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HEAVEN'S HARLOTS: MY FIFTEEN YEARS AS A SACRED PROSTITUTE IN THE CHILDREN OF GOD CULT |
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3. Through the Looking Glass: Daisy and I took the bus to my house in Lancaster on the way up to New York. We hitchhiked the rest of the way with about twenty dollars between us in our pockets. I had a change of clothes in my backpack, and Daisy carried a guitar and an old army bag with a few things in it. After spending the first day looking for fellow bohemians in Greenwich Village, all we had found were drug users, drug pushers, prostitutes, busy people going back and forth without glancing at anyone, and college students on their way back home. No one offered the peace and brotherhood that Daisy remembered from a few years ago. I spent the little money we had that first day buying food. Soon it was getting dark, and we still had no place to go. As we walked aimlessly along a street, a burly man with coarse features asked us if we were lost. He was the only friendly person we had met all day. "No, but we really don't have a place to go to," I said.
"Both of us?" I asked, thinking that I was being prudent. "Sure, it's right around the corner." We followed him to a doorway that opened onto a dilapidated and trash-littered hallway. He led us up three flights of stairs, each landing become darker and more dismal. On the third floor he stopped to talk to a girl who reminded me of the grotesque groupies I had seen at big rock concerts in Philadelphia. A feeling of despair swept over me, since those heavily made-up groupies exposing their bodies had shattered my idealism of rock stars. She passed him something, and he turned and opened a door to the right. "Here we are," he said, showing us the way into a room full of smoke and old dumpy chairs. There was a roll-away bed pushed up against one wall where another girl was slouched like a rag doll someone had discarded long ago. As she looked at us with mascara-laden, glazed eyes, I realized that we were not among hippies. "Where did you pick these fresh apples?" she murmured, coming out of her drug-induced nod. "Get off the bed, Mona. What are you doing all fucked up in here?" he barked at her like a dog. "I brought your bag. It's over there under the chair," she said, too spaced out to break the gaze she had fixed upon us. She seemed quite transfixed with our presence, but after a few minutes of indiscreet staring, she got up and slithered out the door like a snake who had decided we were not worth her time or energy. Our host sat on the bed and took a bag of white powder out from under the chair. "Sit down," he said, patting the bed beside him. Daisy and I took the chairs that were nearest the door. He noticed our move to safety. "You aren't afraid of me, are you?" he asked as he walked past us and locked the door. "I just want to be sure no one comes barging in here." He looked more like a bear than anyone I'd ever seen, but a dirty one. Plumping himself down again on the bed, he put the bag under the mattress. Looking us over with a mischievous grin, he pulled out a joint and lit it up, passing it to us after taking a long drag. I pretended to take some and passed it to Daisy, who I knew never took any drugs. She did the same and passed it back. "Hey, you girls aren't taking any. Come on, you can't be like that. You want Uncle Charlie to get angry?" For the first time, I began to be really afraid. I didn't know what Uncle Charlie did when he got angry, but I did not want to find out. "Well, we're just very hungry, and this gives you the munchies, you know." "Oh, you want some food? I'll find out what we have. Food is not our line of merchandise, you know, but I'll see what I can scrounge up." Charlie swaggered to the hallway and summoned Mona. "Hey, get these girls something to eat. What do we have anyway?" "What are you talking about? There ain't no food here," she replied. "Well, go the hell out on the street and find something." Charlie came back in and was puffing away until Mona returned with some hot dogs. By now, Charlie was so stoned he forgot to lock the door after she left. We ate our hot dogs and kept an eye on Charlie, who was talking about the great stuff he could get for us anything we wanted. Now he was drinking from a bottle, and he lit up another joint as he lay back on the bed, totally wasted. I nudged Daisy, and we grabbed our stuff and bolted out the door, down the steps, and out onto the street without looking back. We couldn't hear Charlie or anyone else behind us, but we still ran through the street in the direction of any light. Finally, we found ourselves in front of a well-lit college dormitory. By this time we were so desperate, we did not care what anyone thought. We started banging on all the doors until someone answered. "Please, let us in," I asked. "Some man is chasing us, and we don't know where we are." The boy who answered the door didn't seem to believe us, but he reluctantly agreed to let us stay. We bedded down for the night on the floor. The next day we were back on the street. I suggested that Daisy sing in the cafes so we could make some money to get a train out of there. After searching in vain all morning for places to sing, we decided to give up on that idea and just bum money instead by panhandling on the street. By nightfall, we had only collected about ten dollars. We decided to go to the train station, spend the night there, and start panhandling again in the morning. On our way we passed an art gallery, and I stopped to look at the paintings. "Hi, do you believe in Jesus?" someone asked. It was a boy about my age carrying a guitar. He had a short, smiling girl with him. "Yes. In fact, I carry a Bible with me all the time," I responded gaily, happy to hear a kind voice. "You do! Wow! What version is it?" "New Revised." "Oh," he said, looking disappointed, but his face quickly lit up again. "I have a King James Version with me. Do you want to compare verses?" I looked to Daisy, who was engrossed in conversation with the girl. "What do you mean?" I asked. "Here, I'll show you a verse in my Bible, and you look for it in your Bible, and we can see how they're different." I thought he had some point that he really wanted to make, so I joined in. We sat on the edge of the curb and he took out a three by five-inch King James Bible. I took out my paperbound New Testament. For the next half hour, we looked up scriptures, which he was much better at than I. He explained the beauty and purity of the King James version, which is written in Shakespearean English, and I felt my puny New Revised Version was totally inadequate. Daisy and the girl she was talking to came over to participate in the impromptu Bible study. The girl's name was Praise. "Should we go get some coffee?" said the boy. "It is cold out here." Daisy and I agreed, and we walked together to a diner, where we spent the next hour listening to their explanations of Bible verses over cups of hot coffee. "Why don't you girls come home with us?" Praise said. "We have a big campground upstate, and there is plenty of room." "Who are 'we'?" asked Daisy with a command-like quality to her voice. "Oh, we're a group of people trying to serve the Lord. Maybe you heard about us. The papers call us the Children of God." "You are with the Children of God?" I asked. "The ones I saw in a documentary?" "Yes, that was our camp in Texas. We have a camp here in New York now. Do you want to come up with us tonight?" "How far is it