LEAVING SHADOWLAND

By Bob Huneycutt

THE ALPHA         

Thirty years ago, on a rustic farm in the mountains north of San Francisco, I spent six weeks studying the teachings of Reverend Sun Myung Moon.  At 21, I had never heard of the Korean evangelist, even though he was fast becoming a lightening rod for controversy.  In the ensuing years, the church would be hit by lawsuits, accused of heresy and be betrayed by ex-members.  The man in the middle of it all, Reverend Moon, far from moving to quell the flare-ups, would seem to encourage them and thrive on the controversies.  The members would scatter like ships before a storm, some sinking, and some surviving with weary, battle-hardened visages.  The Unification Church was forged in fire. 

            However, in the mid-seventies, the storm is little more than a tropical depression, and the church centers are beehives of activity.  Curious young people are constantly moving through the workshops, getting an introduction to the teachings, and some will swear they got a glimpse of Heaven.  It is these whom their parents will say are stolen from their families.

            For three decades I rode the Unification roller coaster, but my fondest memories and my deepest insights were from those early days, herding sheep, sleeping by a woodstove and learning to pray at a Unification Retreat near the northern California farming town of Booneville. 

            For a brief period, the church enjoyed nearly unbridled prosperity and growth, and the bulk of that blessing was bestowed on the San Francisco Bay Area, that American Mecca for spiritual seekers.  Every week a hundred new recruits would join the workshops and nearly half would become members.  What was the reason for this unparalleled success, at the very time when most churches were burdened with dwindling memberships? 

Originally I intended to examine the success of the Unification Church at attracting young people, for in those days the Church was far more effective than the Methodist Church, where I grew up, at recruiting new members.  Ultimately the focus of the story became the church’s impact on me personally, for it wrought a considerable change in my life and instigated the journey which brought me face to face with my own selfishness.  Regrets?  I have a few, mainly that I learned so late to love.  But I have no regrets about diving into the Unification Movement.  I remain convinced that the many critics of the Church simply don’t know the Church as I do, and so I felt compelled to tell my story. 

            Perhaps the first issue is how I came to be in the Bay Area in the first place, too far from home, a stranger in a strange land.  The journey there was improbable and convoluted, and began, as most journeys do, if only you reach back far enough, on my own doorstep.

RHYMES WITH CALIFORNIA

When Charlie shows up on my doorstep, about to jump out of his flip-flops over something, I’m just finishing up supper, my sister Donna is clearing the table and my Mom is fixing to wash the dishes.  My Dad, the grizzled captain, has already made for the marina where he is most likely piddling with the boat and fussing over the engine.  This is only about the second or third time Charlie has been by my house and I feel rather gratified, for Charlie is about the best surfer in Emerald Isle.  Most of my friends surf, and I myself go to the beach every single day, but Charlie has distinguished himself with his aggressive style and outrageous cutbacks.

Charlie has a physique like Michelangelo’s David on a surfboard and when he catches a wave, his sun-bleached hair flies out behind him. He carves the face of the wave and cuts back with such authority that the beach bunnies watching from the shore would never guess that without his gold, wire-rim glasses, Charlie is nearly blind.

            So Charlie, the super surfer from Emerald Isle, is standing on my front porch holding the screen door open.  His friend Graham, a skinny, rich kid from J-Ville that plays guitar in a Rolling Stones cover band, is waiting in the driveway in a futuristic-looking car with doors that open up like the wings of a gull.  My question is: Charlie, did you finally get a date or something?

            No, says Charlie, but do you want to go catch some real waves?

            Seems Charlie and Graham have cooked up a scheme to drive out to California, where the waves are plentiful, and spend a month carving North Carolina names on California swells.  Every surfer knows East coast waves are tiny compared to the grinders on the West coast; no California surfer ever traveled East in search of good waves.  Somehow in the planning sessions my name came up, and they want me to come along, ride in the back, maybe drive some.  Just strap your board on top, Charlie says. 

            Count me in, and I don’t need to think about it.  This sounds like a chance to hone the old skills and I travel light: corduroys, t-shirts and several good books.  Graham has a big tent and an atlas with directions to every Good Sam Campground between here and Honolulu.  We’ll just jump on I-40 and transport cross country in no time in Graham’s amazing car.

            We depart on a Sunday morning.  The surfboards are strapped to the roof and the tent takes up most of the trunk, but other than that, there is little baggage.  I pack a couple science fictions, Asimov and Heinlein.  Somebody brings Frank Herbert’s Dune, an appropriate title for this trip, and, inexplicably, the I Ching is lying in the back seat, with its ‘everything is nothing’ philosophy.

            The first day on the road we jump straight over the Appalachians and zoom through Tennessee.  We find a campground near Memphis at dusk and Charlie and Graham decide to forego the tent and just sleep under the stars on a picnic table.  My Boy Scout training persuades me to erect the tent, but about the time I get settled into my sleeping bag, I hear a disturbance outside as Charlie and Graham rip up the stakes and the tent collapses on me.

            Lying there under the fallen tent, I start to think about pulling out of the trip; after all we’re only one day away from home.  Do I really want to spend my summer vacation in the company of juveniles?  But this is why Charlie picked me in the first place.  He knows me well enough to know I’m not the type to cause a big scene; I’ll be miffed for a few and that’ll be the end of it.  We’ll continue on, and long before we hear the roar of the tumultuous Pacific, with its languorous beaches and tan-colored cliffs, I’ll have forgotten all about those mischievous snickers of conspiracy that preceded the toppling of my tent.  Charlie’s right; I’m in this for the duration.

            With our seagull wings folded down, we go flying across Arkansas, Oklahoma and on into New Mexico.  This is the first time for three southern boys to see the American Southwest, painted in hues of tan and red, so unlike the pine-encrusted swamps and coastal plains of Carolina.  As the fiery sun sets over the desert we hide conspiratorially in our resurrected tent and drink Coors beer, brewed with Colorado water, a toast to adventure.  Next day we take a short detour to the Grand Canyon.  Standing on the observation deck with a hundred other tourists we shield our eyes and peer across the chasm to see… the other side, brown and red strata of rock.  No sign of life.  Pretty neat, says Charlie.  Anybody want to buy a souvenir?         

Then we climb high into the Rockies until we top out at Flagstaff, and from here on it is downhill all the way to L.A.  Crossing into California we see great buttery hummocks, treeless and brown, with zero shade.  The sun here is intense, merciless.  Riding on we come to the entrance ramp for the tangled asphalt arteries of Los Angeles, and we follow the signs till the road stops at the pristine Pacific. 

After three days cooped up in the car, our bodies crave the water.  Looking out for the first time at the Pacific Ocean, the waves are enormous; we estimate them to be ten feet high.  We paddle out even though the sun has set and it is getting dark.  We get some good rides, but when the night descends and the ocean becomes unfamiliar and gigantic, we get spooked and catch a wave to shore.

            In the subsequent days we do little more than eat, read books and play in the ocean.  There are good breaks up and down the coast south of Los Angeles, but our favorite is a stretch of parking area with camping spots along a bluff overlooking the ocean at a place called San Onofre.  Here, a five minute hike down the cliff brings us to a barely used beach with rideable waves breaking on shallow sand bars.  This camper’s paradise has miles of parking, right along the ridge of the cliffs, and amiable neighbors, mostly kids driving up from San Diego, and uncontested waves that beg to be ridden.  Mornings we drive into the little downtown area for an all-you-can-eat breakfast and we wolf it down.  Then we surf through the morning and afternoon, and often we are the only ones in the water.  The waves are waist-high, shoulder-high, and head-high; to neglect them would seem an awful waste.  In the heat of the day we might spend a little time reading in a shady spot, or drive around and check out some new beaches.  We are all reading ‘Dune’, getting lost in the messianic tale and dividing our time between planets, ours and Frank Herbert’s.  You could say we are immersed in the novel like a surfer in a tube. 

            We are anxious to taste the southern beaches down around San Diego, so we somewhat reluctantly pull up stakes and drive south on Highway One.  Leaping from the car, I go racing down the cliffs to get my first peek at the waves of La Jolla.  I have underestimated the scale of the mountain, however; this cliff is a sheer vertical drop of 1000 feet.  A suicide drop.  I get maybe halfway down the cliff before I come to a drop-off that I can’t see past.  I could maybe slide down but I might not be able to stop, and I also find that I can’t go back up the way I came.  I’m seriously stuck. 

