CHAPTER 5

As we stumbled into our second full year of marriage, in 1975, Keith had that old restlessness about him. Our life seemed to be rushing by at a crazy pace. We ran all over town, delivering the lead-sheets we’d been writing—and making demos. A blind singer, named Tom Sullivan, fell in love with one of Keith’s songs, and the guy from Helen Reddy’s manage ment team picked six of his songs to send to her, including “Love With Me.”

Still nothing materialized.

Personally, our relationship suffered many more tense moments. I was earning money with Keith on the lead-sheets, and we worked pretty well as a team in everything—well, almost everything.

When it came to the house we hit our big differences. I didn’t want to be responsible for all the cooking, cleaning and laundry. It didn’t seem fair to me. But Keith had other ideas.

January 9, 1975

We had a fight about Mel cooking for me and she wants it shared. I was still very mad at Mel cause she wouldn’t take care of me.

My head was fighting between selfish chauvinism and sincere belief that Mel should take responsibility for the homey things. I don’t know. I know I’m lazy and never liked housework, but neither does Melody. Please let me know, God.

I split . . . and called her and talked things out. She decided that she’d do the housewife trip for a while. It is resolved—temporarily.

Even more troubling, our “spiritual houses” needed a good cleaning up—but who did we call for that? It would be a lot easier if we could open the phone book and get the number for “Charlie’s Cosmic Clean-Up”. We wanted to live a life that would somehow put us in contact with God in a real way—but it seemed like we were just going backwards. The day after our “domestic” argument—while I cleaned the house—Keith poured out his spiritual frustrations in music. The song was called, “I Gotta Do Better Than This”.

Lord I’m not living up to your expectations,

I’ve gotta do better than this.

I’ve got no excuses,

No explanations,

I’ve just gotta do better than this. . . .

Keith and I kept fighting the urge to forget everything by smoking dope or dropping a few pills. But it was a battle we kept losing.

One night in early February, after a wild weekend of partying, something strange happened to Keith while he was playing a one-nighter back at The Bla. Albie had been in a pinch for “talent”, and Keith had agreed to help him out.

We’d smoked some dope to help get us through the evening, and Keith was really getting off on his performance. There was one song in particular that I always loved. It was taken from a Bible story about “The Good Samaritan”. Before, the term “good Samaritan” had symbolized some weak guy who’d always go out of his way for everyone, letting everyone use him. A totally uncool person. But Keith’s song, “On the Road to Jericho”, gave the story a whole new meaning for me. People sat down with their drinks. I could tell they were really listening as Keith sang with deep emotion:

I left Jerusalem last week for Jericho.

In the afternoon, the sun was getting low.

Then the bushes shook and out they came at me—

They were robbing me half-naked

As they beat me head to toe.

Left me wounded on the road to Jericho.

Lying almost dead and wounded by the road,

Crying out in pain for a sympathetic soul.

First a priest and then another of my kind,

They were men I would have trusted,

But they acted deaf and blind.

They were strangers on the road to Jericho.

As Keith sang it was as if he was the one crying out in pain. I could feel it—could see it on his face as he grimaced while he cried out the words. I could only think of the times I’d felt abandoned by those I’d trusted at one time or another. And then Keith’s lament grew hopeful, as someone came to the aid of this wounded traveler. Only it wasn’t who he expected:

Through the blood and tears I saw a worried face.

He was from Samaria, my people hate his race.

He bandaged up my wounds and laid me on his horse.

Though my memory is cloudy,

I can still feel his friendly glow—

Such a kind man on the road to Jericho!

It was a moving performance—but that’s all I thought it was. I hadn’t noticed anything out of the ordinary about Keith while he was singing. But later that night as we drove home he said, “Mel, this incredible thing happened tonight when I was playing ‘Jericho’. I don’t know if I can explain it—but I felt a touch from God.”

Keith didn’t elaborate so I wasn’t exactly sure what happened, but I wondered if he wasn’t seeing himself as that wounded traveler. Later that night, Keith confided to his journal:

Got stoned again. . . . Had religious experience while playing “Jericho.” Decided to immediately stop smoking. God entered my life again. . . .

Out of the gloomy despair of a dope-clouded mind came the call to New Life—the Christian calling again. After forsaking the Lord to escape from my conscience and my path (my own self-discipline) for the cloudy shroud of constant smoking . . . I felt the despair surround me . . . and the Christian angel called me, saying—”Come to my fold” . . .

Praise God who never forgets—but always forgives. My perfect Father. I want to be with you and perfect, too.