from here?" asked Daisy. "Oh, not far," said Praise. "We have a bus taking us up in about an hour." Daisy seemed okay about it, so we followed them to an old yellow school bus surrounded by a large group of noisy young people. One boy from the crowd came over to us. "Praise the Lord," he said, giving Praise and the boy a quick hug. "You found some sheep!" "Yes. This is Miriam, and this is Daisy," piped up Praise, pushing her long brown hair out of her eyes with tiny cold fingers. "They want to come home with us." "Hallelujah! Are they saved yet?' "Yes," I said, thinking that this seemed to be the criterion for visiting them. I was thrilled to be going to a real Children of God commune. "Great," said the boy. "Well, take them on the bus and get them filled with the Spirit. Oh, and give them some food if they are hungry." He seemed genuinely happy and concerned for us. This was a pleasant change from the treatment we had received since coming to New York. I entered the bus with excited apprehension. All the seats had been taken out, and there were blankets and pillows all over the floor. Someone was handing out sandwiches from a cardboard box at the front. I took a sandwich and followed Praise to the back. Daisy had been taken by a girl to another part of the bus. Once we sat on the floor of the bus, Praise quickly took control of the conversation. She was a totally spaced-out girl who punctuated every sentence with "Praise the Lord," or "Hallelujah." She talked to me nonstop about the Bible, the Holy Spirit, Jesus' message of telling the world about salvation, loving others like yourself, and every other spiritual lesson I had ever heard about in connection with the Bible. Only she said it with such sincerity and belief that it came alive. The bus began to fill up, and after a while we were packed. The young man who had greeted us stood up at the front. "Okay. Hallelujah! Praise the Lord. Is everyone here?" Most of the crowd became quiet and looked at him with respect. He was obviously some kind of group leader. "All right. Well, we are going to pull out of New York City now. So everyone who wants to stay in hell better get off, because we are going to heaven." Half of the people on the bus started screaming, "Hallelujah -- praise the Lord -- we love you, Jesus," in a confused type of unison. A few people left. Daisy and I stayed on. "Praise the Lord," said the man again. "I see we have some new people coming up with us. I hope you are all saved and filled with the Spirit. If you have any questions, please ask the people sitting next to you. I want you to be sure you know where you are going." 1 wasn't sure if he meant where we are going when we die, or right now. But since I knew both of these answers, I didn't ask anyone. After a few minutes, some more people got off the bus. "Okay. Let's say a prayer for this old bus and get going. I don't know if we have gas or not. The gauge doesn't work. But God is not bound by a gas gauge, is He?" The bus gave an uproar of "Hallelujahs" again. The man led us in a spirited prayer, which was interspersed with I more "Praise the Lords" and emphatic "Amens" from the crowd. I wrapped myself in a blanket 1 found next to me since it was getting cold and the prayer was long. Finally, the bus started up. Another round of praises! Praise brought the other boy back to our comer. 1 found out that his name was Ezra. Evidently, he had been in the Children of God (COG) less time than Praise, indicated by the way he kept looking to her for approval of what he said. "I think Miriam might want to ask the Holy Spirit in," said Praise, "and I thought you might like to be here, since she is your sheep." Ezra and Praise quoted all the verses they knew on the Holy Spirit, what it meant to be filled with the Spirit, and what would happen to me afterward. They protested when I told them I had already been baptized, saying that was not really enough. I looked out the window at the dirty city going by, so happy to be leaving it. Why should I not ask the Spirit in again? It seemed to mean so much to them, and it certainly would not hurt. "Okay," I said, "I'll ask the Spirit to fill me." Praise gave a squeaky sound of delight, and she called over a few more people to pray with me. Suddenly there were about a dozen pair of hands on my head, shoulders, and back. While Ezra led a prayer asking the Holy Spirit to fill me, the people holding me captive began a praise session of "Hallelujah -- praise the Lord -- we love you, Jesus" that lasted at least twenty minutes. I had my eyes closed the entire time, and when I opened them, I looked out the window. It was snowing. The event seemed so symbolic. I had closed my eyes when we were in the filth of the city, and now, after asking to be filled with the Spirit, we were driving by a clean, snow-white field. Maybe I really did get filled with God's Spirit after all. It reminded me of the Bible verse I had memorized recently, "Though your sins be as scarlet, they shall become white as snow." The bus stopped frequently on the way up. Each time this happened, everyone would start praising the Lord while the leader and some boys got out to tinker with the motor. The story I heard was that the bus was really out of gas, but the Lord just made it start anyway, contingent on the amount of praising we would give Him. Eventually, I fell asleep, but not before I had concluded that this was my fate. Had I not been searching for something to dedicate my life to, having found nothing for me in all the usual places? Had I not seen a film on this very group just weeks before, and even then decided I would like to live in such a place? Had I not gone through one of the most hellish and depressing experiences of my life and been rescued by these people -- perhaps my spiritual family? It was the middle of the night when we arrived at the campsite in Ellenville, New York. A wakened from a deep sleep, I followed Praise in a daze to a bunkhouse and crashed. I woke the next morning to a group of girls crying, "Hallelujah -- praise the Lord -- we love you, Jesus." This was a frequent event throughout the day, and soon I would participate in the praise sessions myself. The camp was a beautiful nature retreat that would have been comfortable in the summer. Unfortunately, it was not built for winter use, and every room was freezing except in the main building. There were two bunkhouses: a large one that held the girls and a smaller one for the boys. There were also a few cabins down by the wooded area and a bungalow set off by itself. On that cold December morning, I was grateful to leave the freezing bunkhouse and go into the warmth of the main building. The main building contained a large meeting hall, a huge industrial kitchen, some rooms reserved for special classes, one bathroom, and a second floor. I would not even see the second floor for months. I stayed in the meeting room or kitchen those first few days. In the morning we had a collective breakfast in the meeting hall converted into a dining room. There were close to a hundred bedraggled young people forming a line. Ezra came in and took me through the food line, quoting verses to me that I later learned he was memorizing. "Wow, we got some doughnuts this morning, praise the Lord," he exclaimed, referring to a big cardboard drum filled with squished pastries. "Don't you want any?" I declined. Instead, I took a bowl of watery oatmeal and some very weak coffee. I was soon to learn that choice of food was limited, but in those early days, food was the last thing I was