Seven Story Bus: The Story of the Trees Community - By Shishonee Ruetenik

TO LIGHT THEM A HOPE IN THE NIGHT: The Search

2009-02-20T17:11:00.000-08:00

This story is dedicated to my fellow Trees...who joined me on this amazing journey to Christianity and faith...

NOTE - YOU WILL NEED TO HIT "OLDER POST" AT THE BOTTOM OF EACH SECTION TO CONTINUE READING the rest of this book.

The Trees Community - Pecos, New Mexico 1972

March 1970

Jumping quickly out of the crowded car, I turned away from my road-weary companions and approached the rundown brick building at 108 Fourth Avenue, excited and a bit apprehensive. What would I find inside? Gazing upward, I scanned the derelict brownstone sandwiched between a used bookstore and an antique warehouse. Would my dreams about this place would match reality? Glancing back at my high school friends in the car, I smiled as they gave me a thumbs up. Tentatively, I pulled on the heavy door until suddenly it swung open. I leaned my head in cautiously, peering into the total darkness. I was hit with the overpowering, musty smell of cat urine. Emotions swirled around me. I felt a giddy sense of freedom and a nagging apprehension. Finally…I can’t believe it. I’m actually here!

I didn’t realize the extent of the journey I was about to embark on that spring. Young and naïve, I left a cozy suburban Midwestern town to visit a man I had met only weeks before. I was drawn to him as my Jim-Jones savior yet I had no idea what I was getting into. At 18, my life was churning with unanswered questions and a relentless desire to find “the Truth.” I was sure this charismatic stranger held the key to unlocking the anxious feelings consuming me. It was the spring of 1970, a time of peace demonstrations, hippie love-ins and teenage angst. I was swept up in a tide of youthful unrest, eager to break free of materialism, big government and parental oppression. In a poem from that summer, I wondered:

Why am I here?
What is the point of this strange existence?
Caught
between my childhood and some unknown future,
chasing vacant shadows,
alone and weary, laying softly in bitterness,
longing for that innocence
of a child.
Words echoing with no one to listen,
longing for truth,
restless and empty.

It was the dawning of the Age of Aquarius with its flower children, drugs and free love. I was swept up in my generation’s struggle to break free of the Vietnam War, motherhood and apple pie. In our dorm room, we listened to the Beatles and Bob Dylan. But to me, Buffalo Springfield captured the true essence of the heartbeat of my generation. “Something’s happening here, what is ain’t exactly clear… There's battle lines being drawn. Nobody's right if everybody's wrong. Young people speaking their minds, getting so much resistance from behind…”

Our generation was moving away from the beat poets and hipsters of the late fifties and sixties and heading into uncharted new spiritual and cultural territory. I was an unhappy, rebellious teenager who'd been uprooted from Lakewood, a small, cozy town in Ohio to a fast growing suburb of Detroit, Michigan. Typical of many from my generation, I was resentful, restless and idealistic. I rejected the Leave it to Beaver lives of my parents as part of the “Establishment” as I dabbled in alternative lifestyles.

Standing on the sunlit New York City sidewalk, I smiled and waved a quick goodbye to the carload of my friends as they drove off, laughing and yelling, “See yah later, Shishonee! Stay cool!” For a brief moment, I felt as if I was suspended in time and my entire childhood had slipped away from me like a phantom ghost. I imagined part of me speeding away through the narrow, crowded streets of New York City while the rest of me was left standing on the threshold of my new life. The laughter of my friends floated back as I stepped cautiously into the mysterious darkness. The door thudded closed behind me as I called out tentatively, “Hello?…Hello?”

Straining to listen, I thought I heard muffled voices arguing from somewhere up above mingled with the sound of water running. Several landings above dim candle light cast eerie shadows. I climbed up the dank stairwell, feeling my way along the walls, clammy and scaly with chipping paint. Was this the right address? Maybe I made a mistake! Just as I reached the first landing, a head popped out of a doorway and I jumped back, heart pounding. A short, frumpy looking woman dressed in a worn grey housecoat snapped, “Who are you!”

Startled, I answered, “Ah, I’m looking for the Loft.”

Wordlessly, she gestured upward and spun around, slamming the door behind her.

Feeling like Dorothy in the Wizard of Oz I muttered, “Oh my.” What have I gotten myself into now! This smelly rundown building wasn’t what I had imagined for my guru’s pad! Inching my way up the dingy stairwell, I cast my thoughts back to the previous afternoon…

It was Easter break so I was home from boarding school hanging out with old friends I hadn’t seen since the previous summer. I ranted on and on telling them about this strange, spiritual man I had just met who called himself Shipen. “You really have to meet this guy! He’ll blow you away! He reminds me of James Dean mixed with Timothy Leary and a generous dose of Jesus Christ.” I told them about his place in New York City called “The Loft” – a sort of ashram where all kinds of people came seeking answers. “I sure wish I could be there” I had mused. The next thing I knew we had piled into somebody’s car and drove through the night, laughing, smoking cigarettes and singing Beatles tunes.

It was dawn when we reached the George Washington Bridge. Huge skyscrapers rose like giant black construction paper cutouts against the rose colored sunrise. As we barrelled through the crowded city streets, I dug into my pocket for a scrunched up scrap of paper with the address: 108 Fourth Avenue, off 14th Street…

After what seemed like ages, I reached the top of the stairs. There was no door - only a woolen blanket draped across the threshold. “Hello?” I called out meekly, lifting up the edge of the scratchy blanket. No one answered. Peaking inside I surveyed what appeared to be a small kitchen with a clawfooted bathtub against one wall, a toilet in another corner and a small sink. Against another wall, a teapot was rattling away on an old gas stove. Just as I was about to call out again, a dark haired man stepped into the room. He was impeccably dressed in a crisp white Nehru shirt tucked carefully into neatly pressed pants. With a dramatic flourish, he leaned over the stove and turned off the kettle. Turning toward the doorway, he spotted me and smiled mischievously.

"Ariel" Phillip Dross

“Welcome” he said in a deep bass voice. “Come on in. I’m Ariel, what’s your name?” I was so surprised and nervous all I could manage to whisper back was, “I’m Shishonee…is this ah…ah…the Loft?”

His eyes twinkled as he offered me a cup of tea and assured me that indeed it was. Relieved and suddenly exhausted, I collapsed onto a stool, feeling as if I was dreaming. He explained that his roommate Shipen had gone to New Paltz to build a stage set for a friend’s theater company called The Performance Group. As he chattered on, I found it hard to concentrate on his words as I surveyed my surroundings. I felt relieved and oddly at home as I sipped the steaming spicy tea. Finally, I was here! This was it! The Loft!

Ariel washed up the dishes then led me up one more flight of stairs into a huge, airy room with brick walls and high ceilings. What a kaleidoscope of colors and textures! Brightly colored streamers of red and purple satin crisscrossed the ceiling in layered waves. Shafts of sunlight streamed in through two tall windows at the far side of the loft. Indian tapestries and rugs covered mattresses artfully spread in disarray throughout the room. There was a huge old canvas army tent pitched in a corner by one of the windows. In another corner, sheets of heavy gold brocade were draped around an alcove creating a private space. Ariel excused himself for a moment and I just stood there, taking everything in.

Photograph by John Olson-Life Magazine- Jan. 1, 1969

I felt as if I had walked into the photograph I had clipped out of Life Magazine and hung on my wall back at Leelanau. It was a picture of a long haired hippy family sitting in a tent (the Bray family were photographed while living at the Mystic Arts Commune). It all seemed curiously familiar and inviting. Swept into a kind of spiritual deja vu, it was as if I had been in that exact same space and time before. The loft seemed like an earthy cavern nestled in the rainforest. Finally I was home.

Just then, Ariel returned with a blanket and invited me to rest while he went shopping. “Thanks,” I muttered and I curled up in a corner on top of a rug-covered mattress. Drifting on the edges of sleep, my body relaxed but my mind kept racing as I recalled the long series of events that had led me to the Loft…

School Days: Leelanau

2009-02-19T19:17:00.000-08:00

View from shore of campus at Leelanau School

It was late in the morning on a sweltering August day in the summer of 1969. I sat restless and inpatient in the back seat of our family's ancient station wagon, hot air blowing through a half opened window. My parents were silent as we drove down a winding road past the towering golden sands of Sleeping Bear dunes headed toward Lake Michigan. We pulled into a store and I waited sullenly as my Dad went to get directions. The air in our old station wagon felt oppressive, suffocating. I jumped out to stretch my cramped legs, my thoughts skipping forward to what lay ahead... We were on our way to orientation day at a Leelanau School, a Christian Science boarding school tucked away in the quiet little resort town of Glen Arbor in northern Michigan. I wondered...what would it be like? Would I make any new friends? Though I would never admit it, I desperately needed to find something to anchor me and heal my anger, discontent, and depression.

We drove down a narrow road lined with white pine, maple and birch trees and parked in front of the low-slung cinderblock library building. My parents introduced themselves to a stiff looking older woman as I went in search of a bathroom. Returning a few minutes later, I could hear my parents arguing in low, clipped tones. “I just don’t think this was necessary, I really don’t,” my father muttered, sounding exasperated. My mother replied insistently, “If we don’t get her away now, I’m worried that we're going to lose her. When she ran away last month, she was living with a bunch of drugged-out hippies! If we don’t get her away from that crowd she’s hanging around with, I don’t know what will happen! We have no other choice. This is the best place for her right now.” As I re-entered the room, my mother called out brightly, “Oh, there she is. Come on, let’s go look around campus.”

With a “whatever” shrug, I followed along as we toured the grounds. There were a string of small cabins nestled along the Crystal River and behind them a thin stretch of sandy woods abutting Lake Michigan. My parents strolled along the sandy shore while my brothers and I ran in and out of the waves, splashing along barefoot, kicking up sprays of icy cold water on each other. My Dad helped lug my suitcases into Riveredge cottage and eventually, it was time for my family to leave. After hugs and promises to write, they clambored into the car and drove off. Waving goodbye I felt relieved yet oddly detached. Striding off toward the dining hall, I tried to look cool and confident. I can do this. And if it doesn’t work out, I’ll just run away again.

Though my father was a social worker at a home for delinquent girls and my mother was a kindergarten teacher, they were both at a loss of how to reach me. We had moved from the friendly, small town of Lakewood, Ohio to the West Bloomfield in the suburbs of Detroit in 1967 when I was entering 9th grade. The chaos and riots in the streets of Detroit that summer mirrored the maelstrom of anger and resentment seething within me. I never wanted to leave my friends and home in Ohio and almost as soon as we arrived my life began spiraling out of control. Andover High was full of "clicks" and a curious social caste system. Though I tried desperately to fit in, I was automatically "out" being a newcomer to the school. Feeling lost, shy, unhappy and depressed, I was accepted by the long-haired, rebellious crowd and my grades soon plummeted. They were delving into drugs and my mother worried I would soon follow!

The Homestead dining hall

I entered the huge old Homestead dining hall and climbed the stairs headed for lunch. I was totally lost in my thoughts when I looked up and saw my best friend, "Sarah Benstein" [not her real name]! Too awesome! “Hey Sarah, wait up!” I called and she turned around, smiling in surprise. “What are you doing here?” we both said at the same time, and then we both started laughing..

Sarah and I had been friends ever since we met in high school. With long brown hair and soft brown eyes, Sarah was a natural, earthy type. Quickly, we caught up on what had happened over the summer. After lunch, I was thrilled when Sarah and I were assigned a room together in Riveredge cottage! Riveredge was a rustic wooden lodge located alongside the Crystal River overlooking Lake Michigan. It had beautiful knotty pine walls, a huge lounge area with a stone lined fireplace and our bedroom was located at the far end.

Riveredge Cottage

After unpacking, we headed for dinner chatting away. Standing in line, we struck up a conversation with another student, “Naomi Goldman”, also from Birmingham in the Detroit suburbs. From that night on the three of us became close friends. Eating dinner at the Homestead together that first night, my initial worries about fitting in melted away.

In 1969, Leelanau Schools had a sprawling, stunningly beautiful campus on Lake Michigan. Days were filled with classes but as soon as class let out, many of us loved to slip out to explore the woods and beaches. Nights and weekends were our chance to crawl out the window after lights out to sit under the stars or a stroll along the moonlit beach. I recall one warm September evening...

Sarah and I waited until our housemother, old Jinni Hinton checked in on us after lights-out. Peaking out from my almost-closed eyelids, Jinni looked like an apparition with her silhouette backlit, a ghostly figure dressed in a thin nightgown, white hair wildly askew around her faceless head and her stooped figure ominously framed in the doorway. Satisfied we were sound asleep, she lumbered off, her slippers slapping the floor as she headed off down the hall. When the sound of her footsteps faded away, we quickly stuffed clothes under our sheets so it looked like we were still in bed. Easing the window open we slipped outside, leaving it open just a crack for our return. A huge golden harvest moon rose over the pine trees against a backdrop of stars. How incredibly beautiful! Barefoot, we raced soundlessly along the path through the woods to the weathered wooden bridge that crossed over the river. Half way across, I gazed down into the clear water meandering by, watching the shimmer of moonlight dancing along its surface. Then we slipped over the wooden planks following the narrow path to the sandy beach curling along Lake Michigan. I felt a mixture of exhiliration and glee.

That night I spent hours savoring the incredible beauty surrounding me. Passing near a pine tree, I was inundated with its rich, pungent smell. I reveled in the glittering lights skipping across the waves and the delicate texture of each grain of sand in my hands. My senses were electrified and everything was intensely beautiful. I felt part of the earth. Climbing into the “lap” of huge oak tree, I laid my cheek against the bark trying to sense how it felt, wondering how that old tree perceived the world. Meanwhile, Sarah lay quietly on the beach gazing at the stars, wrapped in her own private thoughts and dreams.

As I sat in that ancient tree, I wondered if indeed I could have had past lives, if reincarnation was real. I had the oddest feeling that in a past life I knew I had been an Indian. I allowed myself to be more and more apart of the sound of the waves, the delicate dance of nature surrounding me, until I felt drawn into an ancient mindset... the earth was my mother and I was connected to every blade of dune grass, every smooth pebble, every glittering star, every whispering pine, every gentle footfall around me. I could see how my decision to step over an anthill or crush it would have far reaching consequences. I leapt down and strolled along the shoreline, feeling totally peaceful and at one with nature. Suddenly time shifted and I became a mountain lion prowling through the woods and meadows, lithe and wary. Another shift and I was a young Indian striding along the beach. I glanced over and was surprised to see the dark form of a large fish swimming along the water’s edge. As I walked along the beach, it kept pace with me and I felt an instant rapport. Regardless of whether I sped up or slowed down, amazingly the fish swam directly beside me along the shoreline! I felt deeply connected to the fish and wondered about the lesson of determination that ancient creature was trying to teach me. Eventually I said goodbye and it swam away. I turned back to the beach, deeply moved by the experience.

The hours passed and I felt acutely in tune with wilderness and marveled at the lessons it had to teach me. With vivid clarity as I journeyed back and forth between surreal scenarios of past lives and the beauty of my environment.

Finally, I sat by the lakeshore watching the waves crash endlessly against the sand. Fascinated, I studied the shimmering crystalline wall of breaking waves. Why had I never noticed how intricately beautiful it was? I broke open an orange I had brought along and was amazed at the delicate smell, the overwhelmingly delightful taste, and the jewel-like quality of each section. Normally I was oblivious of my surroundings and found it difficult to focus. In contrast, that night was a Zen-like experience in centering throughout which I was highly attuned to everything around me. I was able to “be one with” a tree, a leaf or a pebble. Early the next morning Sarah and I crept back into our room, exhilarated and completely exhausted.

Unfortunately, I don't remember a lot about my year at Leelanau but there was one teacher who made a life long impact on me - "Uncle Whit". He taught a class in poetry which quickly became one of my favorite subjects. Horace Whittemore was a wonderful, quirky, no-nonsense, quasi hermit who lived in a small log cabin in the woods on the edge of campus where he would hand feed deer and other wild things. Throughout the semester, he read to us from Thoreau, Walt Whitman, Edgar Allen Poe, E.E. Cummings, and many, many other poets and writers. I loved his class and gradually, he nurtured in me a deep love of nature, poetry and creative writing that remains to this day.

I had barely begun to adjust to the routine of boarding school when I met someone who would soon change my life. It was late fall and we had just finished the long walk to the Homestead dining hall for lunch when a stranger entered. He was a well dressed, striking young man in his late twenties with an aura of self-confidence and charm. He introduced himself as Shipen Lebzelter (“Ship-in”) to a few of the students standing ahead of me in line.

Shipen and others outside the Homestead 1969

I was immediately mesmerized by the rhythm and cadence of his words. It was if he was speaking in some venerable and beautiful ancient dialect like Shakespeare or Gaelic English. He used his hands like a dancer, gesturing and curving them through the air to make a point. With his lean grace and charismatic demeanor, Shipen had an aura about him that immediately entranced me - I was spellbound!

