beyond the pale

(If you’re at this post, you might want to scroll down and read the one below it first. In a nearly unprecedented move, I’ve posted twice in one day and they are part of the same story. So scroll … or not.)

All right. I’ll hit the salient points of my meeting with Joey, as I understand them. I write this for myself. I’m not “writing a post,” per se. I’m just copying from my post-meeting, scribbled-out notes here, really. Your basic, raw notes. Nothing embellished. These notes will likely be the basis for some future (hopefully better-thought-out ;-)) posts on certain spiritual issues this whole thing has raised.

You may come along for the read, if you’d like, but I don’t expect you to. Writing it here automatically constrains some of the, ah, “freedom” I’d likely take in a private journal and forces me to analyze more carefully what really happened. There was a certain elated relief when it was over, that is, until I sat down and replayed the conversation in my head.

Again, I don’t expect anyone else to be that interested. And I do apologize for any raw edges — of my writing, of my personality — sticking out here. I know they’re there.

1) She was unapologetic for several instances over the last year where she involved third parties in this situation, without my permission or foreknowledge. Specifically, in the instance where she involved My Beloved — which set this whole thing in motion — our conversation went like this:

“I’m sorry that I ruined Beloved’s trip to Thailand.”

“Wait. I need to recharacterize something for you. You’ve said this twice, at our previous meeting and again now. He himself has told you that you did not ruin his trip. Rather, by telling him what you should have told me, you placed an unnecessary burden on him and created a “triangle” of communication, rather than a straight line. You did not ruin his trip. Speaking to him in the first place was the problem. So are you apologizing for ruining his trip — which I’m telling you you did not do — or are you apologizing for involving him in the first place?”

She was mad.

“No. No. I’m not apologizing for that.”

“Well, hmm, it was rather inappropriate.”

Her exact words:

“I don’t care. I’d do it again. I was willing to be inappropriate.”

Really, that told me so much. I should have allowed myself to leave at that very moment. I should have said: Thank you. That tells me everything I need to know.
But somehow, in these situations, something in me always makes me stay til the bitter end. I think it’s rank stupidity.

Later, another third-party incident came up. Her response was:

“Yeah? Well, I’m not sorry about that.”

(sigh …)

All right.

2) A word that’s become very big for her — and others who believe in deliverance ministries — is “freedom.” However, I believe they have a different definition of freedom than the Bible does. As believers, we are positionally free in Christ — “So if the Son sets you free, you will be free indeed.” But deliverance proponents believe that freedom only comes in an ultimate, all-encompassing, superior way when one is freed from all those nasty demons. So we touched on this “freedom” issue. At one point, I said:

“Joey, you keep asking whether I’m ‘more free’. More free than what? One thing I know I’m free of — because I’ve really studied the Word on this in the months since you brought it up — is the notion that I have demons.”

She just stared at me. She’s quite an animated person, but her face was utterly blank.

I started giving her Scripture to back up my point. No reaction. Not anger, not surprise, not happiness, not relief. Just nothing.

3) She’s sold on the notion of generational curses and that I have these, too, along with the demons. Apparently, the two go hand in hand, you see. And if you’re a generational curser, this is your life verse:

” ….. for I, the Lord your God, am a jealous God, punishing the children for the sins of the fathers to the third and fourth generation of those who hate me ….”

Never mind that the whole verse and the surrounding context actually says this:

4 “You shall not make for yourself an idol in the form of anything in heaven above or on the earth beneath or in the waters below. 5 You shall not bow down to them or worship them; for I, the LORD your God, am a jealous God, punishing the children for the sin of the fathers to the third and fourth generation of those who hate me, 6 but showing love to a thousand {generations} of those who love me and keep my commandments.

That’s Exodus 20: 4, 5, and 6, peeps, not just a part of verse 5, which is the entire basis for the GC philosophy. The passage is, obviously, the Ten Commandments. It’s talking about idols.

So we got to talkin’ about this. I pointed out the entire passage was about idols. Nothing. I pointed out that the people punished were those who hate God. Nothing. I pointed out that love was shown to those who love God. Nothing. I pointed out that I love God. Nothing. Finally, I pointed out something basic that GCers never seem to notice about this verse: GOD does the punishing.

NOTHING.

