The Band Johansson

The strums of his guitar started up through the tinny speakers. Gary adjusted the strings slightly, as his mother and father entered the room from the family’s upstairs apartment busily. His mother wore her bronze suit, her legs appearing to shine under her beige stockings. She kept her blonde hair loose down her back, and wore no jewelry other than an abnormally large cross-shaped brooch on her chest. His father was smartly donned in a black blazer, a striped white shirt and black pants. They were the picture of humility and simplicity, a steady couple of over a quarter of a century, they were people you could trust.

His mother nodded at him fondly as she unnecessarily tugged at her jacket, taking up her usual place behind the piano, her legs crossed daintily at her ankles. His father stood in front of the microphone, glancing briefly over at Gary and Gina confirming everyone was in place. Members of the congregation began walking into the hall, mulling around and socializing before taking their customary seats at the pews. There were elaborate hats, chiffon dresses and scarves, lace handkerchiefs and a general sense of fuss. Ladies fanned with their song books, pecking each other on rouged cheeks in greeting, while the men gave firm and genial handshakes and straightened their ties.

Gary tapped his hand on his thigh impatiently. He looked down at the tiled floor, hoping to escape the usual small talk and pronouncements how just how handsome and grown he looked this week. He instinctively tightened his grasp on his guitar.

There was a general hush, and Pastor Michael walked in, closely trailed by his picture perfect wife Lisa and three children. He walked briskly to the lectern, nodding and smiling to his flock as he passed. He wore a flowing white cape, and clutched the holy book between his palms.

The Band Johansson began to play.

“Lord, I lift Your name on high,” The voice of Alex Johansson, Gary’s father, boomed through the crowd. Gary’s mind wandered, he could play this song in his sleep by now. He had done it countless times since he had first learned to play the guitar, and had performed it almost every week in his six years at the church. He tried to remember the first song he had learned on the guitar, but he never could. He just knew that there were thousands of songs he still didn’t know.

“Lord, I want to sing Your praises,” The congregation joined in lustily, the room unified with a common voice. Gary examined their faces, their eyes closed and eyebrows furrowed in concentration. Their hands were open-palmed to the heavens as if they were expecting to receive something then and there.  He wondered if every church was like this.  

“Lord, I’m glad You’re in my life,” Gary looked over at Pastor Michael, who was reverently mouthing the words. He and his family were the only other Caucasians here beside the Johansson’s, another product of a generation of missionaries who weren’t called back home.

“Lord, I’m glad You came to save us,” Gary glanced at Gina. She was their parent’s child, and could usually be found at the church after work helping and volunteering. She taught Sunday school and led a youth outreach group. When she did have free time, she and Gary were as thick as thieves, and besides music, they shared another common love of superhero movies and comic books. However, his sister’s eyes were also closed, she seemed lost in the song. He felt a stab of loneliness.  

“You came from heaven to earth, to show the way,” His father held on to the microphone as he sang. His mother, Joanna, tilted her head back as her fingers splayed expertly across the piano keys.

“From the earth to the cross, my debt to pay! From the cross to the grave, from the grave to the sky, Lord, I lift your name on high. Lord, I lift your name on high.” Gary finished the song with a flourish, as he and his family settled in next to their instruments. They turned to Pastor Michael, who began his sermon for the day. It was the sermon of the miracles on the mount, a favorite among the regular worshipers.

Gary remembered the first time he had actually understood this story. Ten years earlier, he had tugged at his mother’s skirt as he sat at her feet near the piano. “Mommy, why did Jesus make more fish appear?”

Joanna had looked at him fondly. “He did it to feed the hungry people who had come to listen to him preach, dear,”

His eight-year old self wanted more. “But why were they hungry?”

“Because they had been listening to Jesus for a while.” She reached down and pinched his cheek. “You know how you get hungry when you wake up from your nap?”

He did know. He folded his arms on his lap, and had turned back to Pastor Michael. Didn’t God know they would get hungry? Why did he need to wait until they were hungry to feed them? Didn’t God know everything?

It was the first time he had questioned a Bible story, but even then, at eight years old, he knew to keep it to himself. Questions were not encouraged by Joanna and Alex, listening unequivocally to Pastor Michael was encouraged. Much like Jesus had built his church on Peter, the Johansson’s had built their life and livelihood on this little church in the Caribbean. They even owned the place, and had literally opened their doors to the community whilst making their home one storey above.  They had supported Pastor Michael for over 20 years, and their little family band was almost as loved and respected by churchgoers as the pastor himself. Alex and Joanna had first added one little helper to their duo, their daughter Gina, on the drums, and her blond-haired blue-eyed cuteness created a near mass hysteria. Five years later, red-headed Gary joined with his guitar, and the perfection of their postcard-worthy, God-fearing family was proof of God’s blessings to the devoted.

