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{jesus freak} malerie yolen-cohen I never gave much truck to fortunetellers, but this one’s message was vague enough to spark a niggling of worry; “Company’s coming. Could be trouble.” “Company’s coming,” I told Jeff, my new husband. “Oh yeah - I forgot to tell you,” he replied. “Ben’s coming for the weekend.” I remembered Ben vividly. Tall. Excellent bone structure. A hunk. Lived with his mother. Late 20's. One girlfriend after another. Drove a UPS truck. Anti- Semite. He and Jeff used to get in trouble in High School, like they all did, drinking and carrying on. That was before lawsuits and MADD. Before AIDs and “tolerance training.” The son of a Jewish shop owner and the son of a Baptist farmer whooping it up together in a little Tennessee town. This could get interesting. “I didn’t even know you invited him,” I said - spoken like a wife who’s trying to get a handle on her new husband’s motives. “I didn’t exactly,” he said. “He kind of invited himself.” Why would Ben from the country want to spend a weekend with us in the big city. In Houston- a 15-hour drive? “Could be trouble,” the fortuneteller had said. We heard Ben before we saw him - his Harley engine revving insistently in the courtyard of our apartment complex. He had jumped the curb of the parking lot, ramming his hog right into the garden, tearing up the pansies. “We’re going to have to pay for that,” I said to Jeff while we watched Ben kickstand his bike in the flowerbed below us. “What a REDNECK.” “Hey, BUDDY” Ben shouted, bounding up the courtyard stairs. “And what a cute little missus.” The cute little missus was a stockbroker from Up North who was holding her tongue for the moment. “And a great little apartment,” Ben boomed, peering into all 650 square feet of the one-bedroom place. “Here’s your bed,” Jeff announced as he started tugging on the pull-out couch. “Hey, little missus - can you get some sheets” he side glanced at me with a shit-eating grin. He was joking around. I was thinking of hopping a plane back to New York. But I’d planned dinner. The first sign of Ben’s awakening surfaced just before the meal. He grabbed both of our hands and bowed his head. “G-d. For the food we are about to receive - we give thanks. Amen.” I made my traditional company recipe - Chicken Cordon Bleu. It always wowed the guests. “That little missus sure can cook,” Ben said, facing Jeff. It was his way of thanking me without actually addressing me directly. “The little missus cooks and the little mister cleans,” I said. Ben fired a look at Jeff that meant, well here’s a crack in Paradise, but Jeff appreciated my sense of humor. He began to clear. “Before you do that,” Ben said, “I have something amazing to tell you.” At which point he took out a bible from his duffle bag. Now, I have no problem with Bibles - as long as they’re kept in a church or synagogue or religious school classroom where they belong. But this New Testament version on my new kitchen table made me nervous. “Two months ago, something I least expected happened to me. Jesus. I was saved by Jesus,” Ben announced. I wondered how that could have happened. Ben was making his way though the female population of his little borough, doin’ some coke and drivin’ his truck when what? He saw Christ’s face in a stop sign? I never did understand how people suddenly “got” religion - like it was a disease. Yes, doctor, I got a bad case of Religion the other day, but nothing a week in bed won’t fix. “And that’s why I’m here,” Ben continued - as if waiting for this moment ever since he parked his Harley in the greenery. “So that you can be saved. So that you can accept Jesus and go to heaven.” “Ben, you know we’re Jewish, don’t you?” I stated. “Our Bible is the Old Testament. The Original. The one and only. As far as we’re concerned.” “ For God sent not his Son into the world to condemn the world; but that the world through him might be saved. He that believeth on him is not condemned: but he that believeth not is condemned already, because he hath not believed in the name of the only begotten Son of God,” Ben intoned, kind of like a zombie, I noted, with his eyes flipped back and other telltale Dawn of the Dead facial contortions. He held his Bible like it was emitting heat - like the very fires of Hell would consume him. “The fundamental difference between your religion and ours is that you believe the Messiah has come already. We believe he’s yet to come” I attempted, knowing that, as a rule, zombies can’t hear, and that my words would be falling on torn-off or maybe partially decayed ears. “You must believe to be saved,” Ben repeated. “You don’t need to save us ‘cause we’re not in as much trouble as your poor soul apparently is. I don’t believe any religion has cornered the market on the Truth. Now, if you’ve already died and went to wherever to meet the maker, took notes and are reporting back, that’s something else entirely. We’ll call CNN right now.” “The little missus has spoken,” my new husband said. Ben scrunched his eyebrows, shoving his burly body back from the butcher-block. “You know - this innit the end of this,” he said. He left without comment early the next morning – this latest mission an utter washout. But the guy was a diehard. About a week later, a couple of large boxes arrived at our doorstep, Ben’s name on the return address. We opened them to find bundles of “Jews For Jesus” brochures and books - over a hundred publications imploring the Jewish reader to accept this newfangled religion as a backdoor into Christianity. Absurd, but at least Ben had avowed his new Missionary position. Couldn’t fault him for his persistence. A few months later, we heard through the hometown grapevine that Ben had renounced his Born-Againedness. Once awakened, he’d gone back to bed, so to speak. Chasing after women and whooping it up was more satisfying after all. Trying to save the unsaveable, with all of its travel and mailing costs, I suppose, just didn’t cover the bills. |
