IreneQ wrote to me that she was encouraged by my writing in my "Nerd Vs. Word" post that a book I received as a child helped Jesus gain a foothold in my psyche. It reaffirmed for her the importance of "planting seeds."
As I think back on my life before I accepted Jesus in October 1999, I realize that there were many people who planted or watered* seeds of faith in me. The one who stands out in my mind right now is someone who really, really ticked me off. In fact, if I saw him right now, I'd probably still find him annoying. But I'd also have to thank him.
A little background: When I was in college, in the late 1980s, I was already suffering from the worst kind of cyclical suicidal depression, which plagued me from age 16 all the way up until I was saved. It was cyclical not in the sense of manic highs (which would have made it at least entertaining), but in the sense that I would be OK for a while, then slip into darkness, and eventually edge back up—only to slip into darkness again.
So even when I felt fine, I knew it would be only temporary. There seemed to be no purpose to life: It was just, "Life [stinks], and then you die." Lacking faith that God existed or cared about me, I had no hope of ever getting out of the vicious cycle.
To keep going, I created obsessions for myself. In late 1987, when I was 19, I decided that I was going to write a biography of the late record producer Curt Boettcher. Never heard of him, you say? Well, practically nobody else had either at that point. His death the previous June didn't even merit a mention in Billboard magazine. I had never met him, but since I adored his music, that made me all the more eager to track down people who had worked with him and be the first person to chronicle his story.
While I never wrote that biography, my liner notes to the first several of the many Boettcher-related CDs and my magazine articles about him eventually gained him some of the recognition he deserved. But at the time I began my research, I was the only person on his trail. It gave me a sense of mission. Many times, when I felt suicidal, I reluctantly told myself that I couldn't kill myself because I would be letting Boettcher's family down. I guess you could say that my love for a dead man kept me alive—something I now realize came from God.
My mother had by then accepted Jesus and was going to a Messianic Jewish congregation, Beth Israel. By the fall of 1988, when I was a senior in college, I had gone with her to services once or twice, but I didn't like it.
First of all, there were the people. My mother has worked as a psychologist and social worker, and she is naturally drawn to people who need help, such as the developmentally disabled. Beth Israel particularly reached out to that population, and they in turn reached out to my mother whenever she came through the temple doors. These were people who drooled and had personal-hygiene problems and were generally in-your-face. And they all wanted hugs.
My mother tried to explain to me that they were so eager for hugs from her because nobody else would hug them. I could appreciate that, but I didn't appreciate the fact that, since I was her daughter, they all wanted hugs from me as well.
The other aspect of the Beth Israel service that I particularly disliked was the music style, which was "contemporary." Some things never change: I still can't stand "contemporary worship," which is another reason I've had difficulty finding a church.
In case you're wondering if contemporary music at a Messianic synagogue is any different from that at a church, the only difference is that the only two chords the guitarist knows are not C and G, but A minor and E minor. Other than that, it's the same deal: Fifteen minutes of standing up and clapping to the most droningly pathetic excuses for melodies, while singing along with a projected lyric sheet that says, "HOLY HOLY HOLY (3X)/HOLY HOLY HOLY (3X)/(REPEAT 3X)." It's like a Grateful Dead concert, except that the T-shirts are more expensive.
When my mother realized there was no way I was going back to Beth Israel, she asked me if she could please give Gary Selman my phone number. She asked me this many times.
Selman, along with Beth Israel pastor Jonathan Cahn, is one of the 2 Nice Jewish Boys, who for many years have had an evangelical radio show on a local station. They are extremely zealous for Yeshua (Jesus' Hebrew name) and have brought many Jews and Gentiles to the faith.
Naturally, I was not particularly excited about having Selman, the bad-cop of the duo, call me at my NYU dorm. But I agreed to it because I was suicidally depressed and was willing to try anything that might give me a reason to live. Actually, I really did want the Lord in my life. I just didn't feel anything for Him in my gut, and I didn't know how to get from wanting to believe, to actually believing.
Also, I knew that my taking the call from Gary would make my mom very happy.
So he called that night, about 15 years ago, and kept me on the phone quite a while. He interrogated me about my depression (if you've ever heard his attack-dog persona on the radio, you'll know that's no exaggeration), found my weak spots, and went for them.
I found myself arguing with him, which I think was just what he wanted. It was real classic, Jews for Jesus-style confrontational evangelism.
Finally, he said something that was so offensive that I had to get off the phone. He was asserting that only faith in Jesus could get one into Heaven, and he made the logical leap that everyone who dies without faith in Him goes to Hell.
"Wait a minute," I said. "My Grandma Jessie was the most saintly person I have ever known. She had a pure heart and her only thoughts were to do good. Are you telling me that she is now burning in hell?"
"If she didn't believe in Jesus..." he said.
