Indeed. 


Conjuring Angels and Demons


While taking a shower tonight, I was thinking about when I was twelve years old and my mom and I were discussing aliens. As the conversation progressed we started talking about the concept of evil and I broached the topic of demons.

"Well,I don't believe in demons," I told her while sitting on the edge of my twin bed.

"You don't?" she asked from across the hallway while putting on mascara.

"No. Look, I'll show you. I'll summon them here right now."

I conjured up the deepest, most commanding voice I could muster. It was the same tone of voice the evil leader uses in Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom right before he tears an innocent guy's heart out.

I stood on the edge of my twin bed with my arms outstretched.

"OH SATAN, Beelzebub, Prince of Dar---"

"Christian Alan! Don't you dare!!!" my mom screeched showing a hint of a smirk.

(She always appreciated my cocky spiritual side.)

"What's wrong Mom? Even if they did exist they couldn't hurt me, right? How can something of another realm hurt me in my present physical form?"

"I don't know," she said while putting a curling iron to her bangs. "Just DON'T do it."


Now, another question. What happens when you conjure up "good" forces? Do they exist? If one doesn't believe in demons, can one believe in the power of good, the power of angels, The Holy Spirit?

I was feeling good after working out the other night. While coming down the hill from Portrero onto 16th, a certain peace came over me. I thought about the great prophets: Jesus, Mohammad, and Buddha -- okay, maybe not Mohammad, but I wish I had -- and I thought how I want to be another prophet. Then, I thought about how egotistical such a notion that is, how I could never live such a life as them. I'd hate to have a fucking messiah complex.

Then, I thought if I couldn't be the next Jesus Christ or Siddhartha, I could pray or wish to be more like them.

Why not? Why not try?

Then, I said it, the most cheeseball, corniest thing ever, the line I've made fun of a thousand times, the line that comes out of the mouths of the people I most despise:

"Jesus Christ," I said. "I want you to be in my life."

Nothing happened.

No giggling to be heard. No laughs. Even the inner embarrassment faded.

So, I said it again.

This time with more sincere feeling.

And again.

This time as if I was inviting a friend to join me for a burrito.

Twenty paces later, near the dark desolate corner of South Van Ness and 16th Street, I noticed a group of warmly dressed people walking toward me. They formed a circle in the driveway of the Latino health clinic. They held hands and one of the men gripped the Bible under his arm.

I passed them and a woman noticed me.

"Would you like to pray with us?" she asked.