by William Poe
Norman wanted each member to have a strong foundation in the Divine Principle before going out to witness or to fundraise. When one of the morning lectures touched on original sin, Norman opened the front door, appearing to let something pass over the threshold. Then he closed the door. I asked him about it later.
“Low spirits were bumping into the walls,” Norman said. “I let them escape.”
My eyes grew large.
“You’ll see them when you become more spiritually advanced,” Norman laughed. “Some departed souls are so ignorant they don’t even know they can walk through walls.”
I told Norman about the leaf-frogs I had seen at Chicot Lake.
“When a person’s spiritual energies are unleashed, anything can happen,” he explained. “In the new kingdom, everyone will have the power to create. The thing to remember,” Norman cautioned, “is that spiritual power can bring you joy or scare the heck out of you. I guess the moral of your story is make beauty, not frogs.”
Norman could be wonderfully absurd, but he always ended on a serious note. After we had stopped chuckling over his statement, he tousled my hair again and, bringing our focus back to the lecture, said, “Sexual desire is the strongest bond we have with Satan. That is the main thing I want you to take away from today’s talk.”
Had Norman’s perceptive eyes detected that I was hiding a sexual sin? If so, he forgave me. There had been no judgment in his voice.
I vowed never to sin again.
CHAPTER 19
We each did our part to keep the team’s spirit high—everyone except Klara, that is. A stern woman with wizened hands and legs as stocky as trees, Klara’s goal in life seemed to be the exorcism of satanic influence from daily experience. Klara, in charge of the kitchen, supervised the chores. When Norman assigned me to breakfast duty, Klara told me to stir a large saucepan of burbling oatmeal. I grabbed the wooden spoon and began dragging it around the pot. Klara had been beating eggs in a bowl before shrieking like a banshee and flying across the room toward me.
“You must not use this hand!” Klara demanded in barely intelligible English. “The left hand is from Satan. Do not feed God’s children mit dis hand!”
The left hand—satanic?
Klara waved me away from the oatmeal and told me to go pray.
I had sacrificed everything, going as far as destroying my paintings and surrendering my car to the church. When told to leave Arkansas after Derek had heard the conclusion lecture, I obeyed. But to have my left hand condemned as satanic?
I knew I must defer to my older sister. That was a provision of spiritual growth I had learned from Norman’s lectures. When younger brother Cain killed his older brother Abel, human nature took another step toward evil. Satan encouraged anger, disrespect, and rebellion. Situations such as the one with Klara provided opportunities to distance ourselves from Satan. I had to be humble. In doing so, I paid indemnity—the equivalent of Cain submitting to Abel instead of slaying him.
While beseeching God for understanding, I held out my arm toward Father’s image. My hand morphed into a lobster claw—a transformation as vivid as anything I’d experienced on acid.
“God,” I cried, “don’t let this happen.”
As I stared at my hand, the digits separated from the shell and retook human form. I made a fist and dug my nails into my palm for confirmation. Whether flashback or demonic possession, the experience fell into one of Norman’s two categories—it scared the heck out of me.
Still unsteady after leaving the prayer room, I found Norman and asked about what Klara had told me. He seemed perturbed that Klara would apply the Divine Principle so narrowly to a new member.
“Left-handedness isn’t as damning as Klara makes it out to be,” Norman explained, “yet the natural order of creation does require using the right hand. It’s a matter of balance. When it comes to personal harmony, the right is ‘active’ and the left is ‘passive.’ We need to bring our spirit and flesh into proper alignment.”
Norman’s words sent me back to the experience with Jewell and Jake at Petit Jean Mountain, when we had pondered whether humans were in violation of nature. I expected a primordial beast to come crashing through the window at any moment to affirm my crime.
“Take it slowly,” Norman advised. “The goal is perfection, but no one achieves it overnight. Remember, we’re the lucky ones. We have the living Christ to guide us.”
