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.

Big Pimpin'

So the other day I was sitting in The Cheesecake Factory at the mall, squeezed between the flower girl and the best man at my cousin's rehearsal dinner.

It had been two days since I flew home from The Adventure and I was looking at my super-sized plate of pasta and 32-ounce bottomless 7UP wondering how things could get more American when the Best Man leaned over to me and said, 'You know, my wife and I are kind of scandalous.'

Wink.

In my book, this is both an excellent and creepy way to start a conversation.

'Oh really? Do you have a young girl living in a backyard tomb that you've indoctrinated as part of your religious cult that worships brussel sprouts and cottage cheese?'

'Not exactly… but you're close.'

They weren't running from a Las Vegas bounty hunter. They hadn't ever been molested by aliens. They weren't trafficking orphans out of Lesotho to farm hydroponic rhubarb. Frankly, how interesting could a woodwind musician and a clinical psychologist be?

'I'm plum out of ideas, man. What's your scandal?'

He got real quiet and told me he'd have to whisper it in my ear, and nodded to the 9-year-old to my left.

'I'm dating my wife's girlfriend.'

Umm… what? I laughed it off, like I hear this sort of confession every time I order penne primavera, whatevs. Across the table his wife, also the Matron of Honor, gave me the same wink.

'What's with the winks you guys?'

'And I have another girlfriend, but she has another boyfriend, too. They are all my people. I care so much about my people.'

Okay, this was infinitely more interesting than my overdue parking tickets theory.

Confused, I asked to see a flow chart. Instead, he showed me photos of His People together in a Seattle park.

There are five members of His People: the Best Man, his wife, their mutual girlfriend, another girlfriend of the Best Man, and her boyfriend. They were posed couple by couple, with one girl sitting in the middle sort of looking up dejectedly at the others embracing, probably kicking herself for not signing up for a partner on family photo day.

That's how His People, um, swing it. Heh. You have to calendar which night you want a certain partner, and stick to it. Otherwise, there could be 'issues'.

'Well, sometimes there is jealousy, but it doesn't happen very often. Don't worry, you'll get to meet the girls tomorrow - Bob can't make it, unfortunately.' He nudged me in the arm. Then he gave me The Look.

You know The Look. It's the one that means, 'I want you to join my polyamorous world of fantasy fiction-loving theatre people, hope you have your Grendle's Modor costume in your backpack.'

Oh. My. God.

The Big Love crew was coming to the wedding? The one in my mother's backyard? Did she know? Once she did, what words would The Diplomat come up with to make everyone more okay with the medieval swingers club congregating by the hydrangeas?

This was going to be... awesome!

I sat with my brother, B, and pointed out all the players in His People during the ceremony.

'So that's Big Pimpin'?' he asked, pointing out the Best Man who was bedecked in a dapper Shakespearean suit, sweating in the 82-degree summer sun. He fit in fine with the ye olde theme to the bridal party - even the groom wore a top hat and black velveteen cape. It was fab.

'Wait, so that guy has three chicks here?' Brother B was trying to wrap his head around the implications.

'No, they aren't all lovers, like not all at once. I don't think. I don't really know, but can we talk about me? What am I supposed to say when they ask me to visit Poly-wood?'

'No offense, Jules, but you're not their type. You're not a Wiccan or whatever, and you don't even read Harry Potter.'

I followed His People around the reception, trying to suss out who had signed up for whom that day. Girlfriend One was a fair-skinned redhead who stole some snuggles from the Matron of Honor in the living room. Girlfriend Two had kinkier curls and the same morose sort of demeanor in person as she did posing solo in the family photo. Somebody needs a hug.

Dinner, cake, dancing, then pouf - the whole night had passed without any more winks or Looks. I won't lie and say I wasn't offended - don't I look like plural wife material? Maybe Girlfriend One and Two realized I was too mainstream for their alternative.

They all piled into their minivan and drove off. The Diplomat - blissfully ignorant - said, 'Doesn't your cousin just have the nicest friends? I'd like to be a part of that group.'

'Really mom? You'll want to rephrase that. They're pretty scandalous.'