"She's a devout member of the Assemblies of God," Grandma went on to inform me, and although I think that the Palins are members of a Bible church, I do remember that she had been prayed over in the Wasilla, Alaska Assembly of God on several occasions. A Kenyan pastor prayed for protection from witchcraft for her, something like that.
"She's something," I said. Grandma was satisfied. I was secretly ironic. Everyone was happy.
But later during the holiday, we went on to have a series of exchanges about where the Episcopal Church stands on her big social issues, abortion and homosexuality.
I tried to avoid these questions in a way that was truthful; I told her that Episcopalians hold a lot of opinions about spiritual issues, that what we agree on is prayer and worship together and not on issues per se, but that admission in itself was damning in her eyes, since any church that can't agree to uniformly condemn these things is probably headed for the Lake of Fire in a mass migration.
So, since she wasn't getting satisfaction there, she asked another question: "Then where do you stand on the homosexuals?"
I looked at her, and I loved her, and I was furious.
Because despite a lifetime of lying to her, I discovered that there comes a moment when you are soul-weary of pretending to believe something you do not, of trying to keep the peace just by avoiding your differences.
"That's a really personal question, Grandma," I said, and I'd guess that my offense and exasperation showed.
"You know what God says about it," she said.
"I know what it says in Leviticus," I said, and then joined her in saying, in Garrett-stereo, "It is an abomination."
And then I told her I thought her pastor might be a homosexual, because he pays a lot of attention to his personal grooming.
"He is not," she said, outraged. "Why, he's preached against it. He—he loves his wife. He talks about her all the time, I've never seen a man so devoted --"
I touched her arm gently to derail her. "Kidding," I said, and I forced myself to smile.
I wish her pastor were gay, but he probably isn't. Still, what a grace-filled experience it might be for her to wrestle with the existence of a gay person she loves, as she was forced to wrestle with the morality of divorce after her son and her favorite grandson got divorced.
But even after all this time, I'm still angry at her, which hurts, because I love her and always will, and I'm still angry at myself, which also hurts, because over and over again I betrayed my core values of love, tolerance, and forgiveness not in the service of love, tolerance, and forgiveness, but just to avoid some uncomfortable conflict.
I wish there were some way I could tell my 92-year-old grandmother that if homosexuality is a sin, it's no more sinful than gluttony or cruelty or prejudice, and certainly should not be some kind of litmus test for authentic faith.
I wish I could tell my grandmother that I think that the God of Love might surprise her by being a little more tolerant that she is.
I wish I could tell my grandmother that if she insists we read passages from the Bible literally, she needs to stop taking shrimp off the buffet, and we had better start gathering rocks to stone people.
I wish I could tell my grandmother that some days her Jesus and my Jesus seem to be, at best, only distantly related.
But I don't think I can, not in any way that she would hear.
So we march on, two Christian soldiers, both of us loving God, both of us loving each other, and, I'd guess, since I'm always working on it, both of us forgiving each other.
When I got in the car that Thanksgiving to drive back to Texas, my grandma took my head in her hands. Her hands were frail, shaking a bit.
She is not, as I mentioned, a young woman.
But she gripped my head firmly as she prayed for God's protection for my trip home, as she prayed God's blessings on my work.
"I pray for you every day," she told me, her eyes shining with tears as she patted my face.
"I know," I told her, my own eyes moist.
"I always have."
"I know," I told her. "I know."
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