            High on a ledge overlooking the Pacific, I can see thick waves smacking the black sand with a rhythmic forcefulness, white foam flying on the wind.  I see the hang gliders leaping from the ridge above me and sailing out over the ocean, catching the updraft and angling their crafts parallel to the beach.  And far below me I see a couple passing and even from this distance I can see that they are unclothed. 

            Hey, I’m stuck up here on this cliff, I yell down.  What? they yell back.  Even here on this rock, with my life hanging in the balance, I am perturbed by the inconvenience of having to scream to be understood.  Help me! I scream.  There are some guys on the ridge, they yell, but you have to yell loud so they can find you.  Further humiliation.  Help, I scream, making myself hoarse, I’m here, here.  Finally they pinpoint my location and start down on a rescue mission, and the naked couple moves on down the beach.  After about ten minutes, two kids, perhaps only high school students, lower a blanket over the edge and I grab on.  They brace against some rocks and I pull myself up. 

            I look at them and they’re just regular guys, about my age, at least they don’t look like heroes that I can discern, but of course they just risked their lives to pluck me off the face of a suicide precipice.  Is there something I can do to repay?  Buy y’all a beer?  Thanks, we have to get home.  This is not the way I imagined it.  In my vivid dreaming I was the hero who rescued the beautiful girl, who rewarded me with an achingly soft kiss.  I can not even be properly grateful to my saviors, conflicted as I am with questions about the value of the life they saved.  If I could see things for what they are, I would see myself stranded on the cliff and jumping off the cliff with no real consideration of the consequences.  Paddling into a tidal wave without reflecting, will I be crushed when it all collapses?  Does life require reflection?  I hope not. 

            I meet up with Charlie and Graham back at the car.  This is Black’s Beach, they tell me, a nude beach.  I never even heard of such a thing.  Let’s go check it out, I say.  We already been there, Charlie says, there is a path with ropes and steps and a line of people descending.  The surf looks good. 

            Grabbing our surfboards, we join the line of people following the trail down the mountain.  Sometimes we must hold our boards under one arm and grab the rope with our free hand, or hand the boards over the ledge to navigate a particularly steep grade. 

            The beach is crowded with naked and nearly naked people getting all-over tans.  The surf is decent, but what a distraction.  We return to Black’s Beach for two more days, for the waves and the scenery, but by the third day they no longer stimulate.  In search of something more, we travel farther south, all the way to Mexico, and drive down to a tiny coastal village called El Rosario.  Here we set up our tent in a real land of Babel, where no one speaks our language, and even those that do speak English don’t let on that they do.  The water here is frigid, I was expecting tropical, and we break out our wetsuits.  The waves are not bad, but the bottom is littered with rocks and debris and is treacherous, the kind of place where you can really slice up your feet.

            Besides that, we have heard horror stories of Americans being mistreated in Mexico, even by the police, and are disinclined to spend much time here.  In our tent at night, we confer and unanimously agree to return to the friendly camping areas of San Onofre.  In the morning we break camp, secretly surprised our car wasn’t messed with, and we drive up the long desert highway, pass through customs and reenter America feeling a lot like refugees. 

            San Onofre is a paradise with our names on it.  For outsiders like us, invaders essentially, that means not having to deal with all the territorial garbage.  The kids drive up here from San Diego and they sit around bonfires at night drinking Rolling Rock and throwing rocks at passing trains, but they welcome us into their circles and they turn us on to the music that’s popular on their airwaves.

            I strike up a conversation with one of the girls camping a few spots down from us.    Debbie is exactly what I imagined California girls would be like.  She, in turn, is intrigued by three southern boys who drove out west just to catch some waves.  She says that we are a lot more polite than the rude San Diego boys.  Debbie is plugged into the Southern California scene: the music, the surf culture, the people and the parties.  She talks happily about the society she moves in, the beach community, laughing and chatting as the night melts away like a flickering candle in the moonlight.             

It is the last days of our trip, and one memorable night, we sit around the campfire at Debbie’s campsite with a group of her friends listening to the music blasting from her car with the doors thrown open.  Beer flows freely and a joint makes the rounds.  Charlie is plastered.  He feels like throwing up and disappears and when I find him he is lying at the edge of the cliff.  I don’t want him to pass out and fall over the edge, so I try to drag him away from the ledge, but I’m pretty messed up too.  I end up scraping his back on the rocks.  I’m pretty stoned and the sound of Debbie’s laughter etches itself into my memory. The tan face and blond hair are similarly inscribed in my thoughts.  The smell of mesquite, which grows plentifully on the cliffs, where nothing else will grow, is forever impressed on my sensory neurons, as are the pounding of the surf, the San Diego rock music, and even the books I’m reading, for I will long remember the nuances of this trip, holding the details in my dreams as a virtual shrine.

            I keep thinking that here I have stumbled onto something valuable, but I can’t discern if it is love or the illusion of love, freedom or the absence of responsibility.  Even the companionship I have found here is a house of cards that will fall to reveal layers of loneliness and a desperate longing to cling to something that, once abandoned, can never again be quite accessed.

            The next day I wake up with a splitting hangover, take a breath to clear my head and then I remember – what a bacchanalia.  I wonder whether Charlie survived the night, but he is here in the tent, as is Graham, as is the fat girl from the campsite next to ours, who joined us in the night to ease her solitude. 

Our month in California is coming to a close, and it will be good to get back home, if home still exists, and if it does not, it will be good to get away from California.

            We did not come here to live, but only to get a taste, and what a delicious confection is was, all gooey and sweet, to which we now must say goodbye.  Goodbye to our cool friends from San Diego, goodbye to the carefree life, goodbye to the best waves we ever surfed.  Adios to the land of sol, and mas sol, sun and more sun, for it never rains in southern California.  You can just live outside and become one with the elements.  We will be heading back to the green lushness of America’s wettest region, the evergreen south, and we will look with awe upon the emerald forests and wonder why we never noticed before how green our backyard is.

            Of my time in California I can say that life on the road suited me just fine.  If there was anything I really missed during that time of camping out and laying down my head in a different place every night, it was my stereo system.  Record players require settlement.  Other than that, I could just as well live in my truck.

            I’m rather proud of my truck.  It’s a little Toyota pick-up, my friend Jon calls it a Toy truck, and it’s yellow with a stick shift and I put a camper on the back, carpet on the truck bed and curtains on the windows.  I could live in it, no problem.

            My Dad is a mechanic and he always made sure I had wheels.  My first ride was a midget racer I got when I was only four years old.  I ran it into the side of the house.  Next my Dad built me a mini-bike, and then I had a Yamaha motorcycle before I even had a driver’s license.  When I turned 16 Dad built me a dune buggy, but it was too cold in the winter and now I have my Toyota camper.    

I throw my surfboard in the back and go flying over Bogue Sound on the arching Cameron Langston Bridge, steering with my knees and playing my harmonica with both hands.  Now that I am back home, I wonder whether the little Carolina waves will sustain me. I’m aiming for a new spot half a mile from the Bogue Inlet Pier, a place only a few surfers know about.  I am resigned to being back on the East Coast, but if it is only two foot slop, I’m not even going to bother getting wet.

            What I find, however, is much worse than two foot slop.  Some idiot has erected a cyclone fence at my surfing spot, the entire length of the beach and I know just who did it.  McClain owns most of Emerald Isle, he is developing the land and making a pile of money and he is most surely behind this monstrosity.  Looking through the bars of the fence, the little two-foot waves suddenly seem so desirable.  It is a crime, unpardonable, to put up a fence to keep me out, and, I promise, I shall exact a price.

            Under cover of darkness I return to Emerald Isle and park at the Bogue Inlet Pier.  I hike down the deserted beach at midnight, walking near the surf which erases my footprints as I pass.  In the dim light of the stars, the fence is nearly invisible but no less impenetrable.  I am given an inhuman strength which allows me to pull pilings from the ground, tear gates from hinges and inflict a great deal of damage.  But looking at the mangled mess in the night, I realize, the fence wins.  I will not return here, the surfers will not ride this break further and the time will come when the surfers will be crowded out altogether and only those who own property will be able to access the waves.

            In the aftermath of my perfect crime, I try to keep a low profile.  What I mean by that is that I don’t vandalize any bulldozers or put sand in their gas tank or anything like that.  I actually have quite a talent for destroying heavy equipment.  Dozers may look indestructible, but actually they have many vulnerable points.  I try to stay out of trouble, but I do stupid things when I drink.