Shipen and students at Leelanau

After our meal, Shipen invited a group of students to meet with him by the river so I leapt at the chance. After study hall, I rushed over and joined a small group of students sitting outside. He went on and on about becoming “clear” in mind and spirit and how important it was to find inner peace. He explained he had studied Tibetan Buddhism and other eastern religions which soon led into a long discussion about a new belief system he had written called Clear Children. What intrigued me was that he claimed he'd written it “automatically” without ever changing one word. Wow! He explained that in essence there were many different mindsets that could trap you (such as greed, envy and vanity) but the goal was to move out of these minds into higher mindsets such as wisdom and humility. Doing that would prepare you to enter the seven final minds of faith, hope, charity, mercy and grace and finally, you'd reach peace and love as you became “clear.” As I walked back to my dorm, I was totally confused yet convinced he was on to something.

Thus began a series of intense discussions about life, truth and following the path to spiritual enlightenment. After school, small groups of us met with Shipen in his sister’s condo or outside on the lawn. The condo was located just off campus in an area that was part of the Homestead resort and thus off limits to students. We went anyway.

At first I was skeptical. Then a surprising event happened that truly impressed me. We were sitting inside the condo talking about stopping the constant flow of mental chatter and being more in tune with nature and its creatures. I said something to the effect that if we were truly in harmony with nature, then we should be able to communicate with animals. Shipen replied matter-a-factly, “You can do that if you silence your mind.” There was a fly slowly buzzing around the room distracting me. I thought he was going to tell me to ignore it but instead he suggested that I still my thoughts and communicate with the fly. Feeling a little silly, nevertheless, I closed my eyes and tried to let go of all the ideas racing through my head. Quietly I whispered, “Fly, come over here onto my leg, I won’t hurt you.” Amazingly, that is exactly what the fly did! In total awe, I decided to try it again. Slowly I stretched out my hand and this time sent out a mental plea: Fly, please come up onto my hand. Again, the fly buzzed over and settled onto my outstretched palm. I sat there in stunned silence and felt an even deeper respect for nature and every one of her creatures. Finally, we opened the door and let the fly go. That settled it! I was convinced. I knew I had found a guru who could lead me to the answers I had been searching for.

Over the next two weeks, small groups of students spent hours talking with Shipen about the Vietnam War, our disenchantment with the Establishment, and the search for enlightenment and inner peace. Eventually, the school administration heard about these “sessions” and assumed drugs were involved (they were not). Shipen was informed he would have to leave immediately. I was upset and disappointed. After he was kicked out, some of us who had been part of that informal circle continued meditating and studying eastern religions. We would chant together by candlelight or read aloud from a book called I Ching. Sarah and I practiced Hatha Yoga at night and sometimes meditated chanting “Nam Myoho Renge Kyo” over and over sitting in a semi-lotus position. We read The Prophet by Kahlil Gibran, the writings of Mary Baker Eddy, The Tibetan Book of the Dead, Thoreau and other spiritual writings and esoteric poetry. I recall once Shipen had talked about “astral projection” where people could actually transport their spirits away from their bodies. Many nights I would lie in bed trying with all my might to leave my body. I’d begin by visualizing a tingling, foot-falling-asleep sensation in my toes and gradually willing it up and throughout my whole body. Of course, it never worked and I just ended up lying there stuck in my body and feeling stupid and extremely annoyed!

That winter in northern Michigan was bitterly cold. Sarah, Naomi and I spent most of our free time indoors, reading, talking and listening to records like Bob Dylan, or Donovan singing “Wear your love like heaven” and “You can have everything if you let yourself be,” Buffalo Springfield singing, “Somethin’s happenin here…” Leonard Cohen singing “Suzanne takes you down to her place beside the river…” and The Beatles White Album. I read everything I could find about Timothy Leary who was calling for our generation to “tune in, turn on, and drop out.” Though my parents wanted me to go on to college, I was more and more determined to disengage from the “Establishment” and its materialistic concerns. I got rid of all the mirrors in my room (pure vanity!) and gave away my clock and watches (time is a worldly construct!). As I struggled on through classes, I longed to join the ranks of the hippies and flower children, eager to be happy and free of any materialistic ties. I grew more and more interested in spirituality and mysticism.

Sometime that year, a huge group of us gathered in the gym for a Peace Moratorium. We were protesting the Vietnam war and joined the ranks of thousands of other young protestors in America at the time. For several hours we read poetry, sang, gave speeches and prayed silently for an end to the war. This did not go unnoticed by the school administration.

Uncle Whit in his uniform

The next day, Uncle Whit, our dear poetry professor, strode into class dressed in his World War II army uniform covered with awards and medals. For the entire hour, he paced around the room denouncing our actions and declaring his loyalty to the Constitution of the United Sates, the flag, and our wonderful democratic way of life. Well!

By April, spring fever spread throughout the campus. More and more of us snuck out at night to smoke cigarettes or just hang out. One particular evening almost the entire campus made plans to break curfew. By midnight groups of students roamed through the woods. Somehow, Charlie Shinn (the Assistant Dean?) got wind of what was going on and alerted the other counselors and staff. They rushed around shining flashlights into the darkness. I watched from behind a pine tree as Shinn narrowed in on a small group of students. Enraged he yelled, “Freeze! Get back to your dorms!” But the group split apart, laughing as they raced off into the surrounding woods. Sarah and I took off for the beach where we ran into others who had also managed to escape. Eventually, we snuck back to our dorm and slipped into bed, exhausted but savoring every minute of the night’s wild freedom. From then on the procedure after lights out included checking to be sure every student was actually in bed!

Eventually, Shipen sent us a copy of his Clear Children manuscript and I poured over
it. It was fascinating but way over my head:

MIND OF MYSTERY as fathomless as the deepest thoughts, will capture its subjects and lead them deeper and deeper into realities thus perceived, as even a tree has within it the deepest of intentions and meanings.

MIND OF FAITH given to constant growth into spirit, will find the physical world in complete accord with things of the Spirit, hence they are not separate.

MIND OF PERSONAL LOVE ever clinging to oneself or to others, will not allow the true understanding of Love to enter into consciousness, thus will continually be befuddled by its own set of love criteria.

MIND OF PEACE the perfection of man, will be to man, the perfection of Love the Divine Spirit – the Divine Idea made manifest in the body of the Clear Child, the pinnacle of human strivings.

As I read through Clear Children it only fueled more questions. How could I reach this mind of peace? How could I empty myself of inferior mind-sets? Naïve and impressionable, I was more convinced than ever that my spiritual journey was dependent upon being with Shipen, my guru. I decided to go visit him in New York City over Easter break.

108 Fourth Avenue

2009-02-18T15:22:00.000-08:00

Shishonee 1969

I woke to the blaring sound of someone’s car alarm. Rubbing my eyes, I sat up and looked around. It was growing dark outside and I felt groggy and disoriented. Wow, I wonder what time it is? Did I sleep all day? Scanning the room, I saw that I was the only one around. I could hear muffled voices from the kitchen below. Light from kerosene lanterns cast a soft light inside the tents pitched around the room, making it look like a magical forest.

Just as I was about to go downstairs, I heard voices and suddenly there was Shipen, ascending the stairs followed by a noisy crowd of people. They came bustling in, talking and laughing as they scattered around the Loft. Immediately Shipen smiled and came over to give me a warm hug. Feeling a bit embarrassed at having come unannounced, I said very little as Ariel introduced me to Bruce, Jody, and everyone else in the crowd. As Ariel spoke, I had trouble focusing as I strained to tune in to a conversation between Shipen and his friend Bruce. They talked excitedly about making changes to set for a show and about going to another theater performance later that evening. Eventually I learned that many of the people there that afternoon were visitors who were part of a theater troupe called Stomp.

After a delicious meal of Ariel’s homemade Indian curry, I tagged along to see The Performance Group (Shipen had helped design and build their stage). The show was amazing to me! The entire set was built sort of like a house in the beginning stages of construction with open framework and partial walls. In each room there were different characters acting out scenes from daily life. Fascinating! As the audience, we were free to wander through the rooms, standing behind actors as they ate meals or sitting next to a couple arguing on a couch. As the play progressed, each separate scene unfolded simultaneously. I moved from one vignette to another, enjoying the voyeuristic ability to eavesdrop on each character's life. It seemed so real it was hard to believe I was watching a play!

When we returned home after the show, I had trouble sleeping and found myself re-living scenes from the play. A strange mixture of sadness and nostalgia enveloped me. Drifting on the edges of sleep, my mind kept returning to my childhood home in Lakewood. Many nights I sat gazing out of my bedroom window watching the next-door neighbors, wishing I could magically be transported into their family instead of my own. Curled up by the window with my chin resting on folded arms, I'd watch the Breiners....all thirteen of them - gesturing, talking and laughing as they ate dinner at their long dining room table or snuggling together in their family room, the faint blue light flickering over their faces as they watched TV…

Late the next morning, I awoke and looked around me at the odd assortment of strangers strewn around the room. It seemed as if they had been caught up in a wild, frenzied dance and then collapsed in a tangle of colorful clothes, blankets and hair. Looking around at everyone sleeping, I felt thrilled to be a part of that enchanting place!

Thus began a whirlwind week, a kaleidoscope of new experiences for a naïve, fresh faced teen from the Midwest. I loved the Loft! People came and went, slept, made love, shared food or got high. Everything was free-form, ever-changing. There were parties with the cast of Hair and Stomp, and a continuous flow of visitors: New York film directors, musicians, actors, celebrities, professional dancers and artists. Tents were set up, moved or taken down as the Loft morphed and transformed to accommodate the composition of those present. There were delicious meals, meditation sessions, and long, in depth discussions of Clear Children and other topics. I was convinced that Shipen with his new philosophy was on to something.

At the end of Easter break, reluctantly I packed to leave but resolved that somehow I would return to the Loft and my new friends. I knew with all my heart that I was meant to be there. I also knew I needed to finish my senior year of high school and graduate. I had made a promise to my parents that I would not drop out.

During my final months at school, I devoted most of my spare time to reading and absorbing the teachings in Clear Children. With zealous dedication, Sarah and I passed out copies we’d printed on the ancient mimeograph machine we used for the school paper. Groups of us met together after school to continue our discussions or meditate. Jokingly, I recall someone dubbed us The Clear Children Society.

In June of 1970, I finally graduated from Leelanau School. Wow, what amazing changes had occurred in that one short year! I was eager to return to the Loft. I packed up a few belongings and caught a Greyhound bus to New York City. Climbing the stairs to the Loft, I pushed back the rug hanging over the door and smelled the rich, delicate aroma of Indian curry. I was home! Once again Ariel welcomed me with a hug and I felt relieved and immensely happy. It was as if I had never left! I moved in and I was there to stay. I came seeking answers, seeking spiritual reality, seeking the Truth with a capital T.

What I didn’t realize at the time was how much of an intrusion I must have been in the lives of Shipen, Ariel, Jody, Bruce (and their other roommates on the floor below). They had enjoyed an all-male lifestyle in their private oasis that was both a lover’s retreat as well as the perfect space for spontaneous parties and gatherings. Though people dropped by for a night or two, the Loft was still their haven. Then I came crashing in with my naive feminine self, completely oblivious to the fact that women had been visitors, but had never, ever lived there! I realized that Shipen and Ariel were gay, but I was so smitten with Shipen-as-guru and with the Loft as spiritual-ashram-temple-space that I didn’t realize that maybe they wouldn’t want me to take up permanent residence in their home. In fact, I was so oblivious that it wasn’t until years later that I realized how disruptive and disturbing my arrival must have been.

The Loft

2009-02-17T16:12:00.001-08:00

"Shipen" William Lebzelter

This chapter is a rough draft from a book Shipen was writing about The Trees. This chapter is about the Loft before our arrival, as seen through Shipen’s eyes:

When our community came together in an attic apartment in lower Manhattan, it was out of necessity both economically and spiritually. We lived in one room, 25 feet square and to enhance privacy, each of us pitched tents, holding the center of the room as meeting and common ground. There was one tiny and ineffective heater that had the job of trying to heat us all, then eight, as the snow piled up on the five thin glass skylights and leaky windows. Coming in off 4th Avenue was somewhat of a trial on middle class upbringing because there were two things one would notice immediately, utter darkness and stench. To climb to the Loft you had to hold tightly to the shabby railing that wound up five flights. It was pitch dark since that part of the electricity had long ago failed. The building was condemned – yet we paid $150/month rent. Now our beloved loft is a parking lot.

On the fourth floor was the first sign of life – a room with a single working light bulb. In the room was a refrigerator, a sink, a bathtub, a john, and a cupboard – no partitions. It was the common room for the two apartments on the fourth floor and our commune on the top floor. It was the place wherein fifteen people prepared dinner in an ancient black stove, took baths, and other things, washed dishes, and congregated to talk and discover.

There were a few technical hindrances that were somewhat bothersome. The water pressure was such that it would take 40 minutes to fill the bathtub to 5 inches of water, which had to be preheated by a gas heater, which would explode if not carefully checked. Thermostats had not come to the Loft. Bathing fifteen people generally, under the circumstances meant at least two at a time, and certainly not every day. Bath schedules would have everyone cleaned once in about five days.

Because the water had such a difficult time making it to the fourth floor, it seemed exhausted and, like a camel, refused to ascend into the toilet box. We had to flush by bucket. To fill a bucket you had to plan ten minutes either to sit, or if organized, to prepare the flush water before approaching the john. There was one boarded up window in this room and the walls were stained off white with little trickles of muddy brown going from the sagging plasterboard ceiling down to the wainscot lumber, and below that were the usual kitchen stains and spots, which, after scrubbing, remained unharmed. The accent color on the wainscot board, around the open shelved cupboard and the chopping cupboard was red enamel.

The floor was gray widely spaced planks with patches of gray and red linoleum here and there, but mostly under the bathtub. Because of the piping arrangements, the sink, which was meant for doing dishes, had given up, and so we returned once again to the bathtub to fill all our water needs. There was one interesting phenomenon concerning this bathtub water. It tasted unlike any New York water I had had, and was in fact, delicious! People would come all the way up just to drink it. It actually tasted as good as any artesian well, and was the subject of much excitement and wonder.

On the walls over the tub there was a picture of the Last Supper and over the refrigerator a Mandela of seven energy centers expounded in Kundalini yoga. Also there was a post card sized picture of the enshrined Madonna with a prayer, and that hung on the side of the cupboard. The size of this room was eight feet by 14 feet or thereabouts. It was not a terribly generous room. But the botherations seemed an inherent and unchangeable part of her personality, and somewhat charming. As I remember, our having lived for one year in the Loft didn’t change her at all except in the last days when the water and refrigerator completely gave out and our water had to be carried from the church basement down the block, in canvas bags to sustain us. The priests at Grace Church were somewhat unbelieving of the whole situation, some of the younger having been refused permission to investigate both the premises and the people. But they did tolerate our coming for water. Also by that time we had incurred a Frenchman named Paul Greiner who lived two blocks away and had a shower with hot and cold water that came out like a mountain stream. It was a luxury we tried hard not to abuse; but somehow Paul had caught wind of the emerging affair in the Loft and was properly and sensibly sympathetic.

Alongside the kitchen were the two apartments that shared the bath/kitchen. Robert, who was tie-dying his way to fame, and David who was painting his way to the sky, lived in them. Robert’s room was the result of his failing in a 4 room apartment and having to move, without sacrifice, everything into the one room. One could see a small desk being totally overpowered by stacks of reference books and magazines, artist’s supplies, rugs, and furniture that seemed to run everywhere. If ten people were to enter and sit down, they would all be in complete privacy – and the room was only 14 x 14 square. The only place for intimate relationship was the bed, and it was not used infrequently. Most of the time Robert’s door, which came off the bath/kitchen by the refrigerator, was locked – and somehow a stigma was placed in that room so that one would feel relatively uncomfortable there, especially when urged to use the telephone. Telephone privileges were granted us at the beginning. But by the time the water quit, all privileges had been suspended.

David’s room was quite large. About 25 x 12 feet and it was typical of an art student at the School of Visual Arts. In it was a pot bellied stove, a bed, and many canvases of half finished work that accompanied perfectly the personality of our Jewish mystic. David had been the one to invite two of us to occupy the Loft when we were homeless. We were terribly thankful for his kindness.

David would hear only within certain auspices. He was involved in working through trying to discover existence on the Buddhic plane, while studying the teachings of Don Juan, and carrying on with his Max’s Kansas City friends far into the ecstatic Lower New York evenings. A natural Boy with a forehead of constant questions, wax in his ears, and heading for parts unknown. Traveling with David into conversations that he constantly pursued would have you left and abandoned at the gates of confusion every time. He was dead set on obliterating the natural line of logic and relative thought, and conscientiously held to his position of leading one to, I think, what he hoped would be an instant sublimity. Somehow I did not trust him fully, and generally left the conversations desperately trying to subdue my anger and regain whatever basic sense I felt endowed with. I suppose our common attraction had to do with the intensity of an underlying desire to find out something, he in his way and me in mine. We touched philosophy briefly in clairvoyance and auric discernment and sometimes would become involved in conversations dealing with the colors that shot out of people’s brains and bodies; but to David it was beautiful, to me mostly a subject of concern. By the time the water quit there was no successful line of communication. The time between the beginning and the end of the Loft, as I have said, was one year. The year of great changes. Now our Loft building is a parking lot.

