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Post-Traumatic Church Syndrome

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Amazing F***ing Grace

Amazing F***ing Grace

Last updated on: May 24, 2015 at 11:30 am by Reba Riley

Amazing F***ing Grace 2015-05-24T11:30:23-04:00 Reba Riley

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Sometimes we find grace where we least expect it.

By: Anna Johnson

Throngs of people swarmed Third Avenue, coming in, going out, and waiting to enter bars. After a long work week and forty-five minutes waiting in line to get into Tube Bar & Lounge (shaped as its name implies and affording scarcely more room), my best friend, Rita, and I had neared the Promised Land of margaritas and obscure semi-danceable Europop.

“I think shivering in line must be our penance for leaving the house a half hour late,” I grouched, jokingly.

“I think we should have gone somewhere else,” Rita replied.

“Yeah, but we’ve already been waiting here almost an hour. Plus they serve vegan food and cocktails here,” I protested.

Rita didn’t respond. Lips forming a silent O, she gawked at something behind me.

I whirled to see a willowy man and a pear-shaped man, both in black and galumphing down the street with megaphones and a cardboard sign on long, wooden stick. The sign’s message slowly came into focus, three words engulfed by flames: Repent or Burn.

“You!” the underfed man expostulated in the general direction of the bustling sidewalk. “I know what you’re doing here! You’re here to get drunk, you’re here to get high, you’re here to sin! I know what you do, sinners! You’re all going to hell!”

Their presence repelled the crowd, but a young woman hurriedly crossing the street couldn’t escape the heavier man’s fury.

“You whore!” he yelled.

Although we averted our eyes and made distracted small talk, the infuriating spectacle produced a helpless fascination.

“I don’t suppose he’s considered there might be Jesus people in this audience,” I said.

“Oh, but don’t you know Jesus people don’t drink or go out on Saturday night?” Rita smirked.

Music drifted from Darcelle’s, a gay club where female impersonation night was in full luxurious swing. A sequined, befeathered drag queen made her exit and stepped on a landmine.

“Homos are going to hell!” the black clad men screeched.

Several members of the crowd attempted to engage the men, begging them to convert to a more gracious world order (or at least one in which human beings are human beings and not objects of undisguised hate), but when that failed resorted to obscene gestures and salty language.

For a millisecond I imagined myself confronting the jerks, making a stand, saving the day. Then I realized a.) I hate confrontation, and b.) their mission was not to encounter new ideas, see another perspective, dispense love or compassion. They sought the attention, the shock value of a fiery gospel. I don’t know what converts he expected to win, or where the gospel of love was meant to appear.

Easy answer: it wasn’t.

As the preachers taunted the crowd with a constant slew of I-know-exactly-what-temperature-to-burn-you-evil-gay-sluts, the street pulsed with fury.

In an instant the entire enraged crowd fell silent, for that is the exact moment Darcelles’ star performer burst through the front doors. She flowed, she bombarded, she strutted, she brought the full force of swaggering stilettos, diaphanous body suit, cascading ruffles and she brought it, she brought it to the man and you could feel something shift in the air as she approached.

Ada Siren Loveface had arrived.

The faithful Repent or Burn shook and flailed, reared its head, prepared to lay waste, but Ada Siren Loveface towered over the preacher, her sparkle so engulfing his blackness, you couldn’t see him for her shine.

And then she sang. Oh, she sang! There was no other song.

Amazing Grace, how sweet the sound, that saved a wretch like me

I once was lost, but now am found; twas blind, but now, I see.

Amazing grace, how sweet the sound, that saved a wretch like me

I once was lost, but now am found; twas blind, but now, I see.

The unwavering last note lingered and as it ebbed there was nothing to take its place. An entire city block stood spellbound. Was that a trick of the light? Was the wretched sign beginning to tremble? We waited, not breathing. The preacher waited, also not breathing.

Then Ada looked him square in the eye.

“Fuck you!” she hollered.

Ada Siren Loveface made her exit in a swirl of taffeta and light amidst the sound of applause and air escaping hundreds of lungs. I looked back where the encounter occurred, but there was only a blurred smudge on the asphalt where the street preacher melted away like the Wicked Witch of the West. Just a pile of sopping smoke and a stick that was powerful, once.

Amazing fucking grace.

Anna Johnson is a Portland native who graduated from George Fox University. She is currently a director at a local non-profit and enjoys reading, writing, and drinking wine with Reba Riley in her spare time. (That last part is my addition.) You can reach Anna for comment by emailing [email protected] with the subject “Amazing Grace”.

Note from Reba: When Anna told me this story, I told her she had to write it… and so she did, beautifully! There is nothing like a powerful moment interpreted by a talented writer to tell us the truth via story. I am proud of you, Sweet Anna, and happy birthday!

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