Rock and Roll Jesus

In an effort to streamline my departure, I got fully dressed in my cycling kit and walked out of the spare bedroom, bags in hand, ready to hit the road. I didn’t hear any moving around, so I thought maybe I was the first one up and I’d be able to just sneak out, leaving a note. As I turned into the kitchen, I realized I didn’t hear any noise because both of the Millers were sitting at the table, patiently awaiting my arrival. “Good mornings” were exchanged and a seat was pulled out, clearly indicating I wasn’t getting out of there quite yet. Mr. Miller didn’t waste any time—or even offer me a cup of coffee—before getting to work. 

“We prayed for you last night,” he said, his eyes serious and somber. 

“Okay,” I replied, unsure how else to respond. I knew that being prayed for by this guy wasn’t like some nice gesture where someone is “sending you good vibes.” Him praying for me meant that he thought something was wrong with me, and speaking to his God was going to fix it. I didn’t want him to pray for me. I wanted him to offer me a cup of coffee. 

“We’re worried about the path you’re on,” he followed up. Vicky, his wife, put her hand on his forearm and nodded. 

They both looked at the empty chair and back at me, indicating that I really should take a seat. Reluctantly I sat down, clutching both sacks of clothes as if they were security blankets. 

“We start each day with a morning devotion and we thought it might be good for you if you read the scripture this morning.” He handed me an open Bible and indicated where I should start reading. 

I could feel the rage building inside of me. When it was all boiled down, this right here was my problem with Christianity, and, more specifically, the conservative version that this guy adhered to. I hadn’t killed anyone. I wasn’t stealing things. I didn’t hide in their bathroom to do drugs. Yet, because our world views departed on social issues, mine being more open to diversity, he thought I needed to be fixed. Worse, he thought he could start that process, first thing this morning, by putting me in an awkward position of either conceding and reading this passage or refusing and thus insulting the people who’d opened their home to me. I assumed they knew I’d comply, even if I didn’t want to. 

I wish I could say that I closed the book, politely refused, thanked them for their hospitality, and left. A tiny part of me wishes I could say that I laughed, told them how backward their views were and in conflict with the teachings of Jesus in the New Testament, and engaged in a theological debate before checkmating them with simple logic and then storming off, leaving them both to reconsider their lives up to that point. But I did exactly what they thought I’d do. 

With a combination of “too nervous to offend” and “hope that if I just played along it would end quickly,” I read the damn passage. I sat through the rest of the devotion, and when they closed in prayer and asked their God to “help guide me on a more righteous path,” I had to swallow a chuckle, because, fuck these self-righteous assholes. As soon as he said “Amen,” I stood up, shook their hands, thanked them for their hospitality, and headed straight for my bike. I was getting the fuck out of that place before they locked me in the basement. 

I hammered the early miles having the debate I’d restrained myself from in the kitchen, making my points out loud in between gasps of shortened breath. Eventually, I settled down, content in the fact that they were behind me, and trying to be optimistic that their viewpoints were rooted in their personal tiny worldview, not one of Montana as a whole. I had about another 600 miles in Montana and I didn’t think I could handle nightly proselytizing. 

Except for just trying to escape, there wasn’t actually a need to rush. I only had to ride about fifty miles to Glasgow, MT. It wasn’t nearly enough miles for the day and I knew I’d get to town way too early and feel like I was wasting an afternoon. But as I mapped myself across Montana, it became apparent that the towns where I could stay weren’t laid out symmetrically to maximize my efficiency. In some cases, a short day would be followed by a long day, in order to avoid one monster day, which would’ve been the alternative. Because of the short day and crushing a lot of the early miles pumped up on adrenaline and rage, I found myself in Glasgow before lunchtime. I tentatively called Pastor Hedgegard, who’d be my host for the night, 75% nervous that my early arrival was going to interrupt his day and 25% nervous that I was showing up early for another evangelical appointment I didn’t want to have. As soon as he answered, his tone relieved 100% of my concerns. He sounded so mellow on the phone that I wasn’t completely convinced I hadn’t caught him within moments of his last toke. He gave me directions to his house and I told him I’d be there shortly. 