So warned about my left hand, I set about learning how to write all over again. Regarding one activity, however, I refused to relent. Satan could have my whiskers; I wasn’t going to slice up my face by shaving with an inept right hand, no matter the spiritual consequences.
After two apprehensive weeks with no news from Little Rock, I telephoned to find out what had happened with Derek and Connie. Rather than telling me right away, Mary asked about my experiences with the crusade. The longer she balked, the more worried I became.
“Things didn’t work out, did they?” I finally interrupted.
Mary sighed.
I switched the receiver from my left hand to my right hand.
“All I can tell you, Simon, is that Derek came to the center for several nights after you left. He continued to ask questions and seemed receptive to our answers. Connie never came with him. We haven’t heard from Derek in over a week.”
“I’m going to call their house,” I said.
“Be cautious, Simon. Life in the family is especially hard for married couples to accept. Janine and Bob may have said things that alarmed Derek.”
“Let me call and find out,” I said.
“Randall and I are here to support you,” Mary said, ending the call.
I had yet to meet a “blessed couple” who actually lived as husband and wife. Randall, Norman, and Mary had received the blessing at a ceremony in Korea years earlier. Their spouses, all living in Korea, communicated through letters, requiring translation on both ends.
As soon as Derek recognized my voice after picking up the phone, he launched into a description of his experience at the holy ground.
“Your sister and I prayed at that spot Mary told us about,” Derek said, speaking in monotone. “A fierce wind rose around us when I asked for guidance. Simon, that man you’re following is not the Christ.”
Connie picked up the extension at that point. She screamed into the receiver, “That man isn’t the Lord, Simon. He’s the anti-Christ! Do you understand? Oh, Simon! We’ve been waiting for you to call. You’ve got to get out of there!”
“What about you, Derek?” I asked calmly. “Remember how you felt after hearing the conclusion? What about your vision?”
Derek didn’t respond.
“You should pray about this, Derek,” I continued. “You were so sure that Christ had returned.”
Connie went into conniptions. “Pray! Pray to what, Simon? There’s nothing on that land but a stupid tree.”
Derek spoke in the patented phrases of a born-again Christian. “God will guide you, Simon, but only if you confess Jesus Christ as your personal Lord and Savior.”
Connie placed her hand over the receiver and said something to Derek. I couldn’t make out her words, but Derek’s reply was clear: “We’re not doing that to Simon.”
“Ask Jesus about that man you’re worshipping,” Derek advised. “Pray in the name of Jesus.”
Connie screamed incoherently.
“Good-bye,” I said, abruptly hanging up the phone. I wanted to correct Derek that we worshipped God, not Father personally, but the distinction would have been lost on him. For Derek, Jesus was God. He had not grasped the difference between the man and the mission.
My next call was to the mansion. I expected to hear panic in Vivian’s voice, figuring that Connie had told her things about my faith to alarm her, but she seemed resigned to my decision.
“You’re doing what you think is right,” Vivian said. “Still, Bubby, the way you left home hurt more than you can know.”
It pained me to
hear the anguish in Vivian’s voice.
“Lenny needs time to adjust,” she went on. “I don’t think the two of you should talk right now.” She paused for a few moments, then added softly, “You can come home anytime you want, Bubby. You know that, don’t you?”
I had no intention of going back, but appreciated Vivian’s open invitation. “I’ve found something important to do with my life,” I said. “I’m content with my decision.”
Vivian warmly replied, “We’re here for you.”
“I love you, Mom.”
Vivian started to cry, but managed to say, “Take care of yourself, son.”
In the prayer room, I studied Father’s image. Unlike the one in Little Rock, in this image Father wore the dark suit and tie of a businessman. That Father was Asian turned some people away. Here I was, hardly any better, experiencing second thoughts because I expected the Messiah to be dressed in flowing robes, not an industrialist’s uniform. Despite my statements to Vivian, the temptation to get on a Greyhound bus and return to Sibley became almost irresistible. But I knew it was Satan, and so I prayed harder for the strength to resist.
