by Jon Ronson
Sometimes Dave seems to regret letting me in on the secret and I begin to wonder why he did. Does he have a plan for me that I’m not aware of? Am I a pawn in some grander scheme of his? Yes, I soon discover, I am.
Dave McKay is a fifty-seven-year-old native of Rochester, New York. He was born into a family of Nazarene Christians. He married young, moved to Australia in 1968, and joined the Children of God sect that was famous for “flirty fishing” (dispatching attractive female members into the secular world to have sex with potential recruits). They preached the virtue and practice of pedophilia too. Dave was horrified by their sexual teachings, so he split from the Children of God and formed the Jesus Christians in 1982.
Dave has always admired martyrs who behave provocatively—the Buddhists who set themselves on fire to protest the war in Vietnam, and so on. In fact, he once considered setting himself on fire, in India, when a local orphanage was threatened with closure. More recently, when Abu Sayyaf guerrillas took twenty-five people hostage in the Philippines, Dave offered himself in their place, and tried to set up an international hostage-exchange program in which philanthropic Christians would swap places with hostages at a moment’s notice. “I think they were just spiritual tests to ascertain whether I’d be willing to take such extreme steps,” he tells me. “We don’t want to sound a trumpet about how great we are, especially when we haven’t actually done anything—at least, not yet.”
Like most people, I first heard of the Jesus Christians on July 14, 2000, when they were splashed over the front page of the Daily Express—“Cult Kidnap Boy Aged 16.” Susan and her husband, Roland, had apparently spirited away a sixteen-year-old boy called Bobby Kelly from Romford High Street, Essex. Bobby had picked up a Jesus Christians cartoon book outside Marks & Spencer. Within hours, he had forsaken his possessions and moved in with the group. The police were called. The airports and docks were put on the highest alert. The Jesus Christians were suddenly—in the eyes of the authorities and media, tabloids, broadsheets, and television news alike—a sinister, brainwashing, child-kidnapping religious cult, under the spell of their charismatic leader.
There was an emergency High Court action to “rescue” the boy, which led to Bobby’s photo being circulated. That’s when the Jesus Christians panicked and went on the run, with Bobby in tow. They became fugitives for two weeks. (It was a rather provincial run: They went to Hounslow because it has free parking, to Heston service station for nightly showers, and to a campsite on the Surrey–Hampshire border.) When the Jesus Christians tried to put their side of the story to Radio 4’s Today, an injunction was taken out forbidding the BBC from broadcasting the interview.
“Isn’t that classic!” wrote Dave at the time on his website. “Now that our critics have succeeded in slandering our name all over Britain, they want to gag us. And yet some people still tell us that we should have blind faith in the British system of justice! No, something is very wrong here.”
The scandal ended peacefully. Bobby was found safe and well at the campsite and was made a ward of the court. I interviewed him soon after. He spoke highly of the Jesus Christians, and it became clear to me that some of the reporting was biased and verging on the hysterical. This is why Dave decided—a year later—to give me the story on the kidney endeavor.
• • •
IT IS MID-FEBRUARY 2002. Dave tells me that he has invented a woman called Anita Foster and has created an e-mail account for her. The fictitious Anita is writing to influential anticult groups in the UK, such as Reachout Trust and Catalyst. She says she’s a concerned mother whose son has joined the Jesus Christians, and could they offer advice? Reachout Trust sends Anita their Jesus Christians fact file. Dave sends it on to me. Under “Obsession With Death,” it quotes passages from Dave’s pamphlets: “Fear of death is what gives the bosses their power! How long do you think you can survive without eating? Maybe a month or two! OK. Would you rather have one month of freedom or a lifetime of slavery? Anything that isn’t worth dying for isn’t worth living for. . . . If you’d like to be part of this army of martyrs, then please write to us today.”