I could only tell that Keith was once again caught up in his titanic, inner struggle. Privately, he wrote:

The Calling

Oh I feel the calling so strong tonight. To join the Holy army and fight the numbness in the world toward God. Even the very belief in the existence of God is a battle. But when I truly believe in God and I have to fight the insidious evils around me—and more horrifying, right inside me—I find myself feeling beaten, and hearing those Satanic words, “Give up you're too human—only the saints, priest, monks and nuns are clean enough from the world and its forms to reach the Lord God and be chosen for Holy service.”

Please God in Christ’s name and teachings I want to be chosen to be with you . . . On your side only! No possibilities of any other master, or side or path, or pseudo-light, belief or god.

I want to die for you God and be reborn a whole disciple. Living, emulating, and shining your will, teachings, and bearing fruits every day to everyone. . . . The devil hates me more every day. He despises me more, the more I get closer to you. He’s losing his grip. Praise you, God. Your light is the only thing I want to see—And the only thing I want to reflect. . . .

In March, about a month after Keith’s experience at The Bla, we decided we wanted to go to church. Since that was where most people who believed in Jesus hung out, we thought we’d give it a try. So we met Randy Stonehill and another Christian rock musician, Larry Norman, at the Little Brown Church for their Sunday morning service. I took my first Communion with soda crackers and grape juice. I left with a very warm feeling in my heart, and Keith had a fairly good experience too. He later wrote: “Stiff service but great, great sermon on giving.”

However, going to a Christian church also made us face one of the major problems we saw with Christianity—the supposed deity of Jesus. Spiritual master, yes. But God?

We were reading in our chocolate-brown King James Bible things like John 1:1, which said, “. . . the Word was with God and the Word was God.” But we couldn’t quite buy that. The idea even made Keith mad.

Once before, we’d tried going to a little Protestant church in Van Nuys. When we’d walked in, the usher in the back looked overjoyed—I guess not many hippies went to church there. We found some seats way in back and they started singing hymns. As we opened the hymnal, Keith flipped through it reading various lyrics. Suddenly, he stood and said loudly, “Let’s get out of here!” By reading some of the words Keith realized these people believed Jesus was not only the son of God, but that he was God. We walked out rather abruptly, and I was embarrassed. Now we were facing the “God question” again.

While growing up, Keith had read that Jesus wasn’t God—but a man who possessed the “true idea of God” more than all other men. As for me, I simply didn’t see any way that a man who’d walked on the earth could be God. There was no way I was going to worship a man.

To make things interesting, our old friend Todd started talking about joining a group of Christians who believed Jesus was God. Keith tried to talk him out of it. “It’s better to be right with God and be alone, than to be wrong about him and be wrong with hundreds of people.”

But Todd was a seeker in his own right and was determined to follow his heart. He joined the group, and we started seeing a little less of him.

Then, just after Easter in ‘75, Keith started to get some measure of success musically. Teddy Neely, our Jesus Christ, Superstar friend asked Keith to play in his band for one of the hottest TV rock programs—”Midnight Special” on NBC. Then Keith landed another nights spot job at a place called “Goodbye Charlie’s”. Our CBS salary, which had been held up for several months because of some glitch, was about to be released, and it looked like we were going to have more money than we’d know what to do with.

Things were starting to cook—in more ways than one.

One evening near the end of April, Keith’s friend Randy Wimer came over. Todd came over, too, and we ended up having what Keith called “a great Bible debate”. The talk centered, of course, on God and Jesus. We were confused. If Jesus was God, did that make him his own father? That wasn’t even logical. And why did people worship Jesus when the Bible says to only worship God?

Then Randy brought up a scripture we’d never heard. It was out of the New Testament book of Hebrews, a book written to Jewish believers, so my ears perked up.

“God commanded all the angels to worship Jesus when he was born. Then it says, ‘But of the Son he says, Thy throne O God, is forever and ever’.”

Keith grabbed the Bible from Randy. “Let me see that. God calls Jesus God?”

“He sure does. God even calls Jesus Lord a few verses down.” He took the Bible back, and read, “God says, ‘Thou, Lord, in the beginning didst lay the foundation of the earth, and the heavens are the works of Thy hands’.”

“You mean it says Jesus created the earth? That’s something to think about. But I’m still not buying this Jesus is God stuff,” Keith insisted.