            Like this one night when I challenge a bird-brained bouncer at a skuzzy pizza joint, a guy named Tank, who fortunately does not pursue me into the parking lot where I retreat, spitting obscenities foolishly while my friends drag me to the car.

            The other lapse is when I go over to Emerald Isle near the end of the summer season and there are people everywhere and lots of noise, kids screaming and bright rotating lights like an out-of-control Ferris wheel.  I have had a few beers, and I walk around disdainful of the whole mess, the tourists, the proprietors and especially the developers.  I can hardly wait for winter to chase away the tourists so I can walk on the beach and watch the waves in peace.

            I’m pretty drunk, and I guess it’s never a good sign when you drink alone.  I run into some kids from my neighborhood over by the go-cart track.  Frank and Kyle are a couple years younger than me, and they seem all right, Frank is the leader and pudgy little Kyle is always looking to him for approval.  I just can not relate with their avocation.  They’re heavily into CB radios and the whole culture which surrounds it.  They explain to me that they have handles, radio names, and they have to be given the name over the airwaves from a trucker or another CB radio aficionado.  Frank says his handle is Flyboy.  They seem very interested in what I’ve been up to over the summer and I tell them about my trip to California and how the beaches there belong to the public, unlike the overdeveloped madness all around us.  They just look at each other stupidly and I realize, even in my compromised state, that I’m talking right over their heads.  Better leave it alone.  Actually, I say, there’s nothing much going on in my life, headed nowhere.

In September I return to the University of North Carolina.  Mom has granted my wish to rent a trailer because I’m tired of living in a dormitory, but the trailer has a low spirit like a slum or something.  I make the mistake of getting a roommate, a bodybuilder who is a real jerk and we almost get in a fistfight.  He would have killed me.  My gay journalism professor tries to seduce me, so that even that class becomes something of a chore, and I’m completely uninspired by my other classes.  By December I’m ready to drop out of school.  I’m headed for a fall and quitting school only hastens the inevitable.

            Back home, I go for a walk on the beach in the weeks following Christmas.  I see a fence on top of a sand dune, a really rickety fence that is almost falling down on its own, and I shove it on over, almost out of habit.  Right after I do that I see a big car heading in my direction and I hightail it on down the beach.  My heart is beating pretty fast, and I remind myself to not be so careless.  A little ways down the beach, I glance back, and there is a fat cop not ten steps behind me.  I start to sprint, but here comes another guy down out of the dunes to intercept me.  He tackles me and holds me until the cop comes up and puts on the handcuffs.  The cop looks at my driver’s license and says, yep, this is the guy.  Then he puts me in his squad car and transports me to the magistrate’s office.  

            The little fence that I just helped topple is so decrepit that it could not even be properly called a crime, but this cop is convinced that I might be in hot water for several more offenses.  In fact, he seems to think most of the acts of vandalism on Emerald Isle could be my handiwork, and he might be right, but I didn’t think he could prove that.  What are you talking about? I ask in a shaky voice, for I’m plenty scared.  I just pushed down one little fence.

            We have reliable information, says the magistrate, that you destroyed quite a bit of personal property, and that’s what you’re being charged with.  Someone turned you in for the reward.

            Suddenly, intuitively, I divine what has occurred.  The reliable information was provided by me.  I might as well have signed my name to each fence and bulldozer I wrecked, for in the summer when I met up with Frank and Kyle at the beach, I was drunk, and I must have told them everything.  Ye, Judas.  My backstabbing friends have sold me out for an unknown sum of money.  The creeps probably got at least enough to buy new CB radios.  I could think of some new handles for them: Backstab Boy and Gutter Rat.  Come in Gutter Rat, this here’s the Backstab Boy.  Go ahead Backstab, what’s your twenty?

            My Dad comes and bails me out at the magistrate’s office and he is not happy.  A copy of a form typed out by the magistrate details the charges and sets my court date.  Very little talk around the dinner table this night.  

            I am warned and advised to stay away from Emerald Isle, which puts a crimp in my plans.  Nothing worse than getting expelled from Paradise.  On the one hand, I just want to get this all over with as quickly as possible, but on the other hand, I dread the day of accounting.  The day comes quickly enough however, in spite of me, and the night before, I cannot sleep, but just lie awake listening to music through my headphones.  Like a last meal before the execution, the music never sounded so sweet, so cathartic, especially Trower, the guitarist who was so popular in San Diego.  Just hearing him takes me back to those untroubled days on the West Coast, now elusive as a dream.

            In the morning I quietly eat breakfast and drive down to the courthouse in Beaufort.  I don’t have to wait long before my case is called, and when I stand up, McClain comes and stands right beside me.  McClain, whose fences were mangled and whose bulldozers were dismantled, tells the Judge what happened.  The Judge asks me for my version and I repeat the story I rehearsed.  Then McClain asks to speak with the Judge personally and the Judge grants his request.  I sweat it out.  The Judge is ready to nail me, but on the advice of my attorney, I finally admit my crimes and throw myself on the mercy of the court.  Then the situation changes rather dramatically, because, for one thing, McClain is placated.  The Judge agrees to allow a ‘prayer for judgment’, which means that if I stay out of trouble for six months, I can avoid most of the penalties which I rightly deserve: probation, counseling, fines, restitution.

            The Judge does command me to stay away from Emerald Isle.  No problem there.  I never want to set foot on the doomed little island again.  Instead I move down to Carolina Beach, near Wilmington, and rent a cramped bungalow a block from the beach.  I get a job that pays okay but physically wears me out, hard manual labor.  I choose to live completely in exile; I don’t see my family or friends at all, and I don’t make any new friends.  I just keep to myself.  Twenty years old but I feel older, like a hardened criminal emerging from the darkness of prison.  Except that the real truth is I’m still in prison and I’m there by choice.  I don’t actually come right out and say ‘Leave me alone’, but the bitter words are written all over my face.

            I’m a Leo, whatever that means, and when I turn 21 in August I walk a block to the ABC store and purchase a pint of Southern Comfort.  I put on some music, I’m very proud of my stereo system, and start drinking, by myself, before noon.  The whiskey is sweet as candy but, man, what a kick.  I pass out in the early afternoon.  I don’t wake up until the wee hours of the next morning and it feels as though I missed my birthday.  It is about the most depressing birthday I can imagine, but it does not impress upon me the need to change my ways, not yet.

            When I admitted my culpability in the demolition of McClain’s cyclone fence in Emerald Isle, my lawyer looked at me and said: You’re not a bad kid, just a little misguided.  Even now I am aware of the conflict in me and my inclination to do what I know is right, but I convince myself that it is not yet the right time to rehabilitate, and I justify my own misbehavior.  I have drawn a very small existence for myself and to acknowledge it makes me lonely and unhappy.  Something evil got a hold on me.  To be honest, the only things that keep me going are music and surfing. 

            And my job, what a dead-end road!  I need the income but the job really stinks.  I’m a deckhand on a dredge boat and I work with a bunch of cutthroats in hardhats and rednecks, and I’m at the bottom of the totem pole.  Our lot is muscular, physical labor, working with heavy machinery to transport dirt from the river to the roadbed for a new highway.  We work a swing shift, which means a week working days, a week working nights, a week working graveyard shift and then double back and work two eight hour shifts in one day.  It is quite demanding and it’s about to kill me.  Laying pipe, moving sand.  A week after my birthday bash I oversleep for about the fifth time.  The overseer calls me into his office to inform me that I am released.  I argue with him, but only half-heartedly, I know I really had this coming and in fact it is probably overdue, and my arguments are futile.  It was the foreman’s decision, son, he says, talk with him.  I drive over the causeway down river from the dredge and scream my favorite expletive into the wind in the direction of my dear co-workers, but it is drowned in the noise of the great suction pump, sucking the muddy river bottom, and rolling up my window I drive on into oblivion. 

            The time has come to move on, but – where to?  what next?  The places of my youth, once so familiar that I called them home, I now wander as a refugee.  Again and again I hear the voice of California calling to me like the songs of the Sirens, those lethal songs of the Sirens. 

            I hold up and scrutinize a dream that I see clearly at night when I lay down in my bed: a small house right on the ocean, a brilliant but modest career as a writer, and always, the Siren is there.  This is my dream and it floats before me like a pool of water in front of a man lost in the desert, a mirage that supersedes reason.  Is this freedom which I aspire to, or another illusion?  Is it love which calls, this aching desire which offers only emptiness?  Fill me up. 

