Backtracking a little, I must tell the story of how I
met The Johnsons. One night, back in late ’98 or early ’99, I had a very
strange dream. In the dream I was the size of Danny DeVito, maybe four and a
half feet tall, and I was talking with two
Amazon women over six feet tall that towered over me. I felt inadequate and
emasculated by my diminutive size. It was one of those dreams where it seemed
to be happening in real time and you remember every detail—the colors, what
people were wearing and whatnot. It stayed with me as I was drinking my morning
coffee organizing my appointments for the day. There was only one—a husband and
wife with three small children that live in a church—The Cloverland Church of
some denomination or other. I thought it was going to be a waste of time, so I
brought my golf clubs thinking I would get in 18 holes if they didn’t write the
check.
That afternoon I pulled up the long
gravel driveway and parked my car in front of the humble church that seemed neglected,
maybe even abandoned—no cars outside—nary a sound but chirping crickets and
warbling birds. I knocked on the door but got no answer, so I walked in. While
walking on the yellowed linoleum floor of the anteroom I saw the peeling, dingy
white paint, cracked windows, and I felt like an intruder. Making my way to the
assembly hall and I thought it didn’t look anything remotely resembling a
church; there were no pews, no alters, not even a cross or a wooden Jesus. I
turned the corner past where the raised pulpit might have been ages ago. It was
there I saw a pretty lady in her late twenties or early thirties with long, red
hair sitting on a metal chair breast-feeding an infant. Two other children no
older than four circled around them playing tag or some child’s game. With my
briefcase in hand, I meandered up to them wondering if she thought I was from
the IRS or the department of health and welfare come with an eviction notice or
a summons. I said, “Excuse me— I came here about a card someone filled out—about
health insurance. Do you know anything about that?”
“With a puzzled look, she said in a
thick New Zealand accent, “No, but my husband Howard will be home soon. Make
yourself at home if ya like.”
I noticed there was a console piano
in the far corner of the room so I ventured over and began to play some of my
repertoire. The woman carrying the baby got up and leaned over to piano
listening to every note. She had to be at least six-foot two and it reminded me
of my dream…but in the dream, there were two of them. Then another woman with
dark brown hair just as tall, if not taller, came out from the kitchen and
stood by the gargantuan redhead.
“This is my sister Serene and I’m
Vange, by the way.”
I was awestruck. I told them about
the dream I had the night before. They said it was fate and Jesus had arranged
the entire thing and they believed it wholeheartedly. When I told them, I was
Jewish—they became even more excited.
“I knew you were one of God’s chosen
people the minute you walked in the door.” Vange said. I smiled without saying
a word. I didn’t think they were ready for my radical beliefs about
reincarnation, past lives and mysticism. If I told them I read Tarot cards and
was into astrology, they might have banished me from the holy place.
After playing ten or fifteen songs, I
took a break. We talked about our lives and I asked them how they managed to
live in a church. Vange, short for Evangeline, said it belonged to a friend who
was giving them a place to stay in exchange for cleaning and cooking for the
congregation after the Sunday services. Soon Howard, Vange’s husband came home. He
said he was an inventor and a Jack-Of-All-Trades. We soon got into a discussion
about the Bible and he, being a fundamentalist, believed that the earth was
only ten thousand years old. Now I can
go for many Bible stories and take them with a grain of salt, but this
particular one was too hard for me to fathom. Here was this intelligent man, a
scientist to boot, who thought that the earth was slightly older than Mel
Brooks.
I knew I wasn’t going to sell them a policy
but I didn’t care. They were the genuine article. Most Christians I meet in
Nashville I can trust about as far as I can throw them, but not the
Johnson’s—they talked the talk and walked the walk. We instantly became friends.
One day I brought Donna, Jonathan,
and Daniel over to the church to meet them. In the back yard was a zip-line
connected to two trees over a deep ravine. I was a bit concerned about the
safety of the apparatus but they convinced me it was all right. We were all in
Jesus’ hands. Everybody went for a ride—even me. I don’t know whether it was
because I was the last one to ride the zip-line or if I was doing it wrong, but
I was much too low to the ground. I must have been going about ten or twenty
mph when I crashed into a large tree root sticking up from the rocky terrain. I
thought I had definitely broken my back. Vange, Howard and Donna helped me into
the church and got a few bags of ice and placed it on the small of my back
which had swelled up to the size on an inner tube from a monster rally truck. I
was scared. The Johnson’s laid their hands on me and prayed. An hour later, the
swelling went down to half of what it was before and I could walk. It looked
like was going to be all right.