There was no reaction. Finally, I just started talking as if the only person listening was the little old lady who had plopped herself down at the table two feet away from my chair — because she obviously WAS the only person listening! I felt like I was teaching Middle School again. Lord.

I mentioned the story of Balaam, how he could not curse what God had blessed. Then I mentioned Ephesians 1:3, how as a believer I am blessed:

3Praise be to the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, who has blessed us in the heavenly realms with every spiritual blessing in Christ.

NUH-

THING.

I truly hope Little Ol’ Lady was listening. Joey wasn’t. Or rather, she didn’t seem to be. Maybe she was stunned. Quietly enraged. I just don’t know.

More points to follow.

No blogging this weekend as our lives are about to be invaded by sunshine and giggles and toddling in the form of our 18-month-old niece, Kylie.

Her older cousin Piper (she who used to call me “Fece”) has already instructed the child to give up the ghost and call me “Tee Tee,” so she does. Adorable.

(Again, I feel the need to offer this disclaimer: The person mentioned in these posts does not know of this blog. No one who knows her knows of this blog. No one who reads this blog knows her. Make sense?)

So Joey and I sat there, straight in the path of the oom-pah-pahs. On this day, they weren’t so loud. Considering the circumstances, though, they were just ludicrous, laughable.

Still, we sat without speaking. For far too long. Someone had to say something, if only to make the trip worth the price of gas. I hoped it would be Joey, since (I admit) she, not I, had wanted this particular meeting, But I knew I’d crack first, not out of great civility, mind you, but because I’m just impatient. Inside me was a rising, nagging irritation that time was passing us by, despite appearing to have stopped; that my tea was neither delicate nor aromatic nor flavorful; and that my head was now beginning to pound in rhythm to the satanic serenade of circus music bellowing from that monstrous pipe organ.

I spoke.

“So … Joey. Since you asked for this meeting, I assume you have something you want to say or discuss.” Her eyes were hidden behind the large, sepia-toned lenses of her sunglasses. I looked in their general direction.

“No,” she said, clipped, staccato.

I thought she was kidding; she wasn’t.

“Okaay.”

“Yeah.” She simply sat there. It seemed like some bizarre strategy, actually. She seemed comfortable with it, so I sat there, too, wishing the organist would play louder. I knew he could. I’d heard him. Come on. Play, man, play!

I spoke again, still thinking there must be something she wanted to say, good or bad.

“Uh, well, again, you called for this meeting, so I thought I’d give you the opportunity to share whatever it was you wanted. I assume there’s something?”

“No,” she said, the same way as before.

I sighed and didn’t hide it. We sat there. I took a very deep breath. Was she waiting for me to braid her hair? Do her nails? Start a pillow fight? Suddenly, my tea was tasting much better. And that cup — that cup was now endlessly fascinating:

Look at the glorious design of this sippy cup lid! Consider these textured sides, offering protection from the hot liquid without a cumbersome sleeve! Ingenious! God-breathed! A modern wonder!

Yep. Fighting off frustration, I could have been riveted by anything right then:

Observe this … this … stick that so magically wakes the flavor in my tea! Listen, enchanted, to the wondrous, dulcet tones of circus music on the Devil’s Pipe Organ!

Oom-pah-pah-oom-pah-pah ….

When she spoke, she sounded unsure.

“I feel I’ve offended you somehow.”

I stared at her, surprised to be surprised again at what I thought was a slight understatement.

“Well …. you have.”

Finally, we were talking …. sort of ….

About what? Well, that comes next …. sort of ….

So …. about that meeting. I’ll post more later, when I’m done penning my Tony-Award-caliber kiddie play.

But I dash this off now, mentioning a few items:

1) I was early.

2) Joey, who has never, ever been on time in the 15 years I’ve known her, was even earlier. So God bless ‘er. That seemed promising.

3) We met outside, at the place I suggested — The Japanese Tea Garden. It’s near the pond, but not too near, you see. With tea comes civility, no?

4) It was 10:30 a.m. I arrived with sunglasses on, but there was no need for them under the table’s large, sheltering umbrella. Momentarily though, I considered leaving them on, hiding behind their dimness. But I pulled them off as I sat down. I didn’t want to create a barrier between us.

5) Joey also had her sunglasses on. Joey kept her sunglasses on.

