The Official Language of Lucifer

After three months of mopey, self-indulgent PTTD (Post Traumatic Travel Disorder) I decided I wasn’t making enough of an effort to fit in with my own people.

So when my good friend Carolina suggested we go to church so that I might stop obsessively baking molasses cookies and instead find a purpose in life, I said, ‘Oh Jesus Fucking Christ, are you shitting me?’

I’m an agnostic. That means I don’t know, and I don’t know if you know. You know?

It’s the most commitment-phobic belief system out there and I enjoy all the ways it allows me to be wishy-washy, flippy-floppy, and as detached as possible to any depth of thought related to the spiritual meaning of life.

It’s how I like to live my life in general. Being agnostic also allows me to make fun of every organized religion in equal measure, but I’ve always had a soft spot for Christian evangelicals.

‘It’s not an ordinary church,’ said Carolina, who has in fact has accepted Jesus into her heart. ‘My friend invited me - he worships in Tongues.’

Ooh. What?

‘You know, the kind of service where people are possessed by the power of God and start speaking His language. Tongues.'

Wait a minute. If God is American (and - obviously - he is), he speaks English. Anyone who grew up in our education system knows other languages don't matter because other countries don't matter.

We are his favorite. He is ours! He is monotheistic. We are monolingual! We are so meant to be...

So, what's with the foreign chitchat, Ubiquitary Master of the Universe?

'God doesn't actually speak a language, he speaks through people in different ways. Didn't you go to Bible camp? Anyway, if we’re lucky, you might get to see an exorcism. I know how much you like underworldly projectile vomit... tempted?’

How could I possibly say no to this? I have only seen such novelty on the Holy Trinity, Sky Angel and GOD1, GOD2, GOD3 and GOD4 channels. To see the omnipresent power speaking in Tongues through real-life Auburners?

I probably should have seen the following as a sign from the King of Kings (or whomever):

1. The Tongues church is located in a shopping center called The Great Wall Mall.

2. It is located adjacent to an acrylic nail salon with Hello Kitty clocks in the window and abuts the Saigon Musics & Video store.

3. I’m pretty sure this church used to be a Korean kimchee joint, because I was smelling spicy boiled cabbage and vinegar all through the homily.

Okay, so it wasn’t the classiest temple of worship I’ve ever seen, with mirror-lined walls and an industrial kitchen in the corner. But there was a lot going on when we walked in. The Live Tongues Band was belting out some gospel jams while three preachers skulked around the haphazard pulpit, one with arms outstretched to heaven, one sitting down looking sort of bewildered, and the third on his knees, petting the carpet and chanting.

Chanting… in Tongues?!

No, I could understand him saying something about sacrifice and forgiveness. In English.

Sigh. False alarm!

The Tongue-gregation was in various stages of musical rapture, with lots of people periodically hollering Hallelujah!, singing off-key and just moving with the spirit, man.

The spirit moved me to sit down right away and try to blend, wondering if people could sense I was a fraud. I clapped a little to help with the acculturation and smiled encouragingly at the little girl in the front row who knew every lyric and projected like she was auditioning for American Idol.

But why was she not singing in Tongues, the Official Language of Lucifer?

I did the mature, rational thing I always do when trapped in an Asian shopping mall full of earnest evangelicals with overstimulated hippocampi: I started giggling. A lot.

‘Oh my heavens, Julie, what are you doing!’ Carolina was annoyed with me.

‘Dude, I’m really sorry, but this is hilarious… and did you really just say ‘oh my heavens’?’

‘I feel so guilty right now. It’s like we’re making fun of their faith! It’s so wrong.’

‘Yeah… so, so wrong. Hey, do you think we’re going to burn in the eternal flames of the abyss?’

Conveniently, I don’t believe in hell and I think people would be less stressed if they didn’t either.

‘You might. I’m a safe bet. Here, learn something.’ She handed me a Bible.

Ugh.

This was getting so boring. I felt duped. Like Carolina had brought me to a real church with real freaky fundamentalists, not speaking in real Tongues.

‘If I don’t see an exorcism in five minutes, I’m out of here!’

'The demonic extraction and Tongue convos happen later in the afternoon,' Carolina's friend whispered to us.

Riiight. That's what they all say.

After an hour and a half of sitting politely through an elementary lecture on setting priorities, dressing appropriately, and the difference between good (Christians) and bad (me), we slipped out and went for dim sum.

Then I went home. And pulled out the molasses.

Allah Up in my Room

It was Mohamed's birthday last month (happy belated, Mo!) and the big marble-floored mosque down the dirt road was pumping out the holy jams for the celebration.

Having never been in a Muslim country before, I hadn't realized mosques have badass sound systems, nor that said systems could project prayers into my bed at 5 a.m. More bass, less treble, please, Allah!