Now, to this day, even as a Christian, I believe that Selman was wrong. There are Scriptural references that Jesus' sheep know his voice. Whether or not my grandmother accepted Him before her death, I have no doubt that at the final judgement, she will recognize Him for who He is.
Don't get me wrong; I do believe it's essential that people hear the good news of Jesus Christ while they're on this earth. But I don't believe in making judgements about whether specific dead-persons' souls are going upstairs or downstairs. I'm still mad at Selman now, just thinking of what he said, and you can imagine how furious I was at the time.
Before I hung up, Selman said, "Please, just promise me one thing. Think of something you really want, more than anything else, and promise me that you'll ask God to give it to you. Because God really wants you to believe in Him, and He'll answer your prayer so that you'll believe."
I told him I'd do it, just to get him off the phone.
As I lay in bed that night, still seething with anger, I considered what I should pray for. My consuming passion at that time was my Curt Boettcher research. I was regularly going to libraries around town—and even the Library of Congress—looking up phone-book and copyright records in hope of tracking down Boettcher associates to interview for my book.
The associate I wanted most to find was a wonderfully talented singer and songwriter named Sandy Salisbury. I knew he was from Hawaii and had lived in California, so I had cold-called every Salisbury in those states in hope of finding him, with no luck. Since this was before the Internet, I had to find phone books from across the nation in order to track him down, and there were many Salisburys. And for all I knew, he might not even be alive anymore, or he might be out of the country.
So as I lay there in my dorm room, I prayed, "Dear God, please let me find Sandy Salisbury. I want that more than anything else. Please do that for me, and if you do—"
I thought for a moment. "I can't promise I'll believe in you, because I've tried to do that before and it didn't work. But I promise I'll at least go to services with my mom." That was enough of a sacrifice, I thought.
The next morning, as I woke up, before I even opened my eyes, my mind was overcome with one overriding thought: He's in Portland.
When I remember the certainty with which I felt that Salisbury was in Portland—and that I knew it was Oregon, and not Maine—I realize that it was identical to the feeling I had after I became a believer, when I first learned to discern the voice of the Holy Spirit. But at the time, all I knew was that I had to get straight out of bed, make a beeline for my telephone and call Portland Information.
I asked for "last name Salisbury, first name Sandy," and the operator immediately gave me a number. It seemed too simple. Probably it would turn out to be Sally Salisbury.
But no. I called the number, heard the answering-machine voice, and there was no mistaking it. He called me back. My mind was officially blown. (And not just because he'd become a best-selling children's author.)
That day, I made two plans. The first was to interview Salisbury by phone later that week, which I did. The second was to go to services with Mom, which I also did—once,anyway.
It would still be another 11 years before God would give the increase that would transform my life and heal me of my depression. But Gary Selman planted a seed. And I thank him for planting it—even if his fertilizer stank a bit.
*It's interesting to see that, in both the Hebrew Bible and the New Testament, anytime the act of watering is mentioned, it always refers to living water. I discovered that just now, looking up "watereth" in the King James Bible on BibleGateway.com. Every occurrence of that word in the Bible is metaphorical, referring to God's watering the earth—and our watering one another—with His sustaining love.
Here's a shot of me at 
Memo to men I have dated, however long it's been since I've dated you, and however little our having dated may have impacted your psyche: Do not invite me to a party at your place without telling your current, live-in girlfriend who I am—causing me to wind up having her sit next to me with a smile and say, "So, how do you know [my boyfriend]?"
The above was the title of a very funny poem by my great-aunt Alma Denny (right) that was published in Reader's Digest, endearing her to bagel manufacturers everywhere. Alma, who died last year at the age of 95 (or 96, according to the 
Here's a rare unpublished image of me frugging away between DJ shifts at last month's POP GEAR! OK, it's really 
Of course, such an excursion also has a fringe benefit: You might find a good camera. I found mine, my first-ever digital camera, at B&H today with help from Bill, my wonderfully knowledgeable pal visiting from the West Coast. (My other outing was with another camera-savvy friend, John, who was very good at explaining the cameras at J&R but not as good at persuading me to shed my reluctance to spend money on myself.)
You can tell a lot about a person by what they read in the bathroom. Here is an artfully arranged tableau of the books that are normally piled on top of my toilet tank. I'm actually not such a huge Shakespeare fan—I like his work, but his books are really there to elevate me. The ones I delve into the most are the Andersen, followed by Christopher Booker's amazing Neophiliacs (showing how the optimism of Sixties British pop culture turned to nihilism) and Robert A. Cook's beautiful book for the new Christian, Now That I Believe. If you count the Jewish rock and roll managers in Johnny Rogan's Starmakers and Svengalis, I think you have practically my whole life here.
We end our mini-tour of Chez Eden with my Liner Note Shelf. Yes, I keep all the CDs to which I've done liner notes—close to 80—in one place. Sometimes I lay them all out on the floor and roll in them gently, like Scrooge McDuck.