Gary fingered his guitar. He knew music was his passion, but he longed to play “Lithium” and try his hand at “Come as You Are”, both the mere mention of which had prompted a long, serious talk from Alex and fitful psalm reading late into the night from Joanna. They wouldn’t even have acknowledged the songs he wrote as they did not even slightly resemble worship songs, so he had kept his sheets safely stowed away in old textbooks. His parents expected Gina and Gary to continue their legacy in the church, second-generation faithful, stalwarts in the community. They had allowed Gina to pursue a career in accounting, but it was understood that she continue her work for the church as well. Accounting was good, steady, honest work in his parent’s eyes. Should Gary express his desire to pursue a contemporary song writing career, this would result in him being financially cut-off and possibly disowned.   

At the very least, the disappointment would last months, and would include counselling sessions with Pastor Michael to bring him back to the right path. People would talk; the Johansson boy plays rock music too. The devil’s music. Would he embarrass his family in such a way in exchange for a minuscule chance at a career that was very likely to fail? How would he explain his desire to not perform for the church every Sunday at 6PM? How would he explain that he simply did not feel the same way about the church? In the eyes of Joanna and Alex, this was their calling, this was God’s work.

Gary never dared to mention that he wasn’t even sure this God was real. He figured the church ceiling would collapse, all records would screech to a halt, and cars would crash in the distance if he ever uttered the words. He had once said it out loud at night into his pillow, and for a half-second, waiting for the inevitable reproach from the man above himself. It didn’t come, but didn’t he supposedly work in mysterious ways? Maybe it still would.

Ironically, he had began questioning the faith of his parents and the church at large while doing religious outreach. He had found himself in poor villages, surrounded by the destitute and unschooled. Brown faces looked up at him curiously, they had likely never seen white people, much less those carrying fancy linens, non-perishable food items and Bibles. He had watched Pastor Michael cup their soiled faces with his hands, as he prayed with and for them, assuring them that Jesus had not forsaken them and would provide deliverance. Whilst this life was difficult, once they turned to God, they would be rewarded in the next.

The burning question in Gary’s mind would cause his fingers to twitch. So he would deliver them…from the life he gave them?

Gary watched week after week, as members of the congregation would stand up and passionately deliver testimonials of the healing of their sick child/mother/husband at the hands of Jesus. Jesus did not forget His children, they would decree.

Who made his children sick, then? Gary would find himself retorting silently. He would then guiltily join into the next musical interlude even more lustily, as if his excellent guitar work could compensate for his lack of faith.

He knew the one thing he had to be grateful to their God for, which he held closely to his body. In order to complete the perfect family musical act, Gary was forcefully introduced to the guitar, and was encouraged to practice as much as possible. Luckily, he fell in love with the instrument. Unlike his friends, less of a focus was placed by his parents on his academic performance compared to his musical one; he was expected to be a functioning part of the well-oiled Band Johansson every week. The church also gave him irreplaceable exposure, he was accustomed to and fully comfortable performing in front of a crowd (albeit a very friendly one) and his timing was impeccable.

Pastor Michael was now inviting the frail Leela to the front of the room, and she slowly recounted a recent health scare. She was now “cured”, and thanks were due to those who had prayed for her. Gary tried to appear interested and moved, but as he looked at the long, oily plait, her tanned skin and her cracked heels, as he listened to her broken English, he wanted nothing more than to stop hearing her story.

“And, God, he spoke to me, that I should do the surgery, even though I was frightened.”

Your doctor told you to do the surgery.

“The devil was trying to kill me. I never was sick.”

You probably hadn’t had a check-up in years.

“Jesus was there with me, and He healed me.”

Jesus doesn’t even look like you. Whose god are you worshiping? Gary felt like the sound of Leela talking would make his head explode.

Pastor Michael embraced Leela. “The Great Shepherd never forgets his flock!” He proclaimed, to resounding cries of “Amen” and “Hallelujah”.

Yes, his flock of sheep.

Gary looked across at his parents, their eyes were wide and their hands clasped as they nodded vigorously. His mother’s brooch looked even bigger as her chest heaved. He was jealous of their ability to simply believe. It must be such a comforting feeling, that you were taken care of and counted and would never be forsaken. He longed for the sense of security; he never came close to it. There was also a voice in his head, little Gary, questioning and doubtful and unsure. Lately the voice of little Gary was becoming less unsure and more convinced that he was in a fake house with a fake foundation that would all come crashing down one day. He was sure, or at least partly sure, that one day people would stop simply believing that suffering was to be accepted for a promise of life after death. He wasn’t sure he was right about God or the lack thereof, but he hoped that they would at least question, that they would at least think.

Pastor Michael closed his book, and gestured faintly toward the Johansson family. Joanne dutifully turned to the piano and began the opening chords of “Our God”. Alex’s feet tapped in time with Gina’s drumming, and Gary picked up his guitar. His eyes fell upon the red-double doors a split second before he closed them, and he began to play.