concerned about. Ezra ate with an enthusiasm that struck me as rather exaggerated. He always came with me when we went through the food line, and when I realized he was hungry, I took everything allotted me and offered him what I could not eat. He seemed to really appreciate this, although he never said anything but "Thank you, Jesus!" Someone talked with me every minute of the day. Either Praise or Ezra or one of the two hundred or more other people who lived there. By design, I was never alone, and I hardly ever saw Daisy alone either. However, when Praise came with me to the bathroom, I protested. "Okay, praise the Lord! I'll be right out here," she said sweetly. It was quite interesting. I had no idea what commune life would be like, but this seemed to be a prime example. We ate together, worked together, sang together, and (separated into boys, girls, and married couple dorms) slept together. The main purpose seemed to be training new disciples, like me, to become fulltime witnessers for the Lord. I learned that the Children of God had set up witnessing homes in many big cities across the nation, and would soon be setting one up in Manhattan. In addition, they made weekly trips to New York City and came back with dozens of new recruits. Most of them were drugged-out hippies. Many stayed on for days, weeks, or months, and during this time no one touched any dope. Thorough searches for drugs were conducted frequently, and no smoking or alcohol was allowed. A few days after I had arrived -- I lost count of the exact number of days that had gone by -- a "sister" suggested that I go to the "Forsake All" and get new clothes. She explained that like the early disciples in the Bible, we shared everything here, including our worldly possessions. When I told her that I had brought enough clothes with me, she informed me that I would have to forsake those, or give them up. "Old things are passed away, all things become new," she said, quoting II Corinthians 5:17. The Forsake All held the discarded clothes of all the people who had joined at this particular commune, or "colony," as they called it. The Forsake All room was large and orderly. Boys' clothes were neatly folded in one area and girls' in another. The sister who took me suggested I get a few skirts. "We believe that girls should dress feminine and modestly," she said with authority, as if she were my fashion coordinator. She chose two long, shapeless skirts that were similar to the ones that most of the other girls were wearing. She allowed me to pick two blouses and a sweater. Those five items, along with a few pairs of underwear, would be my clothes for the next couple of months. I was also allotted a long warm coat. My army jacket, along with my beloved embroidered jeans, were taken away. I later saw the army jacket on a boy, but I never saw my jeans again. It seemed that the members who had been with the Children for a while "had the faith" and that I was a disciple. Being a college student and having some definite goals in life, I was quite different from the regular recruit they picked up in New York. They informed me that I was a "chosen one" of God, like the rest of them there. I felt a surge of pride and recognition. I knew I was different -- no wonder they had found me! Then I brushed it aside out of ingrained humility, probably learned in Sunday school as a little girl. Instead, I should be thankful that He had chosen little, insignificant me. I would have to prove I was worthy. The Bible did say, "Ye have not chosen me, but I have chosen you" (John 15:16). I eventually could have taken these thoughts further and come to the logical conclusion that God doesn't go around "choosing people" in this way, but I was never left alone to think for myself. As a new disciple, I constantly had a big brother or sister at my side, usually quoting scriptures that reinforced the Children of God lifestyle and beliefs. "All that believed were together and had all things in common; and sold their possessions and goods and parted them to all men" (Acts 2:44). "And be not conformed to this world: but be ye transformed by the renewing of your mind" (Romans 12:2). I learned that new disciples should never be left alone with their thoughts, and that I should not think like a "flatlander," who could only see in a flat dimension. I tried to discipline my mind to not think of anything but biblical, spiritual, higher thoughts. Although I don't remember making any verbal decision to join or signing anything, I handed over to the group all my belongings, including my driver's license, which was never returned. In my purse, I'd had only the few dollars we had panhandled in New York, which was also handed over, and I never held money again for years. It would also be years before I went to a store to buy anything, read a book, listened to radio, or watched TV. How I spent every minute of my life was decided for me; or rather, I let them decide it for me. Many nights as I lay in bed -- the only time I was alone -- I would review my past life, which now seemed so very distant. At first I was saddened that I would never finish college, but soon these thoughts receded further and further away, and finally they never appeared again. I missed my family, but I believed I had met God's True Family. After all, that was what I had been praying for, and didn't God answer prayers? I read a passage from a booklet that was given me, which said: We belong to the greatest Family in the world, the Family of God's Love. Surely God must think you worthy to give you such a priceless privilege to be a member of His Family! We're the mighty army of Christian soldiers, fighting a relentless war for the truth and love of God, against the confusion of Babylon, the anti-God, Antichrist systems of the world .... We are the hard-core, the spearhead, the avant garde of this last spiritual revolution. We are the Cadre, the leadership of it, that requires one hundred per cent dedication .... We called ourselves "revolutionaries" in a spiritual and material sense combined. I knew it would be hard. It was like joining an army, giving up my personal desires for a greater cause. But I felt like I was meant to do this -- it was my purpose in life. And as I was told, I was still young enough to change: In another few years I would have become so ingrained with "system" thoughts, I could never be a "revolutionary. " My life in those days as a new disciple meant waking up early to pray alone for one hour and then together with a group of girls led by our "tribe leader." After a breakfast of powdered milk, doughnuts, and oatmeal, I helped to clean the camp, which, considering that it sometimes housed up to three hundred people, was kept fairly clean. Then began a long day of Bible classes, broken only by a small lunch of a sandwich or sometimes a fruit salad. At the end of the day, we were given time to memorize verses, always with an older brother or sister to guide us, and then to read the Bible silently, but not alone. A late dinner was followed by "inspiration," which included a few hours of singing and then a message from our leader. It was after a few weeks of those messages that I understood that our top leader and founder was a man who called himself Moses David. Moses, called Mo for short, based his philosophy of a Christian communal life -- which he preached, taught, and enforced through writings called Mo letters -- on the biblical scriptures. Just as the Russian Communists were inspired by The Communist Manifesto, and the Nazi movement by