6) Next to our meeting spot, there is a famous organ in a place cleverly named the “Organ Pavilion.” The Saturday before the meeting, I was at this particular park — at this very tea garden, even — when the organist began playing. It was a pounding and macabre collision of opposites, Phantom of the Opera vs. aromatic tea and delicate cookies. It was no contest. So, I thought it wise to inquire of the ladies employed at this Japanese Tea Garden about the organist’s weekday schedule:

“Does he play on Fridays?”

“Oh, no. He no play on Fridays.”

“Really? Oh, good. So he wouldn’t be playing, say, at 10:30 on a Friday morning?”

“Oh, no. He no play then.”

7) So, no, he wasn’t playing at 10:30 on that Friday morning. But at 10:31, he was. His theme was circus music and who doesn’t love circus music? Well, demons first of all. For one unhinged second, I believed Joey’s assertions about my condition. “Ooom-pah-pah, oom-pah-pah, oom-pah-pah, oom-pah-pah.” I swear I could hear some sinister ringmaster in my head, “Ladies and gentlemen, kindly turn your attention to the center ring where Tracey, that Demon Clown, will now thrilll and amazzze you by twisting her head off and throwing it into the audience, scarring children for life because that is a clown’s lonely calling!”

And so there we sat, without speaking, sipping tea, waiting for the awful oom-pah-pahs to die …..

An auspicious beginning, indeed.

Tomorrow is my meeting with Joey. Today has been such a see-saw of anxiety and prayer, of flesh and Spirit, that finally, I grew weary. I needed to jump off for a moment and see the rest of the world.

On the kitchen counter sat some peaches, fresh and luscious from my parents’ tree. I scooped up several and headed to my neighbors’ place. You remember Mike and Lee, don’t you? They’re my gay neighbors, my gay friends.

Mike, who now has full-blown AIDS, was home alone. He invited me in. He didn’t look right.

“What’s wrong?” I asked, alarmed.

“Lee might be moving out. I think we’re breaking up.” He choked out these last few words:

“I don’t want to be alone!”

I simply listened as he poured out his heart. As he spoke, he dragged his hand through his graying hair, over and over.

I was dumbstruck, bewildered. Silently, almost automatically, I prayed that this wouldn’t happen, that God would somehow intervene. And then I berated myself for praying that. And then I berated myself for berating myself.

The Lord does not condone his lifestyle; that I knew. But I also knew that seated before me was a man fighting tears because of this one thing:

The going away of love.

And how do any of us stand when faced with the going away of love? Surely, we could all fall to our knees, quailing, and howl together:

“I don’t want to be alone!”

“Be the person you used to be. Be the one who still loves me. Be the one I always trusted. Be the one who holds my heart …. and still deserves to.”

Finally, from somewhere deep and primal, comes the plea, to a love, perhaps a best friend:

“Just …… don’t go away.”

Ah, but we are so fragile and fickle and mutable. Earthly loves do change and leave and die, dragging our keening, grieving hearts away with them. Sometimes we can stop the going away of love; many times we can’t. And for our wounded hearts’ lament, “I don’t want to be alone,” the only balm is Jesus, the only One whose love endures forever.

The only One.

As I looked at Mike, he seemed more gaunt than ever. For a brief moment, there in his living room, I soaked up the evidence of him: the clutter, the knick-knacks, the collections of anything and everything. All these things, proof, he says, of being “Appalachia gay.” And I considered that day, perhaps not far off, when Lee might go, taking love away with him. And I considered another day, perhaps not far off, too, when this man Mike, who has a piece of my heart — my “Appalachia gay” friend — will succumb to his illness, taking love with him forever.

I considered those days and my heart cried, “Jesus. Jesus.”

Tomorrow, I meet with my friend to try to stop the going away of love.

But, today, my heart just cries, “Jesus. Jesus.”

When sleep finally came last night, it brought with it this …. queer spectacle:

We are at that pond where we aren’t supposed to meet, Joey and I. A large shallow pool, it makes a nice mud pit, which is suddenly what it is. I am standing in the warm, sucking ooze, draped in frippery. I stare down at myself, dazed. My clothes fairly vibrate with shimmer. And, hul-lo, what’s this? Someone sure loves mama! I get a gander of a glowing rock formation on my finger, huge and purplish and heavy.

This stuff ain’t from my closet.

