Looking for Chris
Normally I feel pretty safe here in Carroll County. It’s part of what attracts me. I’ve lived in major cities where one is generally advised to be attentive on the streets—particularly when walking alone. And while I was perfectly adjusted to my invisible big city armor, I have to admit that it’s nice to be able to go about one’s business without feeling the need to stay on high alert.
However, I went to the new Berryville recycling center the other day, and my smalltown sense of security evaporated. The Berryville recycling facility used to be in town, right behind the Berryville police station, adjacent to other businesses and completely open to the public eye. But the new place is down a side road, kind of rural, and well out of view.
When I pulled in, there was a truck already parked there, and a man just hanging around. He clearly wasn’t recycling—or if he had been, he was finished. He was just there. He greeted me, and I returned the greeting. He asked if I needed help, and I told him I didn’t but thanked him for the offer.
Then he asked, “Are you a Christian woman?”
??
Taken aback, my city girl antennae kicked into gear. But the only word that would come out of my mouth was, “Why?”
I meant, why would a bystander in the recycling center want to know about my religion? Why is this pertinent at this place and time? Why is this anybody’s business but my own?
What he apparently heard was, ‘Why is one a Christian?’
He then expounded upon why it is the most important thing in the world—to be Christian …
And I can’t tell you what else he said because I was suddenly in warp-speed mode, anxious to get away. But even in my haste, I thought to mask my wine bottles enroute to the dumpster lest this zealot take offense at my apparent consumption of the devil’s drink.
Asking a person’s religion out of the blue in any setting is rude. And in this setting, it felt creepy. No more polite than walking up to a perfect stranger and asking “Are you wearing thong panties?”
A person who wears his religion on his sleeve seems suspect to me, like he has to keep his faith in plain view where he can monitor it to be sure it doesn’t escape his grasp. If his spiritual beliefs are solid, there is no need to advertise them. And certainly no need to interrogate a stranger about hers.
Depending on how unstable the man was, I ultimately realized, any answer other than “yes” might provoke a violent response—and I had failed to answer correctly. Think about it:
No, I’m Jewish. (There’s a lotta antisemitism going around these days.)
No, I’m Muslim (a lotta anti-Muslim sentiment, likewise.)
No, I’m an atheist. (Uh-oh!)
No, I’m a Christian man—I just like to wear dresses.
No, I’m vegetarian.
No, I’m from Eureka. (!)
Theoretically, we still have freedom of religion in this country, no matter where we live or where we dispose of our cans and bottles. My spiritual beliefs are between me and my god (or gods), if I have one (or more). And maybe my pastor/priest/imam/rabbi, if I have one.
I will never go to the Berryville recycling center alone again. I will be with a friend or with my dog. I might even get a bigger more ferocious dog. Maybe I’ll name him Chris. Short for Christian.