Mein Kampf, the Mo letters told us what to believe in, and how to live this belief. Like those other revolutionary works, the Mo letters gave us the hope that we would change the world. However, the big difference was -- our leader heard straight from God, and God was still speaking! Mo wrote that "ninety per cent of our ministry here is condemning the church and the church people and the damn system" ("A Sample, Not a Sermon" J:55). When he began preaching that to the hippies gathering in a coffeehouse in Huntington Beach, California, they listened to this strange man in his late forties wearing a beard and sunglasses. He looked like one of them, only older and wiser, and he had a plan taken from one of the greatest plans ever written for humanity -- the New Testament. But Mo wasn't always a bohemian prophet. He started his adult life in the shadow of his famous evangelist mother, Virginia Brandt Berg, whom he claimed had been paralyzed by a car accident and miraculously healed. She became a relatively successful Christian evangelist and eventually had her own radio program called Meditation Moments. Her third child (second son), David Brandt Berg, was born after the accident and healing on February 18, 1919, in Oakland, California. His father, Hjalmer Emmanuel Berg, was a handsome Swedish singer who met Virginia before he was converted to Christianity by her father, a wealthy preacher. Virginia and Hjalmer both dedicated their lives to Christian work. He became a pastor, but according to Mo's testimony, he played second fiddle to his more successful wife. David Berg eventually became a pastor himself, ordained by the British-American Ministerial Federation in 1941. Berg details his personal history in a publication he wrote dated January 1976, titled "Our Shepherd, Moses David." In it he claims that he graduated from Monterey Union High School in California with the highest scholastic record in the school's eighty-year history, and was offered numerous scholarships for college. He was drafted into the Army a few days after the bombing of Pearl Harbor, but since he did not believe in killing, he claims, he served as a conscientious objector with the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers at Fort Belvoir, Virginia, until he received a complete-disability discharge due to heart trouble. According to his story, the Army thought he was dying of double pneumonia, but when he promised God he would serve Him faithfully, he was instantly healed. After a few years of evangelistic work, he returned to college on the GI Bill, studying philosophy, psychology, and political science, and became seriously involved in the study of socialism and communism. He later wrote, "I soon saw that the purportedly unselfish goals of these political systems could never be achieved without the love of God in the hearts of men, as in the pure Christian communism of the Early Church" ("Our Shepherd, Moses David" 351: 18. After attending various colleges, with no record of ever obtaining a degree, he took a private teaching job for a few years and then several positions with television and radio evangelists. Finally, at forty-nine years of age, without a ministry or job, he brought his wife and four children to live with his retired mother in Huntington Beach, California, in 1968. There he began to preach in the small coffeehouse run by a church group called Teen Challenge. He once wrote of this event, "I'll never forget the first time I walked into the club and lay down on the floor with you [the hippies] in my broken sandals, ragged old jacket, lengthening hair and graying beard, and one of you lying next to me spoke up with the cheery greeting of welcome, 'Hi, Dad! What's your trip?' " ("Our Shepherd, Moses David" 351:29). His trip was the supposed revolution for Jesus, and within months a handful of the searching young people who had become disillusioned with the world began following his teachings. Known as "Uncle David" then, he opened his home, or rather his mother's home, to them, and so began the model of communal living that he believed the Bible taught. From a pragmatic point of view, Berg just happened to be in the right place at the right time. The California flower-power scene had attracted not only drug users and freedom seekers, but also the dropouts from staid academic institutions, including some of the cream of America's upper society crop. When the adult children of wealthy families joined, these rich kids gave all their possessions and money to the group, and Mo had the financial means to live incognito for the rest of his life. He started to go underground, and his whereabouts were known only to a faithful few. Knowing none of this when I joined the Children of God, I was told that Mo was the end-time prophet spoken about in the Bible, which said "Afterward shall the children of Israel return, and seek the Lord their God and David their king; and shall fear the Lord and His goodness in the latter days" (Hosea 3:5). Mo was a charismatic leader, but most of his followers, including me, never even saw him in person. Whenever doubts entered my mind about following a "personality," I reminded myself that it was the ideal I was following, not the person who expressed it. I never met Mo and did not desire to meet him, but I thought the ideals he preached could change the world. Our so-called prophet wrote hundreds of letters to us over the years, which were eventually published in eight volumes. Mo's control over our minds and bodies developed through a gradual process. In the beginning, I was allowed to hear only certain letters, which taught me his "revolutionary rules" such as: attend all classes, study the Bible, go witnessing; do not leave to go anywhere without permission; absence without leave will be considered desertion; no dating, no smoking, no smooching; obey leadership absolutely! It was very difficult living in such a suppressive environment, but for idealistic reasons, I accepted it. By the end of my first week, however, I was looking forward to going out on a witnessing trip to New York City. But when the weekend arrived, Praise informed me I should stay at the camp and "get into the Word." Getting into the Word meant reading my Bible and memorizing scriptures. I was given an old King James Bible, and my New Testament was now in the Forsake All room. Classes on the Bible were held every day. A "set card," which contained over one hundred verses that should be memorized by every new disciple, was given to me with instructions that I should learn at least two verses a day. One morning, as I sat memorizing, a sister whom I had been told was my "tribe leader" came and gave me a piece of paper. She was the only girl in the camp whom I did not like. A few years older than I, she was always rushing around like she had more important things to do than the rest of us. "This is your new name," she said curtly. "I got it for you in prayer this morning." Quoting the now familiar verse "old things are passed away and all things are become new," she explained that each of the disciples took a new name from the Bible when they joined. I was thinking of a pretty name, like Crystal, from the Book of Revelations, or Joy, mentioned throughout the Bible, not realizing that my name would be picked for me. I opened the folded paper she had given me and read, "Jeshanah." "Where is Jeshanah in the Bible?" I asked. She told me some chapter in Chronicles, but I did not write it down, and I was too intimidated by her to ever ask again. So I was called Jeshanah