Lennon's Vision -- Jennie

The Oregon Cabaret Theater bustled Halloween night with “A Brief History Of White Music,” as three young African Americans infused Elvis, the Beach Boys, and the Beatles with gospel, blues, and even reggae.

The full house wondered “Who Put the Bomp?” and went “Downtown.” It was a toe-tapping, thigh-slapping, sing-along-time.

Until the second-to-last song.

The music stopped, the stage went dark, and one sad, sultry voice crooned, “Imagine there’s no heaven…”

The audience stood up. It stood up and wept.


One foggy December morning when I was nine, my grandmother and I drove through San Francisco. I don’t remember where we were going, but I’ll never forget Grandma pulling to the side of Noriega Avenue, in shock over John Lennon’s sudden death.

It was the first time I’d ever seen her cry.


Almost three decades later, people are still crying, not so much now over the loss of the legend, but more, perhaps, over his call for peace and its shrinking possibility.

With the War in Iraq, consumerism and plunging economy, global poverty, religious intolerance, and an orphaned environment, the world is further from Lennon’s dream than ever.

If he were crushed over the state of things then, he’d be devastated now.

The Cabaret audience felt it for him. There was a sixty-something year-old man, standing with folded arms and misty glasses. There was a wide-eyed preschooler, born after the War began, who has not lived one single day of peace in America. We wanted to “imagine,” but it was hard.

This song was a call to keep trying.

Here is what I know: two years ago in New York City, I pointed out The Dakota to my kids: Lennon’s house, the place where he was shot. Torches burn by the door. They burn, despite wind, and rain, and vandals.