            But my compass is pointing west.  I have a little money in my pocket and I will get a job when I get to Santa Barbara, for that is where I am bound.  That is where the Siren beckons, tanned and blond, dancing to the music of San Diego. 

            The first leg of this journey requires crossing the mountains in western North Carolina, but the vistas are awe-inspiring and I’m craning my neck left and right to take it all in.  On the other side is Tennessee, a long undulating state.  I burn up the highway, reaching Memphis around midnight.  I drive on, bridging the dark waters of the Mississippi River and running in the night until no one is on the road except the truckers.  In the dead of night I pull into a rest stop and crash in the back of the camper until the sun is high and wakes me.

            You can’t beat breakfast at a truck stop, and breakfast is my favorite meal.  I roll on through Arkansas and Louisiana, and in the panhandle of Texas I stop for gas.  While I am gassing up my pick-up a kid comes running up, says he got left behind by his friend, and can I give him a ride as far as the next exit.  I feel sorry for the guy.  Sure, come on.  About half a mile down the interstate we come across his ‘friend’.  Can you pick him up, he asks, and I get the feeling I have been set up, but I pull over anyway.  These two guys seem to be grateful for the ride, apparently rides are hard to come by, but they bicker in the front seat like a married couple.  They are going as far as Highway 77 in Arizona, and then north to an outdoor concert.  I’m the kind of nice guy who is unwilling to kick them out, and so I resolve to tolerate them as far as Highway 77, but they do get on my nerves.

            Evidently they are broke, for when I stop for lunch at a diner, they sit and watch me eat, saying they are not really hungry.  When I walk out they steal the tip off the table, and I go back inside and leave another tip.  The older, bigger guy decides to ride in the back of the camper, and I and the young guy talk for a while.  When we stop to check on him, he is furious because he was getting groggy from the fumes in back and when he pounded on the window, we didn’t hear him.  Says he nearly passed out.  I decide to drive on through the night to get rid of these freeloaders, the good news being that I am making great time, pulling closer to the cool and soothing waters of the Pacific.

            My truck is nearly alone on the road in the dark, pre-dawn hours, and as a hint of light transfigures the Arizona sky, I draw energy from the coming morning.  My passengers sleep fitfully curled up on the seat next to me.  We arrive at the point where 77 crosses 40.  Traveling a little ways north on 77 to the first exit, I can barely conceal my smile as I pull my toy truck into a truck stop in the middle of nowhere.  My wayward companions prepare to disembark.  Come to the concert with us, they urge.  California is calling me, I say, adios.  They shoulder their backpacks and I watch them wander off across the parking lot looking for their next ride.  I fill up my tank and turn myself again west.      

I am so relieved to be rid of my guests that I spend the next day sightseeing, taking detours to the Painted Desert and the Petrified Forest, and I could spend days in the peaceful desert preserves, but the ocean calls.  Driving on through the desert on Highway 40, I watch the mountains slide by on my right and I keep thinking it would be a fine adventure to climb them and sleep under the stars.  Finally I pull into a rest area, squeeze through a barb-wire fence and hike a mile into the desert and up a mountain-like ridge at sunset.  In the gathering darkness of evening, it is in fact a surreal hike through giant cactus and misshapen boulders, a real moonscape.

            At the summit I find a stone arch and, under it, a little room to spread out my sleeping bag.  It feels like I’m camping out on another planet.  I get high there alone in the desert and I start to think I am the last man on the planet.  A palpable paranoia descends. 

Abruptly, heavy black clouds obscure the stars and the moon is darkened.  As bolts of lightning illuminate the alien terrain, heavy drops of rain begin to fall and the wind begins to scream.

            Sometimes I have premonitions that I am going to die, and suddenly I perceive that maybe my time has come.  Looking around, I start to wonder whether scorpions live up here among the rocks, and a tiny voice in my head is predicting that the stone arch is going to fall in the night, a tiny voice admittedly, but it won’t shut up.  But there is no way I’m going to sleep out in the rain.  If it’s time for me to die, then I resign myself to it.  Anyway, what happens when the rock caves in and crushes my body?  Just black sleep, or do I wake up on the other side with a splitting headache? If I die here so far from home, not a soul will know.  The lightning flashes again, from the east to the west, freezing the ancient boulders in frightful positions that crowd around me.  The thunder crashes nearby.  Jesus, what was that?  I’m sorry, Jesus, I didn’t mean to say that. 

            Suddenly I realize what I must do.  I have to turn from my evil ways.  Give up the booze and the dope.  Stop destroying other people’s property.  I need to read the Bible.  For the first time in my life, I stare God in the face, and I say, sorry, God, I can’t do it.  I’m really scared, and I might die here alone tonight, but I can’t make promises that I know I won’t keep in the morning, assuming that I survive until morning.  The storm rages forth and I know I need absolution, I desire it, but it is not forthcoming.  Then the fury passes on, the stars blink back on.  The arch holds.

            In the morning I look out from my perch at the sun rising over the desert.  I don’t know what to make of the fireworks of the night before.  I didn’t die, but perhaps I should have, and maybe I’m living on borrowed time.  I roll up my sleeping bag and descend.  I walk back to my camper and look at the arch where I spent the night.  It is not as high as I thought, but a scenic spot for an epiphany.

            I roll on, over the Rockies and through Flagstaff.  On the backside of the mountains, my little truck starts to lose power.  Forty is the top speed, going downhill, and then thirty is all she will do.  No power on the upgrades.  I stumble into Needles, find a tin-roof garage on a gravel side street.  The grease-stained man inside shakes his head.  Head gasket is busted, he solemnly intones, take me three days to get parts.  Trouble is, I’m short of cash.  This is major surgery, so I phone my folks to please send me some money so I can get out to California.  They wire the money through Western Union.  The little camper will be brought back to life.

            I hang out in Needles for three days, not much to do.  Finally the patient is released and we are back on the road, finally reaching the valleys of California’s eastern edge, then smoggy L.A., and finally the Pacific Coast Highway.  Then it is north to Santa Barbara, and in the evening I pull up at an apartment near the University.  I hear laughter coming from an open window, familiar laughter.  This is unmistakably Debbie from San Diego, a girl that I met once as a camper at San Onofre, and have written a few letters to.

If Debbie knows me at all it is through my letters.  I am a writer, after all, and studied journalism at the University of North Carolina.  I was the editor of the Town Crier, the West Carteret High School newspaper, and an editor and contributor to the Revere, the student’s poetry magazine.  I would compose two and three page letters, love letters essentially, not so much to Debbie as to the ideal she represented, the quintessential California girl.  Through these she knows a little about my life and inner thoughts, but she doesn’t dream, not in a million years, that I will make the 2000 mile trek to pursue the relationship. 

I sit in my truck for a few minutes asking myself, why am I here?  Finally I walk over and knock on the door.  Debbie is happy to see me, what a surprise! and she is glowing and beautiful as I remembered her.  Her blond hair is tied in a ponytail and her teeth are dazzling when she smiles, contrasting against her brown skin.  We sit and chat in the living room, but later, when Debbie goes to the kitchen to pour some drinks, her roommate informs me, Debbie has a boyfriend. 

            Everybody needs a dream, but some dreams were never meant to become reality.  I will sleep alone in my camper this night.  The next day I go looking for work.  I find a job in an industrial laundry where all the employees are Mexican, and I spend my days in total isolation. 

            For a solid month, an uninspiring month, I help sort napkins from tablecloths and run the giant machines that spin the linens clean.  In a month’s time, I only make one friend.

            I meet Bob in the park.  I’m sitting on a park bench playing my guitar when the tall black homeless man in army fatigues walks over and starts singing.  He just makes up words as he goes along and if I alter the chords, he stays right with me.  As the song builds toward a climax, I’m beating the guitar and Bob is singing over and over, I wanna die, I wanna die, and we finish up emotionally drained.  This is even before we introduce ourselves.  I’m thinking we just tapped into some sort of muse, a dark muse, perhaps.  That was inspired, man!  Bob is a veteran; he went to Viet Nam, couldn’t handle the sound of shots being fired or the proximity of death, was declared unfit and shipped back home. 