Pastor Hedgegard, or Peter as he wanted to be called, met me outside. My first visual impression matched my audible one on the phone. He was wearing a button-up Hawaiian shirt, cargo shorts, and flip-flops. His hair was unkempt and messy. His house was next to the church and, for whatever reason, the welcome tour started there. As we walked into the sanctuary, Peter noticed that I was staring at a rather unusual statue behind the pulpit. Instead of a large cross, or crucifix, this was an oversized bust of Jesus from the waist up. His left hand was down and his right hand was up, bent at the elbow, making what I first interpreted as the sign for “I love you.” 

“Cool, huh?” Peter nudged me with his elbow and nodded toward the statue. 

“I’ve been in a lot of churches and I’ve never seen anything quite like that behind the pulpit,” I laughed. 

“You know, some people don’t really dig it. They think it isn’t formal enough or whatever. But I really like it. Every time I look at it, I just see Jesus telling us to ‘Rock on!’” 

We both admired the rock-n-roll Jesus for a bit longer and then made our way back to his house. He led the way, going in the front door and tiptoeing his way into the living room, carefully stepping over all manner of clothes, magazines, and trash that was on the floor. I thought back to the chaotic mess that delayed my ability to take a shower back in Minnesota and realized their place was clean in comparison. But in this case, Peter didn’t seem to care at all. He didn’t make any sort of apologies for it as he navigated his way through with a series of choreographed steps set to memory to avoid a field of landmines.

“I’ve got some work to do on my sermon for this weekend. Help yourself to anything. I’ll be back home before dinnertime,” he said as he backed out of the house. 

I was trying to find some empty space somewhere in the bedroom to put my stuff down and get ready for a shower when I felt someone staring at me from the doorway. I spun around and saw a girl, probably in her early twenties, attractive with brown shoulder-length hair and soft features. The expression on her face was a mix between, Who are you and why are you here? and You must be another project that Dad brought home.

“Hi, I’m Celeste,” she said matter of factly. 

“Landall,” I said, extending a hand.

“I’m the daughter. I’m just home for the summer break from college,” she explained. 

“I’m riding my bike around the U.S. and your dad agreed to let me stay,” I explained.

Her expression wasn’t one of either recognition, like she’d heard the story already, or that she was unimpressed. Through a blank stare she half nodded as if to ensure that I knew she heard me, but didn’t care. “You probably want a shower then,” she said as she went back down the hall to what I assumed was her room. 

When I got out of the shower and into clean clothes, I found Celeste sitting in the living room on the couch, but I wondered if she’d cleared that space or if it was the only available place to sit. I hadn’t interacted with a girl close to my age that wasn’t the clerk at a gas station in a long time. Despite now being hungry for lunch, I decided I could delay a minute or two and try to get some attention from her. I looked for a spot to sit, which required quite a bit of moving things from one pile onto another. When I could finally see the fabric surface of the couch, I sat down. Celeste was wearing a black tank top and no bra, which I hadn’t noticed when she was standing in the doorway. Did she change? The longer we sat there, it started to seem like I was doing all the talking, which I took as a sign that whatever interest she might’ve had in me had drifted away. Plus, as I scanned the room, I was grossed out by the amount of candy wrappers that’d clearly been tossed aside instead of put in the trash. Maybe I was looking for reasons to not make a move and avoid rejection, but my libido was starting to bail based on the general cleanliness of this place.

“Is there anything good in town for lunch?” I asked.

“There’s a sandwich shop right downtown, next to the park, that isn’t bad,” she said. 

“Cool. Thanks,” I said, getting up to head to town, not realizing until I was halfway down the driveway that I could’ve invited her too. Man, I am not good at this, I thought to myself, half laughing at how pathetic I felt. I took my time, not in any real rush to get back and sit on a pile of magazines. I eventually returned for a spaghetti dinner that was uneventful, aside from the now-expected warning about Indian reservations from another white guy.