The e-mails between Anita and the anticult groups are getting chattier, Dave tells me. She’s a likable, concerned mother. He says Anita will soon take on a pivotal role in this story—she will be the one to leak the kidney scandal to the anticult groups. This is Dave’s plan: The fictitious Anita’s fictitious son will donate a fictitious kidney; Anita will inform the anticult groups and imply that Dave is coercing his followers to sell their kidneys on the black market, and that the money will go to him. They will tell the tabloids, and the tabloids will go into a weeklong frenzy about the self-mutilating kidney cult. Then—and here’s my role in the grand scheme—I’ll arrive on the scene with the true story of the Jesus Christians’ remarkable philanthropy.
It seems a funny scheme, and one that has the capacity to backfire in myriad ways. What if the anticult groups don’t believe “Anita”? What if the tabloids decide that mass kidney-donating is a noble and heroic thing? What if I write unkindly about the group? Why does Dave want to make himself seem more sinister than he actually is?
“Your article will be like the resurrection,” says Dave. “But the crucifixion is the key thing. If we have to get crucified for the message to get out, that’s fine. And you’ll be the resurrection.”
Dave begins e-mailing me stern directives: “You DON’T HAVE TO BE THE DEVIL’S ADVOCATE on this one. We can let the tabloids do that for us. We want them to have egg on their faces.”
I e-mail back. I tell Dave that I don’t feel comfortable with his plan. I feel as if I’m being controlled. Our relationship descends into an irascible silence. I’m sure there’s something philanthropic about his intention to donate a kidney. I’m certain that Robin, Casey, Susan, and the others have charitable motives. But when Dave e-mails me the details of his Machiavellian plot for media control—the Anita Foster leak, the ensuing tabloid frenzy, and then me cleaning it all up—I realize he’s also seeking revenge for his treatment over the Bobby Kelly incident.
And, it occurs to me, Dave has scheduled the leak for mid-March, after Robin and Casey’s operations, but before he, Susan, and the other Jesus Christians will have time to give their kidneys. Will the tabloid frenzy—if it occurs—scupper these plans?
“What if you become known as such a sinister cult that nobody wants your kidneys anymore?” I ask him.
“Yeah, we’ve considered that,” he replies. “I think the biggest concern, as Christians, is that we get the message out. Donating kidneys, for us, is really a minor thing. If we can’t do it, we can’t.”
“It’s a big deal for the recipients,” I snap.
There is a short silence.
“Yeah,” says Dave. “Um. I’m sure we could, uh, still find ways. We could go to another hospital. We could give false names. . . .”
At the Internet café in Sutton, Susan is checking her e-mails again. There are a few from C in Scotland, with whom Susan now corresponds on an almost daily basis. C has told Susan that she doesn’t need a kidney immediately and has suggested that if someone comes along with a more urgent need, Susan should give her kidney to them instead.
“I think that’s excellent,” says Susan. “A really good attitude.”
She reads from C’s latest: “Hey, never mind, I’m sure I’ll survive, and even if I don’t, that’s no big deal, either. You might think it seems a bit flippant on my part not to value my life, and I’m not getting all morbid on you—smiley face—it’s just that I believe if your time is up, it’s up, and there’s nothing you can do about it. Anyway, I hope you are well and continue to feel the way you do about donation of organs. I find your attitude most interesting and refreshing.”
“That’s very touching,” says Susan. “‘If your time is up, it’s up.’ She seems to have faced that reality and has a good attitude about it. I really like her.”
The problem is that Susan has also become friends with another potential recip
ient: Larry, in Aspen, Colorado. “I would gladly pay for your transportation to the US, all expenses,” he e-mailed her. “It is not legal to sell a kidney, but a good-Samaritan donation might be acceptable. Your gift would be a miracle. God bless you.”
Susan says she’s over the moon, but how to choose?
“They both seem so nice,” she says.
So she decides to write a list of questions to both C and Larry—“How long have you been on dialysis?” “What does your doctor think about the chances of you surviving a transplant operation?” And other questions, too: “Do you drink?” “Do you smoke?” She sends off the questions.
