Unboxed

   I like boxes; I love being boxed in. Clear definitions, unmistakable boundaries, everything nice and neat, that’s for me. I thrive on routine, and whereas predictability bores some, it delights me. Given the choice, I’d wear the same uniform daily, keep the same hours, do the same thing. So when God shoves me out of my box, I go kicking and screaming all the way.

    Usually. But last night was a wonderful exception, when the edges of my box got smashed and, to my joy, it was all good.

My multi-talented son Jeremy was playing with his band at the Viper Room in Hollywood. You might recognize the name – notoriously, it’s the nightclub the young actor River Phoenix tragically died right in front of. Less controversially, it’s a showcase for both well known and up and coming talent. My boy’s band, led by a truly superb young female vocalist who summons thoughts of Peggy Lee and Lena Horne when she sings, was opening the show, so my wife, another couple and I trekked out to West Hollywood for dinner and an evening at the club. That alone had my poor box trembling, but hey, it was for Jeremy, so no problem.

We found a restaurant near the venue which looked perfect. Healthy fresh salads and greens were their specialty; the prices were fair. We ordered enthusiastically, settled into our booth, and looked the place over more closely.

Only then did we notice it was as gay as a picnic basket.

I don’t just mean gay waiters or gay people; that would be no big deal. I mean gay everything. Huge posters of gay parades, gay slogans printed on the walls, appeals for gay causes, one big pro-gay sermon. Nothing obscene by any means; just heavy duty advocacy, and if there were any other opposite sex couples in the place I sure couldn’t see them.

Well, it was West Hollywood, what did I expect? I quietly asked my wife if perhaps I should leave my business card. She kicked me under the table discreetly while smiling at the waiter. That was a no.

But hey, we’d paid in advance, the food was superb, the service top notch, and you couldn’t find friendlier or more enjoyable people. Most of my daily interactions are with conservative Christians, so I was far adrift from my Assemblies of God box, and having fun. These folks were easy to like because they were, well, likeable.

The Viper Room was minutes away. We navigated Hollywood traffic, parked, and waited in the line growing outside. The velvet rope was up, and I was a groupie for my own son. Strike that, I was a relic. Everyone else in the line could have been my grandson. They also could have been from the Addams Family, since black seemed to be the only acceptable color there, and smiling was clearly not cool. I tried striking up conversations and struck out, first with a well pierced young lady standing next to me, then with the doorman who, upon letting us through, demanded to see my ID.

“Not sure if I’m old enough for a beer? Happens to me all the time”, I grinned, pulling out my wallet.   The glare he gave me could have intimidated the anti-Christ. Smiling wasn’t cool, I forgot, sorry.

We climbed pitch dark stairs through a black passage into the dimly lit main stage room. The pounding electronics they called pre-show music pulsated at torturous decibels. I saw posters of upcoming bands with names like Headless Porcupines or The Disemboweled Mailmen (I’m making this up but it was something like that) and thought of asking if they could play any Beach Boys tunes. I changed my mind when I saw the DJ. I’d had enough glares for one night.

We waited, standing. You don’t sit at night clubs; did you know that? You stand for hours, which has to be tough on The Disemboweled Mailmen. Only then did I truly feel my box coming apart at the seams. From a gay vegetable fest to a pitch black orgy of thrashing and thumping, my not-of-this-world status was neon-bright. I was too theologically and socially conservative for this bunch, this club, this town. And too old to boot, way too unhip, hopelessly out of my element. I would only embarrass my poor son; who needs this, where’s the exit?

Just then the stage lights came up, the MC announced the show, and there they were. More to the point, there he was. My grown son, gripping his upright bass, dressed to the nines in bowler hat, plaid shirt and jacket, baggy pants and spiffed footwear, looking like he just stepped out of the Big Band era into this new dimension. All the band – trombone, sax, keys, drums and guitar – were dressed in 20’s-30’s garb, suitable for their music and style. Their lead singer, resplendent in her long yellow vintage gown and nothing less than regal, took the mike, opened her mouth, and ruled the world. For the next half hour we were treated to American Songbook classics like Minnie the Mooch (I kid you not, these black clad Addams Family kids ate it up!) and ballads, originals, and pop standards.

And suddenly nothing else mattered to me, not my discomfort with my surroundings nor my obvious alien status. My son and his friends, all of them believers and none of them anything less than pros, were making magic. I was no longer an old geezer in culture shock. I was an indescribably proud Dad choking back tears and frozen in literal awe of what was coming from what used to be my boy, but who was now unmistakably his own, well adjusted, spiritually grounded and generously gifted man.

The takeaway is pretty simple: sometimes we need stretching. I’m accustomed to the daily Pastoral Counseling environment, where people ask me to assess their lives in light of scripture, offering Biblically based solutions. I speak in churches to Christian groups, move in Christian circles, socialize mostly with believers. But last night no one gave a rip what I thought about anything, everyone around me seemed to have a world view contrary to my own, and I was left feeling out of control, out of context, unboxed. I didn’t do anything special or redemptive – no evangelism or commentary – but I did have the chance to, as Paul said, live peaceably with all men, enjoy people I disagree with but can appreciate nonetheless, and see my son let his light shine, broadly and boldly.

So now, within the safety of my own office, back to my own routine of using my own laptop in my own world, I smile. I thank Him for the stretch. And I relish, not for the first time and surely not the last, the memory of a fun, unnerving, and delightfully unpredictable night outside the box.