When Belief Starts Sounding Like Spam

You know those special salespeople? The ones who don’t need to show you a fancy new gadget that slices and dices. Nope. They show up with a smile so wide it looks like it might swallow their whole face, a few pieces of paper, and a promise of forever happiness. All I have to do is sign up for their brand of it. Easy peasy, right?

They always, and I mean always, ring the bell just when I’ve poured the perfect cup of tea. Or when I’m finally trying to string two thoughts together for an email. It’s like they have a radar for “Oh, look, he’s having a moment of peace—let’s fix that!” I open the door, and there they are, practically shimmering with their Big Important Mission, ready to rescue me from… well, from enjoying my tea, mostly.

So I say, “No, thank you. I’m good.” They nod, all polite. And then they keep talking. Because apparently, “No, thank you” is ancient Martian for “Oh, do tell me more, I’ve got absolutely nothing better to do than stand here while my soul slowly shrivels up like a forgotten grape.”

It’s a strange kind of silence—like tossing your voice into a void where it turns into mist and vanishes. You start to wonder if you’re even real, or just another checkbox on their clipboard.

They’re like duct cleaning callers. You know the ones. Those voices that chase you down even if you change your number, move to an underwater cave, or tell them you’re currently a hamster. I once told a very persistent duct cleaner, “Sorry, I’m living in a tent right now. No ducts here, buddy.” And the voice—bless its cotton socks—said, “Okay sir, I’ll check back next month.” You almost admire that level of commitment. Or maybe it’s just terrifying.

One time, I tried something new with a faith-pusher who just wouldn’t leave. I smiled sweetly and said, “Okay, I’ll join your team—but only if you join mine first. Pinky swear?” You’d think I’d offered him a sandwich made of spiders. He vanished so fast, I almost got whiplash. For a second, I felt like a superhero who had found the villain’s one weakness.

But when they left and the silence came back, it wasn’t exactly the kind you enjoy.

And here’s the part that really gets me—like a little bird flapping inside my chest. It’s not just annoying. It’s… unsettling. It feels like belief isn’t a quiet, private thing anymore. It’s not a hidden garden you find on your own. Now it’s a loud ad break. There’s a script. A deadline. A conversion goal.

It’s less like discovering your own star in the sky and more like someone trying to sell you one—any one—as long as you sign up now and bring a friend.

And when something as deep and sacred as belief starts sounding like a cold call, I get this knot in my stomach. What’s next? “Buy one prayer, get the second one half price?”

Everyone should be free to believe what makes sense in their soul. That’s what makes us a strange, beautiful, noisy pack of humans—a big, wild box of crayons. But when someone keeps trying to shove their crayon into your hand, or worse, tells you your color is wrong, the whole picture starts to look ugly.

Belief, when pushed like cheap soap, loses its magic. It just becomes static—like a radio stuck between stations, hissing where a song should’ve been. And after a while, people stop trying to tune in.

Maybe we need less selling and more listening. Maybe fewer door-knockers with answers. Maybe more people just sitting still, sharing a bit of sunshine.

Because if belief keeps ringing the doorbell like it’s selling something nobody asked for…

One day, even the most beautiful truth might show up—and we’ll all be too tired, too guarded, or too suspicious to open the door.

And that… that’s the part that keeps me up at night. Wondering if we’re slowly forgetting how to hear the quiet things.