The line between church and theater can be a fine one indeed, so it seems fitting that the first time I saw Tammy Faye Messner in person, it was in a church sanctuary that had been converted into the main stage of a performing arts center. It was the mid-1990s, and Messner had come to the former First Baptist Church of Charlotte–a 19th-century building rechristened Spirit Square for its arts incarnation–to film an infomercial or home video or TV pilot, some way station in her long quest to pick herself up after the implosion of the imperious PTL ministry she had helped her husband Jim Bakker build just across the state line, in Fort Mill, S.C.

I worked for an opera company with offices in Spirit Square, and heading home that day, I was stopped by an unmistakable sound: that edgy, isn’t-it-fun-to-suck-helium-out-of-a-balloon? speaking voice, which could be so nerve-grating one moment, then blossom into such a booming, husky singing voice–as if Dusty Springfield had taken up televangelism. (Casting Bernadette Peters in the 1990 TV docudrama about Jim and Tammy Faye, “Fall From Grace”? Perfection.) I snuck into the theater and hid in the shadows for a moment, watching Messner (who by then had divorced Bakker and remarried) on the stage as technicians scurried around, adjusting lights and camera angles, making sure that Messner was positioned perfectly in the frame with still-intact stained-glass windows glowing behind her.

I felt an uneasy mix of contempt and awe: Those dupes who sent in millions to PTL, unwittingly paying for Jim and Tammy Faye’s air-conditioned dog house and gold-plated bathroom fixtures–the suckers would never know the difference, I thought. With a few strokes–well, a lot of strokes, actually–of mascara, and with a signature on the dotted line of a theater-rental contract, Messner looked as close to God as she ever had, probably more so.

Repulsive. Brilliant.

Nearly a decade earlier, as a teenager in South Carolina, my mother–a woman not without her own Tammy Faye-like tendencies–dragged me and my father to Heritage USA, the sprawling PTL complex, to witness the massive displays of Christmas lights and outdoor decorations–a spectacle much admired in tackier circles of conservative Christianity. The first destructive waves of scandal had already hit PTL, and my mother sensed that it was now or never: The lights must be seen. After taking in the electric sights by car, we stopped at Heritage USA’s beyond-kitschy mall–one of those curlicue-Americana jobs without shops, only “shoppes.” Holy fudge and Tammy Faye records everywhere you turned. Priced to move.

Before the downfall began, you’d hear breathless reports on a local radio show from callers describing Tammy Faye sightings along Interstate 85–With God as my witness, the woman had three shopping carts full in T.J. Maxx at Exit 48!–and I’d never fail to smirk at the sight of one of those ubiquitous “I ran into Tammy Faye at the mall” T-shirts, the design incorporating an impression of her makeup-encrusted visage. Lord, I’d think, rolling my eyes in His direction, why have you not given this woman enough sense to burn through her ill-gotten gains further down the highway in Atlanta at Neiman Marcus?

The sighting at Spirit Square might have been the coda, but Messner refused to disappear, and every time she popped up after that, I smirked less. Her disastrous daytime TV talk show in 1996 with uber-flamboyant Jim J. Bullock? Painful, yes. But after so much anti-gay vitriol from the televangelical crowd, seeing Messner trying to make a go of it with the poor man’s Paul Lynde was strangely sweet.

Earlier this decade, I was working for Metro Weekly magazine and was assigned to cover the backstage scene at the annual Capital Pride street festival, which fills Pennsylvania Avenue with a sea of gay humanity. Mixed into the day’s lineup of singers, drag queens and such, was none other than Messner, who in recent years developed something of a gay-audience niche. Part of the appeal was surely her weepy, melodramatic theatricality, and her warped visual showmanship. (There wasn’t a drag queen around who could come close to Messner’s mascara-ness. No minor accomplishment.) But there was also her message–that no one had screwed up as badly as she had, so she would be the last one to judge others–that many in the crowd embraced.

And after one of her rousing Dusty Springfield moments, her helium voice returned. The most important thing she wanted the crowd to know, she said, was simple: “God loves you. And Tammy Faye loves you.”

As the cheers faded away and she returned backstage, we spoke for a moment, and a colleague snapped a photo. She was such a tiny woman, with an impossibly large bosom that seemed as if it could send her toppling at any moment. I was struck, too, by her raw vulnerability–how hungry she was for affirmation from the crowd. I thought about what must have driven her to extremes–of appearance, of lifestyle. Like so many women, could she only distance herself from hardscrabble beginnings by tarting up and latching onto a man, like Bakker, who was striving for something–a powerful ministry, however dubious–that society may not have let her accomplish on her own? Had she started out with so little that when she did have wealth, she had no mechanism to say “Enough!” when faced with the temptations of a T.J. Maxx alongside a South Carolina interstate?

As news circulated of Messner’s cancer battle, I dug out her photo and pinned it up at my desk. I see in her some qualities to admire, some to avoid; a fascinating woman, a cautionary tale. And I never smirk at her now. She only makes me smile.