Over the next few days, I didn’t give myself time to dwell on the fiasco with Derek or to reflect on the choices I had made in my life. Norman teamed me up with an elder member to distribute flyers at the local Christian college.
Talking to students was easier than I’d expected. Many were well versed in theology and comparative religion. My youthful reading in Christian history, especially its heresies, came in handy. I emphasized the coherence of Divine Principle theology and tried to compare our view of the trinity with orthodox beliefs. Even so, Christians had countless ways to dismiss persuasive argument. Many quoted the apostle Paul, who warned that, in Last Days, God would “destroy the wisdom of the wise and discard the intelligence of the intelligent.”
Unlike the philosophy of science, which posited a shared reality discoverable through the scientific method, the Christians with whom I debated insisted that to know God required faith and that faith demanded a suspension of reason. It was the first time I truly understood how profoundly people based their personal philosophies on whom or what they considered a trusted authority—sacred texts, church leaders, direct revelation, or evidence interrogated through rigorous testing.
For scientists, the laws of the universe were consistent, over time and throughout space. For those with a religious mindset, miracles happened; an omnipotent being could alter reality anytime it wanted.
As odd as many of the family’s notions seemed to outsiders, the Divine Principle supported science as a tool for discovering the nature of God and the spiritual universe. Most believed that science would catch up one day and reveal the spiritual realm, perhaps through discoveries made by quantum mechanics.
Though, in one sense, Divine Principle took the Adam and Eve story literally, church elders suggested that God had put in motion evolutionary forces that led to the appearance of bodies appropriate for the initiation of the human spirit. God wanted true companions with “free will,” and that is why God accepted the risk that something could go wrong. Restoration of God’s ideal took millennia because the choices had to be uncoerced. Divine Principle introduced a God whose heart had been broken, a parent willing to wait as long as necessary for His children to willingly come home.
Arguing with students allowed me to better understand what I believed and why. The debates, however, won no converts to Divine Principle theology.
Fundraising was the activity I dreaded most, and I avoided it for as long as possible. Randall had been honest when he told me that no one fundraised until they were ready. But the pressure mounted as I came to understand its importance. On a practical level, fundraising paid the bills. Spiritually, people received good fortune because we used their offering to build God’s kingdom.
In the evenings, members of the fundraising teams shared testimonies. The tales often involved someone spitting in a member’s face. More than one fundraiser reported attempts to run them down. In the worst case, an irate shop owner discharged his shotgun over Joanne’s head. Buckshot pierced her cheek, sending her to the emergency room.
Joanne Boucher was the French woman who had greeted me the first evening I rode to lectures in the One World Crusade van. When Norman reported the incident, the sheriff said dismissively, “Well, what the hell did y’all expect?”
Stanley had been a successful fundraiser since his first experience in Little Rock. Norman lauded Stanley’s leadership qualities as something to which I should aspire. I struggled with the decision all night and, at breakfast, announced that I was willing to give fundraising a try. If for no other reason, I would not be outdone by Stanley.
Norman asked an avuncular Japanese brother named Kenji Kawasaki—a church elder previously married by Father in the same mass ceremony in Korea as Randall, Mary, and Norman—to work with me. Garret the Scotsman led the team, depositing Kawasaki and me in the parking lot of a Piggly Wiggly grocery store.
As Kawasaki approached his first customer, my conviction weakened. I stood frozen with a bucket of carnations propped awkwardly at my side. Seeing my reflection in the store’s plateglass window, I held the bucket in front of me and said disgustedly, “Simon Powell, reduced to selling flowers!”
God must have taken pity. A young woman walked toward me, holding a baby in one arm and a sack of groceries in the other. Close at her side, a toddler hurried to keep up the pace.
“You wouldn’t want to buy one of these flowers, would you?” I asked the woman, waving my hand over the carnations.
Despite the negative sales pitch, the woman smiled as she repositioned the infant, set down the grocery sack, and dug into her pocketbook for money.