for years without ever knowing where it came from. Much later I found out it was the name of a town. Daisy was given a name from the New Testament, Berea, which I thought was much prettier. However, she did not like the fact that she could not choose her own name; nor did she like not being able to sing and play guitar at the nightly inspiration. According to people whom we found out were the "leaders," new disciples must "prove" themselves before they played at inspiration. The songs of the group were inspired by God, and they didn't want any "worldly music" around. "Music is the language of this generation, and we speak it" ("London" 58:33), Mo wrote. "Our music is the miracle that attracts so many to our message about the Man. It's the magic that heals their souls and wounded spirits and proves our messiahship, that we are their saviors" ("Thanks and Comment" 157:6). For idealists who were disillusioned with the sex, drugs, and rock and roll that hippiedom offered, the fresh and hopeful sounds of the group's music was a definite attraction. Mo's early disciples each played a musical instrument, usually guitar, and many were accomplished musicians and songwriters before they became his disciples. Hard-beating contemporary melodies were accompanied by catchy, meaningful verses such as the following, written by a young man who joined when he was fourteen years old:
Since I had already been initiated to the dangers of worldly music by the Jesus People, I did not find this so difficult to accept. Daisy, however, missed playing her songs, which she claimed were not worldly. Inspiration time started after dinner and lasted late into the night. Since I did not have a watch, and there were few clocks around, I never knew what time it was, but I suspect that we stayed up in inspiration until past midnight, and sometimes until two or three in the morning. Inspiration started with a prayer, like everything else we did. The room seemed to shake, with two to three hundred people gathered tightly and praising the Lord for up to an hour, depending on who was leading the inspiration. When the praises slowed down, someone started a prayer, then another and another. Finally, one of the leaders plucked a tune on a guitar, which was a sign to start the music, and everyone who was allowed to be an "inspirationalist" would grab a guitar and join in the singing. Most of the songs told tales of being lost, or lonely, or searching for the truth, finding it in Jesus, and now happily serving the Lord. Some songs were apocalyptic, about an endtime that was fast approaching, and warned people to turn to the Lord. Many of the songs had lively Gypsy tunes, and we danced holding hands, going around in a circle, and kicking up our feet in what we thought was a traditional Jewish dance. When this lively activity became too hectic, we divided into groups of two and danced with partners, always holding hands and swinging around in a circle There was no slow dancing and no touching body-to-body. It was very innocent and extremely exhilarating. Often these meetings were led by a visitor, whom I later learned was a traveling leader. That person, male or female, eventually too over the inspiration by giving a talk, leading a Bible class, or reading a letter from Moses David. I was not interested in who Moses was at that time. I was more interested in how to contact my mother. I had lost track of time, but it must have been a week since I had left Lancaster. My mother knew that Berea and I had gone to New York City, but I told her I would call collect in a few days. I knew she would be worried by now. In addition, our family, like most, were always together for Christmas, but for reasons explained emphatically to me, the COG leaders did not want me to go home for Christmas. They explained that Christmas was a "systemite" (meaning worldly) idea, and that to partake of the Christmas holiday spirit was almost like worshiping the devil. Actually, I could not find any verses in the Bible encouraging believers to celebrate Christmas, so there was little I could say to counter their argument. However, I did want to call my mother and tell her where I was. It was difficult to find someone among all those people who knew how I could make a phone call, even though there was a phone booth in the hallway of the main building. Since I was never alone, and had no money, I could not simply make a call. The day I decided to confront one of the leaders with my request I became violently sick. After vomiting all morning, I went to the bathroom every five minutes with diarrhea. At mealtime I could no even look at food, but since the bunkrooms were so cold, I came over to the dining room anyway, went through the food line, and gave m food to some boys. Everyone was very concerned about me, which they showed by constantly laying hands on me and praying that would be shown why I was sick and "get the victory." Praise suspected that I was sick because I wanted to call my mother, an she frequently showed me Bible verses that said I should forsake my family. "And a man's foes shall be they of his own household. He that loveth father or mother more than me is not worthy of me: and h that loveth son or daughter more than me is not worthy of me' (Matthew 10:36-37). "And everyone that hath forsaken houses, or brethren, or sisters, or father, or mother, or wife, or children, or lands, for my name's sake, shall receive an hundredfold, and shall inherit everlasting life" (Matthew 19:29). By now I had decided that I wanted to serve the Lord, and it was becoming clear that included giving up my past life and starting anew. I could hardly believe it meant leaving my family, but there it was written in the Bible, I cried for days, and I remembered when I was younger and had told my mother that I wanted to be a missionary when I grew up, she had cried and said, "Don't do that, I'll never see you again." Although it made me very sad, this seemed to be my fate. Everywhere I went, I was crying, and my new brothers and sisters prayed for me. This was normal, they explained. "No victory without a battle." One evening, as I was sitting in the hallway with my full plate of food beside me on the floor untouched, a young man came and sat next to me. I knew he was an "older brother," meaning he had been in the group for at least a few months, but he looked to be not much older than twenty. I was considered a "babe," a new disciple. I had also noticed him because I thought he was cute, but those thoughts were supposed to be prayed out of my mind. "What's the matter?" he said in a kind voice, noticing I did not have a smile on my face like everyone else in the camp. Like a volcano erupting, I blurted out all my complaints. "I can't stand this anymore," I whined. "I have no time to myself. I can't read anything but the Bible. I don't wear clothes I want, or talk about things I like, or even to the people I want to talk to. And this food. It's horrible. I can't eat. I probably got food poisoning from it." I felt terrible for being so ungrateful after all they had done for me, and I stopped as mixed emotions of shame and anger filled my eyes with tears. He put his arm around me, which even in my emotional state I knew was not allowed. He was unusually tender and caring. "Hey, I didn't like this food either, but you get used to it. And it isn't always like this. We're just in a big colony here, but when I was up in the home in Boston, we ate some real nice food. You know, when I first came here, I used to steal yogurt from the refrigerator