Many years ago in a land far, far away (actually the Olympic Peninsula in the Evergreen State) I heard a distinct rapping sound on my front door. I opened said door and found myself face to face with two, older white women. One of them clutched several copies of Watchtower magazine, while the other held a Bible. It was too late to ignore the knocking and pretend that I wasn't home, so I simply smiled.

One of the two began their pitch. "Sir," she said, with all of the confidence that a woman--who is probably chased down the sidewalk at least a dozen times a day--could muster. (Oddly, not everyone looks forward to having his or her afternoon nap disturbed by an earnest, well-dressed man or woman hawking a religion that goes all the way back to the 19th century.)

She continued, "Wouldnt it be wonderful if there was a reliable, accurate and easy to read translation of the Bible ... a version that we could all understand and appreciate?" Her companion was smiling broadly and vigorously nodding her head. She, at least, was clearly convinced.

I took my time to respond, and the two women glanced at each other, somewhat nervously. "Actually," I said at length, "I wouldn't find it useful at all."

"Why not?" the quieter woman blurted out.

"Well, I said, "I'm Jewish and I read and write Hebrew. So if I ever need to refer to the Bible, I wouldn't use a translation."

The women stared at me, then at each other, and finally turned their gaze back to me. At that moment, it was crystal clear that JW missionaries are drilled with an approved script. The are equipped with lines to counter almost any objecion. But in the beautiful Pacific Northwest, they are not taught what to say to someone who just might speak Hebrew.

The woman who seemed to be the senior member of the duo finally spoke, "Sir, we will ask one of the brothers to come talk to you!" And with that, they turned and quickly walked away.

And none of the brothers ever showed up.