare change” or “You don’t get an ass this big from Marlboros, pal.” Instead I just said something short and lame—“Yeah, Jesus and I are having dinner at Scotch and Sirloin this Thursday at six” and went back to watching for the bus.
And there is was again, tap—tap—tap until I turned again. “Well, I know him as mine.”
I really tried to take a high road on this, honestly I did. The young woman has her rights under the United States Constitution to practice her beliefs. I also labored (quite literally, in my career of those days) under my right to not speak when I do not want to, and as my husband says her rights ended where mine began. She continued to tap my shoulder and beat me over the head with a coal shovel she had named Jesus, until it was all I could do to keep myself from giving her the persecution for His name’s sake that so many seem to desperately desire. “I just got out of work,” I said, and I really don’t feel like getting into a conversation right now.”
“You’re not rejecting me,” she replied. “You’re rejecting Christ.”
Now the truth is that I had rejected Christ decades ago. Raised Catholic, with a few years among the Mormons under my belt, I had long since come to a conclusion, that Jesus was a historical figure who had died a martyr’s death. But he was not divine, a realization which puts me at odds with the vast majority of Christian denominations and sects. I ended up among the Neo-Pagan movement, having come to terms with Jesus. I liked Jesus; I would have welcomed a steak dinner or even a cup of coffee with Him; but not during that first hour after work.
“No,” I told the woman beside me. “I’m rejecting YOU.”
Years of working in the sales sector had resolutely turned me against selling for a living, as well as being sold to. I loathed beating people over the head with credit card applications when all they wanted was a mascara and had two minutes to get to the bus, and cringed inwardly when following up my “Do you want fries with that?” with “So a large fry then?” It was not long before I came to hate credit applications and Fries-With-That thrown in the way of my own run to the bus stop, with equal steaming passion. I am far more likely to return to the counter and the clerk that lets me get my mascara and catch my bus, than the one who seems to go through the motions of following corporate expectations in hopes of attaining a quota. So it was not so much Jesus whom I rejected that evening at the bus stop, but this woman’s Fries-With-That, the sales pitch that seemed more directed at earning her a commission than providing a positive customer experience.
Although I am not a Christian, I will say one thing in favor of Jesus—He wasn’t a jerk. He hung around with both high-class professionals and working stiffs, equally comfortable around both and sucking up to neither; he did all kinds of cool things like providing some mighty fine wine for a wedding and raising his buddy from the dead—and let’s not forget the Roman officer’s servant, of whom it is written Jesus healed even though the officer was of the occupying government and considered an enemy of the Jews. And then there’s that whole thing with the loaves and fishes—you cannot fault Jesus for hospitality and consideration for others. And during all these mighty feats of Super-Jesus strength, not once did He brag on Himself, or try to convince others to worship Him; He was more the standing at the door and knocking type than the nagging and pestering type, because His Mama raised him right.
I catch a lot of flak from the Pagan community for this but I will stand by it—I like Jesus and I like the example He provides in the New Testament. His illustration of service to our fellowbeings and care for the poor are models anyone, regardless of creed, can draw from for inspiration. He is an example of what perfect love and perfect trust in one’s personal Deity can bring forth into the real world.
I often think He is vomiting all over a perfect Paradise at the thought of being sold like a Ron Popeil Pocket Fisherman on late-night TV.
Relying largely on the NFTA for my way to and from such places, it was easy to develop my personal policy of absolutely no unnecessary conversation for a minimum of one hour after work. Limiting my speech to “Good evening,” “Large double-double please,” and “Jack and Coke” afforded me the rest, relaxation and refreshment required to recharge after some sleazy “team leader” wrote me up for wearing a barrette that did not fit within the office dress code while taking abuse for eight hours straight. Two buses and the white elephant that Buffalo calls its subway train, a little over an hour’s worth of ride time as I juggled the double-double and a stack of CD’s and a portable player, and I rode happily in my own speechless world.
