A cold wind whips about as George Godfrey Gentry, Bible in hand, knocks on the front door of the suburban Colonial in Catonsville. A little girl, wearing pants and a pajama top, appears.
"Good morning, are your parents at home?"
"No, it's just me and my aunt."
"Can I speak to your aunt?"
A voice summons Brother Gentry and a companion into the kitchen. A large, bleary-eyed woman hunches over a table. A television talk show is blaring.
"Good morning, ma'am, I'm one of Jehovah's Witnesses," Mr. Gentry begins.
The woman stops him.
"I'm only baby-sitting here and it would only get me in trouble for letting anyone in," she says.
Mr. Gentry wishes her a good day and turns back into the wind. He writes down on a form the number of the house just visited and notes that a child answered the door. Witnesses will call here again, hoping to find someone who is eager to learn about paradise -- the paradise they believe Jehovah God will create on earth once all human wickedness has been destroyed.
Every day, on suburban cul-de-sacs and dilapidated city blocks, people find polite, well-dressed Witnesses with briefcases and copies of Watchtower tracts at their front doors. Some people disappear temporarily when they see Witnesses working a neighborhood. Others prepare less-than-courteous brushoffs or simply ignore the doorbell.
And some people listen.
Witnesses know that "nonbelievers" -- as they call non-Witnesses -- often regard them as nuisances. Or as curiosities whose religion prohibits them from observing birthdays, Christmas, Thanksgiving and the Fourth of July, and from accepting blood transfusions.
Within their own community, however, Witnesses are rescue workers responding to a continuing emergency. They are out ringing doorbells, handing out religious tracts on street corners, seizing any opportunity to save another soul for Jehovah God.
Their religious beliefs put them at odds with some of American society's most cherished traditions and values. They do not vote. They do not serve in the military. They do not salute the American flag. They do not serve on juries. (They do pay taxes.) Believing that God's future kingdom on earth is the only solution to humanity's problems, they refuse to place their faith in democracy -- or any other form of government -- or in human institutions.
This is not a once-a-week faith. All Witnesses are expected to attend five spiritual meetings each week and spend at least 10 hours a month knocking on doors. Many devote even more time to their fundamental mission of spreading Jehovah's word. (The sect maintains that God must be identified by his personal name, Jehovah, as recorded in the Bible.)
Despite the demands on its members, Jehovah's Witnesses is one of the world's fastest-growing Christian sects, gaining membership at around 5 percent a year. According to the religion's governing body, there are 5 million Witnesses in 232 countries; the United States has roughly 940,000.
The Baltimore-Washington area has about 20,000 baptized worshipers, according to Brother Gentry, an elder in the sect. An equal number of "associated" Witnesses are studying the faith, attending meetings and learning how to proselytize -- all steps to becoming a member. (One cannot be born a Witness. Although children may be raised as Witnesses, they do not become "dedicated" members until they are mature enough to fully commit to the tenets of the faith.)
The religious community operates out of intimate groups; a congregation is seldom larger than 200 people. Many Witnesses see each other several times a week in meetings and also join forces working door-to-door. They study the Bible together. They seek guidance from congregation elders, men who volunteer their time to lead meetings and tend to administrative matters.
This faith holds no place for clergy. There is no requirement for members to give money. There are no charges to improve society at large: Each congregation concentrates on sustaining its members' spiritual commitment to Jehovah God.
It's midafternoon on Sunday at the Kingdom Hall in Randallstown and Witnesses are greeting one another with the enthusiasm of folks who haven't seen each other in months.
Men wear suits, women wear dresses, little girls sport frills and bows, little boys have on ties. There's a general air of excitement and anticipation, as if a party were about to begin. Old, young, African-American, white, Hispanic and Asian gather together, their shared vision of paradise enough to overcome racial and ethnic barriers that might otherwise divide them.
This hall is their harbor, a place where belief is anchored by Scriptural repetition and the reinforcing presence of kindred spirits.
Friends wave at each other from chairs set up lecture-style. One woman helps a friend mind her children. The few dozen children at the meeting -- a group that includes infants and toddlers -- sit remarkably quietly for two hours; Witnesses do not believe in a separate Sunday school or day care.