The next night, Keith drove Randy Wimer to his parents’ house, which was about an hour away. All the way there they argued about the scriptures and whether they were totally accurate and inspired word-for-word. To Keith it seemed impossible that the whole Bible could be absolutely true. How could men write a book that was perfect? Keith later wrote, “Randy kept claiming the Holy Spirit is the source of his translation and interpretation, and then something clicked inside and on the way home, tears filled my eyes and I was filled with the Holy Spirit.”

A short time later he also wrote:

The Holy Ghost

Last Monday I discovered the knowledge of the existence of the Holy Ghost. As the personal vehicle through which the Son comes into our personal lives. . . . I feel so strong, my love for the Father and my trust in the Father. I am learning to love the son and only now seeing the need to acknowledge a third entity. Separate in identity, but one with the others in purpose. . . .

The day after Keith wrote that prayer we decided, with some uncertainty, to accept Todd’s invitation to go to a service at the church he’d joined. Todd had taken a leap of faith and not only joined this church, he moved into their small community of believers—the ones who believed Jesus was God.

That evening when we arrived, the hall was fairly crowded and we took a seat on some folding chairs toward the back. Todd sat with us, and I could tell he was really pleased that we made the effort to come. The people looked normal enough, which took the edge off the moment. The last thing we wanted to do was spend the evening with a bunch of religious wackos.

A man went to the front and talked for several minutes. Then a young guy in blue jeans and a football T-shirt, who was sitting a few feet to our right, jumped up. He had a Bible in his hand and looked like he was about to read something. Instead, he started to shout out passages from the Bible at the top of his lungs!

Keith and I exchanged knowing glances, rolling our eyes a bit, and sunk down in our chairs. Our worst fears were confirmed. We just dug in for the duration, as people started popping up all over the place, yelling out scriptures. As soon as the first guy was done, an elderly woman with white hair pinned up in a bun stood and gave him a run for his money in the shouting department. It seemed more like a football game than a church service.

I leaned over and whispered in Keith’s ear, “What are these people shouting for?” It was more of a statement of irritation than a question.

“Who knows,” said Keith. “But one thing’s for sure, these people are straaange.”

Todd started shifting in his seat. Our disapproving whispers were not exactly subtle. Besides, Todd could read Keith like a book.

Suddenly, right in the middle of it all, Keith rose to his feet, his chair scraping against the cement floor as he stood. I held my breath wondering what he was going to do. He simply turned, walked up the aisle and right out the front door.

I was so surprised I wasn’t sure what to do. Todd looked deflated. Neither of us said a word, but Todd was starting to cry a little. Finally I got up and walked outside. I found Keith pacing back and forth in the parking lot.

“Something’s not right, Mel. It’s not just the yelling. I can’t put my finger on it.”

“I think Todd’s kinda upset that you left,” I ventured.

“I had to get out of there. I felt like I was going to explode.”

“Well, what do you want to do?”

“I’m not ready to go back yet. You go back in and I’ll see you there in a few minutes.”

I went back inside for what was left of the service, hoping the yelling was over. It was. I hung around the back of the hall until Keith returned and when the meeting ended, Todd slowly made his way over to us. I felt kind of bad for him and could tell he was embarrassed. But Keith didn’t cut Todd any slack.

“Hey, Bro, why didn’t you jump up and shout with the rest of them?”

“You know me,” Todd said meekly, “I’m not one to put on a show.”

Afterward we went out to eat with Todd, and he and Keith continued their ongoing arguments.

“What about Philippians chapter two?” Todd challenged.

He quoted a passage that said Jesus was “in the form of God” though he came to earth as a humble servant. Because he had suffered death on the cross, the Bible said, “God . . . highly exalted him to the highest place and gave him a name that is above every name. . . .”

“Okay,” Keith countered, “so I agree that God has exalted Jesus—but it still doesn’t say he was God. Not directly anyway. You see, I can argue every one of your scriptures away,” Keith said self-assuredly.

“But you don’t really have any answers. You’re just unwilling to believe,” Todd replied angrily.

“I’m not willing to believe everything I hear. Todd, how can you live with those people? They’re so strange. You need to get out of there.”

“Hey, at least I’m doing something spiritual. What do you have that’s better?”

As we drove home from the restaurant, Keith and I tried to sort through the whole evening. We decided that we were really turned-off by the church service, but we really liked being in a spiritual atmosphere, talking to spiritual people. Keith wanted to go back and check them out again the next week. But I suggested that we shop around a bit because the last thing I wanted was to get stuck in that group, like Todd seemed to be.

“Keith, if we’re going to start going to church let’s check out some more options. Maybe we should try that group Randy Stonehill invited us to go to.”

