by William Poe
The announcement that I should return to Arkansas came as a shock. I wondered what else God wanted me to sacrifice in my home state. Norman said God was giving me the chance to follow the course of Jacob. I was too depressed to ask what he meant. Stanley gave me a hug—as the new Stanley was wont to do—and encouraged me to have faith.
“You’ll do great,” Stanley said. “God never gives us more than we can bear.”
The change in Stanley was a remarkable thing to behold. I still wasn’t used to it, and almost pined for the morose, surly Stanley whom I had first befriended. That Stanley was complex and mysterious. The new Stanley was someone I didn’t know.
Norman arranged for the Little Rock family to have the One World Crusade van. I was to drive to Tennessee to drop off Joanne and some of the other members, then continue on to Little Rock. According to the Divine Principle, weather is a physical reflection of spiritual events. As I approached the bridge heading into West Memphis, lightning bolts flashed on the horizon as rain pounded the windshield. The storm lessened when we neared Little Rock and had ceased altogether by the time I arrived at the center. Mary greeted me with a warm smile and a cup of hot chocolate.
“Members rarely get a chance to return to their home state,” she said. “God must really trust you.”
My question was the opposite—how much did I trust God?
CHAPTER 20
In 1974, Father embarked on a series of speaking tours across the United States, asking the press to refer to him as Reverend Moon. Father told audiences that the End Times were upon us and that a New Truth had arrived. He never proclaimed himself the Messiah, but by that time, Christians knew what we believed. Many had come to the same conclusion as Connie and Derek—that Reverend Moon was the anti-Christ.
Christian groups dogged Reverend Moon’s tour in every city. Media reports, based on their picketing and protests, fanned a general hysteria about our intentions and practices. The term Moonie gained currency, and soon, people asserted that we were all brainwashed. A cottage industry of “deprogrammers” sprang up. These religious mercenaries charged up to thirty thousand dollars to kidnap church members, subjecting them to horrendous treatment in an attempt to break their faith. Apparently, when I had called Derek and Connie from Mississippi, Connie proposed hiring one of them. That was what Derek had meant when he said, “We’re not going to do that to Simon.”
When we learned that one of Father’s speaking tours would include Little Rock, all our efforts went into fundraising. Bob and Janine, who felt they had done enough by donating their home and life savings, generally refused to sell things on the streets. They spent their time witnessing, hoping to convert entire congregations. To that end, they attended services at Pentecostal churches, expecting the Holy Spirit to bear witness to Father’s identity through prophesying and speaking in tongues.
“My eyes!” Bob exclaimed after returning to the center late one evening. “I can see without my glasses!”
Janine explained that a woman at the Pentecostal Holiness Church had placed her hands on Bob, “and just like that, he had perfect vision.”
“I’ll never need glasses again,” Bob gushed.
Randall and I were sitting on the floor counting the day’s proceeds. The center had almost lost electricity after we ignored a past-due notice, and the mood was gloomy.
“Have faith, Simon,” Bob said, his spectacle-free eyes bulging from their sockets. “You can make all the money in the world, if you simply have faith.”
I didn’t like Bob and Janine. The few times they had agreed to fundraise, I was their team captain. They clearly had no respect for me. Even more galling, when I dropped them off, I suspected they were sneaking away to be together—probably to have sex.
“Simon works hard and never complains,” Randall said, defending me. “Miracles come at a price. Our sacrifices pay indemnity.”
Bob, fuming over Randall’s challenge, whirled about and tripped over an ottoman, barely catching himself before hitting the edge of a table. “Janine and I have sacrificed plenty,” he protested. “And anyway, we’re leaving the family. Reverend Moon is propagating a falsehood.”
“What do you mean?” Mary asked, coming into the room because of the ruckus.
“We’ve attended a Holiness Church the last few nights,” Janine said. “We now understand that God approves of our love for each other. He wants us to be together. You made us separate because you wanted to break down our will and control us!”
“So that’s it,” Mary said knowingly. “You’ve fallen.”
Randall stood eye to eye with Bob as if looking into the face of Satan. “You are tempting Janine away from God!”
“She’s my wife,” Bob snarled. “You people destroy families!”
Ironically, that was exactly the charge pagans had brought against Christians during the early years of the religion.
When Randall didn’t back down, Bob became even more agitated. I thought I saw him making a fist.
“That’s right,” Janine said. “You people turn love into something shameful.”
In that moment, I wished I had voiced my previous concerns about their behavior to Randall. Now I was sure Bob and Janine had been sneaking off to have sex. Yet how could I accuse someone when I kept my own transgression with Jim a secret?
Bob and Janine went upstairs to get their personal belongings. At the front door, they raised their hands. “We rebuke you all in the name of Jesus. Get thee behind me, Satan!”
The door slammed, and they were gone.
“We better have our lawyer look over the papers they signed,” Randall said to Mary.
I went back to counting out crumpled dollar bills.
Reverend Moon’s Little Rock speech would be my first chance to see Father in person, and I was looking forward to the event. Invariably, members told me that seeing Father erased any doubts about his being the Messiah.