A few months later Vange told me they
had to move out of the church but weren’t worried in the least confident that,
as believers ,they would never be led astray. Howard said they were looking to
buy some acreage in a remote part of Middle Tennessee. Between Vange’s parents,
Colin and Nancy, Serene and her husband Sam, they had about thirty thousand
dollars saved. They wanted to build three separate homes on the property.
Jonathan and Daniel were going to
Thompson Station Day Care owned and operated by Tommy and Patricia Smithson.
Tommy had just gotten his real estate license and mentioned to me if I knew
anyone who wanted to buy thirty acres in Hickman County, about fifty miles
southwest of Nashville—way out in the sticks. I said yes. I put Tommy and the
Johnson clan together and they bought the place. Tommy offered a small finder’s
fee but I turned it down. The day care was so reasonable and I knew he wasn’t
making much money on the deal anyway.
Vange’s grandfather who was a ninety-year-old
champion sheep-shearer from New Zealand was visiting. He was also a preacher
and one of the most enigmatic and remarkable men I had ever met in my life. He
was still sheep shearing, pulling stumps out of the ground and was in better
shape than I was.
It was a beautiful day in May and The
Johnson family, friends and relatives all went down to the Harpeth River where Vange’s
grandfather was preparing to baptize two young believers. Not a cloud was in the
sky as I stood by the banks with my family watching the peaceful lapping of the
waters over the flat rocks and branches. I thought about the song Take me to the River as the large crowd
of over forty believers entranced by the ceremony looked on. It was like
something out of a movie the way this old, but vital man spoke scripture with
fire and conviction in his voice. He would say the prayer as he leaned his
congregants down gently dousing them beneath the still waters as a symbolic
gesture of faith and rejuvenation. Afterwards, Vange’s grandfather asked if
there was anyone else in the crowd who wanted to partake in the baptism, I saw
a man raise his hand. It was my hand. I didn’t know what in the world would
possess a Jewish guy like me to do such a crazy thing. Overcome by the moment,
it felt spontaneous, not to mention how much I admired Vange’s grandfather.
As soon as I entered the river, clouds
formed from out of nowhere. The thunder boomed and the rain pelted down. A
lightning bolt struck over my head. Was it an omen? Was God trying to tell me
something or was it the usual dramatics that seem to coincide with my life—a visual
and audio montage of biblical proportions. When I saw a pair of water moccasins
slithering not more than three feet from me I stood frozen and thought that I
was making a terrible mistake. Not wanting to disappoint the multitudes watching
me with anticipation, I thought the show must go on. As my head dipped below
the water, I imagined my father looking down with disdain, my mother cursing
me, and the scornful faces of my brother and sister turning away.
In less than five minutes, I was pulling myself
out of the river. As I stood on the grassy bank, the sun broke through the
clouds as if the storm never happened at all. The blissful congregation all
hugged me or patted me on the back saying things like, “Jesus is with you now
and will never let you go—you are reborn in the way of the Christ and your life
will never be the same.” Donna stood there with her mouth open and a blank
expression I wasn’t sure was shock or amazement. My children didn’t think it
was out of the ordinary for their anything but normal dad. There weren’t any
fireworks exploding in my head, no choirs of angels sounding, no tears of joy
or calmness—only a little guilt for forsaking my Jewish heritage. Other than
that, I didn’t feel any differently—except a lot wetter. Maybe it would hit me
later, maybe not. I was questioning the sincerity of my impulsive actions.
If you want to call me a Christian,
that’s fine. If you want to call me a Jew, or even a Jew for Jesus, that’s fine
too. You can call me a Buddhist, a Spiritualist, a Humanist, an atheist, an agnostic;
call me late for dinner if you want, I don’t care. They are all labels to me
and I refuse to be labeled. The only thing I know I believe in, besides a
higher power, is that I’m not sure what I believe in. The jury is still out.
Vange’s grandfather died at the age
of ninety-four in New Zealand and I think fondly of him from time to time,
especially when I see snakes and lightning. I’m happy to say, even though I
don’t see much of the Johnsons anymore we are still friends. Vange is one of
the most positive people I have ever met and has inspired a few of my song
lyrics from our religious debates. Howard and Vange are still building the
homes on their property and have ten children now and counting.
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