Two days after our experience at Todd’s church we called Randy Stonehill and found out where his Bible study was. They met in a private home on Coldwater Canyon on the other side of the mountain in Beverly Hills. Randy gave us directions and we drove over.

The Vineyard Christian Fellowship met in a fashionable part of town. There were no halls or churches in sight—just palm trees, manicured lawns, four-car garages, iron gates, security systems and an occasional uniformed nanny pushing a baby stroller. Coldwater Canyon was definitely on the “Map To The Movie Stars’ Homes” that they sold down on Sunset Boulevard. I figured plenty of wealthy doctors and lawyers lived here, too.

We parked in front of a large yellow house that sat in a huge yard filled with flowers and trees. A white picket fence surrounded all of it. We got out of the car and opened the gate. The house was not as fancy as some of the Spanish or Tudor homes nearby. But to me it spoke of family and commitment and money. Lots of money.

Inside, we stepped into a large entryway just off the living room, where about thirty-five people were sitting on couches, chairs or on the thickly carpeted floor. We quietly found a spot on the floor, smiled a bit guardedly and waited for the meeting to start.

A young man went to the front of the room and sat by the fireplace. He introduced himself as Kenn Gulliksen. He had yellow-blond hair, a round friendly face, and his eyes were warm and smiling. He started speaking and his gentle manner immediately put me at ease. Keith looked relaxed too. As we sat cross-legged on the floor, Kenn led the group in some songs we’d never heard before. Not knowing any of the words, we just listened:

Father I adore you,

Lay my life before you.

How I love you. . . .

The words just flowed over me. People broke into gentle harmonies that all seemed to weave in and out of each other. I felt a strange sense of peace start to wash over me—a peace that was like the intense emotions I’d felt the night, several years before, when I’d seen myself at the foot of the flaming cross. Only this time, it wasn’t coming from a drug-induced hallucination. I closed my eyes and felt myself relaxing.

Jesus I adore you,

Lay my life before you.

How I love you. . . .

As they sang about Jesus I could picture him in my mind’s eye. It seemed so natural to think about him in this place. A moment ago, it had been a fancy Beverly Hills living room, but now it seemed like a place where the disciples of Jesus met. I almost felt like I could reach out and touch the fringe of Jesus’ robe as he walked by. The spirit was catching, and the song was so easy to pick up that Keith and I started to sing along as they moved into it a second time. I felt so wonderful I thought I was going to fly off into heaven.

Kenn Gulliksen closed the time of singing with a simple prayer and started talking about God. “Just today I felt like I’d blown it with my wife by getting impatient. But you know, I realized that in 1 John 1:9 it says if we come to Jesus and confess our sins, he’s faithful to forgive our sins. So I closed my eyes and simply said, ‘Lord, please forgive me for offending Joni.’ And then I went to Joni and asked her forgiveness, too. It was really beautiful.”

I’d never heard anybody talk like that before. it just sounded so down to earth. He made Jesus sound like his best friend or something. It didn’t seem abstract or mystical at all. I gave Keith a sideways glance to see if I could read his expression. He had that intent look on his face, the one where his eyes got deep and penetrating. He was totally absorbed.

Kenn also talked about how much God loved each one of us. “Just like I love my wife and children, and want to protect them and take care of them—that’s how God loves you. He wants to be in a love relationship with you.” He said being in a relationship with God would change our lives. That we could become new people by asking Jesus to forgive our sins and welcoming him into our hearts. There was nothing weird or spooky about anything he was saying. And the very best part was that he made it seem like getting to know God—really getting to know him—was totally possible. It sure seemed like he knew God.

Then he talked about how God sent his only son down to earth to live among us and show us the way to the Father. But we needed to be cleansed of our sins to be in a relationship with the Father—and that’s where Jesus’ death on the cross came in. People used to sacrifice animals to pay for their sins, but Jesus was the only one pure enough to be a sacrifice for the wrong things we’ve done that have hurt God and hurt others. So God allowed Jesus to be that sacrifice one time, for all of mankind. The only thing was, we needed to receive it. “It’s like a beautiful present from a friend,” Kenn said. “If you don’t allow them to give it to you, you’ll miss the blessing, and they’ll be hurt. You need to open your heart to Jesus and let him come into your life.”

Kenn spoke for about forty minutes, and when he was done he asked everyone to bow their heads and close their eyes. He asked, “Is there anyone here who wants to ask Jesus into your heart—to give your whole life to him? When you ask Jesus to forgive your sins, you’ll become a brand new person. It’s like being born again—only it’s not a physical rebirth. It’s a spiritual one.”