Father didn’t speak English very well, preferring to communicate through a Korean member named Sergeant Choi, a retired military attaché who had been among Father’s first converts. One evening, Sergeant Choi telephoned Mary and relayed a message that members should attempt to bring their family and friends to the speech.
When I heard this, my heart froze. Most of my schoolmates had written me off. Furthermore, my actions had reinforced opinions around Sibley that the Powell family was nuts. One day, as I sold flowers at a freeway exit ramp, a longtime Sibley neighbor yelled out his car window, “You’re that Opal’s kin, all right!”
Connie and Derek were a lost cause. I couldn’t even mention Reverend Moon to them. Vivian might accept an invitation to the speech, but Lenny would never let her attend. After I hadn’t gone to Houston when he had his bypass surgery, Lenny as much as disowned me. At the time, fundraising was going badly, and the rent was due.
My only hope was that Jake and Jewell, perhaps Mojo, and a few others in that group might come. I mulled it over and finally decided I had little to lose by asking them, so I telephoned.
“It’s Simon,” I said when Jewell answered.
“Simon? You mean that cool guy who used to do acid with us?”
“That’s the one. But I don’t trip anymore.”
“That’s really too bad. I saw you selling flowers one day. Did they make you cut your lovely hair?”
“It was my choice. Anyway, can I come over? I want to talk to you.”
“Only if you leave that Moonie shit outside. Nobody wants to hear it.” Her voice softened a bit. “Babe, we hate losing you to that religious crap. Jake and I really miss you.”
“I won’t talk religion. I promise.”
“Okay, if you promise. I’ll call a few people, and we’ll get together. It’ll be like old times.”
At the appointed hour, I showed up at Jake’s house. Familiar faces filled the room.
“You look like death,” Jake said, handing me a joint and a cigarette lighter. “Fire it up.”
“That’s not for me anymore,”
I said firmly, but with little conviction.
Jake leaned forward to examine my eyes. “You aren’t Simon anymore, are you?”
“You’ve known me since I was a kid, Jake. I’ll always be the same person, the guy who tutored you when you needed help, the one who sat with you all night reading the Rubaiyat. And yeah, the same guy who tripped with you at Petit Jean. But I’ve moved on to different things.”
Jake took a long drag off his joint and sat with the others who were reclining on pillows scattered about the room. Smoldering incense mixed with pot smoke made the air stifling. Blankets hung over the windows served as curtains. The only light came from the bubbling lava lamps. No one spoke for a long time as joints passed from person to person.
Overcome with drug-induced emotion, Jewell threw her arms around me. “We want you back, Simon!” she proclaimed. “We want you the way you were.” Tears dripped from the corners of her bloodshot eyes.
More joints circulated. The air became so thick that I grew light-headed with a contact high. Mojo, whose eyes had been riveted on me since I first arrived, took blotter acid from the pocket of his military fatigue jacket.
“This is San Francisco shit,” he said, distributing a tab to each person.
“You’re going to get high with us, aren’t you?” Jake challenged.
It was tempting. After all, acid had opened my spiritual senses and primed me to understand the Divine Principle. The contact high from the pot almost weakened my resolve, but in the end, I said no.
“You guys keep searching,” I encouraged, standing up to leave. “I’ve found what I was looking for.”
No one tried to stop me as I brushed aside the plastic beads that separated the foyer from the living room.
I was sitting in the One World Crusade van when Jake showed up at the window.
“Why did you come?” he asked.
“I wanted to invite you to a speech Reverend Moon is giving in a few days.”
“Okay. We’ll be there for your sake.”
I told Jake the venue and the date, and drove away.
An advanced team of church members arrived to help prepare for the speech. They gave interviews to the press and, most importantly, put some muscle into our fundraising efforts. Before Father’s arrival, we rented a new center, one more befitting the Lord of Hosts, a Tudor-style house on Broadway in the Quapaw District—an area of Little Rock rich with history. Bart and Mandy had lived down the street during their heyday prior to the Great Depression.
Upon his arrival, Father held a meeting of regional leaders at the Tudor House, the name we preferred instead of simply “the center.” I was busy with the team preparing Robinson Auditorium, where Father would speak, and wouldn’t get a chance to see him until he walked on stage.
We hung banners announcing the Age of Hope and decorated the stage with colorful streamers. Stands of chrysanthemums and gladioluses adorned each side of the podium. Everything was in place by early evening the day of the event. To ramp up security, we hired off-duty policemen. They were to protect the hall in case protests got out of hand. The teams of Christians who had been shadowing Father’s tour were encouraging people to join them at a rally outside Robinson Auditorium. They had been speaking at local churches for weeks in order to gain support.
Robinson Auditorium had filled with a few hundred guests by the time seven o’clock approached. I watched for Jewell and Jake, and hopefully others from among our friends. I didn’t recognize anyone in the audience, but when the guards were about to secure the entrances, I spotted a procession of young people slipping through a side door. The houselights dimmed before I could see who they were. Many in the audience were elderly and kept a respectful attitude. I wondered what had drawn them to the event, given the negative press and condemnation of us from the pulpits.