It was in David’s loft that Ariel and I first pitched our tent. This is a literal truth, which afforded us privacy and a few more degrees of warmth. Burning good cannel coal in the ancient pot bellied stove gave us sufficient heat in our lonely corner of the room, and being in the tent allowed us to discover a marvelousness that could only be equaled somewhere in the wilds. Transferring the sounds of Fourth Avenue into the sounds of the sea was a feat that we sometimes accomplished except for sirens. They were difficult to translate. Because of Ariel’s fastidiousness and my middle class upbringing, the tent was most always in a pleasing arrangement. There was a bed at the far end of this 6 x 10 foot space, a low cut lamp stand, a kerosene lamp, a pretty stone on the table and horsehair pew pads taken from a Quaker meeting house in the front area where the bed wasn’t. Suspended from the ceiling of this small monster shaped Abercrombie and Fitch tent was a circular wire mobile where a single dove swung and a single Persian sheep bell hung. Climbing into the tent by guests would make the bell ring and the bird spin. Inside this space only sitting was possible, and there were times when there may be 10 or 12 people sitting there while the greater space of David’s Loft was left unoccupied. David, infatuated with this general effect was soon to construct a tent of his own, but seldom was it occupied save for moments of intimacy with loved ones, or a place for a crasher to hide out for a while. I can’t remember ever going inside it. For that matter, at the first I can’t remember leaving our tent much except to chop the onions for the beans that would cook during the day for our evening’s meal.

Ariel continued to work as a butler for Benjamin Sonnenberg on Gramercy Park. He owned a 40 room mansion on the park, each room filled with incredibility’s of the world of art and literature, but because of Ariel’s sub-butlerhood, earnings were medieval, but did allow us to pay David $50.00 a month, plus share the phone bill and utilities and to buy food. Ariel’s main duties at the mansion were to lay fires and polish brass. This was his full time occupation.

I was not working at all by the time we came to the Loft. My past had been a generous mixture of success and Madison Avenue madness and because of my college education at the University of Michigan, I was endowed with a certain ambition toward the finer things and worked my way to a commercial film director cameraman with Bert Stern with good earnings, and private work that brought me around the $400.00 a day bracket for my work.

The circumstances of my success was short lived due to sacrifices I was not willing to make concerning the cost of having money and fame. What does it profit a man if he gains the whole world and loses his own soul, seemed to be a long truth that hung on to parts of me, and I couldn’t successfully cut the cord to allow my freedom to gain what in essence it despised.

On the same day we moved to the Loft another also came to share this space. His name was Bruce and he had come, all 6 foot of him, including a foot of blonde carefully glowing hair, from Minnesota with special designs on New York City, same as all of us – and as green as we were eight years previous when we entered the great Babylon with trepidation overpowered by a curious movement in the stomach toward excitement and fantastic fulfillment. Bruce was an actor, and like most actors was successful at incorporating this condition into his private life. His lines were light and full of breathy life. His talent came probably from the very same qualities inherent in his physical structure – innocent but seductive, and he was old enough to know it and use it. And somewhat joined to the idea that this would be his route to fame and fortune. Not soon after his arrival he was found by Richard Scheckner to portray a bankrupt Christ in his new play. It seemed that Bruce’s calculations were correct; in spite of everything he became dearly loved and full of an amazing cosmic humor that was truly and delightfully innocent.

There were times, in this humor, when he would confuse an issue to such an extent that minds would be interchanged and we would be left wondering which mind was ours. A curious relationship this kind of insanity, and a perfect escape into the identity of another. Even though haphazard, it was a real release to the growing pressures that began inwardly to turn us. Somewhere in this humor, small glimpses of the unicorn came between visions of reality.

Bruce also pitched a tent of blankets, shapeless and hung by cords. It was not in any way reminiscent of a tent as the mind would choose to see one and so for us it was quite invisible.

So there we were in a triangular arrangement, doors facing center where the pot bellied stove was and worlds behind the doors of cloth. Norway, Germany, Israel, and Egypt – Egypt and Germany occupying the same territory, a feat of extraordinary vigor because of the problems that yelled for solution. This was the relationship between Ariel and myself. Anxious and removed. Time after time we would attempt conferences of the more weighty matters that concern nations, and our conversations would run something like this:

I have seen the light in my Bankrupt Christ.
Did you ever meet George? Oh!
Nothing is everything and everything is nothing.
What are you trying to say?

Norway, Israel, Germany and Egypt. Now our Loft is a parking lot.

None of us relished the idea of living together, but because our lives had grown accustomed to dealing with circumstances however grave, we learned to toss off our alterior hopes and be thankful with what we had. Questions concerning the filth, the smell, the lack of luxury, were insistently not entertained, and we began to look in other areas for our joy. The contradiction between my Riverside Drive fully automatic apartment and this situation went far beyond any hopes to explain rationally and so I learned not to deal with the whys. Small changes, I suppose, would lend themselves to a sensible suspicion, but this was ridiculous and beyond explanation. I merely know that it had happened, and best make the best of it.

One thing had been discovered to this point, and that was the celebration of life in its marvelousness and its absurdity. The drugs had accomplished another awareness, reducing life to its essentials, and then just being in it and letting it be in us. Of course when we were not in it or it in us, then came the heavies, the searches, the reasons, the systems, the answers, the religions, the “you can be happiers.”

There was also a pinch of curiosity, “You’re so pretty and lovely, what makes you tick.” Why is God? What is his will for mankind? How can mankind be made aware of the mystery of God’s power? How can I be powerful? How can I be God? And other riddles and attempts.

Celebration would go on nearly every night as soon as Richard came to feed Bruce a joint, sit him in a chair, put goggles on him, turn him into the Red Baron and then go sit and watch. The kerosene lamps would be lit, the beans and onions and rice would be served in the tent, and all would enjoy certainly nothing but the enjoyment itself. If you tried to enjoy the tent, you could only go so far not too much could hold the eye’s fascination, but there was a sense that somewhere in this limited space, was the feeding ground of the unicorn.

Sometimes for hours, we would sit, after hilarity, in silence, just looking around in expectation at each other and at the sloping irregular cloth walls. Ariel wanted to paint fresco’s on the walls, but I thought he had missed the point. Bruce’s eyes would go from blank to comic suspicion, to wonder, to expectation, to discovery almost continually as if he were constantly walking up a spiral staircase that was escalating down. And David, when he was there, was content to start seven or eight unfinished discussions, that erupted out of the silence like volcanoes of cold pea soup. I would allow myself a few brief insights per night, but generally merely generaled the discoveries as they happened around me. I was looking for the unique insight, not a restatement, nor a compound statement – but really a new insight. I knew the blanket of doubt between heaven and earth was so thick that it was virtuously impenetrable, even by the virtuous. Even if a single virtue could penetrate the gross darkness, it would seem to be ineffective. A drop in the bucket merely erases the good drop. It seemed that the only movement was for man to seek union with God. And so our occupation, from the time of the Loft, and before was narrowing to find God in all truth.

The first speculative accounts of our attempts centered around the basic premises of paradox and how they seemed to be present as an understanding gap between us and full knowledge. Being in awe of infinity was not consoling since we were not free of Logic and rational thought; and going before the yo-yo of life’s extremes presented an ever increasing complexity of philosophical dilemmas and confusions. In attempting to hold to a rigid transcendental purity, we merely discovered that we were trying to become escape artists, yet we tried and we tried, never fully capable of bending the oceanic emotional changes into obedience by sheer will power. The drugs helped in lifting us to planes of possibilities and more refined simplicities, but then the thought that we were stoned never left us, and so there was no real contentment in establishing even a transcendent fantasy and only a few laughs in operating within the fantastic.

Early in our discoveries, and to promote freedom from paranoia, groups of us would rent costumes (cheap) from Brooks Vanhord, buy Sunday’s cheap daisy’s from the corner flower man, and walk down 5th Avenue, handing the flowers to whoever might be wearing a mink coat, saying “God is Love” and getting off on the varied and splendid reactions of the oft frightened ladies.

In San Francisco that was the time when groups of hippies would run alongside the tourist buses as they traveled through Haight Ashbury, holding large mirrors up to the windows so that the tourists could be occupied watching themselves for a change.

It was also the time of the Mime street theatres, and happenings. The grandiose attempts at cosmic identity that put each freak in his own world of make believe – except that it was not meant to be make believe. It was meant to be a real alternative, an other world where ideals were realities and human beings were stripped to yield to their wildest and freest fantasies and desires.

It was the time of unspoken politics, when Bob Dylan could say, “You don’t know what’s happening do you Mr. Jones.” And that was enough to convince the sensitive and the aware that somehow a silent, eye winking, revolution was in hand to shatter the rigid and frozen nation of souls that somehow could not love nor see love, nor even desire to have it. It was the subtle politics of the Love generation. A noble enterprise that was to interpret the American Dream in terms of its active fulfillment.

But naive and innocent it wasn’t, and so by the time we reached the Loft, the subtle new “hip” policies had gone into effect and once again we settled to reflect on the hypocritical inadequacies of our generation and retreated from the whole world altogether.

SLAM!

Actually we couldn’t slam, because we didn’t have any doors to slam, only curtains to tie shut.

TIE!

It seemed the only thing left was to walk the weary land alone, bereft of a meaningful insight, but aware of the possibilities of freedom and love, and depth and height and breadth, and unity, and the virtue of submission. There were to be no teachers specifically, but all must be listened to. There was to be no formal and serious joining of sect or faith – no life commitments as we were already too involved in the comfortability of change. Joining was a thing of the past in the Loft as already, Nicheren Shoshu Buddhism, Scientology, Kundalini Yoga, SUBUD, Integral Yoga, SRF, had at one time or another been joined and abandoned.

If there was a formal lonely cry it was “we don’t know where we’re going but we are going where we know.” And we were pretty sure of that.

The family of adherents to this basic search philosophy was small and unobtrusive. Ariel and I, and Bruce to an extent, and David to a different extent, and Roger and Claudia.

Roger

Roger had been my colleague in the film business and was equally disturbed by it. We had worked together for three years. Roger was a Park Avenue raised New Yorker and we met when I was a green Northern Michigan New Yorker. Roger was into Cardin, Vogue, New York restaurants and delicacies and Elaine’s and a bit of curiosity for the bazaar. He was tall, fitted the sleek fashion line of New York 1968, with an uncomfortable sense of knowledge as to New York ways and attitudes that somehow didn’t quite fit him. He was a boy, fascinated with authority was terribly suspicious and unsure of himself. There existed under the carefully chosen appearance of Roger, a distinct failure to be 100% given to what he was doing and so he was like all of us, involved in the mystery of discovering something more meaningful than the superficial garb and goals of the fame seekers of Madison Avenue.

It was Roger who renovated my naïve self and replaced my country worn blue jeans with several Cardin suits, Gucci shoes, blue silk ties with white poka dots, and to travel in all this by way of a BMW motorcycle.

Roger and I entertained life in the jet era by flying to New Orleans for lunch at Brennan’s; handling $75,000.00 commercial productions at poolside, Beverly Hills Hotel; lining up schooners for voyages through the Caribbean; and Lobster Boats for more robust commercials; trampling deserts and mountains for the proper locations for the moods that would sell the products. We trampled through three years of an adventure in commercial making, that offered us unlimited exposure to life as it existed in the tastemakers of the 60’s, and presented to the American public in one minute segments hundreds of times a day.

It was also Roger who opened the door of his E. 63rd apartment to me a year after I had quit him and the business. I was holding a tab of clear dot acid with a look of curiosity and invitation in my eyes, saying Roger, I think it’s time you made some real discoveries. He nodded, let me in, and a new relationship was under way. Shortly thereafter Roger left the Business, grew his hair, started wearing blue jeans, buying Ravi Shankar records and books and books of discovery techniques, that would occupy his whole day until the acid evenings would come around. He seldom left his apartment, save to come to the loft, and that was seldom. I was there quite often and Ariel sometimes.

On our first acid trip we proclaimed Love and its possibilities, and were, together, hopelessly tied to that hope of meaning in relationships. Realizing that we loved each other brought a certain relief from a 27 year old headache; but now the systems were upon us and the wisdom of the world was sought as ample embellishment to this situation of vocally proclaimed Love.

Claudia was Roger’s wife. She was a ballerina and lovely beyond description. I introduced Roger to Claudia many years before and their relationship began immediately and didn’t stop. Claudia was the strongest of the three of us and disciplined in mind and body as her craft began when she was 8 years old and continued, uninterrupted into her fame as a dancer. She was known as America’s Baby Ballerina and went from there into one of New York’s finest ballet companies. But Claudia was like all of us, involved in the mystery of discovering something more meaningful than the superficial garb and goals of the fame seekers of the dance world. It was many years before I discovered that she had already found the meaning she was looking for in Roger. Roger and I were mainly concerned with the discovery, Claudia was very patient in true love and pretended to be interested in change, but she was in love with Roger, something neither Roger nor I fully understood as we were preoccupied with Love’s definition.

But she went through the changes, listened to the records, was a dear and loving friend, got scared on acid, got worried a lot, watched the changing scenery in Roger’s apartment as it filled with incense and rugs and fascinating things. Claudia had originally stated that she was a middle class girl, and so for her, our two year intensive search was confusing, yet she loved us both, was committed in her heart to Roger, and patiently sat and watched the tennis match of philosophical TRUTH that bantered between Roger and I almost continually. I am convinced that Claudia almost never understood what was happening; but poor love abided it all beautifully, even to the extent of being thrust bodily into a tub of icy water that was somehow to wash her sins away; she along with the dog and various articles in the apartment that Roger and I felt needed cleansing took frequent trips to that icy bathtub.

I’m sure Claudia’s stomach began to rumble when Roger and I decided that we must eat only the purest bread and drink only the purest bottled water from Poland, and read only the purest literature, and live in only the purest vibrations. I am convinced that Claudia was an active Christian from the beginning, but was just having a tragically difficult time with the impetuous men in her life.

Roger and I would have many “A-ha’s” a day to Claudia’s confused wonderment and because she had wonderment, Roger was occupied with constant attempts to convert Claudia to the school of insight toward which she remained confused until the advent of our Christianity. She would, however, smile, nod, and be interested in every aspect of the discovery, but could not participate fully. She was in love with Roger and that was the simple truth. The unicorn knows.

I mentioned a two year drug association with my friend Roger. This period came before the Loft, but led up to and into it.

The school of thought was open and unending. Our ears were open to authority when it was involved in pure motives as opposed to political intentions. Politics were an abhorrent attempt to establish battle lines based on someone’s conception of right and wrong, and since so many past wrongs had been changed in us, we weren’t about to re-moralize a world that seemed to need understanding and acceptance more than it did coercion and judgment.

I had once talked to an Episcopalian priest, who after many years as a missionary in Africa, suddenly came to the conclusion that the African culture itself was quite lovely, and virtually unsuited to American Liturgy. His missionary efforts to change Africans into Americans, frustrated his Christianity so much that [he] came to the conclusion that he had no right being there until he could successfully view Christianity as possible within the African culture. How many conscientious priests there are I don’t know, but he was refreshing. I think many times culture and religion get interchanged so that one means the other. Culture becomes the religion, and then becomes political, whereas the only politic in religion is the eternal nature of its dogmatic truth. Culture changes. Truth remains constant, as interpretation changes. Culture is interpretation and a valid expression of religion.

In the Loft, it was religion that was important, not culture or interpretation. Either the truth hit or it didn’t and if it was true it needed no interpretation. We had discovered truth, and pursued it as a lover to find its source, so that we could participate fully in it as opposed to merely watching from a distance as critics might. Then we were not involved in heresies, as we trusted our inherent intuition as guide, thinking God was not basically a deceiver. Since our eyes were on God the ever-present, God the all powerful all merciful, invisible finality, we felt safe and protected, with a degree of integrity, and appreciation, and child like carefreeness. Nothing was more powerful than God. Not acid, or people, or spiritual wickedness, or Satan, or even mistakes or poor judgment. And so we were involved.

Truth was our fair sister, it was the Book of Wisdom minus a few prejudices, and St. Paul minus a few hang-ups, and Buddhism minus Buddha, and Christianity minus Christ. It was the time of visions and locutions and special revelations, and angels and saints and creatures of the sun and the wood. A time of being embarrassed by the sense of discovery, of becoming, of realizing, of guiltless enthusiasm, of free morals, of freedom itself. It was the time for every poet, but more especially every saint that had understood the mind and spirit. It was the time of the Egyptian Book of the Dead, The Oral Tibetan teachings and secret doctrines, the Sacred Liturgies of the Lamas and Bodhisattvas, the Mantras and Mandela’s of self realization, and cosmic identity, the transcendental systems of purity and magic, fascination and discipline, the floating relativity of anyone who had ever discovered anything for sure to anyone else who understood the yes; but it was all transcendent and unconcerned with the worn out knowledge of who human beings were with their limitations and boundaries of fear, their petty prejudices and ridiculous intentions. People had failed utterly to give other people what was needed – they failed to give love, to find acceptance, to accept love, to choose the good, to be at peace, to be themselves. They confined God to a small area of life where He was kept in check and under complete control – He was systematized, categorized, filed, and dealt with accordingly. He was a small and ineffective agent that somehow was connected but aloof. He was kept in the sanctuary, let out once a month, and locked in the Big 5th Avenue churches after 7:30 p.m. He was put into guns, and computers, and psychologies, and nations, and politics. He was thrown about by people who could run a better world then he. He was killed by an incensed mob of lynchers who wanted their own governorship. He was put behind every good intention gone wrong. He was the guarantee of a good social position (only certain denominations of him that is), a good Broadway Show, a prosperous job. He was all those things to all those people. There was no question that God was very much directly related to the affairs of men and to men themselves whether acknowledged or not.