Thus it was a great day when the Lord dropped the Mp3 player down from the heavens in a pool of white light, to settle upon fresh and innocent daisies amidst the joyous song of larks. Now my Shut-the-hell-up time was made that much more convenient as I could control my happy music with the push of a thumb while I sipped my double-double without fear of wearing it home. Its convenience and lightness, however, are also its drawbacks; unless your headphones look like something you’d wear at the firing range to avoid blowing your eardrums out along with the paper target, no one is going to know you’re deliberately locking yourself into your own little padded cell of sound.
I had been for some days enjoying the increasing days of Spring with my new little toy as I walked the several blocks to my bus stop and waited. And one day, I got a tapping on my shoulder and I turned expecting the usual requests for some kind of handout—change or cigarettes, although I’d quit the cancer-sticks a very long time ago.
No such luck.
“Do you know Jesus Christ as your Lord and Savior?”
I honestly would have preferred Change or Cigarettes at the moment. Most people unless they’re sociopaths go on their merry way when you tell them “Sorry, I don’t have spare change” or “You don’t get an ass this big from Marlboros, pal.” Instead I just said something short and lame—“Yeah, Jesus and I are having dinner at Scotch and Sirloin this Thursday at six” and went back to watching for the bus.
And there is was again, tap—tap—tap until I turned again. “Well, I know him as mine.”
I really tried to take a high road on this, honestly I did. The young woman has her rights under the United States Constitution to practice her beliefs. I also labored (quite literally, in my career of those days) under my right to not speak when I do not want to, and as my husband says her rights ended where mine began. She continued to tap my shoulder and beat me over the head with a coal shovel she had named Jesus, until it was all I could do to keep myself from giving her the persecution for His name’s sake that so many seem to desperately desire. “I just got out of work,” I said, and I really don’t feel like getting into a conversation right now.”
“You’re not rejecting me,” she replied. “You’re rejecting Christ.”
Now the truth is that I had rejected Christ decades ago. Raised Catholic, with a few years among the Mormons under my belt, I had long since come to a conclusion, that Jesus was a historical figure who had died a martyr’s death. But he was not divine, a realization which puts me at odds with the vast majority of Christian denominations and sects. I ended up among the Neo-Pagan movement, having come to terms with Jesus. I liked Jesus; I would have welcomed a steak dinner or even a cup of coffee with Him; but not during that first hour after work.
“No,” I told the woman beside me. “I’m rejecting YOU.”
Years of working in the sales sector had resolutely turned me against selling for a living, as well as being sold to. I loathed beating people over the head with credit card applications when all they wanted was a mascara and had two minutes to get to the bus, and cringed inwardly when following up my “Do you want fries with that?” with “So a large fry then?” It was not long before I came to hate credit applications and Fries-With-That thrown in the way of my own run to the bus stop, with equal steaming passion. I am far more likely to return to the counter and the clerk that lets me get my mascara and catch my bus, than the one who seems to go through the motions of following corporate expectations in hopes of attaining a quota. So it was not so much Jesus whom I rejected that evening at the bus stop, but this woman’s Fries-With-That, the sales pitch that seemed more directed at earning her a commission than providing a positive customer experience.
Although I am not a Christian, I will say one thing in favor of Jesus—He wasn’t a jerk. He hung around with both high-class professionals and working stiffs, equally comfortable around both and sucking up to neither; he did all kinds of cool things like providing some mighty fine wine for a wedding and raising his buddy from the dead—and let’s not forget the Roman officer’s servant, of whom it is written Jesus healed even though the officer was of the occupying government and considered an enemy of the Jews. And then there’s that whole thing with the loaves and fishes—you cannot fault Jesus for hospitality and consideration for others. And during all these mighty feats of Super-Jesus strength, not once did He brag on Himself, or try to convince others to worship Him; He was more the standing at the door and knocking type than the nagging and pestering type, because His Mama raised him right.
I catch a lot of flak from the Pagan community for this but I will stand by it—I like Jesus and I like the example He provides in the New Testament. His illustration of service to our fellowbeings and care for the poor are models anyone, regardless of creed, can draw from for inspiration. He is an example of what perfect love and perfect trust in one’s personal Deity can bring forth into the real world.
I often think He is vomiting all over a perfect Paradise at the thought of being sold like a Ron Popeil Pocket Fisherman on late-night TV.