It is, of course, the DH’s ruling about altruistic kidney donations that has forced her into playing the role of the regulatory authority—or playing the role of an even higher authority than that. But I can’t help thinking that, whichever way this story unfolds, some people are going to get hurt.
I begin to think of the story that was handed to me as a poisoned chalice. I am, in part, supportive of the Jesus Christians’ scheme. But I feel queasy about the decision Susan has to make, and I feel queasy about Casey. He may be saving a life, but he’s only twenty-three, has been a follower for just a year, and still hasn’t told his mother. I e-mail Dave to suggest Casey should be given a cooling-off period—perhaps two months away from the group—before the operation.
I’m surprised to receive a friendly response.
“Thanks for being so frank,” writes Dave. “How about we give Casey a couple of months away from the group to cool off?”
I e-mail back to ask if he’s serious about this. He responds a few days later. Events have moved on, he says. Casey has now told his mother everything, and she has fully endorsed his decision: “Now that Casey’s mother is in agreement, there really should be no objection from anyone else. Like, he’s almost 24, has lived on his own for several years, has covered his body with tattoos and body-piercings without objections from his parents, and now that he has finally got his life together, he wants to do something really good with it by offering a kidney. If his parents are happy with it, then I don’t see any reason why we should tell him to run away and think about it.”
At the end of February, the video diary I asked Robin and Casey to film arrives. It is extraordinarily moving and vivid. It begins with them running at a track in Dallas. They run each morning. This is the day before they fly to Minneapolis. The thing that strikes me most is their smiles. Robin, especially, is always smiling.
Now Robin and Casey are having a snowball fight outside the hospital. Now they’re in twin beds at a Days Inn next to the hospital. Robin addresses the camera: “I’m two days away from donating a kidney to someone I’ve never met before. The reason I’m doing this comes from my personal belief in God. I guess there are a few hard questions—you’re probably wondering if I’ve thought about them. What happens if I donate a kidney to someone and it gets rejected? Obviously, I wouldn’t feel very happy about that. However, part of the idea of being an altruistic donor is that it’s a pure act of love. It’s like a donation to the human race.”
The camera clicks off.
It clicks back on again. Robin is still smiling. “Most kidney donations come from cadavers,” he says. “The recipient has to race in as quickly as possible. They all wear beepers. As soon as they’re beeped, they race to the hospital. The working life expectancy of a kidney harvested from a dead person is ten years, whereas a kidney from a live donor lasts at least twenty years. Twenty years is a long time. That’s a lease on life.”
Now they are at the hospital, having last-minute electrocardiograms and chest X-rays. Casey strips to his waist. “What’s this 777 mean?” asks the nurse, pointing to one of Casey’s many tattoos.
“It’s supposed to be the Lord’s number,” says Casey. “The opposite of 666.” He laughs. “I was too young to think about what I was doing.”
The nurse says, “You’re a brave man, Casey.”
Now, suddenly, it is the night before the operation. Robin and Casey are back at the hotel, preparing their superlaxative. “So when the surgeons get in there and move our guts around, there won’t be any accidents,” Robin explains. The superlaxative is called GoLYTELY (“Go Lightly”).
They need to drink half a gallon, one glass every ten minutes, “until our watery stool is clear and free of solid matter,” says Robin. It’s pineapple-flavored. They say “Cheers!” and start drinking.
Casey screws up his face. “It’s really bad,” he says.
“We’ll get there, buddy,” says Robin. He pats Casey lightly on the knee.
Casey takes another sip. “I feel like I’m defiling myself,” he says.
Now it’s 5:20 a.m. on February 21, 2002. “We should be leaving,” says Robin. “Sounds like Casey’s still in the shower. I’m feeling a bit dehydrated from the diarrhea. I guess they could put me on an IV or something. I got a call last night from the doctor. He said I have an unusual structure. He said there’s a chance they’ll have to go in through the back, which means it’s a longer and more difficult recovery. They may have to remove one of the ribs for access.”
“How do you feel about that?” asks Christine, Robin’s wife, from behind the camera. Christine is also a Jesus Christian.
