I was heading into the men’s room when a middle-aged woman with a tragic haircut approached me. Without warning she reached out and grabbed my hand and shook it enthusiastically. “I’m Jan,” she said.
I was immediately wary. “Hello,” I said noncommittally, pulling my hand away.
She got right to the point. “I saw you during the seminar,” she said, “and I could tell right away that you are spiritually deficient.”
I chose my words carefully. “Spiritually deficient?” I said.
She nodded vigorously. “I’m here to help,” she said.
“To help?” I repeated.
She nodded some more, her smile never wavering. “Jesus told me to come talk to you.”
“Jesus told you?” I said, thinking that I had entered some lower circle of hell where I was condemned to spend all eternity repeating the blatherings of an idiot.
She nodded again and explained that she was Jesus’s Messenger. She then told me that there were three voices in her head: The first one was the voice of her conscience. The second, the one she heeded now, was the voice of Jesus, and the third voice was “the Wicked One.”
I wanted to tell her that she was not a Messenger, she was a psychzophrenic but I’ve learned not to provoke people like Jan. Besides, I was confused. “The Wicked One?” I asked, in spite of myself. She nodded solemnly and put an index finger up at each side of her head, like horns. She squinted and bared her teeth and I suddenly understood.
“Oh,” I said. “You mean Satan? Lucifer? Beelzebub? The Prince of Darkness?”
She looked around nervously, clearly concerned that I may have summoned an evil being from the nether world. “I don’t like to mention his name,” she whispered.
“Buh-bye,” I said and I turned to go. Jan grabbed my arm and I shook it loose. “Jesus says he’s been watching you and wants to help,” she said.
“Listen,” I said, annoyed that this complete stranger felt comfortable discussing my deficiencies, spiritual or otherwise. “I’m sure that Jesus has better things to do than worry about me,” I said, “but tell him I’m fine, and thank him for his time.”
“You’re being insolent,” said Jan loudly. “Jesus told me to tell you that you can only find redemption through him.”
This had gone far enough so I played my trump card. “Tell Jesus I’m Jewish,” I lied, wondering if lying to Jesus about my religion was a mortal or venial sin.
“Jesus says he doesn’t care,” said Jan. “He loves you the same as he loves normal people.”
I had had enough. “Listen,” I said. “I spent years in Catholic school and if the combined efforts of the nuns and the Jesuits did not resolve my ‘spiritual deficiencies’ I am not about to be swayed by a complete stranger who hears voices in her head. “
Jan tried again: “But Jesus says that he wants me to get your attention,” she began.
I held up my hand in a classic “Stop” gesture. “Since you claim to have a direct hotline to Jesus,” I said, “tell him if he really wants to send me a message he should eliminate the middleman and come talk to me himself. Now that would get my attention.”
“Careful,” said Jan, her smile long gone , “you’re gonna burn.”
“Huh,” I said eloquently and walked away. As I walked into the restroom I felt her glaring at me but when I came out she was smiling again, talking to an older gentleman. “I can see that you are spiritually deficient,” she was saying.