“They’re three for five, if you want a bargain.” The words echoed an approach I had heard people mention during testimonies.
“Okay, honey, I can do that.” The woman broke off one of the carnations to make a shorter stem and handed it to her toddler. The child began chewing the petals with toothless gums. “No, sweetie, that’s not food,” she said, plucking bits of petal from the corner of the child’s mouth.
I ran off to try my luck again. At the end of the first hour, a miraculous wad of bills filled my pants pocket. People had continued to respond to my awkward sales pitches! Many thanked me for attending to the Lord’s work, because I generally said that I was fundraising for my church. Their goodwill reminded me that some Christians took to heart the kinder passages in the New Testament, though I ignored that I was leading them to believe that my church was the same as theirs when I offered the vague sales pitch.
Just before Garrett was to return, I sold my last bouquet to a man who said that he was in trouble with his wife and that flowers were exactly what he needed.
When the van rolled into the parking lot, I skipped toward it, joyfully greeting the team. Kawasaki, who had worked the other side of the lot, hadn’t sold a thing. No one else on the team had done well, either. Their buckets stank of stale water, and their shriveled carnations looked like wads of damp crepe paper. Garrett tried to raise everyone’s spirits by starting up a song, but the doldrums were too deep.
Twice that day, I sold my entire bucket of flowers—and Kawasaki’s as well. After the exhilarating success, I couldn’t sleep and decided to join Norman, who often meditated outside in the evenings.
Hattiesburg’s mosquitoes had taken a special liking to my blood, so I applied copious amounts of repellent spray to my arms before leaving the house. The night was clear and humid, a Southern constant that had one benefit: the moisture caused the stars to twinkle rapidly and beautifully.
I found Norman sitting on a sawed-off tree stump, one of several positioned around the yard. As was his way, Norman greeted me with a spiritual pronouncement.
“You must be aware that your ancestors prepared you.” Norman paused to gauge my reaction. “Taking LSD wasn’t the best thing you could have done, but it taught you about the spirit world.”
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br /> Drifting away in thought, my attention turned to a swarm of lightning bugs hovering above the plants in a nearby soybean field. Their yellow-green flashes synchronized with the stars in a sort of cosmic ballet.
“The problem is,” Norman continued, again scrutinizing me, “being so open, you attract the attention of the spirit world. When good spirits come, you succeed, as you did today. But evil is never far behind. Most of your ancestors were noble, but not all of them. I think you know that.”
“The Powells were survivors,” I said. “I’ll give them that.”
The lightning bugs started to form a pattern, drawing out the contours of human bodies in the mist. Ancestors marched toward me, each dressed according to the custom of the age. Some in Roman togas, others in tribal buckskins. A few wore military uniforms. As the ancestors approached, their features became delineated and specific. One by one, they paid homage, some fully prostrating, others curtsying or bowing at the waist. After their greeting, each returned to the mist. At the end of the procession, Bart stood arm in arm with Mandy. The fox stole, restored to fashion, yoked Mandy’s shoulders. Bart wore a dapper suit with a straw hat, an outfit I recognized from an old photograph. He spoke, but his words faded on the wind. Bart and Mandy disappeared in a dance of lightning bug flashes and starlight twinkle.
Though it wasn’t audible, I knew what Bart had said: Better that one person suffers than for many to do without. He was proud of my sacrifice.
“We owe a lot to our ancestors,” Norman said, as if he had witnessed the same hallucination. I presumed he had.
A month later, Norman went to a meeting in New York. As so often happened when leaders met with Father, he returned with news of a restructuring. The One World Crusade would disband, with members dispersing to various centers. Norman called everyone together to explain that he would lead the Los Angeles family, an important position at one of the largest centers in the nation. Klara, Gretchen, and Garrett would accompany him. Stanley was to remain in Mississippi. Father asked that Kawasaki come to work in New York at the national headquarters.