In the Loft, we sought to set God free to be Himself and so we headed directly to the East for enlightenment as to how to accomplish this. It seemed that the Christian’s relationship with God was mundane and selfish and careless and crass. In our feeling sorry for God, we didn’t fully realize that he cherished each of the people who held these relationships with him, and we didn’t fully realize that we were in fact, in no better state than the worst sinner all loving not rejecting, still persevering with the kind of patience that indeed created us all, and united us all, and defended us all, and above all, waited for us all. In our attempts to find God, I guess what we wanted was to be free of Him, free not to have to consider his suffering, we wanted to be perfectly invisible from Him and like Him, not to cause pain – to be removed like a thorn, to take His place. We had not discovered Love in the Loft in the early days. We had discovered enthusiasm, and felt good about the cause, it was a step out of mediocrity, out of failure, out of the normal HAYDAY of imperfect relationships. Isolation seemed to be the key – the forgotten corner of the room, the tent, the single lantern, and the simplicity of beans and rice and onions. The studies and meditations brought environments beyond description or execution, and paintings, and writings that could not be uttered. Secrets. Discoveries. A magician’s knowledge. A wizard’s amazing feats – a baby. In our bodies we discovered enough energy to alter the structure of the world.

The studies also brought people, and with them, stronger and more precise drugs. After experimentation and chemists, we finally came to Jack the alchemist and 250 hits of clear dot acid – not for sale, and only for the closest friends – certainly not for novices or new friends. That meant that we were tripping almost continually.

The acid was discovered miraculously in our lives by an illusive creature called Jack. Just Jack – a last name would not be forthcoming, only a penetrating stare that tended to check on one’s courage and stamina, a strangely concerned boy with a mission – had seen all trips, and indicated a sort of compassion for than inward pressure that continued turning us. Somewhere in Jack’s eyes was the same curiosity that we all had, a sort of vicarious fever to observe. The Acid came on a piece of plain white absorbent paper, it could not be seen, and to take it, you just tore a small piece and ate it. It was bitter to the taste, but honey to the stomach. It set us to 8 months of heavy tripping.

Our trips experience involved the same preliminary conditions. First there was to be no chance of interruption. A free 12 hour period. Second only two or three people, or four at most so there would be no major confusion. No food would be taken that day. Third the first hour would involve no talking, leaving the room, listening to music, or nervous laughing. No communication whatsoever. Each person was expected to pass certain barriers unaided. Fear, vertigo, confusion, claustrophobia, shattering, and insanity must at all cost be persevered as atmospheric conditions, and stepped through as they came – and they inevitably did, every time. All hallucinations and untamed imaginations and insights were also to be avoided as unessential. Eyes were generally closed. If bodily energy became evident, it was to be channeled up the spine, through the neck, into the medulla oblongata, toward the forehead and back to exit the crown of the head. Other than those particulars, there was no instruction, no purpose, no specific hope, and no planned direction. During this first hour we followed no advice and listened to no one. Ariel, Roger, and myself would go – and sometimes Claudia and sometimes Bruce.

After the barriers were seen and surmounted there emerged a great calm – it was everyone’s calm as it had been everyone’s battle – and a nod and a glance from each other indicated that we had reached the first plateau. Here we would rest as if in free space, and just be free. Free of thoughts or intrusions from earth and its noises, free of speculation, of question, of annoyance, of separation. The condition was qualityless, formless, colorless, personless, and tireless.

From this point we were free to move, still no talking as it was unnecessary. The movement would be windy and pure, each muscle acting exactly in tune and with the wind that came from the center of our being – effortless, graceful, but intentional and creative, and it seemed to comply with the laws of gravity. Levitation had not been discovered, but no matter. Unity with the existent condition involved a full association with body, mind and spirit – all being in obedience to the latter, in full trust and mutual admiration. If the arm moved up it was observed, felt inside and out, and guided by a cooperation of the mind. It had no other intention than to move by the prompting of the spirit within. There was no conflict, no frustration as any limitation was accepted as normal, as was our natural restriction. Only once did the spirit leave its body, but its freedom was not enjoyed, since it was still connected by the silver cord, and seemed disjointed and unnatural. At one point I remember the real possibility of cutting the cord and entering death, but my mind was quickened by a strange sense of responsibility, and I decided against it, attractive as it was. To be away from the body was like forcing the eyes to cross, which was not a natural move, and so we did not encourage astral projection or bi location. To be away from the body was something that we could never fully accept, even though we were being taught that our fulfillment was in the land of spirit only – that the end of all things was to melt into the continuing love energy that was in all creation and become oblivious in our bliss. But somehow these ideas, no matter how glorious they became intellectually, didn’t seem to fit the pattern of our deepest needs, we didn’t know if we could get accustomed to being merely a floating disembodied spirit. If that were to be the case it would seem that we would be always seeking material to enter. In the Christian sense this would mean that we would become possessing spirits, demons of sorts. Without a substantial body of our own we would naturally seek to possess another.

In this world of discovery of the spirit, we made an allegiance with the spirits, and we were curious.

This welcoming of the realm of living spirits came after the plane of peace was reached. At this time we would experience a sense of rapture – the clear windy movement of the spirit would begin to reach profound areas of meaning. This would produce an ecstasy - showers of bliss, nirvanic pleasures – like being rained on by pure Love, or standing in front of the sun with no awareness of separation or difference – the barriers were down, and we would look at each other and laugh. I remember Roger and I once went into the garden in this state, looked up, and laughed gloriously for an hour. It was the freedom one would feel by standing under a waterfall that was chanced upon while walking through a mountainous green glade. Our efforts to escape the mundane had been successful. After the showers came the instruction. At this time we would separate to contemplate and to receive teaching from this world of disembodied spirits. To us these were not elemental haunting spirits that came to séance tables but were instead, high officials of knowledge and mystery.

I remember once finding myself in a very large room, huddled just inside the door looking up to a table of very important governors. I could not see their faces, but I heard them speaking an unknown language with such calmness and authority that I was totally taken up in their conversation. I felt somehow that I shouldn’t be there, that I was an intruder since they didn’t seem to be aware that I had somehow snuck in. Then I had the feeling that they did know I was there and that they didn’t mind, then I realized that I was a messenger boy, summoned to carry something of the discussion, back to earth. I became aware that I was being given a special revelation of truth to impart to the world.

Six weeks later I found that I had completed an automatic writing called Clear Children. It was a complex psychological dissertation on the hang-ups of the mind as viewed from 32 standpoints of reality, e.g. anger, fear, benevolence, jealousy, lust, desire, despair, vanity, pride, covetousness, illness, confusion, apathy, etc., etc. What the work tried to do was to approach these realities of the human spirit by means of the mind and to accept them as tools that the mind could reject after sufficient work had been done. Its intention was to get the mind so accustomed to these situations that it could finally choose to be finished with the work and enter into the free states of existence, namely hope, faith, grace, mercy, love, and peace. Finally, by a work of understanding in the mind, all the ills of human nature could be washed away. We were not clever enough at the time to realize that secretly we had put the spirit and soul in charge of the mind, to be obedient to the mind.

Clear Children was written from beginning to end without mistake and in perfect order. It claimed men’s right to be God. That he was totally responsible for his own realization – that what he thought went, that he had powers that were unimaginable. It seemed that even the gospels of Jesus Christ were in full accord with this attempt at perfection and power. Faith can move mountains, I believe was our chief encouraging scripture. It was quite clear that we ourselves were our own saviors, and that we had no need of intervention by another. We were brothers of Christ and co-equal. We were the embodiment of the same spirit that possessed Jesus of Nazareth and so we knew him by proximity and through the mystery of what we were being told was our human right. Jesus was the first fruits of a long line of Sons of God. Sons that could do even greater works than He. Sons that could understand the things that Jesus couldn’t tell his generation. “There are many things to say, but you can not hear them now.” Jesus was Buddha’s brother, he sat at that table of the most accomplished spirits in the universe. He had conversed and learned from the east, from Buddha, from Rame Krishna. He was mainly in charge of the western culture whereas Buddha’s teaching dominion was based in the east. The involvement was mysterious and the excitement to power was mysterious. We began to realize that we were in the company of the great teachers, and Clear Children was our ticket back into that room. “Every good boy deserves favor.” We had obeyed, we were welcome, and we knew it.

Summer in the City - The Loft Days

2009-02-16T17:15:00.000-08:00

“…breathing in the darkness under the bridge,
who rose up to build harpsichords in their lofts…
who scribbled all night rocking and rolling
over lofty incantations which in the yellow morning
were stanzas of gibberish…” Alan Ginsberg Howl

Thus began a whirlwind summer of exploration and ever changing new experiences. One afternoon, we walked up to 59th street and meandered through Central Park, listening to myriad street musicians playing steel drums or strumming guitars and watched tai chi dancers move fluidly in their ancient slow motion dance. On another especially windy late afternoon, we took down all the streamers of fabric from the Loft, tied them into interconnected pieces, and fastened them to a subway grate. As the subway roared by underneath the grate, the streamers floated up into the air creating a beautiful dancing sculpture of undulating colors. Cool! Another time, we marched through the Bowery on an impromptu parade playing bells, a tamboura and other eastern instruments as we processed along. There was so much to experience, so much to learn!

One night, we went to hear Alan Ginsberg recite poetry in a smoky, basement coffee house. Another summer evening, I remember sitting with thousands of others in Central Park listening to the melodic and mournful songs of Joan Baez. There were Ravi Shankar concerts and strange underground theater about politics and torture in Latin America. I especially loved the dance performances by Twyla Tharpe, Alvin Ailey or Martha Graham, and lively Broadway shows like Stomp or Hair. Each day was a new adventure.

That summer, Shipen and Ariel introduced me to the gay community and opened my eyes to an entirely new subculture. I saw the movie Boys in the Band, attended some outlandish drag queen shows, and discovered a world I had previously never known. It didn’t seem any more unusual than other aspects of the hip, post-beat New York City culture. The gay lifestyle was just one more beautiful facet in the prism in which my new life was reflected.

I felt giddy with the freedom of this vibrant counter-culture. Experimentation and celebration was interwoven into life in the Loft. I was thrilled to explore spirituality as I sought to improve myself “on the path to enlightenment.” People dropped in and out. Shipen had started these amazing communal sketchbooks called Trip Diaries that others drew in while tripping in the Loft. One was of an intricate eye with another universe inside (see picture above).

A page from the Trip Diaries

The pages quickly filled up with beautiful drawings and writings about exquisite experiences or profound realizations. Their ever-so-deep realizations like “Life is the meaning of what” that were so mind-blowing just seemed kind of ridiculous the next day.

Our studies included the I Ching, books on Transcendental Meditation, Shintoism, Taoism, Zen and Tibetan Buddhism, and most importantly books about Jesus: theThe Aquarian Gospel of Jesus Christ, The Urantia Book, The Impersonal Life, and the Bible. Like a shepherd, God was calling me but still I wandered, lost, searching for answers and trying to find my way home.

The Young Painter

2009-02-15T18:03:00.000-08:00

David Karasek

In early September, another lost sheep found his way to the Loft, David Karasek. At first glance, David struck me as shy, gangly and a bit clumsy. I soon discovered he was a gifted artist who could paint a kitchen wall or cover the side of a bus with intricate, beautiful paintings. David writes about his entrance into the Loft family:

"I was seventeen and lived very independently. I had one survival tool: a wooden stick with hair on the end of it, covered in paint. Someone would pass me a marijuana cigarette, and I would usually refuse, holding out the paintbrush, or rather on to it for dear life. I knew I was an artist since I was 11, when I painted my first painting, a seascape that I hated because it was so full of my anger and turbulence. But everyone around me loved it.

Art also drew me into a separate world, with a different set of people and experiences that I would not have known otherwise. It led me to the Music and Art High School, one of New York City’s specialized high schools now called LaGuardia High School. It also led me to many creative friends and acquaintances that, while having their own problems and struggles, all had a sense of inspiration and with that, direction in their lives.

One of these friends from school was "Charlie". He had not been a friend, but just another kid in my homeroom. It was 1970 and that summer we worked together as camp counselors at the 14th street Y, taking the kids to Staten Island by ferry each day. The bond from school and our work together gave us the time to know each other. Charlie insisted that I meet ‘these people’, but did not say where we were going, or provide any sense of what I might experience.

We turned the corner from 14th street at Union Square and 4th Avenue, and walked down two blocks, past the ‘Green Painted Bookstore’, where he confidently opened the unlocked door to what seemed like an abandoned building. With familiar casualness, Charlie led me into a pitch black foyer . “Come on,” he said, in a throated, jovial laugh. And then we began the darkened climb up broken stairs that would change my life. Around and around we went until there were no more steps left. At long last we reached the gateway to our destination, the curtain leading to the loft..

It's batik-patterned surface of swirling reds, whose thinness was translucent to streams of natural light behind it, as if it were stained glass. Reverently, he peeled the fabric back from the doorframe, revealing another half flight of steps, painted gleaming white, and reflecting blinding sunlight in contrast to the black treads we left behind. With each step a most unusual attic room showed more of itself. The irregular space's white wood polished floor, immaculately scrubbed, seemed to flow around many, intimate corners, while reflecting so much light that it gave me the sensation of being afloat.

The room had 3 alcoves, and a broad central area. The walls were a mosaic of open brick, earth toned relief surfaces covered in paintings, so that the walls were not boundaries but additional dimensions and pathways. The ceiling was deceptive in height. It was low and pitched near the window to our right, but high and flat where we stood at the stairwell. Translucent at the skylight, the sun penetrated the roof at its center. Where the lowness might have been too imposing, it too was dissolved, by the red geometries of rugs pinned up to form an artificial sky.

Then there were the tents. In sanguine colors of ochre and sap green that faded into the warm tones of the open brick, they were pitched into the glossy floor with bolts, like ships anchored in a harbor. These inner-shelters were positioned in the alcove to the left of the steps, in the corners of the attic. One alcove was opposite the steps, against the far wall from where we stood. It was raised up by one step, behind another white railing and was tent-free. Instead it supported the statue of a Buddha, a sculpture of a lion head, and the sole chair in the whole room. This was a very elegant, Balinese, fanned seat of rattan. In addition to the artifacts on the floor of the alcove, there was an orderly stack of books and writing pads. The book titles included The I Ching, The Tibetan Book of the Dead, The Bhagavad-Gita, Siddhartha, and Kundalini Yoga. The texts belonged. It felt as if we had left New York and had materialized in the places where they had been written.

One of these men now sat alone, in the lone rattan chair. He sat as if he had always been there. At first I didn’t even see him. He was silent and unmoving, blending into the mysterious space with its many artifacts and images. But his stillness was kinetic. It seemed to me that his muscles were flowing, moving through smooth limbs connected like pipes to a very thin torso. His lengthy back was absolutely straight; shot out of the base of his spine to a long neck, and a soft chin and rounded cheeks. A thick mustache was drawn, as if by dab of gauche, below a thin nose, hedging thin, placid lips. The edges of his short brow and full cheeks were further extenuated by black, thick hair that poured from a full scalp, sweeping over barely visible ears, racing down the long neck to coalesce on thin, chiseled shoulders. In the midst of this latent movement, it was his dark brown eyes that caught me in their gaze, centering me from within the roundness of wire framed glasses, from within the roundness of his face, from within the roundness of the fanned chair that formed a halo surrounding him.

"Hello Ariel,” burst Charlie, the tenor voice sounding like an alarm. The man seated against the wall was at first immobile at the shrill chime, but then slowly breathed a “hello.” He answered almost inaudibly, with intentional reserve, so that the response fell in front of us, reverently bringing back the silence in room. Ariel continued to look at me.

"Oh,” continued Charlie, unabated, “I would like you meet Dave.” At this introduction the stately man rose slowly out of the straw throne, rising to his full, 6 foot 2 inch height without hesitation, undaunted by the Loft’s 7 foot ceiling. He moved forward onto the gleaming whiteness where we stood, stepping down from the alcove. Now Ariel extended a handshake, firm and resolute, while keeping his eyes focused on mine for several seconds, without speaking. He seemed to be expecting someone else to speak.

“Oh,” said Charlie, picking up the non-verbal cue, “Ariel this is Dave, Dave Ariel.” Ariel spoke just a little less softly, in a baritone voice.

“Ah, another talent.”

“He’s a painter, and a damned good one I might add.”

“Oh well,” Ariel intoned, matching pitch, exposing a clearly southern accent, “you’ll have to stay and meet…” My school friend interrupted again, “Yes, that’s one of the reasons I brought him.”

“Ah yes….a good reason…” smiled Ariel.

An ingrained engine of hospitality suddenly engaged, as this time it was Ariel who changed the mood. “So would you like some iced tea?” He sang the word tea, gesturing back down the steps to the half-kitchen, half bath.

