A few months ago, my dad and his childhood buddy took a motorcycle
trip through North Carolina. Being Jewish clergy, and of course, the proud
owners of bikes, they caught wind of a church dedicated to bikers. But it was
closed, and their trip ended with a sad lack of preaching motorcyclists. When my
sister declared that she might move to Asheville for a teaching career, we
decided to spend a few days checking out the area and celebrating New Year’s
Eve. And on the very last day- yep, three very nervous and anticipatory Jews woke
up early Sunday morning for Blue Ridge biker church. Driving down winding
country roads and blasting cringe-inducing folk music, we passed tall churches
with crosses and steeples jutting proudly into the cold sky. But they like the
droids from Star Wars, they were not the churches we were looking for. We found
our biker church in a small line of sketchy warehouses. The door was painted
bright, unforgiving orange, and people were pulling up to the entrance atop
their rumbling, vaguely intimidating machines. My sister began spouting second
thoughts, and I suddenly had to pee, but it had to be somewhere else because
one simply could not pee in a biker
church because it just wasn’t the right thing to do, and maybe we should skip
the endeavor altogether…my dad just laughed at us and ushered us out of the
car. A few people had gathered outside of the church. An older guy with a white
beard made into a ponytail, donning a Harley baseball cap and thick boots and
rings on almost every finger. A tall man practically dripping in leather, from
his boots to his pants to his heavy jacket. A few women with Harley rings and
purses (I began to see a trend) and tall leather boots up to their calves. A lanky
guy wearing a baggy t-shirt and jeans came over to us, and introduced himself
as the preacher. His southern accent was heavy between stained teeth and a huge
smile, and it was immediately impossible to dislike him. The other members
began introducing themselves, either in real names or biker nicknames, shaking
our hands and welcoming us to their family. We were shepherded into the
warehouse, where the walls were painted black and orange in appreciation of
Harley, and posters of motorcycles and Harley logos were tacked randomly about.
A small stage was set in front, with a huge drum set. This was not your average
church. My sister, dad and I were about to sit down in the folding chair “pews”
when the preacher called for a prayer circle. Everyone held hands, bowed their
heads slightly, and the preacher began to pray. He informed us that a church
member had tried to take his own life the previous night, and asked God to care
for the congregant while he was recovering in the ICU. He prayed that members
of the church would be able to visit him and lift his spirits and bring him
hope. He asked God for the continual care and love of his church and his
congregants, thanking him for providing such a wonderful family. He asked God
to bless a newlywed couple, and thanked God for bringing them together. Then the
preacher paused, letting other people share their blessings, hopes, and
gratitude. There was so much love, so much unquestioning faith, so much
gratitude in these tattooed, pierced, and leather-clad bikers. I was holding
back sobs. When the prayer circle ended, everyone hugged—and my family was
included. Then everyone slowly made their way to the lines of folding chairs,
chatting amiably about their families and their bikes and their blessings. The band
hadn’t been able to make it, so the preacher announced they would be doing “band
in a can” which led to some chuckles and nods, and the projection of Christian songs
on Youtube onto a blank wall. The newlyweds sat a row in front of me; a woman
with an intense southern drawl and snow-white hair, and a man clad in a black
leather jacket that read, “Born again in Christ” in rhinestones. He was wearing
a utility belt with several intimidating objects, including a huge sheathed
knife. There was a large silver ring on almost every large finger—in fact,
everything about him, was, in a word, large. I watched as he stood up and
raised one hand in the air. Then this leathery giant began to sway back and
forth to the music, singing along. He clapped enthusiastically at the end of
each song, his rings clinking together like a bell. When he sat back down, his
wife cuddled up to him and he rested his head on top of hers. (Yes. I was
crying. Just assume that I never stopped crying. There was an extensive number
of tears.) The preacher walked onto the small stage, and began to deliver his
sermon on the prodigal child. His words were full of hope and understanding and
a fierce love for God and the bible. I didn’t know the story, and as a Jew there
were differences in the Jesus-y, Holy Spirit-y bits, but the basic message was
as easy as breathing—be humble, be accepting, be full of love. The bikers
chimed in with sounds of agreement, applause, and their own thoughts, all
captivated by these ideas and ready to march out into the world on this epic
mission to be good. The preacher then began talking about “lost souls”—people who
had turned to drugs or material possessions for happiness, people who were
hurting and alone. Our job, the preacher told us, was to search for these lost
souls and help them. Coming into the service, I would have deemed all these
rough-around-the-edges, Harley loving people as lost souls. But watching them
pray together with an endless capacity for faith and acceptance, I realized
they were the ones who had found themselves. The service ended with the preacher
inviting his congregants to engage in personal prayer. One woman prayed for her
stepson, some prayed for a lead guitarist for the church, and some prayed for
the healing of their friend in the ICU. The preacher’s prayer captivated me the
most—he spoke longingly and lovingly of a biker church Sunday school filled
with happy, learning children. The thought of toddlers running around in black
leather pull-ups made me want to chuckle, but the intensely sincere hope in
preacher’s voice was powerful. Everyone began to hug each other, and bikers
rushed over to thank us for coming, and invite us to their next event. “There
will be soup and stew, and we’ll be studying Leviticus! We would love it if you
came!” one woman told us, shaking our hands. We thanked the preacher for a beautiful
service and he lit up in a stained, carefree smile. “God blesses me every day,”
he told us happily. And as we walked out of that brightly painted warehouse,
revving motorcycle engines fading into the country roads, bikers all waving
goodbye and wishing us well, I couldn’t have agreed more.