when no one was looking." "There's yogurt in the refrigerator?" I asked, surprised, since yogurt was my favorite treat and I had not seen any since I'd been here. "Yeah, sometimes. They buy it for the pregnant mothers upstairs. So, it really is a sin to take it. But hey, I know Jesus loves me, and he's forgiven me for more than that." He went on to tell me that he used to be part of the Mafia in New York City and had committed terrible crimes. He used to take drugs and sell drugs and worse. But now, with this Family and God's help, he was a changed person. And so what if he could not eat everything he wanted? He could help people like me find a new life. I found it humorous that he talked about food. Maybe he was always hungry like most of the boys here. "Do you want my food?" I said. "I'm not hungry." He took it and ate while telling me more of his past life as a sinner. "Do you have a mother?" I asked, tears again forming in my eyes. "Sure I do." "Do you ever get to talk to her?' "Yeah. I write to her, and I call when I go to New York." "Well, I haven't talked to my mother since I came here," I cried. "And I don't even know what day it is. Has Christmas passed yet?" "You mean you haven't called your mother for Christmas and you're a babe? Babes are supposed to call their parents. Who is your tribe leader anyway? She's supposed to take care of that." He got up and walked down the hall and up those forbidden steps to the second floor. In about ten minutes a leader whom I knew as Hosea came down and talked with me. He and his wife were about my age, but they dressed and looked like corporate managers. I learned later that they did our public relations work. He told me that his wife was coming down so I could call my mother, and if I wanted to, we could go visit her. It turned out that Christmas had passed two days earlier. This calculated act of apparent kindness probably kept me in the Children of God. I was ready to leave and forget about serving the Lord, even if I was a "chosen one," as they said. At that time, I did not realize they were allowing me to do something that was my right to do all along, and pathetically, I was touched by their love and concern for me. In addition, I ashamedly felt that this longing to return to my "flesh family," as they called it, was really a selfish desire for clean sheets, healthy food, and more sleep. The lessons they had been teaching me, such as to beware of natural inclinations, to rebuke the devil, and to seek godly counsel, became clearer. Hosea and his wife drove me home the next day as promised. My mother had been terribly worried about me, but fortunately, Daisy had called her mother, so she knew that I was living somewhere in upstate New York. My whole family was amazed that I was quitting college to join a commune, since I had been talking about school as long as they could remember. However, as usual, my mother let me do what I wanted, even though she tried to discourage me. She really didn't know what this group was about, but she seemed relieved that they were at least "Christian," My father was not around at that time, and I never knew what he thought since I had absolutely no communication with him. My older brother, Steve, was home when we arrived in Lancaster. Hosea witnessed to him about Jesus, and when we left the next day, Steve decided to come with us. I also packed up everything from my personal possessions that Hosea thought the Family could use. When we stopped for gas on the way up, Steve got out of the car to smoke a cigarette. Hosea stopped him. "If you want to come with us, Steve, you need to stop smoking, drinking, and drugs, right now." I watched the interaction intensely. I knew Steve had been smoking for years, and he probably was hooked on a few drugs. "Okay," he said, and threw the pack of cigarettes into the trash. Steve was separated into the boys' area when we got to the camp, and I hardly spoke with him after that. I heard that he was "growing in the Spirit" and had already memorized about half of the set card. By New Year's Eve, he was chosen, along with me, to go on a trip to New York City to witness and recruit new disciples. We were taught witnessing tips on the way down by one of the leaders at the camp. James looked to be in his late twenties, a handsome man who was originally from New York. While he instructed us on the best places to witness and what areas to stay away from, he opened a gallon bottle of wine, and we all received about half a cup to warm us up. I learned that there is nothing wrong with drinking wine, as long as you don't drink too much. After all, Jesus' first miracle was to turn water into wine. I didn't have to worry about getting too much. This was my first and last half-cup until I married, six months later. I liked James. He was not as strict as the other leaders, and he did not praise the Lord as long as everyone else did, going on and on indefinitely. When we said our prayers before leaving the bus, he said a short prayer and let us out. I was paired with an older sister while Steve went with an older brother. This was my first time outside the camp other than the trip home. My older sister was relatively lenient, and she did not want to stand out in the cold as much I did not want to, so we spent a lot of time walking in the hotels. I went to the bathroom once and stuffed a half-used roll of tissue into my bag. It would be used later to supplement the three sheets of toilet paper we were allowed to have when we went to the bathroom at the colony. All the time I was out, I wondered if my brother would come back to the bus. Due to the extreme confusion caused by the celebrating crowds around Times Square that night, it was ridiculous to try to witness, which consisted of talking to isolated people about Jesus. Returning to the bus early, I waited anxiously for Steve to come back. Finally, he got on the bus, wearing a Cheshire cat grin. "Hey, man, this stuff is real." he said. "Man, I was tempted at every corner to split. I mean, I know plenty of places in New York to score drugs, but, man, I couldn't do it." I was so happy. Seeing my brother free of drugs was worth any sacrifice on my part. Living in the COG during those early days was like learning a whole new way of life. I was eventually told the story of how Moses David formed the group from a band of Jesus People in California in 1968. By the time I joined in 1971, there were COG communities all over the United States, the largest ones being the Texas Soul Clinic, which I had seen on the documentary film, and the one in Ellenville where I was now living. A few months before, Moses' natural children had taken over a large Jesus People commune in Georgia, called the House of Judah. Most of the people who joined with that community were now leaders at different colonies. We had a few of them in New York, but most of our leaders were the original members, who had now been with the Family, as it was called by initiates, for three or four years. Therefore, I was able to meet many of the top leaders when I was still a babe, although the value of this privilege escaped me at that time. Sometime in January 1972 a group of the most dedicated babes were chosen to go to a special training camp in Montreal. My brother, Steve, Berea (old Daisy), and I were among those chosen. Steve had already memorized the whole set card of about a hundred verses, which took most babes at least six months; therefore, the leaders thought he was destined to be a great teacher. We crossed the Canadian border by