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.
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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 recipient: 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.