You could almost hear hearts beating.

Then he said, “Just raise your hand if you want to receive Jesus.” I sat with my eyes closed. It felt like lead balloons had been tied to my arms. My heart was pounding wildly, and I felt a pressure in my chest. The invitation was repeated but I could not raise my hand.

I felt Keith stir and I peeked out of the corner of one eye. To my surprise—and dismay—I saw his hand raised high into the air. Now I felt even more pressure to do the same thing, but I just couldn’t get my arm to move. One part of me wanted to jump up and shout, “Jesus I want you! Please forgive me!” But another part of me was sitting back observing the whole scene and saying, “No way am I going to do this!”

After a minute or so, Kenn prayed right out loud for everyone who had their hand raised and asked them to repeat some things after him. I wanted that prayer to be for me, too, so I said it in my heart—but I knew I hadn’t raised my hand. The moment was over now, and I’d missed my chance.

As the meeting closed, we had to leave right away because Keith had a gig that night at “Goodbye Charlie’s”. On the way out the door, someone said, “I’m glad you came tonight. I’ve been praying for you.” It was a guy we’d briefly met at Randy Stonehill’s birthday party a few months ago —and I couldn’t believe he’d actually been praying for us. I’d never had anybody in my whole life tell me that. I thanked him and wondered why he’d want to pray for total strangers, and what kind of things he’d been praying for.

Keith and I jumped into “Victor” and headed off to work. Keith was elated and talking a mile-a-minute.

“Boy, it was really great tonight. I’ve never felt anything like it. This is really it, Mel. I feel like I finally found what I’ve been looking for.”

I slouched down in what seemed to be my dark little corner of the van, feeling worse and worse as Keith went on. I felt so dejected, thinking, Yeah you did it, but I blew it. What if I’d blown my one big chance to get right with God? I should have raised my hand. Oh God, I prayed, can I have a second chance? What if I go back next week? I was happy for Keith but I felt miserable.

At “Goodbye Charlie’s” I wasn’t sure I was ready for the evening. This place felt a lot more like a bar than The Bla Bla, although it was decorated much nicer with red velvet cushions and mirrored walls. But the overall feeling was “sleaze”. I noticed a sexy-looking blonde sitting on a barstool. Her skirt was hiked up and she was leaning toward some greasy guy who resembled a hungry shark getting ready for dinner. As we passed them, I heard him ask what her name was. It gave me an uneasy feeling to know people came here to get drunk and get picked up. What a switch from our time at the house in Coldwater Canyon.

Keith did his best, but tonight he seemed to be having a hard time. During one of his breaks, he looked at me and said, “I just can’t do this anymore. Something’s wrong. I don’t know what it is, but I just don’t fit in here.” Keith had been really excited to get this job, but at the end of the evening Keith said goodbye to “Goodbye Charlie’s” forever. He never went back.

That week was one of the longest I’d ever spent. As I stood in line at the market and ran around town with Keith, I kept thinking, I want to go back to the Vineyard. I hope he asks us to raise our hands again. I hope it’s not too late for me. My mind seemed stuck and I could think of nothing else.

When Friday came around it seemed to drag on endlessly. Finally, that night, when we walked into that big yellow house the excitement in my heart was at an all-time high. We sat on the floor again, and when the singing started I could hardly wait for all the “preliminaries” to be over. Kenn spoke again, and then—at last!—he got to the hand-raising part.

“Is there anybody here that wants to give their heart to the Lord?” he asked.

To my surprise I hesitated. I thought, This is crazy—I’ve been waiting all week.

For the next few moments I went through an inner battle—something inside me did not want to be a Christian. Other hands were raised but I was thinking, Maybe I’ll just raise my hand next week.

Just then, a gentle voice broke into my personal war-zone. “I believe there’s another person here who needs to receive the Lord tonight,” said Kenn patiently.

I knew he was talking about me. Then I thought, That’s impossible. How could he know?

The room was totally quiet.

My heart was pounding in my chest and I thought, It’s now or never. Something was tugging at me to open my heart totally to Jesus, but something else wanted me to keep my hands down. These forces were working against each other—right inside me! Then I knew that I had to make the choice. I thought, If I don’t raise my hand right now, nobody is going to do it for me. I need to choose sides.

Quietly, I slipped my hand high into the air—just as I used to do in bed at night as a little girl. Only this time I knew what I was reaching for.

Kenn immediately prayed for all of us who were receiving the Lord that night, and a rush of peace filled my heart—a peace deeper than anything I’d ever experienced in my whole life.