pretending we were a church group on a day visit to a Canadian youth meeting. One of our leaders even dressed in the traditional Episcopalian black with white collar. This ruse enabled us to slip across the border without everyone on the bus being checked. Steve felt obliged to inform the leader that he was actually on probation in the state of Pennsylvania, having just come out of prison. Fearing any legal repercussions, they promptly sent him back. I learned months later that he had returned to Lancaster to start a new colony, but he eventually slipped back to his old ways with his criminal friends. It would be ten years before I saw him again. Meanwhile, Berea, my only other contact from the outside world, was having problems. She thought she might be pregnant from her old boyfriend back home, and whether it was an excuse or not, she slipped away one night into the cold Canadian winter, and never returned. I stayed through babes' training camp, during an intensely cold winter in Montreal, and then returned to Ellenville in the spring. By now I was an older sister, having been in the group for six months. Since I had no inclination or desire to be a tribe leader, or to do anything in a leadership capacity, I volunteered to work in the nursery. Ellenville now had a population of nearly three hundred disciples and had become the home for quite a few mothers and children, now that spring had warmed the old camp to a tolerable degree. The camp now made use of all five buildings: the main house where meetings were held, food was served, and leaders lived; the boys' dorm; the girls' dorm; and a couple of small bungalows for married couples. A nursery was established in the main building and soon expanded out into the girls' dorm. Regardless of how crowded or uncomfortable the other rooms were, the nursery was always clean and well furnished. I liked being in a place that felt more like a "home." Leaders and their wives were coming through on their way to Europe, following Moses David's directives to go into all the world and witness. With all these leaders and wannabe leaders around, I felt nice and safe in the nursery where I knew what to expect -- doo-doo-filled diapers and babies burping and drooling. Since I had helped to raise four younger sisters, I seemed to have more experience and general know-how concerning babies than most of the newer sisters. Leaders did not work in the nursery. In fact, I was not sure what work they did, other than read the Bible and lead inspiration. By now I was aware that not everyone in this group was idealistic or self-sacrificial, but I wasn't going to let this affect my own spiritual condition. I remained faithful to the ideal of community as set down in the Bible. Working in the nursery, I became friends with another Family misfit named Salome, a young woman of Jewish heritage. Salome, who was witty and bright, revealed her secret rebelliousness to me as we would sit in the nursery and make fun of the leaders, which was almost blasphemous for mere disciples. Other than Salome, only Ben, who did night guard duty at the camp, talked with me on a regular basis. Also of Jewish descent, Ben was a tall, dark, and intelligent person who had been in the Family a short enough time to still know how to indulge in interesting conversation. Since I had to bring babies to nurse with their mothers in the middle of the night, I would often stop and talk with Ben while waiting for the mothers to finish nursing. I liked Ben quite a lot, and I entertained the idea of one day marrying him. I had heard that marriages in the group were usually arranged by leaders, and I thought I could jump the gun by picking a husband first. It was a futile idea, since Ben was soon moved to another colony. Marriage was a big concern for everyone, since no physical contact was allowed between boys and girls unless they were married to each other. As far as I knew, no one was allowed to even kiss before marriage. What made this situation even worse was that, after the leader, your husband was the unquestioned head of the union, and he usually spoke on your behalf to the leaders, who I guess spoke to God. I couldn't imagine having to spend the rest of my life with someone who acted like a lord over me, so I didn't think about it. I trusted in the Lord, as I had learned to do in response to every other fear that had arisen since I had joined this group. Surely if I was making all this sacrifice for God, He would not lead me astray. Courtship was a quick affair. Many of the couples who had been married recently had been told the night before whom they would be marrying the next day. Ruth was one of them. She had joined at the Jesus People house in Georgia, and she was a typical southern belle. Soft-spoken, petite, and beautiful, Ruth seemed terribly mismatched with a loud and boisterous Italian American. Sometimes when I used to go into the kitchen for baby supplies, I would find them arguing in a corner of the kitchen where they thought no one could see or hear them. Ruth appeared to be very unhappy, and I hoped that my marriage would not be so badly arranged. There was never a dull moment in the camp, although sometimes I wished there would be. Whenever a new leader came through, we would have all-night inspiration. Now we had a whole band playing every night, and often the best teachers in the Family would lead us through amazing interpretations of the end-time prophecies in Daniel, Ezekiel, and Revelations. We thought we were privy to information no one else in the whole world knew. The most direct revelations from God, however, came through our own end-time prophet, the leader himself, Moses David. His words, through the Mo letters, were distributed to all the colonies and were soon on equal authority to the Bible. By now, reading Mo letters was a daily requirement, along with reading the Bible and memorizing verses. The letters contained mainly simple, sermon like platitudes, but sometimes they were more radical. According to the letters, the United States was headed for an Armageddon; therefore, all the Children of God were told to gather funds from various sources and go overseas. The Family spoke often of the end-time prophecy, and whether you believed it or not, speaking about the soon-to-be end of the world became a habit. It seemed to me that we might have only a few years left, and actually, I was rather relieved. I did not know how long I could last with this sacrificial lifestyle. Although we did not work at "system" jobs, most of us worked very hard just to keep the camp going. We had what we called "provisioners," who were teams of beggars going out every day to grocery stores, food markets, and fast-food chains to scrounge for any food that they would give us. We had witnessers taking weekly trips to New York and surrounding cities, telling about Jesus and trying to recruit new disciples. As far as I knew, our only income came from the "forsake all" of the new disciples; and since most of them were like me, poor college students or travelers, I did not think we had much money. Personally, I never saw any money for years, since regular disciples never handled finances. Toward the summer of 1972, the Family band led by Jeremy Spencer had come to Ellenville. Jeremy had been the slide guitar player for Fleetwood Mac, the popular rock band from England, and when he joined our group, it made the national papers. Now he had started his own band in the COG, and they had received a contract from a major recording company to make an album. The band