The Comedian Who Died, Literally

Perhaps because the weather is getting cooler toward the end of summer, I find myself remembering my visit one cool evening to a small Christian coffee house in East Northport, N.Y., where, not long ago, I heard a comedian give witness to life after death.

Samantha's Li'l Bit of Heaven hosted my friend Lenny Horowitz, the only Jewish act on the bill on its regular comedy nights. He was the resident non-believer, and he got lots of mileage out of his outsider status. When he told jokes that challenged the audience's delicate sensibilities, they would shake their bags of pretzels in disapproval.

As I had done a few times before, I visited one evening for Comedy Night, to see Lenny perform, and decide whether or not I could overcome my stage fright and do 5 minutes.

I decided against it. Lenny did well. But he was not the closer that evening. Another comedian, named Mike, whom I also know well from the local circuit, stood up to do his act.

Mike did many of his old bits, sanitized from when he would perform them at Governor's Comedy Club in Levittown.

But the one thing I expected least was when Mike decided to close his act by testifying to this eminently receptive audience about the time he "died" and went to heaven. Mike's heart had stopped beating during a heart attack years before. How long it stopped I don't remember him recounting. But, as he said, he "died on the table" at the hospital.

During this time, he told the rapt audience, he experienced an incredibly friendly and peaceful presence. It showed him that his wife and all of his children would be healthy and happy. And that they would join him someday. Most interestingly to me, he also got a rather immediate explanation for all of the suffering in the world.

But, alas, he was revived. And he told the medical staff saving his life, "Let me go! Let me go!" because he wanted to be in heaven.

And from that day forward, he said, although he did not know why he was still here, he did not fear death, or anything else for that matter. He "knows" that he will be happy after death, and that all is well with the world.

Out of respect for the man's story, I should have simply remained silent. It was a deeply moving moment. But I couldn't resist the urge, once the show was over, to question him more.

I congratulated him on a great performance. And then, I asked, "You don't happen to remember the explanation for all that suffering, do you?"

"No," he said, shaking his head.

A few days later, the inspiration of his story faded.