“OK, I guess,” replies Robin.
Casey pops his head around the bathroom door and grins. Now they head off, in the snow and the dawn, toward their operations. Now they are in the pre-op room.
“I’m debating whether to keep my eyes open when they put the knockout drug into me,” says Casey.
He’s sitting on a chair, his body covered in a tight stocking, like a leotard. “I keep trying to focus on the spiritual side of this,” says Casey. “The motivation behind the donation. The benefits of it. Yeah. I’m trying to stay in touch with the One who’s making it all possible.”
“Do you have any doubts?” asks Christine.
“I’m just, uh, trying to stay open to what God wants,” says Casey.
Now, from his bed in the pre-op room, Casey tries to phone his mother to tell her that he’s about to go into surgery. But she’s not there. The phone just rings out. Casey hangs up.
Now the hospital porters arrive. There are hugs from Christine. Robin and Casey are wheeled away toward the operating room. The camera clicks off. When it comes back on again, Casey and Robin are just beginning to stir from the anesthetic. Casey is mumbling. Christine is stroking his arm. There are drips, and bandages cover their stomachs. The camera clicks off.
“I’m feeling very dizzy and nauseous,” says Casey—his voice is hazy, as if he’s still in a dream. It is the next morning. “I just vomited up some gastric juice or something. You wanna come and have a look at my wound? The pain medication is making it really itchy. I keep scratching. You want to see me press my morphine button? Ah!”
“That’s my buddy,” says Robin. The camera clicks off.
The days progress. Casey tries walking, but he has to sit down again. His colon is twisted from the operation. For a while he lies under the duvet cover. He says he doesn’t want to talk to anyone, and he wants Christine to stop filming him. He says he wishes he hadn’t done it.
“I keep asking myself, ‘Why did I donate?’” he says. “I was trying to do something good and this pain is what I get for it. Maybe God is having me go through this trial to make me feel more sensitive to other people who are uncomfortable and in pain. I have to be careful not to become hateful or bitter. That’s what I’m working on now.”
The next day, Casey and Robin are wheeled out into the sunshine. “We heard a little bit about the recipients today,” says Robin. “My kidney went to a fifty-nine-year-old man who’s been a diabetic all his life. So the fact that he’s fifty-nine and he hasn’t needed a transplant until now is an indication that he’s been looking after himself. Apparently, it’s going really well for him. The kidney began producing urine straightaway. Tell them about your recipient, Casey.”
Casey seems happier t
oday.
“My recipient was a fifty-three-year-old woman who had been on dialysis for five years,” he says. “Her time was nearly up. Hopefully, she doesn’t have to worry about that anymore.” Then he adds, “A lot of people pray to God for a miracle specifically relating to kidney failure, and all it takes is someone to step forward and say, ‘I’ll do it.’ That’s the miracle. That willingness to step forward. That’s God’s miracle. We don’t have to sit around waiting for God to do all the work. He’s waiting for us to do something.”
“We can make a miracle happen,” says Robin.
• • •
ON MARCH 15, I receive an e-mail from Dave McKay. He’s decided to kill off Anita. He realized that attempting to control the tabloids and the anticult groups was bound to backfire.
“I know we’re going to cop to it sometime. We just wanted to have control over when we cop to it. I just wanted to show how adept the media is at turning something good into something evil.”
Dave says that Casey and Robin are recovering well. Casey’s had regrets, but now he’s pulling out of it and is glad of his decision again. Susan’s relationships with C in Scotland and Larry in Colorado continue to flourish. She hopes to donate to one or the other of them as soon as she can. Dave hopes to donate within a few weeks, at a hospital in Australia.
He says the hospital in Minneapolis gave Robin and Casey’s address to their two recipients, but neither has written to thank them.
AFTERWORD
Dave McKay hated the story I wrote. He hated it. I’d been filming the group for a Channel 4 documentary and the moment Dave read the article he pulled the plug on the filming.