enjoyed more privacy and freedom within the Family than even the big leaders did. They all lived in one of the bungalows that was set off by itself. All of the band members except for the drummer were already married. Word had spread that the band would be renting an apartment in Boston in order to work at a professional studio there. With the Spartan conditions we were living in at the camp, an apartment away from the constant surveillance of leaders and older brothers seemed like a mansion in heaven to me. Due to the number of babies that had recently come into the nursery, I did not have much time to go to inspiration and listen to the band play . We had between six and ten babies ranging from newborns to age two being watched in the two nursery rooms. Mothers were encouraged to leave babies at the nursery all day and night, since we were supposed to be one big family and their children were everybody's children. Only the nursery workers cared for them, however, and since there were few nursery workers, I was often up day and night. Therefore, it took me by surprise when Jeremy came into the nursery to see me. I had only seen him before from a distance, and I was surprised at how short and frail he was. He had brown curly hair that hung lightly on his neck and friendly-looking eyes that were almost merry. I had not seen such a cheery look for a long time, since humor was discouraged at the camp. "Hi. You're Jeshanah, right?" he asked in his strong English accent. "Yes. That's me." "Would you like to help us in a skit tonight? We have this little play planned, and we need a sister. You seem to be right for the part." "Oh, I never acted in a skit before," I protested. Surely there were dozens of girls better suited for acting than myself, I thought. "No, no. You are just right for the part." "Well, do I have to come and rehearse?" "Just ad-lib as the skit goes along, You'll pick it up, I'm sure." Jeremy left me wondering what I was to do, but a crying baby interrupted my thoughts. That evening, my tribe leader made sure I went to inspiration. She personally found another girl to stay in the nursery. I felt honored to be able to participate in a skit with the band. They were always treated as special, and I was somewhat in awe of their talent and fame. Now here I was in front of the entire colony, acting in a skit in which I did not even know the story line. However, it soon became apparent that the skit was about the drummer, Cal, marrying me. It depicted his life history, from a lost hippie to a drug addict in New York, then hitching out to California and meeting the COG, and finally becoming part of Jeremy's band and marrying a sister in Ellenville. My face turned bright red, and I could hardly look Caleb in the eyes. Did he know about this, or was he in the dark too? Later in the evening we had some time to ourselves, and he informed me that he had requested me to be his mate. How did I feel about that? A new letter had just come out from Mo saying that couples were being married too quickly, and they should be given three to six months courtship time. I asked if that would apply to us. "I don't know," he said hesitantly, his blue eyes shining like sapphires on his handsome face. "You see, we have to go to Boston soon, and I would really like you to come with me." I thought about living in Boston, in an apartment away from the colony. No more babies. No more big leaders. It seemed too good to be true. Serving the Lord would be so easy, I might start feeling guilty. "Yes, I would like that." I said, thinking more of the apartment and freedom than getting married. Caleb and I were allowed to spend some time together every day for the next couple of weeks. He was the first boy I had come to know emotionally since I had joined six months ago. Cal, as most of us called Caleb, was only twenty, a year older than myself, but he had already been in the Family for over a year, so he was definitely an older brother to me. It took awhile not to relate to him with the shyness and deference reserved for older brothers, but Cal was very easygoing, and he did not demand respect. I grew to like him very much. His long blond hair hung loosely to his shoulders, which reinforced the impression that he was an independent and unrestrained musician. Most of the boys who joined the group had to have their long hair cut, but musicians were usually exempt from this outward proof of commitment. Cal not only represented freedom, but he was also a basically nice guy. Before the required three months of courtship were finished, we were married in a Family ceremony performed by a leader before the entire colony. Because of lack of space, most married couples, except for the leaders, had to share bedrooms; however we were allowed use of a couples' cabin alone for three nights. On the first night, Cal was euphoric. I was scared. This was marriage! What the hell did marriage mean in this group? We lived communally. Nothing belonged to us privately. Marriage usually entailed making a home and family starting a life together. However, when I joined the Children of God, I relinquished my right to have my own home, and my family included anyone else who gave up worldly goals and possessions to follow God in this group. Even though I had been living this life for a relatively short time, I knew that everything was temporary. Perhaps marriage was also. Cal seemed to understand the significance of marriage -- having access to sex. I guess that was explanation enough for him, but not for me. That night, after we had made love a few times, I could not sleep. There was enough light from the moon shining through the curtainless lone window for me to see my honeymoon environment. The cabin was empty except for a mattress on the floor and a wooden box next to the bed, which held a small lamp and the two wineglasses, now empty. Cal's and my small suitcases, holding all of our personal belongings, were lying open on the floor in a corner. It was a sparse room, and the moonlight only accentuated the fact that my wedding night was far from idyllic. I lay awake most of the night wondering what I had done and why. Cal was a very nice person, much better looking and better groomed than most of the boys at the camp, but I did not think I loved him. Romantic love was one of the lies of the devil, I had been told by an older sister. God will give you love for him. Well, I didn't feel it yet, and I didn't feel like making love again. I got up early in the morning and dressed in my nursery work-clothes quietly, trying not to wake Cal. "Where are you going?" asked Cal, waking up as I opened the door. "To the nursery. That's where I work." "No you don't. You don't have to work for three days. We have off, and I'm going to use those three days to stay in bed with you," he said with a sleepy smile. He pulled me back into bed. My new husband might be kind, gentle, and loving, but he did not understand me. I felt as if I had just wounded my inner emotional being past repair. I had married someone without first consulting myself . Having been indoctrinated by Mo's teaching that whatever is within us is evil and should be rejected, and that the truth is out there somewhere -- always beyond my reach -- in a perfect unity with a transcendent God, I did not even try to understand my feelings. Not being able to explore this terrible emptiness that I felt inside me, how could I explain it to Cal or anyone else? I knew only one thing -- there was no turning back.
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