I hesitated for a moment; Charles shrugged. Ariel decided for us, “Well of course you would.” Now Ariel’s flamboyancy completely replaced his previous reserve. Stepping as a dancer, he turned with sudden and certain grace for the stairs, with legs in white Levis cascaded down the white steps.

Just then a sound came from one of the tents. A form emerged of almost the same, ochre color as the tent walls, rising into the warm air and catching the hue of fire under the Loft’s skylight. The blond unraveled, elongating into flames of very long hair. From within the locks discretely emerged a young woman’s face, softer than her youth of 17 years, and far softer than her life experience thus far. She rose to her full 5’ 4”, thin height in a series of staggering moves, and rubbed her fawn-like eyes to adjust to both the afternoon’s light and our presence. “Hi Charlie,” she yawned, stretching thin arms outward toward the mysterious boundaries of the room. She continued after a space, “So…. I see you’ve brought a friend.” She was still shaking off sleepiness to respond to the new face.

"Yes, this is my friend Dave.” Like Ariel before, she gazed at me for a long quiet time, catching me in the blue pearls of her sight. “Dave, this is Shishonee..”

“Sounds, like, like Native American.” Her smiled opened up now, “You’re right. Shishonee’s Indian…it means peace.” She said “peace” in a definite way, with a certain reverence, as if the cadence of her speech could communicate the peace of which she spoke.

As she was telling us about herself, abstract slices of Ariel’s profile appeared through the slats in the stairway’s railing, until his full head popped above the banister, followed by skinny shoulders beneath a Nehru shirt. His slender hands were stretched under a white linen cloth, bearing the promised tray of teas -- and freshly made bread. A sourdough scent rose from the loaves and permeated the room, merging senses with the gold and sienna colors of its open brick walls.

Ariel brought the basket and its wafting scent across the white floorboards, and finally sat the tea down in the alcove, in front of the chair where he was earlier enthroned. He then stood back up, and with a very smooth articulation he curved his torso and long arm into an arch pointing to floor, gestured for us to sit down on the beaded mats on the raised floor. Ariel and Shishonee sat on these tatami mats, folding into a half-lotus position, calves completely folded under with one foot tucked beneath a thigh.

As soon as we all sat, the one the others had spoken of, the other man who built the Loft, appeared at the top of the steps. He was a short, slim man who now, and would always, seem taller than he actually was. He moved toward us quietly and resolutely and without requiring anyone to move, he sat down beside us, leaning his back into the smooth, plaster wall, his thin legs stretched straight out. The earlier tension dissolved into relaxation. But he did not loose the gaze that had previously traveled across the floor, now refocused on me, as if to not only see but also to understand. He did not wait for anyone’s introduction.

“Hello, I’m Shipen,” he said. I was stunned by the intensity of the man, and did not answer at first. “…David,” I replied at last, trying to keep eye contact with the blueness that sailed in his sights, with the spirit that had voyaged here. “Welcome,” he continued, conveying that the enchanting Loft was, more than in small part, his place, without actually claiming so.

The first evening at the Loft enraptured me so that I completely lost track of the time. As it turned out, it did not matter. In a few days I became a permanent resident of the Loft. I was already living apart from my parents for the most part anyway, a reality not lost on Shipen, Ariel or Shishonee. My naturally concerned mother, who was working in Iraq as an archeologist at the time, sent a cult deprogrammer/psychologist to straighten me out. But Kevin ended up trying to join the group, rather than getting me to leave."

Silver Flutes and Mushrooms

2009-02-14T15:32:00.000-08:00

David Lynch and his Artley Flute

Next on the scene was David Lynch, who joined us in late summer after leaving a theater company called Mushroom. David was a roguish, handsome actor with a delightful British accent and carefree sense of humor. Quick witted and articulate, he was a true free-spirit, easy going, a Rastafarian type with a wry sense of humor who enjoyed a good toke as well as a quick turn of phrase. With his long hair pulled back in a ponytail, he would regale us with songs plucked on his nylon-strung guitar.

David Lynch playing his guitar

David tells of his entry into the Loft:

"I first met Shipen in the very early spring of 1970. He was a friend of John Amen who was one of the movers and shakers in the Broadway musical Hair. I met Ship at John's place on 47th Street just west of Ninth Avenue, when I was living on 44th Street in the same block. John would have soiree/musical parties at his place with fantastic sing-alongs of every conceivable Broadway show and tune.

When I was introduced to Shipen he was just about to embark on a journey of survival on the British Island of St. Lucia, staying in the wild away from the tourist areas and hotels and such. I recall that part of his quest was to quit tobacco too. Anyway, Shipen came over to my apartment one afternoon before he left and we had a great get together, drinking bancha tea, and exchanging musical, philosophical, and social ideas.

Over the spring months, John and I became good friends and we wrote some tunes together and talked for hours about community ideals. Around May or so an "Employment as Butler and Housekeeper" scheme in White Plains that my girlfriend and I were hoping to net went belly-up and fell through. I had already given the word to my roommates that I was leaving town so my roommate thing evaporated and I "emigrated" from the West Side across the Hudson to East Orange, New Jersey for my period of exile from New York. The move did get me in closer contact to the other guys in a potentially-happening rock band affair I was having called Sweet Ginger. The rest of the band were all from some place called Livingston, way out west in Jersey, and I wasn't quite ready to abandon that possibility of fame, and do the roots thing and return to England.

In early June, Broadway John managed to get a message to me and invited me to be a part of his experimental musical theater/commune near New Paltz. Thrilled to be freed from suburban New Jersey, I jumped at the idea! So that summer we created the Mushroom Commune in High Falls in upstate New York. One weekend in August, on one of those glorious sparkling, full summer kinda days that feels like it could last for a lifetime, Shipen came to visit the commune. He had recently returned from his sojourn in St. Lucia. He easily assimilated the lifestyle of the commune and set up a lovely blue canvas tent in the field by the river in the midst of the Mushroom village of tents. His was a big 9-foot ceiling teepee-like home, adorned with colourful carpets, iconic images and sounds, incense, flutes, pictures of Avatars and saints. We shared some quiet times together and although he said he would not be staying more than a week, I should be sure to come and visit him if I was ever back in the City.

As the summer progressed, the commune had evolved into a fairly cohesive committed group varying from 25 or so folks who had live-in tents to weekend-visiting groups of 40 or 50 friends, friends of friends, and other would-be fungi. After the initial rave successes of our Hair-inspired shows in the large barn/'theatre" at the top of the road on the property, the Musical Mushroom Company also made theatrical presentations in New Paltz, Kingston, and in the other nearby towns of Upstate New York, transporting our "show" on a flatbed truck from town to town and returning to the Mushroom fields exhausted but exhilarated, eagerly planning wilder and more exotic musical conquests.

Thus we continued on week after week. This idyllic "Second Summer of Love" culminated in "sold out" performances in glorious weather on a big field right by Woodstock town over Labor Day weekend and the weekend following, which were the crowning Mushroom experiences. Our gigantic Spaceship-like performance tent was filled to capacity with singers, musicians, dancers, fans and revelers of all sorts. The Mushroom was a grand success.

A few weeks before the Labor Day weekend extravaganzas, an amazingly inventive architect had come up to Mushroom from Philly and proposed, designed, and constructed an incredible GIANT tent that we could perform our shows inside. Blown up with a simple flat fan, it was made of clear polyethylene film and it rose up in the middle of the big field below the barn at the Mushroom commune. Once it was inflated, the simple pressure of the fan was enough to keep it up. Word quickly spread, and crowds flocked to the farm. At night, with our show performing, and the lights and music flashing and booming into the surrounding hills, it really looked and sounded like a spaceship had landed! This was the tent we performed in at the final shows in Woodstock.

The weeks following those Labor Day happenings were by contrast characterized by rain, rain, and more rain with that kind of September drizzly cold that quickly signals the change of season in upstate New York and the seasonal exodus of the masses of vacationers back to the City. Our post-Labor Day weekend shows were disasters. Most everyone was gone! Nonattendance and mounting frustration produced an immediate financial drain and rapid defection of the cast and crew of the Mushroom. Inevitably, the vehement "I'LL Never-Go-Back-to-Gothem!" oaths of stoned, naked Midsummer Glee gave way to - "Hey are you going as far as the Lower East Side? Could I cop a ride?"

So I found myself once again back in the City - East Orange was yesterday's film clips and alas, the magic of Mushroom had become a dream unfulfilled. I remembered Shipen's invitation and soon found my way down to 108 Fourth Avenue, two blocks below the 14th Street Union Square stop off the #6 subway. It was just north of Grace Church, right next to the used book bazaars, three or four storefronts jammed to the rafters with books. I remember opening that big old Downtown Door and peering into the gloom within. With some trepidation I stood in the dank hallway and as I got used to the dimness, I could vaguely make out candlelight up on the first landing. I sprinted up the stairs to the landing and turned around. Everything was all closed up. I sped on to the next floor and the next, passing little luminaries at each turn. Finally the fourth staircase ended at a wool-curtained doorway at the top. Out of breath, I parted the curtain and was suddenly in a brightly lit hallway with a gigantic Industrial Gallery on one side and a very tiny kitchen crowded full of people on the other side.

I was warmly welcomed in. Cooking smells assailed me, signaling the evening feast I was told. There not being much room left in the kitchen I was shown up another staircase - "Mind your head." I emerged into an attic loft with a raftered sloping roof. Dimly lit, it gradually revealed a kind of dormitory setting with tentlike spaces staked out around the walls. Parachute material served as partitions, and mattresses and musical instruments of various kinds became apparent.

Shortly after my arrival a mealtime seemed to be announced as people and dishes ascended from the kitchen below. We all assembled cross-legged on cushions and mats around the central carpeted area; in the middle of which an immense feast was laid out. No one seemed in a hurry to eat. My friend Shipen himself emerged from one of the closed-off tented areas and greeted everyone and welcomed us to the loft gathering. And then a kind of cathedral-like silence enveloped us as we sat. Each was left to their own thoughts and a feeling of communal togetherness, which was pervasive and very appealing. The silence grew. It became very deep and very peaceful. There seemed to be no hurry to leave it. And then Shipen read a passage from a leather-bound book that seemed to speak directly to each in the assembled multitude. And the silence talked to our spirits. Later there were other readings, soft voice sounds grew in volume and intensity, seeming to come from us all, singing round about us. This was a far cry from the Mushroom!

Eventually, Peace was there and, bathed in it, we ate and then talked softly. Through the course of the evening various musical instruments appeared and improvisations and songs were shared. Luckily I had one or two of my wooden flutes and felt able to contribute to the evening.

Many hours later I headed back uptown to the pad I was crashing at, but I'd felt a definite kinship to this quietly musical, peaceful place and the eclectic group of people meeting and living there. I had been made most welcome and Shipen invited me to come back any evening for the gatherings.

Life post-Mushroom in the tiny Upper Eastside apartment was a far cry from the freedom and expression of Mushroom. But instead of looking back to that I was drawn more and more to the Loft and its inhabitants. I made several other similar visits to this downtown oasis, feeling peacefully at home there, before I accepted the open invitation to actually "pitch my tent" in the as yet unclaimed, somewhat unexplored western arm of the loftspace.

In order to move in there several Lofties and I began to clear out large, odd machines, industrial relics, leftovers from some distant heyday of manufacturing or assembly. Amongst the clutter we found some giant springs, which immediately were incorporated into the growing collection of musical toys and instruments. Sometimes, at the nightly dinner gatherings, Shipen playing on his sitar and Ariel accompanying him on the four-stringed tamboura, would weave wonderful images of distant longing with mystical tones and vibrations and lyrics, the music so sweet, so reminiscent of one of my heroes, the great master Ravi Shankar. And we'd all be inwardly invited to join in, given our parts for a symphony of mystic sounds, like a family, a voice calling us to Love."

Actors and Actresses

2009-02-13T16:04:00.000-08:00

Stephanie Arje

The next permanent addition to the Loft was a good friend of Ariel and Shipen’s named Stephanie Arje. She had been a steady visitor to the Loft long before I arrived that summer. She was an actress and had been off touring Europe with the theater company Stomp. (The same group that had visited the Loft during my Easter visit). With thick black wavy hair, and a flair for the theatrical, she had a warm, loving, maternal side coupled with a strong will. Stephanie’s easy laugh and delightful sense of humor conveyed her joy for life. Not one to pull any punches, I could count on her to be direct and honest with me, a quality I really appreciated. She and I immediately connected, feeling a sisterly camaraderie. It was wonderful to have another woman around!

Stephanie explains how she came to the Loft:

"I met Shipen, Bruce and Ariel through Stomp (who I met through late night radio - another story in itself). There was something about the production that intrigued me. I became a regular or more accurately, a Stomp groupie. Steve Gambill, one of the cast and I became friends and one night after a performance, Steve took me to the Loft. He wanted to introduce me to two of his friends, Ariel and Shipen.

I don’t know why, but I wasn’t phased as Steve and I entered the building at 108 Fourth Avenue. In fact, it seemed rather ordinary to me, but maybe that was because I was older (at my mature 20 years of age) or because I was a native New Yorker used to the darkness and musty smells of the City – or – maybe it was because I worked in Harlem. Whatever the reason, it all seemed normal to me, well, that is until I entered the kitchen that was really a bathroom in disguise. But we did not stay long enough for me to puzzle too much over the layout.

Shortly after our arrival Steve introduced me to Shipen and Ariel. We all set off for a big party with the cast of Hair. (It seems Shipen and Steve knew an actor named John Amen, who was part of the cast of Hair). The party was a sea of wall-to-wall people. While I think I was supposed to be impressed because everyone, who was someone in New York’s off Broadway inner circle was in attendance, I can’t say as I have any lasting impression worth noting. Matter of fact, it wasn’t very long before our little group left and moved the party back to the Loft.

Back at the Loft we all gathered in the upstairs attic of this four-story building that was really five floors high. It was dark as we all sat on the floor and talked. I can't remember what it was about that evening, maybe it was Ariel’s warmth, maybe it was Shipen’s aloofness, what others called “mystic”, maybe it was the crush I had on Steve, but I left knowing I would be back.

Now at this point in my life, my world was upside down. I had been a by-the-book, Jewish American Princess. Just the year before coming to the Loft, I had been attending New York State University College in Plattsburgh, secretary of the Student Government, studying to become an elementary school teacher and engaged to a young man who was studying for his doctorate at a prestigious college. But there was a dark side to this JAP – I was addicted to amphetamines.

In the mid-to late ‘60’s it was legal for doctor’s to prescribe diet pills (amphetamines). Being taught by my parents that all good Jewish American Princesses are supposed to be thin so we can marry and live happily ever after, they took me to the doctor for the magic pills. It was the end of my senior year of high school. The pills worked well - it was easy not to eat. By the time I returned home from college for Thanksgiving break, I had dropped three dress sizes and many of my high school friends didn’t recognize me.

Three years of these pills and I was a very thin, beautiful nervous, neurotic young woman. I was very much in love with and expected to marry a wonderful young man, Elliot, who was studying for his doctorate at a prestigious university. Life seemed to be lining up just the way it was supposed to for me. However, there were hidden problems. The prolonged use of heavy amphetamines was taking its toll on me.

I was also unable to sleep and when I could sleep, I was unable to get up. I was having extreme difficulties concentrating on my schoolwork when and if I could drag myself to class. My parents (who were paying for my drugs – I mean diet pills) ignored my cries for help. As a result, I flunked out of college. Shortly thereafter, Elliot and I began having conflict that I couldn’t deal with and we broke up. I was angry, what good were these pills doing when my world was coming crashing down on me? I flushed my pills down the toilet and went into a severe depression. I literally slept for weeks partly from exhaustion and partly from the depression. My mother was beside herself with fear and concern for me. One day she came to my room and started screaming at me to get up and get dressed. It must have done me some good, because I did.

I decided not to return to college. I had some serious questions and issues that seemed more important than a college education. I wanted to know who I was, why I was created, and what was my purpose on the earth – since everything I had been taught seemed to have come crashing down on me. I believed God was the only one who could answer these questions. After all, He created me and since He had spoken clearly to Abraham and just as clearly to Moses – even to the point of writing down what He was saying, surely, I was no different then these men and God could speak to me. So I asked Him and moved on searching and waiting for the answers.

It was the fall of 1969. I got a job working in Harlem as a "surrogate" parent in a NYC Department of Social Services temporary shelter. I wanted to change the world (especially poverty) by changing children's lives and this seemed like a perfect place to do just that. I believed education and love was the way to accomplish this reformation so I was excited to be working with these abandoned, neglected and abused children. I believed I could affect their lives for the better. But it wasn’t easy.

Commuting to work every day wasn’t easy either. My family lived in Long Island and although my dad bought me a car it was never a quick commute. It was at least an hour’s drive each way – if there wasn’t an accident or my car didn’t break down. After I met Steve, Shipen, Ariel and Bruce, well, commuting became even more difficult because I would stay in the City at the Loft until late at night and still have to be at work by 7 am each morning. Eventually, I got an apartment in the Village only a block from the Loft on 3rd Avenue and 13th Street. My commute was no longer by car but by foot and many evenings, Ariel or Bruce would walk me home.