The stage brightened under intense spotlights. I scanned the audience and recognized Jake, Jewell, and several others, including Mojo. Each wore hippie clothes, totally out of keeping with the conservative attire of the older people in the audience.
Randall and I stood at opposite sides of the stage. Because of threatening phone calls earlier in the day, guards had searched the auditorium for explosive devices. Everyone stood on alert for suspicious people. Security guards were stationed at the entrances. Family members positioned themselves throughout the room.
When Randall saw the hippies, he said something to a guard. I slipped across the stage to tell him who there were.
“Randall,” I whispered, “those are the friends I invited.”
“Why did you invite people like that?” Randall challenged.
“The same thing could have been said about me not long ago.”
Randall demurred, saying, “Well, okay, but don’t let them out of your sight.”
I could just make out Jake’s face against the glare of the stage lights. He waved in a friendly manner and encouraged the others to greet me as well. I wanted to thank them for coming, but remained at my post, as Randall had instructed.
A church choral group came onstage and sang a medley of well-known spirituals. Then a traditional Korean ballet troupe performed. Women in multicolored dresses played royal court drums while others swirled large red fans through the air. When the driving rhythms came to a climax and the applause died down, the leader of the Chicago church, a brother named Willard Bozeman, approached the podium and recited the Lord’s Prayer.
After the invocation, a local minister introduced Reverend Moon. The man, who pastored an AME Methodist church on the outskirts of Little Rock, called Father a prophet sent by God. The minister held out his hand toward the edge of the stage, and a smiling Reverend Moon approached the podium.
If we had spiritual bodies, with spirit eyes, then the intense glow of God’s radiance blinded mine. I felt like Moses on Sinai, granted the privilege of looking my deity square in the face. Father’s graceful movements spoke of oneness with nature, with connection to something truly otherworldly and divine. Father was my Lord, the man ordained to take up the mantle of Jesus and build God’s kingdom here on earth. Uncontrollable tears flowed down my cheeks. Here was the Second Coming of Christ, the True Father. I felt elevated, transfixed.
For a few moments, Father looked over the audience and then nodded toward the church members standing along the sides of the stage. When our eyes met, I felt sure that Father knew me. A voice spoke inwardly, as clear as music: Behold the King of Kings and Lord of Hosts.
“Reverend Moon is pleased to see you this evening,” Sergeant Choi translated. “Thank you for attending.”
“Fascist pig!” someone yelled from the darkened room. It was Jake.
“Motherfucker!” shouted Jewell.
Mojo, confused as always, unsure of his lines, finally managed to climb onto his chair as the others had done. He extended his arm and shouted, “Sieg Heil, uh, Heil Moon!”
On cue from Jake, each person in the group shot their arms forward and flipped Reverend Moon the bird.
“Fuck you!” they profaned.
Jake led the troop as they goose-stepped toward the rear exit. Guards opened the auditorium doors leading to the street, hoping to get rid of the group quickly. From outside, other voices shouted.
Anti-Christ! Blasphemer! Heretic!
A horde of angry Christians shoved through the door and made their way inside. Jake and friends disappeared in the onrush. In their hippie garb, they had more to fear from the frenzied Christians than they did from the guards.
Family members and guards interlocked arms and pushed the intruders back toward the sidewalk. The guards quickly secured the doors. The audience, though alarmed, had not panicked.
During the skirmish, two people slipped through the crowd and maneuvered their way to the stage. Connie and Derek, their faces contorted in rage, pushed forward until they were behind the curtain, about to walk onto the stage. At that moment, a guard pointed a gun directly at Derek’s head. Two other guards picked him up by the arms. A pair of guards grabbed
Connie, kicking and screaming.
As the events unfolded, Reverend Moon stood solemnly at the podium. He began singing a Korean folksong called “Arirang,” which had a lullaby-like melody. The restive guests settled and became attentive. Father ended his song and stepped to the side of the podium, taking a bow. The room applauded softly.
The sweet melody provided comfort, contrasting starkly with the preceding commotion. Though Father spoke for over two hours, not a single person left the room. When he described his suffering at the hands of the North Koreans and praised America for liberating him from a Communist prison camp, war veterans in the audience sobbed.
Father said he longed for the reunification of the Korean peninsula, making the single prophetic statement of the evening: when the two Koreas united, Christ would return on the clouds of Heaven and every eye would see him.
Following the speech, Father invited the Arkansas family to join him for dinner. I feared he would chastise us for not protecting him better and that he would single me out for inviting disruptive guests. Randall shared my worries, but Mary had a different view.
“Think as a parent would,” she said. “This is Simon’s first meeting with Father and Mother. Parents don’t chastise at such a moment.”
“You’re right, Mary,” I responded. “A real parent wouldn’t.”
Father would never condemn me for trying to do the right thing the way Lenny had done when he scolded me for trying to help in the garden by pulling up what I thought was a weed, but which turned out to be a garden vegetable. Father would never say he was ashamed of me.
“Still, Mary, we let Father down,” Randall countered.
“But we did our best,” I defended. “I never imagined my friends would cause a problem. The Bible says that, in the Last Days, the wheat will be separated from the chaff—and, I might add, the bell peppers from the horse nettle.”