            I tell Bob you can’t trust people, they will hurt you and take every semblance of pride you got, and Bob agrees.  I tell him that life is stacked against people like us, people with no power, and Bob says, no.  No, he says, I know the man upstairs is looking out for me.  Soon as I get my life right, he says, He’s gonna bless me.  What? I say, looks like he left you high and dry.  No, says Bob, He’s taking care of me, I know he is.  He sent you along, didn’t He? 

            Bob doesn’t have a sleeping bag, so I give him my extra.  He’s upset when he finds out I have spending money, of course I always have money, I work, and he accuses me of holding out on him.  I give him a couple dollars and he blows it at the billiard tables.

            But Bob saves my life.  Walking down the sidewalk one evening, a Mexican worker calls me over.  Quieres veinte dollares? He asks.  Sure I want twenty dollars, I say.  Ven aqui, he says.  Bob says, wait.  Don’t go.  He’s not a good person.  And I listen, for Bob is my only friend.

            One day as I am leaving the laundry, having just punched the time clock, I am accosted by a tall, clean-cut fellow in a light green turtleneck, nearly running into him on my way out the door.  We could be a study in opposites.  He is carrying a bulky case of candy under his arm, and he says he is raising money for his church.  Me, I’m in a hurry and have no money, so I give him the brush-off.  Not today, man, I’m busy.  Okay, he says and smiles, well, have a nice day.  Then I feel kind of bad because I was rather curt and he seemed like a nice guy. 

            I have been aware for some time that two of my college acquaintances are living in Berkeley, just a little north of here.  I worked with Eddie and Patti in a Blimpie’s making sub sandwiches while I was going to college.  Patti is really tiny, especially when she stands next to Eddie, who slouches to play down the disparity.   Eddie was a manager at Blimpie’s, but he was sometimes like a mentor, giving good advice.  Get a wife, Eddie used to say, so you don’t waste all your money going out looking for girls.  I surprise them with a call, and then I decide to drive up for the weekend and see my old friends, maybe score a home-cooked meal.

            Eddie and Patti are glad to see me.  Eddie is doing graduate work towards a degree in Jewish theology, wearing a yarmulke and Patti is typing lecture transcripts for a professor.  They are an odd couple but they make it work. 

You came all the way to California to get a girl and she dumped you? Patti says.  Don’t give him a hard time, says Eddie.  

            There is a Blimpie’s here in Berkeley and I go by to see if they are hiring.  The manager thinks he might be able to give me a few hours.  I decide to stay here in Berkeley.  It is here that my luck finally changes.

BOONEVILLE

             I have only been in town a couple days when I begin to meet Unification members.  The first encounter is in the employment office where I go to look for work.  A young guy comes up behind me as I stand peering at the bulletin board.  He hands me a card introducing the Creative Community Project and explains that his group provides a gathering place for community activists and idealists.  Berkeley does not have a reputation for friendliness to religions and churches, so the Unification members created the C.C.P. to get around that persistent prejudice.  The locals think of it as a front group, but the members are not trying to reach the locals; they are after the young people who are drawn from all over America, bearing backpacks and wearing long hair, traveling due to their dissatisfaction with society.  We’re dissatisfied too, the young man explains to me, but we try to keep a positive attitude and create a harmonious community.

            My next encounter is with Laura.  Laura is a pretty blonde with a Donna Reed smile who is manning an information table on Telegraph Avenue, that busy street at the center of the counter-culture and political activism, where the Dead have walked.  The intersection of getting high and social reform.  Laura is sitting at the table smiling at strangers, stubbornly ignored by the locals and trying to make eye contact with passers-by.  Laura sings like an angel with a sweet soprano, but I will know that later.  All I know now is that when she calls out to me, my feet turn toward the brochure-laden table.  Laura explains that the Creative Community Project sponsors a food bank, hosts community dinners and gives seminars at the University.  She mentions a retreat in the mountains to the north, imparting an almost mythical quality to it, a utopian farm hiding in an idyllic wilderness.  For a moment I catch myself staring off into the distance. 

            We’re having an intercultural dinner at our center on Hearst Street tonight, Laura says.  Perhaps you’d like to come?  I’m afraid I have to work, I answer, sliding on down the busy street. 

            Next day, I am drawn again to the information table.  This time there is a young guy with slicked-back black hair and horn rim glasses.  Hi, I’m Barry, he says, I’m with the Creative Community Project.  You’re the third person I’ve met, I say, nodding to Barry and passing on.

            In my case, the fourth time is the charm.  It is the last week of November, Thanksgiving Day, and the University is deserted.  I’m thankful because I have the campus to myself and I spend the entire afternoon skateboarding through the Quad and up and down the sidewalks.  Berkeley is hilly like San Francisco, a skater’s paradise, and I have it all to myself, but after awhile, as the sun is setting, I sit down on some steps and my mind drifts home to Carolina.

            Thanksgiving at my grandparent’s house was always worth the long drive to get there.  Our grandparents spoiled my sister and me terribly, and our parents allowed it, but quickly reestablished, on the way home, that we were not really the center of the universe, as we may have been led to believe. 

            My grandmother would spend the entire afternoon preparing the turkey, dressing, mashed potatoes, green beans, cranberry sauce and ambrosia, fit for the gods.  I was always the last to finish, but I did the most damage.

            Now, for the first time in my life,  I am missing Thanksgiving with the family.  I am missing my grandparent’s teetering old millhouse, football on the television and a steady stream of relatives and neighbors.  The centerpiece of the holiday is the feast my grandmother prepares, but I always look forward to sitting at their old Story & Clark upright piano in the living room and improvising for hours on the few chords I know, having never had the benefit of piano lessons.  At least I have my guitar with me, in the back of my Toyota camper, where I will sleep tonight, parked on a Berkeley backstreet. 

            As the sun is fading and the light is draining from the northern California sky, I get up to skate back to my camper, and call it a night, when a guy in a gray business suit and black wingtips comes running up out of the twilight.  Hey, he says, can I try that? 

            I hand him my skateboard and he stands on it, a little wobbly, rides a few feet and jumps off. 

            Hi, I’m Laurey, he says with a smile.  I’m with the Creative Community Project.

            I’m familiar with it, I say.

            We’re having a big Thanksgiving dinner, he says, but I can’t go back without a guest.

            In the filtering twilight, I can not see clearly the face of my companion.  How can we see that the tone and direction of our entire life turns on a simple decision made in an ordinary moment?  I have always walked alone, but here in the semi-dark I am aware for the first time of my need of a friend.  Laurey is disarmingly open, as though he’d been expecting me.  I decide I’m not ready to retire to my lonely camper quite yet.

            We make our way to a big house on the top of a Berkeley hill.  Quite a few people have gathered and we are just in time for dinner.  Much of the food, the turkey, dressing and mashed potatoes, could have come from my grandmother’s southern pine dining table.  Other offerings, the dates and dried fruit, the guacamole and vegetarian casserole, are typical California fare, and are derived from the Creative Community Project’s garden and gleaning operations.  Laurey seems to know everyone here.  I can see now that he is lean and angular with a stubbly shadowed chin, a ready grin and intense eyes.  He speaks in the slightly affected manner of Californians and is an engaging conversationalist.  I have not had a home-cooked meal in a while and I try to pace myself but everyone pushes me to help myself to more food. 

Afterwards we assemble in a room set up with folding chairs where a professor from a small local liberal arts college gives a short presentation on the character and nature of Truth.  He concludes that the origin of Truth might be referred to as Universal Prime Character, or God.  The mention of that word causes me to turn to Laurey with trepidation and ask, Is this something to do with religion?  Laurey reassures me that the main function of the group is helping people, and that among the members are a variety of philosophical outlooks.  Then he invites me to come for lunch the following day.  Somewhat placated, I accept the invitation.  He sees me out, bids me goodnight, and I skateboard, downhill all the way, back to my truck. 

This, then, was the first secret of the enormous success of the Unification Church’s outreach: there was an army of volunteers canvassing the public areas of the Bay Area, and they were on fire.  I had been in town for a week and had already met four members, and each one had approached me with sincerity and conviction.  Volunteers manned information booths on busy streets; they hit bus stations and parks and were ubiquitous on the campus of UC Berkeley.  They were drawn like magnets to young people with backpacks and sleeping bags.  The members were going out at all hours of the day or night to witness; at midnight they would hit the bus station and meet a wanderer with a backpack, newly arrived.  They would endeavor to talk with students between classes, idlers in the park, revelers returning from the bars and anyone who crossed their path, in the quest for one prepared person. 