Our nightly routine at the Loft included dinner, Stomp performances, readings and discussions. Our literature included readings at the Loft of Clear Children, The Impersonal Life and the Urantia Book. Oddly enough, these books seemed to hold the keys to unlock the power I believed would make a difference in the lives of the children I worked with daily. I remember after one reading of the Urantia Book, how Jesus returned love for evil. I thought, that is it. I must love like Jesus loves and the power of love will change little Antonio’s life. Just one changed life… that is all I wanted.

More than anyone else in the Loft, I seemed to connect with Bruce and became more or less "his pupil." Bruce taught me to use LSD as a tool for enlightenment. I took my first hit of acid with him reading Clear Children and The Impersonal Life to me. I remember passing through the veil of fear into a completely new world of light. I saw the symbol of every religion, every philosophy, every truth and then I heard, “I will look to the mountains from whence cometh my help, my help comes from the Lord.” Instantly, I knew, I was on the right path, the road to find the answers to my questions – my purpose, my reason for being created... God was going to reveal it all to me. I was going to know the Truth.

Besides being my teacher and my friend, Bruce and I would take off on the spur of the moment and do all sorts of crazy things. Remember Forest Gump and the scene at the Lincoln Monument where "we" protested the war in Viet Nam? Bruce and I were there! YUP, in the Wading Pool with Jennie! And when it was all over, we couldn’t get a flight back to New York so we slept at the feet of the Lincoln Monument. Well, we tried to sleep there. We got so cold we couldn’t stand it any longer so we decided to hitch hike to the airport. We were picked up by some guy who offered us a place to stay and a ride to the airport in the morning. In the spring of 1970, that was a perfectly fine thing to do because after all, we were all in the family of the world, eh? But that is another story!

As my friendships with those who lived in the Loft and my relationships with those in the cast of Stomp grew, I went to work less and less. One day, a cast member asked me if I would like to join them and go on tour in Europe. I took my next paycheck and bought the ticket. I gave two weeks notice and took my final paycheck and my backpack, said goodbye to Bruce, Ariel and Shipen and headed off to tour Europe as part of Stomp.

The entire time I was in Europe, I read my Impersonal Life, the Urantia Book and Eckincar. I dropped acid and I prayed. My hunger for Truth grew stronger and stronger. I was determined, no matter what, to learn everything I could about God, the Father of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob. Faithfully, I wrote to my friends at the Loft sharing my experiences and eagerly looking forward to learning what they were experiencing.

I ran out of money in Europe after about 4 or 5 months and had to return before the rest of the cast. The first thing I did upon my return was go to the Loft for dinner and to “talk” until all hours of the night. Unbeknownst to me, many changes had occurred among my friends during the time I was in Europe. For one thing there were new people who had moved in … Shishonee, David K and David L… there was talk of others joining, Sarah, Naomi… For another thing, there were these great people I would soon meet named Roger and Claudia. But there were even bigger changes that I learned about that night from Shipen and Ariel and challenges to my search for Truth. – But, I will let the others go on with their stories and return later, when they catch up. Of course, as was customary, we talked until the wee hours of the morning so instead of taking the subway and the railroad back to my parents’ home I was invited to stay the night (a night I might add, that turned into two years). "

So now there were two women for the men to put up with. Our family was morphing, expanding and changing, much to the chagrin of some.

Stephen Gambill

Another integral member of the original group was Stephen Gambill, another member of the cast of Stomp. Steve was an athletic, muscular young man with short blond hair and a ready smile. He could be quiet and reflective while at other times he was focused and intense, all qualities that allowed him to excel as an actor, poet, artist and a musician. He threw himself into whatever he did with dedication and intensity. I envied his ability to be introspective and his Zen-like focus as he worked on poetry or beautifully detailed shadow boxes. To me Steve was an enigma, a puzzle box to which I never seemed to be able to find the key.

A Symphony of Souls - an unusual music experience

2009-02-12T18:34:00.002-08:00

"That with one accord you may with one voice glorify

the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ." Romans 15:6

What a curious blend of lovers and strangers, Jews and Christians, gay and straight, actors, artists, writers and aspiring musicians! I often wondered if we had met under different circumstances or in different times - would we ever have become a community? During those cold winter days, a gradual dull aching pain of increasing personal isolation signaled the spiritual changes taking place inside me and within our community. For the first time in my life, I came face to face with the pain and isolation that had driven me for so long. I felt like God was breaking me in the crucible of our common life together. It was like a marriage to which I came - ragged and burned by the world, lonely and searching for alternatives. I was thrown into this amazing experiment to live out a disciple’s life alongside other human beings. It was a very rich experience yet also a very tortuous one.

Still, God took our rag-tag, mixed up, dysfunctional band of gypsies and nurtured something very special within us – a gift of music. As we grew in our faith, the tenor of our nightly “meditations” underwent a metamorphosis. We had slowly been collecting exotic instruments, which were beautiful to look at but which we had no idea how to play. Nevertheless, we brought them to our evening sessions and impromptu music was born. Maybe that was better? With no preconceptions, I could just as easily rap on the wooden sides of my harp as I might use a bow across a bass string or randomly pluck strings. Each night we came together with open hearts and souls to spontaneously experience whatever might happen. And each night God provided a musical event, a symphony with a storyline, characters, and whole songs woven into an impromptu experience that left me in awe of its birth. It was a perfect, dissonent, sometimes eerie musical experience. It was the kind of occurrence that is difficult to translate into words. This was not the “singing in tongues” we later experienced in our travels throughout the Church (where everyone sings melodies or notes, usually in a major key). It was as if thousands of angel’s voices were joining and pouring through our own, like several Mellotrons being played simultaneously in different keys - the sound liquid, dynamic, fluid, ever changing.

I vividly remember one night when we "traveled" into the Old Testament... along a hot, dusty road in Ancient Egypt, with the sounds of a donkey’s hooves and cooking pots clanging together as they rocked back and forth on the donkey’s back. Another night we were adrift on a foggy sea in an ancient wooden boat, groaning and creaking as it lifted up and down on the swelling waves, a bell tolling far off in the distance. We were part of a living, breathing unrehearsed story – a symphony of souls. God handed us each separate parts yet no one knew what was going to happen. The music came from somewhere else and we were the instruments being played.

What an unusual experience! Ten people all hearing, seeing, being in the same place, knowing what was occurring and relishing the journey. Then it would end - cleanly, perfectly and at that moment each of us would know it was over. Afterwards, we’d reflect on it with amazement or laughter, wondering at how dry and hot the road had seemed and marveling at the sounds we’d heard. It was a gift from God.

Some of the Symphony began to prophesy during the evening sessions. As others were having these revelations, I felt increasingly uncomfortable - like Bert Reynolds in the movie “Semi Tough.” [All his friends experience spiritual bliss and rebirth but no matter how hard he tries it keeps eluding him.] I wasn't "getting it" and it was frustrating! Why wasn’t I seeing angels or suddenly speaking God’s word? Annoyed and discouraged, one evening I walked over to nearby Grace Church on Fourth Avenue and curled up on a stone bench in a corner of the courtyard.

I closed my eyes to meditate and quiet my racing thoughts. After awhile I started to pray asking, “Are you there God? Please, if you are there, let me know you are real.” I tried to empty my mind of negative thoughts. Suddenly, I experienced an overwhelming sense of peace wash over me. It felt like a soft, warm infusion of lightness. All anger, all sadness, all questions were swept away and I was left with this deep abiding peace. Sitting there I realized, there is a God and He loves me and cares for me. Though I had prayed for many years, this was the first time I felt God’s presence within me. I was deeply moved and sat there awash in God’s peace. Although God touched me, I did not, at this point, realize Jesus as my savior – that would come later. But for now, baby steps…

New Beginnings

2009-02-11T17:23:00.000-08:00

Blessed are they that hunger and thirst for righteousness

for they shall be satisfied...Matthew 5:6

Something remarkable was happening. By early November, our evening gatherings had become more structured as our lives became more “sacred” and spiritually oriented. What had been helter-skelter parties or meditation sessions evolved into evenings with a spiritual direction that included the reading of poetry, singing and playing music. That music was more of a theatrical event than campfire songs. It mirrored our religious studies and musical influences (Ravi Shankar, Balinese music, Terry Riley, Steve Reich, and the Moody Blues).

Our collection of unusual instruments grew as we scavenged them from dumpsters or picked them up on the street. Shipen already owned a sitar. Small percussion instruments and bells were added. Then Shipen and Ariel returned to the House of Musical Traditions on St. Mark’s Place and bought two large antique Tibetan gongs. Ariel got a used cello and I happened upon an antique Venezuelan folk harp sitting dusty and neglected in a storefront window one day and bought it. We used bells from an old telephone and a heavy old chain. David Lynch had his silver Artley flute and acoustical guitar. David Karasek was given a violin from his father. Eventually, we added simple wooden flutes, wood blocks, a Shenai horn, gongs, and even used silverware, pot lids and an old bicycle part that sounded like a clanging channel marker bell on a foggy ocean night. We came up with a name for ourselves: The New York Tent City Symphony of Souls.

I loved those sessions! I remember one evening we sat cross-legged on the floor in a circle with our plates set on woven rice mats in front of us. Ariel brought in a tray with warm, golden brown crusted homemade wheat and honey bread, which was passed around. This was followed by steaming pot of black beans flavored with Tamari sauce and spices to be poured over brown rice and topped with a delicious miso sauce, eaten with chopsticks. After dinner, silence enveloped our small circle of friends. One by one, David Karasek lit candles and lanterns, their soft flickering light cast shadows that danced along the edges of the room. Shipen opened his notebook to a poem he’d written, the words flowing in quiet cadences. Gradually the words led deeper and deeper into the essence of Truth. Slowly, the remnants of encroaching thoughts and entanglements faded away…

On Account of the Mystery of the Revolution of the Soul by Shipen

To the right side, his means of expansion
To the left, his animal body
Those off the path expand the left
base concupiscence.
Those in the light expand the right
Trace into-transcendence
the cord
Father-mother-through son-bride
What is above is what is below
In the palace of the union of the fountains.
The beginning is the end - after another manner
This is the path of Glory.
It shall converge midst the waters,
And the Ancient One shall speak.

As the words spiraled outward through the room like ripples on a pond, the gentle drone of the tamboura filled the languid stillness. Floating like petals on the water we were swept along by the current of the words, moving together into an expectant place... waiting.... breathy tones from a wooden flute rose from among us, slowly unfolding in a ribbon of melody. A new dimension opened before us... a bright realm of light filled with promise, mystery, and eternal truth that transfixed our hearts. Rising shimmering bell sounds exposed the passions of pain and our own secret longings. Our voices emerged from our souls, opening our hearts wide we eased ahead, losing ourselves in columns of unencumbered spacious freedom ... the music flowing through us…a story forming, growing, then becoming complete.

The music faded until only Shipen’s voice remained, clear and poignant in the pregnant silence as he finished reading his poem:

Frayed and torn
Goes the life without bounds
Goes the ocean without a shore
Who says it needn’t be
When the lessons are before us?
Who proclaims a useless floating
To be in accord with love?

Without a shore we have no love,
No base of operations
No energies of fusion.
Indeed we will float cloaked in fear,
Until at last we reach
The age of the boon of love and peace,
It is here, hence we’ve never left it,
That confines our ocean of life
And leads us on
to God.

Miraculous! We opened ourselves to become one with God, to be His instruments and the music that flowed was powerful, intricately beautiful and inspiring. I remember just feeling completely in awe of what we were experiencing. Word went out that some incredible things were happening at the Loft at 108 Fourth Avenue and people streamed in to partake of this extraordinary banquet. We recited poetry, played spontaneous music or sat quietly and meditated. I felt as if I was at the center of the Universe! We might have continued on this odyssey through different religions and experiences indefinitely, but God, who had been moving quietly behind the scenes until now, had other plans. It all started over Thanksgiving vacation…

Rebirth

2009-02-10T17:49:00.000-08:00

"My sheep hear my voice and I know them and they follow me." John 10:27

It was Thanksgiving 1970 and time for a vacation. We dispersed to various parts of the country to visit family and friends. I traveled to Michigan to visit Sarah Benstein, Naomi Goldman, and other Leelanau friends and my family. To me, the importance of this visit was paramount. I was on a mission to convince my friends to come to New York and embark on a spiritual journey with the rest of us at the Loft.

I threw some clothes into an old green canvas knapsack, took the subway out of the City and stood by the side of the freeway with my thumb out. After a few minutes, a truck driver leaned out his window and yelled, “Need a ride?” Nervous but determined, I answer, “Yeah!” “Where yah headed?” he asked as I climbed up into the cab. “Back to Detroit. I’m going to visit my folks.” “Okay, I’ll take yah as far as 475 in Toledo he said, smiling as he shoved the truck into gear and a grinding noise blocked out my soft reply of “Thanks.” Please let me be okay. Don’t let him be a weirdo, I thought. Luckily, he turned out to be friendly and seemed content to have me along to listen to his long winded stories and jokes. Even so, I was relieved when my second ride in Toledo turned out to be a quiet family of four headed for Walled Lake who offered to drop me off at my parent’s doorstep in West Bloomfield. Phew!

The next day, I looked up Sarah Benstein. We caught up on everything that had been going on in our lives and somehow our conversation turned to the mysterious Urantia Book and how amazing it was. The entire book was purported to have been written automatically by one man who would close his eyes and allow himself to become a channel for other worldly spirits who then took control of his hand as the words flowed from his pen. Impulsively, we decided to hitchhike to Chicago to visit the Urantia Foundation. We arrived at this hole-in- the-wall rundown building at 533 Diversey Parkway that seemed ancient and kind of creepy looking. Knocking on the door, an elderly lady with silvery hair opened the door and smiling cryptically, invited us inside. The main room was dark and crowded with books and stacks of paper. Another small old woman sat typing at an old typewriter and turning around, she smiled up at us. After a quick tour, I peppered the first woman with questions. “How was The Urantia Book written? Did the author close his eyes as he wrote? How exactly did he know it was a divine revelation”, etc., etc. I don’t know what I had expected but I wasn’t impressed with their mundane "yes...no" answers. After a quick tour, we left, disillusioned and very disappointed. What a farce!

Somehow, Sarah and I made it safely back to Michigan. The next day, after sleeping for what seemed like 24 hours, I went outside my parent’s house and sat alone on a porch swing. Feeling emotionally drained and exhausted from our trip the day before, I closed my eyes and started to pray asking, Are you there God? If you are there, will you send me some kind of word? Struggling with doubts and wondering if Jesus was just a prophet, I tried to settle myself. I don't get it, God. If Jesus was your son, why would you let him die? Is there really a heaven or are we just going to die and that's it? Hey! Send me an angel! Let me hear your voice! Are you real or just someone's imagination?

After awhile, the anger, frustration and questions dissolved and I was infused with a warm reassuring Godly affirmation. I never heard any voices, or got to see any special visions. Yet I knew God was reaching out to me again. I understood he was my loving father whose son Jesus had come to love me and be with me. Jesus reached out to me and drew me close and somehow my questions and confusion fell away. I felt those loving arms reaching around me and sheltering me and for once, I felt truly and deeply loved. I had my answer on that quiet fall afternoon. Though I can't stand the artifical hokeyness of the phrase, the best way to explain it was that I opened myself up and welcomed Jesus into my heart. Unfortunately, this didn't completely free me from my ongoing doubts and questions, but more on that later.

When I returned home, I called Sarah and Naomi, and eagerly shared what had happened to me on the swing. I told them about what we were doing in the Loft and asked if they wanted to come with me back to New York City? Sarah agreed to return to the Loft with me. About a month later, Naomi Goldman came too.

When I got back to the Loft, I was eager to talk about my experience on the porch swing. I was astounded to discover that I wasn’t the only one…

Shipen filled us in on his own amazing experience. He had gone to visit a friend in New Paltz. Early one evening, he decided to go for a walk. Spotting a beautiful old black willow tree, he climbed up into its branches. After sitting there quietly for a while, somehow he slipped and fell, landing hard on the ground. Stunned, he lay flat on his back catching his breath. Suddenly, as he looked upward into the sky, he was overwhelmed by a vision of Jesus Christ sitting at the right hand of God!

This experience impacted Shipen so profoundly that he came back to the Loft a changed person. He had experienced his own Damascus road conversion and now was wholly dedicated to Jesus – reborn and professing faith in Christ alone.

An excerpt from a letter he wrote years later clarifies his experience:

"That was the point of my conversion. I recognized Jesus as savior through a movement of the Holy Spirit. From there I went back to the attic where people began to sift back with the same news. We realized then that we were to become a Christian community and that community was to be a witness of faith…"

David Lynch later wrote about what had happened to him:

"Gradually through the autumn and into winter a core group of people had assembled as residents at the loft. Shipen of course, Ariel, David K, Shishonee and Sarah, myself, Stephanie, Steve, and others each feeling called into a partnership of hope, a communal searching journey, a symphony of discovery, of meaning to life, of our purpose in the world. I had taken a job at an art store off Sixth Avenue and Maurice my co-worker and I would get together after work for drinks. But I found myself instead wanting the company of the symphony. A symphony of souls someone had called us. One afternoon in the quiet and empty loft, I was alone and meditating, contemplating love and peace and the mysterious reasons why things happen. Actually Shipen and some others had been away for some time. Shipen spent more and more time as the loft "filled up" uptown with his friends Roger and Claudia. He and Roger had worked in Advertising together in a previous cycle. Roger and Claudia had often come to the loft, where they joined the musical peacecaravan; Roger playing with lilting beats on his tabla drums, Claudia gently plucking the tamboura. But now, there I was alone at the loft.