The big, fancy mosque, presiding high above the lean-tos and shacks the locals lived in, was having an all-out hi-fi praise-off with the smaller, modest mosque a mile away that made up for its homeliness thanks to the alliterative pizazz of its prayer leader, the Kasey Kasum of Indonesia.

Calls to prayer start at sunrise, then go on throughout the day, but on Mohamed's bday the real FUN starts at dusk when religious chanting has that fervency unique to a 1,441st birthday party.

I can imagine how Muslims may feel between October and December, when they must endure the cacophony of sleigh bell carols that is Christmas every time they go out for toilet paper or milk for that other guy's birthday. The music may be secular now, but Manheim Steamroller wouldn't exist without the Reason for the Season!

Jesus H. Christ. It was loud. It was religious. It was completely foreign and totally cool.

I decided I should make every effort I could think of (which wasn't much) to fit into the world's most populous Muslim country:

I went all Mormon missionary - long skirt, short sleeves, open, forgiving expression, ready to convo about celestial kingdoms. I even wore my name badge that said, 'Ask me about your FREE post-mortem baptism today!' (nobody did).

I wore a long scarf to cover my head at a moment's notice, but the moment never came. It just made me sweat more in the 95 degree, 100 percent humidity, but I was prepared to blend.

I changed my gait to be less Western (with purpose?) and more godly (without purpose?). I floated along the sweaty, polluted, noisy Jakarta streets like I walked alongside the Prophet himself. 'Watch out for that rotting durian in the acid rain puddle!' I'd shout, and he'd sidestep with the ginger grace of god.

In the end, I became completely self-conscious about being a godless westerner for no reason at all. Maybe it was just my experience, but Indonesian Muslims are the nicest people on earth, always greeting me with a big smile and informing me President Obama is not only Indonesian, but a Muslim too!

'Well, of course he is!' I'd reply, with my most understated, JC Loves You eyes.

Where were all the men refusing to make eye contact with a woman? Why wasn't anybody asking where my husband or father were (or both?) Where were all the women in black glaring at the slut waltzing around with her elbows out?

And, most curiously, where did I get the idea this was how it would be?

Eduardes

It seemed I was meeting Eduardes at the pinnacle of his possession.

Earlier in the day I had come across Vermont Lew, an affable carpenter trying to cope with the dissolution of his 25-year-marriage by traveling through the most remote villages of Indonesia and waving at every passerby and shouting, 'I'm Misterrr Lew! From Am-er-i-ka!'

Lew is a very proud Jew who picked Indonesia after the Israeli ambulance charity, to which he contributes annually, ignored his requests for two months of ride-alongs.

Lew was nonplussed and for the last two weeks, he has been driving around Flores, a lush island east of Bali, with Eduardes, a slight, 50-something Indonesian with dark skin and light eyes.

Eyes cursed by the devil, actually. No, literally, by demons, or at least this is Eduardes' self-diagnosis brought on by symptoms common to all possessed people:

1. inability to sleep
2. inability to eat
3. constant cough that could easily be mistaken for The Devil's own voice

To combat these problems, Eduardes took to obsessive Bible reading late at night, with the book 3 inches from his tired, evil eyes.

'See, it started out great the first few days, but then he just got weirder and weirder,' Lew said, his unkempt white mustache waggling from side to side while his eyes bulged from behind thickly prescribed glasses. 'I kept having to wake him up and watch the road! Kids! Dogs! Golly, he just stopped paying attention sometimes, and it was just the weirdest thing.'

I nodded, as if having a devil-gripped Indonesian insomniac operate a moving vehicle for 14 consecutive days in a hazy shade of Lucifer is totally normal. I couldn't really disagree, having no experience with possession myself.

After dinner, Lew invited our random group of German, French and Americans a ride into town to visit the Internet cafe. What's a girl to do when presented with an opportunity to ride with the devil?

I was the first to jump into the car. Eduardes ambled in, apparently perturbed Misterrr Lew had interrupted his meditation on speaking in tongues. It was dark at 9 p.m. and Eduardes peeled out onto the road and took us through a scenic tour of the ditch before we righted the wheel and he brought us back to the left side of the road.

Eduardes was coughing and hacking every few seconds now, making little retches and filling the car with the burpy air of would-be vomit, if there was anything in his stomach to regurgitate. Halfway to town, he became distressed for no apparent reason and started chanting.

'Jesus. Jesus. Jesus...'

All under his breath and between hacks, but it was loud enough. If anybody needs Jesus in this world, it's this guy. Being the seasoned traveler, the epitome of cultural respect and communication, all I could do was giggle. Luckily, he ignored me.

After some wrong turns, we ended up at the cafe, where Eduardes proceeded to pace for an hour before announcing to the group we would have to leave, he needed to do some *reading*.

The next morning, I heard him promise Misterrr Lew he'd seek a doctor and a priest to help exorcise his demons, or at least give him some cough drops.

I hope the devil lets him rest.