Santa brought up Bill and Susie Franklin, trading anti-gay barbs as they window-shopped in Manitou Springs. Then Freddie Collins sitting on a park bench sharing vicious jibes with his cairn terrier about a lesbian couple passing by. Ty was astonished. “But Freddie’s eyes glow with such joy as he shakes my hand at the church door. The Franklins too. Their words hold nothing but praise to the Lord.”
“People are different in their private lives,” said Santa. “But let’s observe them in a more public setting.”
Before Ty’s bed arose a view of himself preaching. In the near pews sat Freddie Collins and the Franklins and Stupplebeens. But Ty saw silken ribbons of connection between his heart and theirs, ribbons that shimmered at his words. “Woe unto the sodomites,” he thundered. Last Sunday’s sermon. “For in hellfire more intense than any fireball, eternally refueled by the ferocity of their sins on earth, shall the sodomites burn. They must turn from their wicked ways, my friends. This bound guidebook from God himself, this holy scripture whose text is eternally fixed, condemns them for what they do. The Bible verses are incontrovertible. Oh, they do their damnedest to minimize them, do they not? Or pervert their meanings, just as they pervert and pollute and befoul and besmirch the bodies the good Lord has given them to sing his praises with. They even have the temerity—dear God, are there no limits—to found so-called Christian churches of their own. How hooded are their eyes? How deaf their ears? As deaf as demons. As hooded as hawks.”
Ty thrilled at his delivery. Yet what he saw moving along the connecting ribbons, and the overheard thoughts of those hanging on his every word, gave him pause. They were filled with pride at not being among those who would burn in hell. They hated the sodomites, or rather the image he himself had painted. And for all his golden words, for all his carefully wrought phrases, the one message he saw snaking along those ribbons into their hearts was, “Hate queers.”
“But I don’t understand,” he said. “What I’m telling them is the gospel truth.”
The little girl said, “No it isn’t, Mister Taylor.”
“Child,” he said, “Leviticus tells us—”
“You shall not,” said Santa, blushing with anger, “befoul my daughter’s ears with your fixation on questionable passages from the Old Testament, draping your own prejudice in sanctimony, exalting a man-made collection of writings over the self-evident truth of God’s love for all he has created.”
“But I—”
“Look at yourself, flailing your arms and contorting your face. You’re no better than a showman, and worse than many, because you hawk poison to the soul. Of all the sects you could have embraced, this is the one you chose. Behold the young.”
And Ty saw thin ribbons to the children, some very young indeed, most of them half listening or sighing in boredom. But even these his ribbons of judgment entered. Here sat Cully Harmon and his anorexic mother; there the Pine twins, Gayle and Tara, between their parents.
“We’ll see them again on our next visit, older.”
Wendy touched his sleeve. “Now show Mister Taylor...you know.”
With a flick of Santa’s finger, Ty’s entire congregation came into view. But it seemed as if two bright lights shone in varying mixes upon them, a red light indicating attraction to their own gender; a blue, attraction to the opposite. While most of his flock were bathed in varying shades of blue, many were tinged pink or red, and some were completely red, though they expended much mental activity in denying it. Hank Febinger, sitting beside his wife of sixty years, was a bright cherry-red. A babe in arms, as well; a third-grader named Jamie Stratton; and Bessie Pullman, a middle-aged spinster who had joined the church last week.
But what most startled Ty was the color of his own body as he stood at the pulpit, bright blue broken up by intense
“People are different in their private lives,” said Santa. “But let’s observe them in a more public setting.”
Before Ty’s bed arose a view of himself preaching. In the near pews sat Freddie Collins and the Franklins and Stupplebeens. But Ty saw silken ribbons of connection between his heart and theirs, ribbons that shimmered at his words. “Woe unto the sodomites,” he thundered. Last Sunday’s sermon. “For in hellfire more intense than any fireball, eternally refueled by the ferocity of their sins on earth, shall the sodomites burn. They must turn from their wicked ways, my friends. This bound guidebook from God himself, this holy scripture whose text is eternally fixed, condemns them for what they do. The Bible verses are incontrovertible. Oh, they do their damnedest to minimize them, do they not? Or pervert their meanings, just as they pervert and pollute and befoul and besmirch the bodies the good Lord has given them to sing his praises with. They even have the temerity—dear God, are there no limits—to found so-called Christian churches of their own. How hooded are their eyes? How deaf their ears? As deaf as demons. As hooded as hawks.”
Ty thrilled at his delivery. Yet what he saw moving along the connecting ribbons, and the overheard thoughts of those hanging on his every word, gave him pause. They were filled with pride at not being among those who would burn in hell. They hated the sodomites, or rather the image he himself had painted. And for all his golden words, for all his carefully wrought phrases, the one message he saw snaking along those ribbons into their hearts was, “Hate queers.”
“But I don’t understand,” he said. “What I’m telling them is the gospel truth.”
The little girl said, “No it isn’t, Mister Taylor.”
“Child,” he said, “Leviticus tells us—”
“You shall not,” said Santa, blushing with anger, “befoul my daughter’s ears with your fixation on questionable passages from the Old Testament, draping your own prejudice in sanctimony, exalting a man-made collection of writings over the self-evident truth of God’s love for all he has created.”
“But I—”
“Look at yourself, flailing your arms and contorting your face. You’re no better than a showman, and worse than many, because you hawk poison to the soul. Of all the sects you could have embraced, this is the one you chose. Behold the young.”
And Ty saw thin ribbons to the children, some very young indeed, most of them half listening or sighing in boredom. But even these his ribbons of judgment entered. Here sat Cully Harmon and his anorexic mother; there the Pine twins, Gayle and Tara, between their parents.
“We’ll see them again on our next visit, older.”
Wendy touched his sleeve. “Now show Mister Taylor...you know.”
With a flick of Santa’s finger, Ty’s entire congregation came into view. But it seemed as if two bright lights shone in varying mixes upon them, a red light indicating attraction to their own gender; a blue, attraction to the opposite. While most of his flock were bathed in varying shades of blue, many were tinged pink or red, and some were completely red, though they expended much mental activity in denying it. Hank Febinger, sitting beside his wife of sixty years, was a bright cherry-red. A babe in arms, as well; a third-grader named Jamie Stratton; and Bessie Pullman, a middle-aged spinster who had joined the church last week.
But what most startled Ty was the color of his own body as he stood at the pulpit, bright blue broken up by intense
Similar Books