On the other side of the slime stands Joey. Her outfit is linen, simple, a humble tunic without shimmer or vibration. It is my dream, after all. She appears discombobulated, too.

Suddenly, a voice booms from somewhere:

“Ladies and Gentlemen, welcome to The Main Event!!”

A pause, electric.

“Let’s get ready to HUMMMMMMMMMMMBBBBLE …………
ourselves before the Lord!!!!!!!!!”

A spotlight floods down on Joey.

“Ladies and gentlemen, in thissss corner, a lady who’s always hiding something up her sleeves — give it up for that Protector of Spies, that Keeper of Secrets, Raaaaaaahhhabbbb!!”

Huh?

I hear the thunder of applause; I feel it rock my feet.

The spotlight now searing down on me, I squint and drag my heavy, ringed hand up to shield my eyes.

The Voice roars again:

“And in thissss corner, a lady born to kick some some holy hinder for such a time as this — give it up for that Champion of her People, that Queen of Persia, Esssstthhherrrrrr!!”

Oh, I guess that’s me. Wave to the people, Tracey.

I do, with quiet queenly dignity. All those years of watching Miss America finally pay off. The crowd explodes.

Someone breathes hot in my ear, “Look behind you.” I whirl around.

It’s David Letterman. What the heck is he doing here, smirking that gapped-tooth smirk at me? I start to sputter, “But … but …. but weren’t you just on TV with that thug, Russell Crowe?” He shushes me, though, and nudges a strange cluster of ornery-looking men my way. The men are identical. As are their scowls. As are the nooses around each scowler’s neck.

Letterman is giddy. He introduces them:

“Say hello to your posse, The Hangin’ Hamans!!”

Huh?

The Gapped-Tooth Doofus continues, “Isn’t it great? They’re here to cheer you on!!” He whoops a “Woo-hoo.”

Letterman woo-hoos.

This is all wrong ….

Suddenly, a bell rings and, without warning, I’m shoved into the pit. Probably by one of those wretched Hamans.

Losing my balance, I slosh down into it. Shimmering frippery is ruined. Drat. I just can’t have nice things.

I stagger up and find my balance long enough to get this eyeful: Joey, lumbering at me, a fiendish gleam in her eye.

Okay. Now I get what’s going on here. (Seems I’m Queen, but I’m dumb, which is never a good combination.)

Trying to run from her is like trying to run from a grizzly bear: it mostly ends badly and sooner than you’d think. She lunges and yanks me down til I’m covered in goo. It’s all so unladylike, undignified. Mama always said cleanliness was next to godliness, so now I’m cheesed on that front, too. I’m gagging and losing and my posse of useless Hamans aren’t doing squat to save me — not that that’s a real headscratcher. Plus, I can now see that that wiener Letterman brought a camera crew with him.

Finally, out of the corner of my eye, a ray of light, of hope:

It’s Billy Graham, arriving with two men and tottering to a chair. Through the mud, I can only make out one of the men, his son Franklin; the other is mere shadow. Gingerly, Franklin and the shadow help lower the good Reverend into the seat. Once he’s seated, though, the two men take his arms and hold them high. It’s a curious sight indeed.

But then …. suddenly ….. miraculously …. just like ol’ Moses and dose Israelites:

I AM WINNING!!

As long as Billy Graham’s arms are vertical, I AM kicking holy hinder for such a time as this!!!!

That is …. until Franklin, that good-time Charlie, wearies of the effort, falls off the wagon, and sneaks a little swiggy from a flask hidden in his jacket. Billy’s arms sink; so do I. In the fracas, the miniature plum-colored planet on my finger slides into the muck. I glop about, searching, hopeless.

I scream at Franklin, hysterical, “You fool! Put the booze down!! Put the booze down!!!” But he just grins and hiccoughs and waves at me. My Hamans are oblivious, pulling at the slack end of their nooses, playing at chokey faces.

I’m going down … fast, hard, and slimy-like.

From across the mud pond, Joey “yoo-hoos” me triumphantly. She has my ring, now just a sad, globby-looking trinket.

But then … just then … Letterman, that kooky, Gapped-Toothed Doofus, lunges at the now pie-eyed Franklin and knocks him away. Heroically, he takes up the good Reverend’s loose arm.

And the tide turns once again.

Just as I’m waking up.

What’s it all mean, you ask? Oh, I’m sure I don’t know ….