With the start of another semester and the accompanying influx of fresh meat on campus, the religious zealots are out in force. But for some reason, they're leaving me alone this year, and I don't quite know how to feel about it.
Remember that \Seinfeld"" episode where non-believing Elaine gets upset after her born-again boyfriend tells her she's going to hell, not because of the going-to-hell part, but because he doesn't care enough to try and save her filthy sinning soul? I suppose it's sort of like that.
You see, I used to be convinced I gave off what I affectionately called ""heathen vibes,"" genuine waves of as-yet-unclassified energy only detectable by the rabidly faithful. Ministry representatives used to literally pick me out of crowds, opening with creepy, sixth-sensian lines lines like, ""Why don't you believe in God?""(That particular proselytizer then invited me to a Bible-study barbecue-whether to be transformed through the awesome power of the wurst or to be burned as a heretic for fuel was never really specified.)
This year, though, they're letting me pass oddly unaccosted.
I've noticed this phenomenon in other modes of communication as well.
The ubiquitous yet ethereal ""friends"" who used to mail me all those oh-so-illuminating preachy periodicals have seemingly deserted me.
I also used to receive regular spam e-mails from a host of virtuous virtual entities, from a Christian personals site promising a mate for my nonexistent soul to a religious group offering to bestow a low-interest credit line upon me and its complement vowing to absolve me of the ensuing debt. But as of late, the subject lines have just been the usual: pornographic and riddled with grammatical errors (never mind which of those bothers me more).
Of course, it crossed my mind that my best fundamentalist friend in the Bush administration, Attorney General Ashcroft, could be intercepting these communiques, as surely enough ""unfriendly chatter?"" passes through my inbox to draw his prying eyes my way, but that just seems too out of character for good old Johnny Boy.
So, if not ""Whitey,"" who or what is to blame? It can't be me, I'm still involved in a respectable amount of nefarious activity. Sure, it may have been a few years since I did something as blatantly blasphemous as placing a lawn gnome in a church's outdoor nativity display for the sake of snapping an amusing picture, but still.
Jesus-fish still get tongue-lashed on sight with a venom usually reserved for Bush campaign ads, I never miss an opportunity to laugh at another's misfortune? I don't even say ""bless you"" when someone sneezes.
So where are the soul-savers to point me toward the more righteous, self-delusional path?
Make no mistake, I have no desire to bask in the glorious light of conversion--I have fair skin, I burn easily, but part of me can't help but feel a trifle slighted that no one is even bothering to try and blind me with it anymore.
But then again, if the campus foot soldiers are going to ignore me, at least I know I've still got my trusty boxing-nun puppet ever at the ready to deliver a swift left hook of eternal justice.
Holly Noe's column runs each Friday. If you just can't get enough of her this week, write to her at flamingpurvis@yahoo.com.
