Last week I was sitting on the third floor of Baker University Center, drinking coffee and reading the paper, when I was approached by two Christian activists.
It was almost a religious experience. After having to respond last week about that whole sport management argument, and after I came to my senses and decided not to do a detailed column on the fundamentals of gay sex, I had no idea what to write about.
And then here came these two guys.
They asked if I had a moment to answer a few questions regarding my “spiritual personality,” or something like that. And, for some reason, I said yes.
What followed was nearly an hour of deep religious conversation. One of the guys took out a pack of cards, and on the cards were sketches with religious terms and explanations. He laid them out and used them to direct the questions.
And the questions were really personal, like: What do I think will happen when I die? What are my dreams in life?
What is my motivation to even get out of the bed in the morning?
I was raised as a Catholic — went to a Catholic elementary school. I used to be religious growing up, and now I’m not. What’s left to say? Or, for that matter, what do I say to these two guys?
I wanted to tell them about the last time I remember praying.
I was in seventh grade. For some reason, I had joined the wrestling team. It was my first big match. I was scared. The other kid was going to destroy me.
Sitting on the bleachers before the match, I thought, “God, if you can make it happen, somehow, so this kid doesn’t show up, I’ll believe in you forever.”
It was a pretty dumb prayer, but what happens? The kid doesn’t show up. I went out to the mat and the referee raised up my arm, and that was that.
Later, I heard that the guy I was supposed to wrestle had been slammed so hard in a previous match that he had, lo and behold, pooped himself.
So while I was making that prayer, he was probably crying alone in the bathroom, his soiled uniform hanging from the stall door like a symbol of all the shame possible in this world.
Either way, my prayer had been answered. Why, then, was that the moment I unconsciously stepped away and decided, “No thanks, I don’t need that”? I don’t know.
Maybe it had something to do with the thought of God sending fire and brimstone through some poor kid’s bowels, and doing it for my sake — maybe that turned me off.
But I didn’t mention any of that, and finally the two Christians packed up their cards and went off to find another soul to examine.
In that moment, I really respected them. I’m not sure what their aim was, but here were two guys just approaching random people.
They don’t care what you think of them, and it’s not because they’re arrogant. It’s just that they’ve found something in this world that works perfectly for who they are. I want to be like that.
Eventually, I went to the top floor, and I saw them again, standing by the doors.
I saw them, and they saw me. And I looked down at my phone. I walked right past them with my head down, pretending I hadn’t seen them at all.
Evan Smith is a freshman studying journalism and columnist for The Post. Have you had a similar experience? Email him at es394910@ohiou.edu.