Over the weeks and months our mystical journeys together had ventured into the western mystic traditions and a wonderful tome of Universal history, the Urantia Book, had emerged as a roadmap of the cosmos. It had somewhat unnerved me because my deeply suppressed and forgotten Irish Roman Catholic roots had been tweaked with these histories of Angels and Messengers and even the stories behind the story of Jesus. With remarkable clarity the holes in the gospel stories were filled and coloured in. Of course Jesus was off in India learning the mysteries when the Church was silent on parts of his life. Of course when we died we simply went on to other realms. Of course the Universe was all explained and orderly but why for me? Why now? Why Jesus? The more I thought I knew the more I didn't know. What were these paths, these journeys made, those roads untaken? With my faithful guitar in hand, sitting there alone, the sunbeams bouncing off the walls from the avenue below, I sang of my doubts, the whys and cant's and yet the Love; the impossible cul-de-sacs and the precipices not lost in nor fallen down upon; a path as if now chosen. To stay the course? to go? to flee? And where to run? And as if this Jesus was my guide to Love, to Peace, to Joy, I sang and cried and listened and somehow knew why I was there. And new strong feelings of certainty and trust welled up within me. And this Jesus, once the jailer of hated and forgotten church myths, now freed by newly discovered mystical secrets and revelations, of a Certain Thereness became a gentle Light inside me, urging me to wait, to be still, to listen. And thus I prayed. As if awoken I stayed. And thus too, as the symphony gathered together again, and the call to join a pilgrimage without a destination was made, I pledged my acceptance of the call and joined them."

God had moved powerfully within us, shaking the foundations of our lives. God abruptly turned the direction of our small group 180 degrees from the East to the West and Christianity. Our excursions into Tibetan Buddhism, Zen, Taoism, and other esoteric religions were suddenly over. Our focus shifted from wandering and searching to a newfound dedication to Jesus Christ

At this point, there were ten of us living together in the Loft: Shipen, Ariel Dross, Shishonee Ruetenik, Stephen Gambill, David Karasek, David Lynch, Stephanie Arje, Sarah, Naomi and Annie Rawlins (my former housemother from Leelanau). Shipen was still our un-appointed leader, guiding us to live more sober, purposeful lives. He called a meeting. He pointed out that it was time to clean the Loft and “put off your old self”, both symbolically and in reality. We packed away the Eastern books and talismans and rearranged our sleeping quarters. We also organized certain duties: shopping, cleaning, doing laundry, cooking. Most of us got outside jobs. The stragglers and visitors were asked to leave if they could not accept this new direction or their share of responsibilities.

We read the Bible voraciously, as if we had been starved of true knowledge and suddenly a feast of Truth lay before us. The Bible became the main source for our evening readings along with the Philokalia and writings from the early Eastern Church fathers. Looking back, this rebirth was intense. There was an incredible sense of devotion and passion that at times blotted out the practicality of the world around us. Sometimes we would get so caught up in prayers during grace that by the time we opened our eyes to eat, an hour had passed and the food was cold. One evening, Shipen read the complete Book of John and for a long time afterwards we sat in stunned silence, profoundly affected by this gospel of Jesus’ life. God had touched us through the text. No other words could reframe the power of that experience.

Throughout those days, our music and creativity flourished and I was filled with a sense of wonder. During the nightly music and prayer sessions, I honestly believe God sent His angels to sing through our voices and guide our experience. It was magical, mysterious and holy all at the same time.

Canons and Cathedrals

2009-02-09T16:55:00.000-08:00

Canon Edward Nason West

David Karasek describes our introduction to the Cathedral of St. John the Divine and a man who became key to our new found faith:

"In December, a priest named Father Rodney Kirk came to visit the Loft. Shipen had met him at a party and invited him back to the Loft. All kinds of people had come up to the Loft, but this was our first honest to God priest. Rodney was very easy going and impressed us with his great sense of humor. After a couple of visits he said, “You should come up to the church where I serve.” So we said, “Ok, let’s go. When?” “Why not now?” So off we all marched from the Loft, barefoot, up Broadway, all the way to 112th street, a distance of about 5 miles. We were expecting a moderately sized church. Instead, turning the corner on Amsterdam Avenue, we were facing what was then the largest Cathedral church on the planet, as yet unfinished, but consuming the entire view down the street. As we completed the journey, the west wall of the church completely engulfed us in sculpture and gothic tracery.

Cathedral of St. John the Divine

We entered as ant-sized beings beside its 60 foot bronze doors, and just drifted down that immense, majestic gothic nave with its 120-foot gothic spires. Filling the space was an amazing sound – the voices of a boy’s choir singing Palestrina accompanied by an organ with over 8000 pipes. The span of the church was so long that the main altar was almost not visible from the narthex. Marching from one end to the other was a procession, as if for a medieval king, with acolytes and ministers dressed in regal vestments carrying huge gold crosses and swinging incense burners. Like a choreographer, one man, dressed completely in black, was directing the procession, himself falling to the back, carrying a large, solid gold scepter.

This was Canon Edward Nason West, one of the most influential ministers not only of the Cathedral of St John the Divine, but also in the entire Episcopal Church of America at that time. As Canon West and his practicing procession first noticed us, we just stood there with our mouths open. It was a moment of stark contrast. Here we were ten straggly kids with long tangled hair, torn bell bottoms, homemade dresses, Nehru shirts and beads standing barefoot on the marble floor with its bronze plaques and there they were completely decked in gold vestments and black velvet. After a few moments Canon West just continued the rehearsal as if nothing had happened as we stood there quietly observing. We were so taken by this majestic place and this show of pageantry that we decided to attend a service there. At the same time Canon West had heard about us from Father Kirk and was so intrigued that he sought some way to learn more about us. The opportunity came a short time later when Canon West fell and broke his arm. Father Kirk knew that Shipen was looking for work, and so he invited him to be Canon West’s butler. In this way he would find out “who were those seven, singing pilgrims, really.”

For several weeks Shipen cooked and cleaned for Canon West at his apartment on the Cathedral grounds. Shipen, newly converted, saw Canon West as both a mentor and father, someone to go to with his concerns, confessions or for advice. The rest of us took to walking uptown on Sunday mornings to enjoy the pageantry of the incredibly elaborate high church services at the Cathedral. Afterwards, we sang and prayed in St. Savior’s Chapel at the Cathedral or climbed down into the stone catacombs to sing, deep under the Cathedral. It sounded like ancient Gregorian chant, our voices weaving intricate melodies of echoing song. We revised our name to reflect our newfound Christianity and became The New York Tent City Symphony of Souls in Christ.

Canon West was to become a powerful force behind the birth and growth of our Christian community during our formative stage. He was more than just our spiritual advisor but truly he became a father to our community. I always felt intrigued and humbled in his commanding presence. What a strange blend of the wonderful and the absurd! Though often solemn and reserved, Canon West had a delightful sense of the theatrical. Sometimes he could be found walking his Irish setters out on the Cathedral close dressed in flowing monastic robes or even an authentic Scottish kilt!

Canon West in a kilt

Another important person that provided spiritual guidance to our community over the years was writer Madeleine L’Engle Franklin (author of A Wrinkle in Time). She was a very close friend of Canon West who served as the Cathedral’s librarian/writer in residence during the winter months. She took it upon herself to help nurture our community and focus it, both spiritually and morally. In effect, this is how Father West and Madeleine L’Engle became the spiritual mother and father of our fledgling community.

Madeleine L'Engle Franklin

In those final Loft months, there were many more wonderful evening gatherings that brought new visitors, influences and experiences. Some members from the Church of Christ, a Korean Christian Pentecostal church in Queens, came to visit the Loft and then invited us to a potluck at their church. I loved potlucks and was delighted when we soon were making regular trips out to Queens to share meals and worship with the brethren there. What a contrast to the elaborate, ornate High Church services in the mammoth stone interior of the Cathedral of St. John the Divine! Walking into the church we were faced with a smiling sea of friendly Korean Christians sprinkled here and there with Caucasians. These gentle, self-effacing people eagerly welcomed us into their fellowship without any reservations (which in its own way was amazing due to our bedraggled hippie appearances). It was like being swept into the warm embrace of your mother welcoming you home. It was as if the Cathedral was our father and this church was our mother - each so different yet both were essential to our newborn Christian lives. And the hymns! These gentle brethren sang a delightful mixture of Korean and fundamentalist Christian hymns within a Pentecostal flair. We made many new friends who dropped by for dinner and prayers in the Loft, usually bringing delicious plates of home-cooked food. Throughout the late winter and early spring we alternated between regular visits uptown to the Cathedral and visits to the Church of Christ in Queens. God used these encounters to strengthen our commitment to Him and to each other.

Broken in the Crucible of Community Life

2009-02-08T08:23:00.000-08:00

Our rag tag family of new disciples

I often wondered if we had met under different circumstances or in different times would we ever have become a community? During those cold winter days, a gradual dull aching pain of increasing personal isolation signaled the spiritual changes taking place in our community. For the first time in my life, I came face to face with the pain and isolation that had driven me for so long. I felt like God was breaking me in the crucible of our common life together. It was like a marriage to which I came - ragged and burned by the world, lonely and searching for alternatives. I was thrown into this amazing experiment to live out a disciple’s life alongside other human beings. It was a very rich experience yet also a very tortuous one. As each of us grew in our newfound Christianity, it was a struggle to determine God’s vision for our group.

Shipen wrote about the difficulties of living in our community in his journal:

"Exactly why the Lord placed this family together I do not know immediately – but I might speculate. When I get up in the morning and come out of what privacy I am allowed in my tent, I look around at the other tents and ponder what’s in them. Those people, I often think – I would never have chosen as friends – they don’t look like friends I would have, they don’t act the way “my” friends would act – there are even girls among them, and some fat ones too – what happened to those days when I could lock my door, cook myself a steak, turn on the TV or just turn on and groove all by myself?

In a word what happened to me as with all the other people here was a common response to the calling of the person of Jesus Christ – an interruption of some of the world’s most scaly life styles – there was once a part of us from all parts of the life of sin – we lived it and preached it in drugs, in sex, in gratification, in willful disobedience, in applause, and in false glory – we were of the “God is dead” generation of thought – knowing we could be better and more just Gods than God himself. We were unknowingly hell bound in every conceivable persecution of the church.

We felt justified, however, because we would freely make mention concerning the relative importance of Jesus as one of many fine teachers of life – but the idea of admitting and acknowledging in Jesus as the Son of God – the one and only, seemed ridiculous and unfair – and so we were left alone to wind deeper and deeper into the interiors of our minds in hopes that we would emerge glorious, free, and self realized Christs.

Many of us advocated and studied endless systems of rationalization from Buddhism to Judaism in hopes we could be convinced of our own glory and identity as power figures. It was the most incredible kind of selfishness we were involved in – it was, by first hand experience, the deceptive and powerful mind of all things against Jesus, “that spirit of Anti Christ,” that so easily can seduce lost sheep.

Praise God, Praise the Lord, Jesus had mercy on us, he changed us, he took us hanging off the mountain and lovingly captured our souls – we knew perfect trust, we knew we were sinners, and not Gods. There have been many group tears since the first hours we knew of Jesus as a living reality – A deeply human and totally Divine person.

But then came the predicament of the process of salvation, of sanctification, of penitence, and our family was formed. Is it possible for Christians to live intimately with each other without touching – knowing the deepest inadequacies and failures – the bothersome snoring and the annoyances of personality differences?

It was in this question that the Lord has brought to us a deeper concern. Is it possible for all parts of the Christian body to live together without condemnation or judgment, once concerning the ministry of another and one ear at odds with the eye. Paul bade us carefully to watch the spirit of contention concerning the law in interpretation – and yet we find ourselves being judged by this or that group of Christians. We have been told by every part of Christ’s body, that all other parts are wrong – just as in our family we tend to make those accusations toward each other – more often forgetting Jesus Christ’s saving grace than remembering it. But this we are being taught by our “constant” living association – that we must depend on the Lord more and more, for it is in our obstinence and certainty that we fail in the smallest human needs of honest love.

The more group confessions, the deeper we go into personality confrontations and pride barriers, but praise the Lord, he soon takes us from our battles and shows us peace – and we know him more and can love him more and forget ourselves a little and learn charity, and learn not to depend on private aims and because 10 of us occupy 400 square feet of loft space, we are learning how to concern ourselves with the needs of others.

The Lord knows, here, in this situation there is no room for the superficiality of one hour worship sessions, we discover what happens after everyone comes home from church and what goes on “outside of Christ,” what secrets there are, and what hidden fears and blackness – things the world, by locking its doors at night, refuses to see – things that actually keep us from the Love of God – the real devices of Satan that come to separate us from the perfect Love, the Love that has its doors open continually.

We would often comment on how, because we live in an attic, we are not allowed, by law, to have a door since we cannot block access to the roof in case of fire, the Lord is demonstrating to us the needlessness of locks and barricades, and of his Divine protection in case of physical danger. We are not afraid of those things that might come in through the door – because mostly they are also lost sheep and in need as we were. No doors, no locks – Praise the Lord. And in the heart of New York’s most crime ridden section."

As Shipen explained, it was difficult living in such cramped quarters with so many other people that we, for the most part, would not have chosen as friends. In addition, we were so young - some of us barely out of high school! There remained a great deal of personal growth and maturity that needed to take place. As it was, our focus became learning how to live together more graciously: sharing blankets, clothing and food; being quiet when others were still sleeping; moving less bear-like and more gracefully within our crowded room; keeping things neat and picked up; and being more sensitive to one another’s feelings and personal space.

Shortly after Christmas, a strange and sad thing happened. With structured music rehearsals and regular planned services and prayer sessions, the richness of our early impromptu musical experiences grew more elusive. Finally, one day (as Shipen was fond of saying later on) we sat there in the Loft with our instruments and realized they were out of tune. In a strange way, it was the "day the music died." Thus began the tediously slow process of learning how to tune our instruments, create our own songs, and write music without the miraculous ability to be “one” and to think alike. Was this because we were developing personal boundaries? Was it because we lost our spontaneity? Whatever it was, we fell to arguing and struggling over chords and melodies. We fought over words to a song or got angry when we couldn’t work out a section that used to flow out so easily. I remember once David Lynch came in all ecstatic about a new song he’d just written on his guitar. I listened to it and went, Yuck. I hate that! I felt sad that we’d lost something that had been so incredibly beautiful and precious. Eventually, we found our way back to that sacred experience but it was not an easy process. On an emotional level, our family was experiencing the discordant strains of clashing personalities, something that would create serious problems in the days ahead…But more on that later...

What remained from our former commune days was an open door policy, which sometimes brought in strange visitors. This led to odd, sometimes comical encounters. Once a drunken man insisted he was a friend of Stephanie’s so Shipen invited him in. Poor Steph had to put up with his rantings and advances until finally someone returned from the kitchen and ushered him out. Another time we were visited by a crazy Central Park prophet who marched in shouting out scripture, demanding that God wanted us to come with him to the park. His idea was we should play our music and he would preach to the crowds. After a firm, thanks-but-no-thanks, the men sent him packing.

Stephanie recalls another unusual set of visitors:

"One night a group of Satanists showed up for dinner. As I recall, they had met David Lynch in Meisner's bookstore where he was working. These uninvited guests availed themselves of our world without doors and entered with an explicit message. Their mission was to tell us we were making a terrible mistake and they were going to "bring us back into the fold". It seemed that Shipen, who was by far the most intellectual of us, engaged in a short word duel with the visitors after which they left. I seem to recall, Shipen gave David L. a strong admonishment that in the future, he needed to be a bit wiser with the details of our world and lives in the Loft. And David, well, he might remember this a little differently or more vividly, but, in his care-free attitude, everyone was a friend and therefore welcome at the Loft. Wisdom, was definitely something we all acquired the hard way. "

Rise up my Love, Come Away

2009-02-07T08:42:00.000-08:00

Shishonee on harp

I wander through the valleys
Searching for Him whom I love
As He knocked, my hand upon the lock.
Too long did I wait.
The last word before He left was,
“Rise up my love, come away.”
- From Shishonee's song I Wander

With spring approaching, we received word that 108 Fourth Avenue would be torn down in May. The building had been condemned long before we moved in, but the impending deadline came as a bit of a shock.

What did God want us to do? Newly born in our Christian faith, we grappled with different ideas for our mission. Music, theater and drama were a strong part of our heritage. Could we use these natural gifts to spread the Word? Eventually, after much prayer and many discussions, Roger came up with the idea of buying a bus to take our musical message on the road. Instantly this clicked with all of us. A bus! Traveling minstrels! Leaving for the wide unknown! Traveling through America on the open road with only God to guide us! Having read about Ken Kesey and the Merry Pranksters, this nomadic lifestyle certainly appealed to my hippy roots. I had the feeling one does when you plan a long vacation or face the clean white expanse of an unpainted canvas. Who knew what would happen, what lay ahead? Just the idea of turning a bus into a camper and setting out together filled me with eager anticipation. Now we had new sense of purpose! Shipen conferred with Canon West, who agreed with our mission and gave us his blessing. Over the next months, we set about planning for our adventure with the first step being finding a way to earn money for our journey.