            They got persecuted, of course, but the Creative Community Project thrived on rejection.  If anything it made them more determined.  Some went out alone, but mostly they went in two’s and three’s to encourage each other.  Older members went with new members and taught them how to engage a stranger in conversation, and how to discern a good prospect.

            If there were plenty of fishers out trolling, there were also plenty of fish to catch.  The Bay Area in the mid-seventies played host to a generation that had abandoned jobs and careers and set out on a search to find meaning beyond money and family.  This generation uniquely sought to fill a spiritual hunger, traveling cross-country and often ending up in California, and as they were not finding what they were seeking, and remained empty inside, they were good prospects.  The combination of one group of young people searching for meaning and another group passionate to share their faith spawned the explosive growth of the Unification Movement in the Bay Area, mid-1970’s.

Behind the scenes, a lot of preparation went into the effort to meet people. Members were going out to witness long hours.  They were talking to a lot of people, getting contact information, and following up, but these were external actions.  The internal part of witnessing was praying and fasting, and God noticed their sincerity.  

            Spiritual conditions were an important part of the process.  The Unification Church was a spiritual movement since its inception in Korea.  Spiritual conditions enlisted the help of the spirit world, but seen from the perspective of witnessing as a battle between God and Satan over the soul of one individual, spiritual conditions allow God to come down and claim ownership.

Laurey meets me on a Thursday evening, and he invites me to come back for lunch the next day, when he will encourage me to attend the weekend workshop at Booneville.  During the interval, he has to rely on the power of his prayer and his spiritual conditions to bring me back.  In fact, for me it is a spiritual battle, and I struggle over whether to keep our appointment.  In the end, as I have not had a shower in a long while, I decide that if I can find a shower before lunch, then I will return to the large, mysterious house on the Berkeley hill as planned, but when one is living in a truck, finding a shower can be a challenge.  Someone I meet on the street suggests I try the dormitory.  The dorm is open, and empty, and I am able to shower there unmolested.  Then I tie my long hair back and make my way to our noontime rendezvous.

Laurey and I sit down to a simple lunch on the patio.  He knows that I am a skeptic about religion, so he suggests we just meditate for a moment on the origins of the meal, from the seed to the harvest, from the farmer to the grocery to our kitchen and through the sure hands of Karen, the cook. 

            It is a fine and perfect day in late November, but the California coast knows no winter.  The large house is nearly deserted; most of the members are on the street, trying to find a guest for the weekend workshop, although some members have real jobs.  Karen prepares a simple healthy lunch for Laurey and me: salad from the garden, dates, cream of broccoli soup, yogurt with dried apples. We sit on the patio in the partial shade and talk.  Laurey is trying to sell me on the idea of taking the evening bus to Booneville, spending the weekend on the farm, and finding out more about his community, but I already know I am going. 

            Laurey is an open book.  He tells me a little about growing up Jewish, being very happy until a breakup with his long-time girlfriend left him depressed and questioning his whole life.  He sat in a chair in his room for eight hours, and could find no meaning to his life.  He has found something very fulfilling in working with the Creative Community Project.

            Turns out we are both musicians, and as I have my harmonica in my pocket and his guitar is nearby, we play some songs together.  Laurey is not going out every day to witness because he has a regular job.  He is vice-president of a carpet-cleaning company; hence he is always in business attire. 

            I’m not the kind of person to open up to someone I just met, but I confide in Laurey that I sometimes have premonitions that I am going to die.  Laurey says that people often get that feeling before a major change in their life.

            This is my last lunch before a major change.

In the evening I carry my sleeping bag on the bus bound for Booneville.  Laurey sees me off, but he is not going up to the farm.  We drive through the night on steep switchbacks over dark valleys in the mountains north of San Francisco.  A little before midnight we pull up at a rutted dirt road with a padlocked gate and a small sign that reads Ideal City Project.  A guy in a pick-up truck is waiting to let us in.  We bump down the road to a parking area and unload.  The farm is quiet; nobody is waiting up. 

            In the dark we are directed to various rustic buildings.  In a low gray wooden structure I step over sleeping bodies till I find enough space to unroll my sleeping bag.  I lay down in my bag amidst the dust, the stove-smoke, the snoring and the rustling and breath a sigh of relief, for my 2000 mile journey has come to an end.

            By the time I got to Booneville, the movement had grown like a giant oak tree.  The trunk was like the lecturers and staff, the branches were like the army of witnessers and the leaves were like the budding new members, but all of this had sprouted from one tiny seed. 

            Onni was a young Korean woman who had come to San Francisco to help transplant the Unification Church to America.  She had tried to witness to people for two years, even talking to strangers in the checkout lines at the grocery stores without recruiting a single member.  Finally she found Kristina.  Kristina got excited about the message and she brought several of her siblings and quite a few of her friends to join the fledgling movement.  Kristina was charismatic, articulate and passionate, but more importantly, she was completely united with Onni, and there is no power under the sun stronger than two people bound together for a higher purpose.  That an American woman trusted an oriental woman only multiplied the power; she had overcome a barrier.  Kristina’s life had been touched by God in a dramatic way that compelled her to throw away her cigarettes, turn her life around and embark on a new journey with Heaven as the sole destination.  With Onni as the spiritual leader, Kristina as her spokesman and organizer and a few dedicated members as the launching pad, the movement took off, and by the time I came along, it was a well-established entity and the members were familiar sights all over the Bay Area.

            In the early days the members would invite guests for dinner and afterwards give a lecture that was an introduction to Divine Principle, the teaching of Reverend Moon.  Divine Principle is an explanation and elucidation of the Bible, but Reverend Moon maintains that it is not his interpretation but was received as a revelation from God.  Why would a new interpretation be necessary?  Various understandings of the Bible have resulted in the current situation of over 300 Christian denominations.  Much of the Bible is written in symbolic language and what is needed now is for God to reveal the real meaning so that all the churches can be brought together as one body of Christ.    

Those early members were serious about sharing their conviction with anyone who would listen, striking up conversations with strangers and seeking in each person a sign that this was the one God had prepared.

I came to California seeking something else, freedom, independence.  As a long-time surfer, I came to find good waves and accessible beaches.  A surfer is always looking for the elusive, perfect wave.  Instead, what I find is, firstly, a friend, and that is important because I needed a friend.  Beyond that, I am intrigued by this group of people who are striving to live for each other.  How can I know that?  I have known these people less than two days.  I can’t, of course, but at least on the surface what I see is the absence of cynicism, a forthrightness and simplicity that is disarming, and faces that are so bright and friendly (some would say glassy-eyed) that I can’t hold on to my grimace for long.

            By the time I arrive in Booneville, the organization is more sophisticated, but the basic formula is the same.  At the heart of the witnessing effort is Onni’s conviction that the hope of the future resides in Reverend Moon’s teachings. 

            Those teachings were condensed for the weekend workshops into five or six main lectures: The Principle of Creation (Nature of God), The Fall of Man, Principle of Restoration, Christology, The Second Coming, and, The Spirit World.  This was the curricula which awaited me for my first weekend workshop.

            I had grown up in the Methodist Church, but I had grown disillusioned and drifted away from it and become slightly agnostic.  We used to go to church every other Sunday as a result of some compromises.  Mom had grown up Catholic, but she converted to Methodism when she married Dad.  Since Dad did not feel compelled to attend church, and Mom felt it was important, we went to church every other week. 

            I had grown up saying a simple children’s prayer before bed, until I got too old for it.  Thus, my relationship with God did not keep up with my physical maturation, and He got left behind.  Also, I never connected with the Methodist theology at all.  For example, when I read in Revelations that Jesus would return on the clouds with a sword on his tongue (Rev.19:15), I thought he would have an actual blade in his mouth.  The symbolism eluded me, as it does many Christians.             

Also, the Methodist Church of Swansboro North Carolina had an organ, a small choir and only one lady who could actually sing.  I definitely was not expecting a church with a rock band and a new message.

I rouse myself on Saturday morning before the general wake-up call.  The November morning is nippy, but there is a campfire and a few early-risers hold their hands against it.  Soon as wake-up becomes official, the hordes begin to gather round the fire, until there are maybe 200 people milling about hugging themselves warm. 

This day begins in earnest when a couple hundred people form a circle and commence exercising, not with military precision, but more like a band of gypsies.  Some of the exercises are unusual, stretching the eyeball, massaging the brain, that sort of thing, but the atmosphere is overwhelmingly congenial.  This goes on for an hour until breakfast is ready.

