They come to the door, bibles in hand, blah blah. Talking about world conditions and whatnot, then start reading at me, a bit from Psalms about the rise of the Wicked One. I looked her in the eye and said "If we keep up this conversation, you'll discover you're TALKING to the Wicked One." She audibly gulped and looked shocked. It was worth every moment.
Hey, you believe as you want to believe. That's your right, and I'll defend that right. But if you come to my door, I don't know you, I'm not expecting you, and all you're here for is to occupy my time babbling at me about your particular flavor of Invisible Man In The Sky, be prepared to be told where to go. I have better things to do...which I was probably doing.