We split into groups of about 12 and eat with our group.  I like my group, in fact I like everything about this place so far, but I am about to be challenged.  The first lecture of the morning is pertaining to the existence of God.

The lecture hall is a long, low building whose prior usage had been as a coop for chickens.  As we enter the hall, the dust is flying and the band is rocking on the stage.  The audience is moving and, sure, it’s not ZZ Top, but I can feel the electricity. 

The woman playing guitar draws my attention.  She has strong stage presence and a peaceful charisma.  This is Kristina, Onni’s first disciple, and she seems to be having a great time.  We sing ourselves hoarse and then the band retires from the stage. 

A soft-spoken man with receding hairline and round spectacles is going to give the first lecture.  This is Noah, who also is a kind of camp manager.  Onni was not going to use him as a lecturer because he had a fierce stutter, but he learned the material, organized it, and overcame his stutter.  Now he is the main lecturer, and he is going to give the Principle of Creation.  I listen to the lecture with an open mind and am stunned to discover that God exists.

This is my overwhelming conclusion after listening to the presentation.  Ever since I was a teenager, I struggled about the existence of God.  Even when I thought He might exist, I thought He did not need us to worship Him.  Other times I could not feel God at all, He did not exist in my world, but the Principle of Creation explains God in such logical terms that my mind can grasp it and I am relieved because I realize I wanted to believe in God all along.  Of course it is one thing to comprehend God intellectually, and quite another to hear His voice spiritually and feel Him in your heart, but this in an important first step for me and absolutely crucial to a more important realization that is about to take place.  This is like the beginning of an awakening.

My Methodist ancestors are rolling over in their graves.  Noah has just explained that God has both a masculine and a feminine aspect.  Is this Christian or Eastern thinking?  It doesn’t bother me because, as I mentioned, I was never that big on theology anyway.  Noah is teaching from the first chapter of Divine Principle, called Principle of Creation, concerning the nature of God, and the relationships between God and man and the universe.  Since everything in the creation has a masculine or feminine aspect, and everything has an internal character and an external form, the conclusion is that the origin, God, must also have those same qualities.  Here is God, here is creation, the causal being is expressed and embodied in that which he created, or, as Genesis 1:27 says: So God created man in his own image, in the image of God created he him; male and female created he them.  Noah poses the question of why God created man in the first place.  No person, not even God, can be happy in isolation, so God created man to share the joy of his creation, and to share love.  He created children for much the same reason that people have children.

We have group discussions after the lecture and I participate.  We eat lunch and play dodge ball.  Then we have the second lecture which is the Fall of Man and it goes completely over my head. 

Let me say a word here about the Fall of Man.  The Fall of Man is probably the most important chapter of Rev. Moon’s teaching.  When he was a young man, Reverend Moon tried to uncover the secret of man’s fall from grace.  He did not believe that eating a fruit could be the reason God would expel the first couple from Eden.  Then he discovered the secret that the two trees in the Garden of Eden, the Tree of Life and the Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil, symbolized Adam and Eve.  He deduced that the fruit of the Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil represents Eve’s love, and that eating the fruit meant a sexual relationship between Eve and the Archangel.  He asked God if this was true and God denied it.  He determinedly asked God a second and a third time if it was true, and finally God acknowledged that this was the real reason that man was kicked out of the Garden of Eden.

Somehow the lecture doesn’t impress me.  Was it a fruit or an act of adultery which caused the world to be separated from God?  I only know the world is messed up, and I am consoled just to know that God exists at all.  We discuss the Fall of Man in our group, but I am impatient for the next thing.  In the evening we have entertainment.  There are some very talented individuals among us, and I am impressed with the quality of the music.

By the time the day is drawing to its conclusion, I am getting used to all the praying and singing and it no longer strikes me as odd.  I am tired but nourished in a good way that makes me feel like I have not been replenished in a long while.  The weekend workshop is like an initiation or a rebirth, breaking the shell which restrained me and freeing the spirit inside, but the more important of the two days is yet to come, when my newly liberated spirit will find a deeper comprehension.

As I am sleeping now before a big day in my life, this night might be a proper juncture to evaluate the effectiveness of the Creative Community Project and the recruiting methods.  The CCP is recruiting young people on the street, transporting them to the farm where they study Divine Principle and many join the movement.  Critics, and they are legion, would say that the CCP is not up-front and forthcoming enough about its affiliation with Reverend Moon and the Unification Church, but the damage from bad publicity is already starting to take its toll on the witnessing.  If there is a potential benefit here for misguided young people, and I am the evidence that there is, then perhaps the group is right to soldier on by placing the emphasis on the message.

Sunday morning.  In the air is a seriousness that has not been there the previous day.  The first lecture of the morning is to be given by Kristina, and her topic is Christology.  I listen attentively as Kristina describes the crucifixion, a familiar story, but my reaction is totally unexpected.  For the first time, I am affected by the composure of Jesus in the face of the abuse, torture and debasement.  It’s as though I am hearing his unbelievable words for the first time, and I cry to consider the power of the love of God embodied in Jesus that eclipsed the world’s hatred for a glorious, tragic moment.  Forgive them Father, for they know not what they do.  Then Jesus embraces me and says, I’ve been waiting so long for you.  I sob and say, I’m sorry, I didn’t realize.

Kristina is emphasizing the humanness of Jesus, that which made him feel the same emotions with the same intensity as any one of us.  To feel what we feel, and yet do what we could not do, sets him apart, but calls us to reformation.  By emphasizing his divinity, I’m afraid that theologians have rendered his sacrifice superhuman, and the quality of his heart unattainable.  Now I see Jesus in a new light, and I can never look at things in the same way again.

People who study these kinds of things call it a conversion experience.  All I know is that I want more of it.  I ask the group leader if I can stay on the farm and join the seven-day program.

After Kristina’s speech, I feel emotionally drained.  I am enamored of a song which I heard in the workshop, and I borrow a guitar and am busy trying to learn it.  It was written by one of the sisters in the workshop and is called ‘If You Should Hear a Song.’  The lyrics, simple yet profound, strike a chord with me, and confirm to me what some songwriters say about songs being channeled instead of created, as though the words were there all along, waiting to be received from a higher realm. 

The day ends with a big party.  About forty of us decide to stay on the farm to continue our study of the Principle.  We are the fruit of all the brothers and sisters hard work and sacrifice: the prayers and fasts, the countless hours spent witnessing, the dinners and speeches, the singing and the planning.  Forty of us are ready to delve deeper, and everybody comes together to celebrate the new spiritual babies with song, feast and fellowship.  Everything I own I left behind in my truck, but tonight my truck could sprout wings and fly away on a sea-breeze and I would watch it go, for all I need is here.

While weekends on the farm are exciting and hectic, by Monday the schedule settles down and the priority is on studying the Principle.  There are three lectures daily, as well as group discussions, sports and chores.  There is time set aside for individual prayer, and with no distractions to speak of, the environment is ideal for a fledgling spiritual life.  There is an emphasis on living for the sake of others, and ample opportunities to put it into practice.  Some intrepid members wake up early to study the Bible or Reverend Moon’s speeches, but for most of us the daily schedule already contains abundant content.  What about staying up late to read?  Onni discourages it, saying it is more righteous to rise early.

Noah has distilled the Principle into manageable bites, conveying the essence in simple stories with a generous portion of humor and a touch of Biblical drama, and his stories are engaging.  The first lecture of the morning introduces the concept of indemnity. 

Noah turns to the blackboard and writes, in deliberate flawless letters, ‘lesser indemnity’, and under that ‘equal indemnity’, and below that ‘greater indemnity’.  Lesser indemnity, he explains, is when a debt is cancelled for a lesser sum.  The greatest example of lesser indemnity is Jesus death on the cross as payment for the sins of man, but Noah does not dwell on that subject; we are spiritual babies, not yet ready for solid foods, who need to be encouraged on our path and offered a glimpse of Heaven.  Instead he recites a story about a boy who gets caught stealing cookies from the cookie jar.  His mother scolds him.  No cookies before dinner.  This is an example of lesser indemnity, Noah says.  Equal indemnity is exemplified by the Old Testament adage, an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth.  Greater indemnity would be required in the case where the condition of lesser indemnity went unfulfilled.  For example when God asked Abraham to offer a sacrifice of a dove, a ram and a heifer, Abraham neglected to cut the dove in two and Satan claimed the sacrifice.  Therefore God asked him to offer his son Isaac.    This very first lecture is an important part of the Principle of Restoration which maintains that nothing can be restored without going through a course that reverses the process of man’s fall from grace. 

            While most of the lectures are interesting and broaden my perspective, there is one lecture which gives me trouble.  The lecture on spirit world is completely foreign to me; I don’t have anything in my upbringing which prepares me for it, and my training as a journalist makes me skeptical of anything I can’t see.  One of the guys in my group says that he also struggled with this particular teaching until one day he saw one guy get knocked out of his chair during the spirit world lecture.

            It was very interesting.  One fellow tipped over in his chair after the spirit world lecture and fell on the floor, making a loud commotion.  Everyone looked at him.  He stood up and said, You know, I was just sitting here thinking that I don’t really buy into this whole spiritual realm stuff, and I told God, if You want me to accept this, you’re going to have to knock me out of my chair.  And did you see what happened?  I got knocked right out of my chair.  Maybe there is something to this. 

This insight in shared with me by Davy, someone who has befriended me and whose opinion I respect.  He has been on the farm for awhile, is a member, but he thinks independently, and so for me he makes a good bridge between the two worlds.  He counters my cynicism with his naiveté.

            Another lecture is a revelation to me.  Parallels of History outlines how history has repeated itself in 2000 year intervals and why.  The first 2000 years is composed of distinct periods from the beginning of Biblical history until the time of Abraham.  The second 2000 years is made of similar periods leading up to Jesus, and the third period ends with the Second Advent, roughly the year 2000.  I am amazed that history can be made to line up in such a logical and purposeful juxtaposition, but Davy is unimpressed by this particular section.

            Davy and I are together constantly and there are two reasons for that.  First, we really enjoy each other’s company.  Second, the Creative Community Project goes to great lengths to make sure guests do not become isolated, and he has been assigned to stay with me.  Fortunately, Davy and I get along well, but some guests complain that they can not even go to the bathroom without a chaperone.

At the heart of the Booneville Experience is the power of the Principle to change lives.  Most critics of Reverend Moon’s teachings have not actually studied the Principle and know little about it.  One criticism is that his theology combines Christian and Eastern thinking.  Although some Christians have a problem with that, I think nineteenth century transcendentalist Henry David Thoreau would have endorsed that approach.  The respected New England writer was equally comfortable quoting Christian, Hindu and Confucian philosophies, because he was able to discern Truth and Wisdom in various cultures.  Further, he disdained the religious arrogance of ministers who thought they alone possessed true understanding and God.

            How great a thinker was Thoreau?  His writings influenced Gandhi, who led India to independence with his philosophy of non-violent disobedience, and Gandhi’s philosophy in turn influenced Dr. Martin Luther King, who Reverend Moon has called the greatest leader of the twentieth century.

            Reverend Moon’s teaching disagrees with conventional Christian thinking that God’s original plan was to evangelize the west and Rome.  Instead, he suggested that God had prepared the oriental cultures through the philosophies of Buddhism and Confucianism to receive the Gospel.  God’s original plan was that Jesus should be crowned King of Israel, and Jesus’ teachings would spread east to Asia along the merchant routes which connected the Orient to the vast Roman empire, and the world could have been restored in a relatively short period of time.  When Jesus was rejected and crucified, an alternate path became necessary but the internal nature of oriental character, the respect of ancestry and loyalty to leadership would have made a fertile ground to receive the Messiah.  Instead, Christianity moved west, enduring three hundred years of persecution and martyrdom until Rome under Constantine surrendered to the army which marched without weapons under the banner of God’s love.

            Reverend Moon’s teachings diverge from mainstream thinking, but what is the basis for the old way of thinking?  Much of what Jesus taught was told in symbols and parables, until a future date when all of heaven’s secrets could be revealed.  The result was many different interpretations and hundreds of denominations.  Jesus said, if I have told you earthly things and you believe not, how shall you believe if I tell you of heavenly things? (Matt.3:12)  St. Paul said of the old way of thinking: for now we see through a glass, darkly; but then face to face: now I know in part; but then shall I know even as also I am known. (I Cor. 13:12)

            Noah patiently teaches us and we discuss all these things in our group, centered on our group leader, Angelina.  How can I adequately describe Angelina?  She is a saint and my life is enriched to know her.  She has an inner glow, dark Hispanic hair, and wears Native American dresses and Mexican peasant blouses.  She is the mother to our group and she kindly takes me under her wing.  Late at night we find her sleeping in the laundry room, where the machines run constantly, laying on the driers with her hand-woven blanket pulled over her.  She is doing the group’s laundry.

            One of the stories she tells me is about a jalapeno-eating contest she has with a Chinese man.  She loves spicy food, and, without even breaking a sweat, defeats the challenger.  She tells the story of her triumph as though she were savoring a spicy delicacy. 

She never complains, she always centers the group and whenever I am vacillating, she always has time for me.  She is a completely humble person, yet Davy and I stand in awe of her because her standard of giving is so high.

            Angelina and I go for a walk in the wooded hills surrounding the farm.  The air is still but one leaf on one tree is waving and fluttering like mad.  Look, a miracle, says Angelina.

            Angelina, I explain patiently, there’s a completely scientific explanation.  The aerodynamic shape of the leaf enables it to react to nearly zero velocity air currents, producing movement.

            Pshaw, says Angelina, This surely is a sign from God.

            One morning she tells the group she has found a definition of ‘love’ in her dictionary of love.  Then she pulls out a worn Bible and proceeds to read from Corinthians. 

            Saturday nights are the time when all our talented brothers and sisters, and some who are marginally talented, share their songs, dances, jokes and skits.  I have the idea to sing an old Taj Mahal blues song, Cakewalk Into Town, and Davy agrees to help with the vocals and even Laura with the silvery soprano will lend her voice, and of course I break out my harmonica.  We are a big hit, this audience dislikes no one, and the second verse cracks everybody up:

            You know work it done got scarce, you know work it done got hard.

            I spend my whole day stealing chickens, mama, from those rich folks yard.

            I used to sing this song self-consciously, and I used to say that when the song becomes the truth, then I’ll be able to sing it as it was meant to be sung, with exuberance.  I had the blues so bad one time, it put my face in a permanent frown.  But now I’m feeling so much better I can cakewalk into town. 

            My harmonica sounds as sweet as honey, the blues strikes a chord with almost everyone.  Cakewalk goes over pretty good, but another song receives fewer accolades.  I ask Angelina, one morning, if I can play a song for the group.  I sing ‘Louise’, a ballad I heard Linda Ronstadt sing about a prostitute who kills herself.  A beautiful song, and Angelina would never say anything discouraging; the most she would ever do is just nudge me in the right direction.  After I sing, Ah, but the wind is blowing cold tonight, well goodnight, Louise, goodnight, Angelina asks simply, what was that? 

            When I have been on the farm for a couple weeks, and on a Saturday evening, Laurey suddenly shows up and joins our group.  He is quiet at first, surveying the situation and checking on me.  I feel a little uneasy too, realizing how little I know about this person who invited me to the farm in the first place.  As usual, he wears gray business clothing, the rest of us being in jeans and flannel shirts.  The chemistry of the group is altered and everyone is reticent to speak up.

            Then we move to the big barn where everyone gathers, and now Laurey goes to the front and breaks out his guitar.  Tonight we are going to have a hoe-down, of sorts, and Laurey and a brother with a fiddle are center stage. 

            Laurey and his friend, Jeremiah, are cutting up like characters from the Grand Ole’ Opry and the first sing-a-long is She’ll Be Coming Round the Mountain, with requisite sound effects.  We will all go out to meet her when she comes.  Hi, thar’!  It’s totally cornball, but it works because this audience has a complete lack of pretension.  Laurey has a natural stage presence which I envy. 

            They tell jokes here and there, and the jokes are corny as all get-out, and still are guaranteed to get laughs.  Did you hear about the fire at the circus?  It was in tents.  But by no means should a thing be said which anyone would construe as being offensive. 

            Laurey’s mission tonight is to raise the energy in the room, prepare the audience for a special guest.  When we sing Country Roads, I wish I had my harmonica with me.  I want to be part of this, having fun, stone cold sober, a healthy community of like-minded, yet diverse, individuals.  One more song and we are starting to feel a kind of tired contentment.  Then Onni arrives.

            Onni asks how many are meeting her for the first time and about half the room raise hands.  She requests