It was time to get to work. From January through April of 1971, we scrounged up various jobs. Shipen found a job at Greenberg’s. Stephanie, Naomi, Sarah and I worked at Sloan’s Grocery Store or the A & P, and Ariel and David Lynch worked at Weisner’s bookstore. David K. continued attending high school. Shipen and Roger set about locating a used school bus.

Meanwhile, Stephanie wrestled with the idea of baptism and she and Shipen had some long discussions about it. Being Jewish, she felt strongly that she wanted to formalize her commitment to Christianity through baptism. Stephanie writes about how the Lord answered her prayers on spring day, March 27, 1971:

"I remember our baptism well because it was so important to me and my walk with the Lord. Our baptism was an answer to my prayers. I explained to Shipen that being Jewish, I felt like baptism was a necessary "statement" to mark my belief in Jesus as my Lord and Savior. You all, being Gentile, had already been baptized and I asked Shipen to baptize me in our bathtub. Shipen was uncomfortable with the idea. He really didn't want to baptize me and told me to pray about it. So, I did...

Shortly after that conversation and prayer, a man just came walking up our Loft stairs (not unusual for us). He announced that he was sent by God to baptize us; it was his ministry. With his announcement, Shipen and I just looked at each other. We knew it was the answer to my prayer!

I can't even remember this young man's name, but he had dinner with us and taught us why we had to be baptized. Then he told us he had a relationship with a church up town and was allowed to use their baptismal fount. He would make the arrangements; all we had to do was be there.

We took the bus uptown where Roger and Claudia met us and we walked with them the rest of the way to the Church of Christ. At the church, we each went into the dressing rooms where pure white garments, including caps and shoes were laid out for us. The baptismal pool was marble. I couldn't believe all the details had been taken care of. For this little Jewish American princess it was like a dream come true, the only thing that could have been better was to be in Israel in the River Jordan! I remember too, the young man baptized us in the name of Jesus AND in the name of the "Father, Son and Holy Spirit" so that NO Man’s doctrine could tell us we hadn't been properly baptized. In addition, he was determined to fully submerge us for the same reason. He had a time of it with David K. who was so long and lanky. He would put in one end and the other would come popping to the surface of the water. It must have taken three dunks to get David completely submerged.

Sitting in the church after the baptism was so very special. I remember not wanting to leave, move or think, because for the first time in my life, I knew I was truly CLEAN."

So each of us was baptized. Afterwards, the young man led us in a short communion service. He read from scripture about the Second Coming and after communion, we sang together and then stayed in the church for a while to pray, reflecting on our new birth in Christ. Feeling refreshed and rededicated to the Lord, I recall stepping out into the bright sunshine and walking through Central Park. It was a beautiful sunny spring day and it seemed like the whole earth was reborn anew. There were people flying kites and eating picnics sitting on blankets in the grass. I felt completely alive and happy as we strolled through the park. I was reborn!

After that day, we never saw the man again. Years later, Claudia commented that it was so strange that right after asking the Lord to be properly baptized, this unkempt, scruffy looking character marched in off the streets convinced his mission was to baptize us. Then, just as suddenly, he walked out of our lives again. Surely the Lord sent us an angel that day!

In February and March, a frequent visitor to the Loft was Steve Raphalsky from the Church of Christ. To me he was an intensely serious young man with dark eyes ringed with circles as if he rarely slept. Whenever he showed up, I felt edgy and uncomfortable around him. I had my own hang-ups and as a result I didn’t like being alone with him. I felt like he was staring at me all the time. (Poor Steve, it was all my imagination but I couldn’t help it at the time - he gave me the creeps).

I vividly recall one evening when everyone was away, for some reason or other, and I was prepared to enjoy some rare privacy. Suddenly I heard footsteps climbing the stairs into the loft. Damn. Maybe if I hide somewhere they'll go away! Suddenly Steve popped his head around the curtain and I jumped back in surprise. He launched into reading aloud from Revelations or something and I grew more and more uncomfortable as he droned on and on about Satan and demonic forces. Not knowing what else to do, I finally blurted out, “Sorry Steve, I have to get going, I’m meeting a friend for tea.” Throwing on my coat, I rushed out of the Loft tossing out excuses, “Oh boy am I late! See yah later Steve.”

Of course, once I reached the street below I realized my mistake. It was cold, late and dark outside. Great. Just great. Now what am I going to do? What if he follows me? I stuck my head back in the door and sure enough I heard his footsteps coming down the stairs. Quickly I darted across the street and around the corner into a flophouse hotel. “Ah...I need a room for the night,” I improvised, trying to look calm and confident. “Do I pay now or later? …Ah, I’m not sure how many nights I’ll be staying,” I lied. What am I doing! I don’t have a dime with me! The clerk glanced up from a book he was reading and in a bored tone replied, “You can pay when you leave.” After I signed in (with a fake name) he handed me a key. Oh, thank God!

I slipped the key into my pocket and raced up the stairs, hoping against hope that Steve hadn’t followed me! I made it to my room and quickly locked the door behind me. Just then, I thought I heard Steve’s heavy footsteps clumping down the hallway. They seemed to pause right outside my door and someone was turning the doorknob! I froze, every muscle in my body tightened in fear. I tried to breathe as quietly as I could but my heart was pounding so loud it was hard for me to hear! After what seemed like hours, the person turned and walked away and I thought I heard them enter a nearby room. Oh my God! Did Steve follow me? Did he have a room next door? Was someone after me?

That settled it. Paranoid or not I was not going to leave that room until the morning! It was a grungy, filthy room and I kept picturing thousands of bugs crawling under the dirty sheets. Ugh. I lay stiffly on top of the bed, motionless and fully dressed. I hardly slept at all, feeling guilty, frightened and really stupid. The next morning I left my key in the room and snuck downstairs and slipped out a side door. I was so afraid of being caught that I ran straight back to the Loft. Thank God, I was home! I vowed I would stop lying and somehow I'd pay back the hotel. (Ten years later, I sent a long note of apology and paid back double the cost of my room.)

On another one of Steve’s infamous visits, Stephanie’s mother, Estelle, and brother Marc, were dinner guests. As usual, Steve was raving on and on about the dark and demonic and even Shipen could barely get a word in edgewise. Wearied of the morose conversation, one by one we slipped away into the refuge of our kitchen. When Stephanie finally joined us, we looked around and suddenly realized her poor mother and brother were still with Steve! No one recalls who finally rescued them. Maybe no one did because years later Stephanie’s mother recalled the incident in vivid detail when reminiscing at her 80th birthday party! Steve continued to haunt me until the day we left the City on the bus.

Another memorable visitor was a man who called himself Brother Nielson. It was March 14, 1971 when he walked into our evening gathering claiming he was called by God to be our new spiritual leader and spokesman for the group. Graciously, Shipen let him spell out his plan, promising to seek God’s will before giving him our answer. After he left, we prayed together, asking God for guidance. God’s answer was clear and the next night, when Brother Neilson returned to make another power play, Shipen firmly asked him to leave. Luckily, he did.

Meanwhile, Canon West took it upon himself to begin our initiation into contemplative life. He was the Abbott of an Episcopal convent called the Community of the Holy Spirit located in uptown Manhattan. He suggested that a visit there might help us formulate a structure for our fledgling religious community. So soon afterwards, Naomi, Stephanie and I visited the convent, which was within walking distance of the Cathedral.

As I entered the convent, it was like stepping back into a time and place where life was centered and totally focused on God. Outside, New York City continued on with its frenzied, noisy pace yet inside those graceful walls there was an overwhelming atmosphere of peace and solitude. Every aspect of daily life was intensely focused and dedicated to God. The nuns were dressed in full length black habits and moved around like wraiths, wrapped in total silence. After a brief tour, I was introduced to Sister Miriam, a fellow harpist. Of course I eagerly asked her everything I could about her pedal harp and the music she played on it, feeling an instant kinship with her. Her godmother was Madeline L’Engle and graciously she gave me a prayer book that Madeline had given to her. Turning it over and over in my hands, I immediately cherished it (and keep it by my bedside to this day).

Once introductions were over, the three of us attended vespers in the chapel. What heavenly singing! Leaning back in the hard wooden pew with my eyes closed, I soaked in the feeling of godliness and peace...the rise and fall of those soft, soprano voices bound together in the cadence of Gregorian chant, the smooth texture of the oak benches polished from years of dedicated devotion, the rustling of robes as the women rose up and kneeled down... A deep sense of solitude washed away all the worldly thoughts crowding my mind until I felt at peace and at one with God. I found their contemplative monastic life deeply compelling. One of the women was going through the transition from being a novice to taking her vows and “marrying” Christ. A simple yet profound “wedding” ceremony unfolded and I was touched by the purity of her love and dedication to our Lord.

Afterwards, I found I couldn’t keep the convent out of my thoughts. Their rituals, their lifestyle - the daily rhythm of their lives fascinated me. When we returned to the Loft, we chattered away full of excitement, sharing what we’d seen and advocating for ideas like taking vows of poverty, chastity and obedience.

Meanwhile, Canon West pressed us to establish more structure and discipline in our lives. He counseled that a more Christ-centered, monastic lifestyle would help us grow spiritually as well as live more peacefully with one another. He began with baby steps. First, he suggested saying the Jesus prayer, following the tradition of early monastic orders. He showed us how to use soft rope-like prayer beads, repeating the prayer each time our fingers moved to a new knot. Ariel immediately made us each a rosary of knotted black macrame yarn and over and over I practiced the prayer saying:

[Breathing in…] “Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God”
[Breathing out…] “Have mercy upon me a sinner.”

This became a never-ending mantra. I repeated it while walking to my grocery store job, while restocking shelves, and even as I punched in food prices on my cash register. “Lord Jesus Christ…25 cents…Son of God…3 dollars and 99 cents…have mercy upon me…55 cents…a sinner...Thank you, have a nice day!” Soon I fell into the rhythm of it until I could repeat the words unconsciously. It gave me a deep sense of well being. It was a way to open up my heart and connect with God throughout the day.

Next, Canon West suggested we have daily prayer services together and study scripture and other early Christian writings (the Philokalia, St. Francis, and others). That was easy, since we had already been reading the Bible and having long evening contemplation, music and meditation sessions.

Even as we stepped off into a deeper Christian life, I was finding the day to day aspects of urban life increasingly repugnant. My initial love affair with New York City had waned. I longed for Mother nature’s green spaces, flowering meadows, quiet streams and gentle beauty. I was sick of the cluttered, dirty grey streets, the cold, sharp angled glass and steel buildings, the tense, unfriendly people pushing past me as I walked home from work. The homeless people seemed so desolate and filthy and street people languished everywhere. Riding the subway, people sat stony faced and unfriendly. Beggars would break into a song and dance asking for handouts spinning some desperate hard luck story. I hated walked through Spanish Harlem where men would whistle and yell out, “Hey Mammaseeta, come here. I have sometheeng for you seester.” I would set my face into a scowl, square off my shoulders, and spit in an effort to look tough as I rushed home.

One evening, I closed out my drawer at Sloan’s Grocery Store and then cashed my check across the street at the bank. I shoved two week’s pay in my pocket and started home. Suddenly two men dressed in dark clothes emerged from the shadows of a building. A pock faced skinny man flashed a switchblade in front of my face and the other grabbed my arm. Frightened, I asked, “What do you want?” Pushing the knife even closer to my cheek, the man growled, “Give me all your money!” With trembling hands I reached into my coat pocket and pulled out the wad of bills. Snatching it out of my hands, they turned and fled, laughing as they ran off. As the shock of what had happened hit, adrenaline surged through me. Immediately I dashed across the street and ran all the way home to the safety of the Loft, crying and badly shaken. This was my first experience with being robbed. Horrifying!

Always the slow learner, it wasn’t until my second scare occurred that I finally learned my lesson. Two weeks later, I cashed my paycheck and once again shoved it into my coat pockets and set off to shop for groceries at the A & P. When I reached the store, I pulled out my shopping list and pushed my cart through the aisles, filling it with food. As I walked along lost in my thoughts suddenly someone rushed past me, bumping my arm and almost knocking me over. “Oh, sorry, didn’t see you!” the woman cried as she swept past. Wow, she must really be in a hurry! I thought. She should slow down and enjoy life more I mused.

Twenty minutes later, I pushed a packed shopping cart up to the checkout counter. After everything had been rung up, I reached into my pocket to pay for the groceries. Nothing! Desperately, I scrounged around in my other pocket. Where did I put that money? Suddenly I made a horrible realization - the money was gone! With a concerned voice, the cashier asked, “Are you sure you brought your money? Maybe you left it at home?” “No, I’m positive I had it,” I said in a stricken voice. Panicked, I left the cart and searched up and down the aisles of the store, thinking I might have dropped it. No such luck. When I returned, the cashier shook her head sympathetically saying, “Oh, it happens all the time. Somebody will bump into you and that’s when they pick your pocket.” Crestfallen, I offered to put the groceries back but she waved me off saying, “Don’t worry about it, someone will restock them. Just be more careful next time!” Returning home shaken and empty handed I felt like a complete idiot.

This taught me an important lesson. From then on, I kept my cash tucked inside my bra, hidden and inaccessible. Funny though, there was one more lesson we had to learn involving money that would prove even more surprising - but more on that later…

The Bus Days

2009-02-06T10:29:00.000-08:00

Jesus said to his followers,
“Go everywhere in the world,
and tell the Good News to everyone.” Mark 16:15 (NCV )

Our first bus

By April, we had saved enough money to purchase a 1965 GMC school bus along with basic provisions. We bought a black, cast iron pot bellied stove and a small stove with a propane gas range. The men designed and built cabinets and storage bins, which we loaded up with 100 pounds of brown rice, assorted dried beans, flour, sugar, miso paste, pasta, canned goods and containers of water. The only flaw in the kitchen cabinet design was that you had to lift off the counter top to reach in and scoop out the beans, rice or flour. It was not especially practical to be rolling a piecrust then realize you needed a little more flour!

While we women sewed curtains, the men painted the entire bus white. On one side, in huge blue block lettering, they painted the words: “Jesus Christ, the same yesterday, and today, and forever.” On the front were the words “Jesus is Lord” and on the back, they painted the ominous message: “If thou hadst known even thou, the things that belong unto thy peace, but now they are hid from thine eyes.”

Those last days were filled with purpose and conviction. It was exciting to prepare for such an important journey. Where would we go? What would we do for money? How would we support ourselves? All these concerns were turned over to the Lord. Our future was in His hands.

Like true disciples we gave away all our personal possessions except for a very limited amount of clothing: just what would fit in a knapsack. Still a flower child at heart this wasn’t a big deal for me but it was much harder for Roger and Claudia who had an apartment full of possessions. As Claudia recalls:

"It came to this point where everyone decided to give everything away. I remember I brought what I had on my back. We gave everything else away. I walked out of our apartment with nothing but a plastic lounge chair left in it. The only other thing we brought was our dog Shitzi."

We were disciples of the Lord in every sense and this meant giving over our whole lives to Him. Luke 12:22-32: …do not worry about your life, what you will eat; or about your body, what you will wear. Life is more than food, and the body more than clothes. Consider the ravens: They do not sow or reap, they have no storerooms or barn; yet God feeds them…Consider how the lilies grow. They do not labor or spin. Yet I tell you, not even Solomon in all his splendor was dressed like on of these…seek the Kingdom and these things will be given you…Sell your possession and give to the poor…your treasure is in heaven where no thief comes near and no moth destroys. For where your treasure is, there your heart will be also.

Our earnings were pooled together. We had $800 and beyond that, we would trust in God to provide. Finally, after months of preparation the day for our departure arrived. It was May 2, 1971. We loaded our clothes, food, instruments, books and bedding onto the bus, ready to head off on our pilgrimage, destination unknown. We said our goodbyes to Steve Gambill, Stephen Raphalsky and our friend Annie. It was a time of high adventure and new beginnings. The Loft we had lived in would soon be torn down. One chapter in our lives had finished and before us lay blank open pages.

May 1971 before leaving NYC

May 2, 1971 was a beautiful spring day. The weather, like our lives, was cloudy yet and filled with possibilities. We gathered outside the Loft early that morning for a final prayer and photographs with friends before the ten of us climbed on board the bus. Pictured above from left to right starting with the top row are Steve Gambill (who stayed behind and joined us later), David Karasek, David Lynch, "Ariel" Phillip Dross, Shipen, Stephen Raphalsky (our frequent visitor), Sarah Benstein, "Shishonee" (Katheryn) Ruetenik, Naomi Goldman, Annie Rawlins (another long time visitor), Stephanie Arje, Claudia and Roger Gumbiner (not pictured as he was taking the picture) and their little Shitzu dog.

Before leaving New York, we drove to Queens to say goodbye to our dear friends from the Korean church. On the way, a policeman pulled up behind the bus and motioned for us to pull over. I was a little bit apprehensive as he approached the bus, wondering what we’d done wrong. His first words were, “Do you really believe what it says?” pointing to the words on the side of the bus. “Yes!” “Good!” he replied and then shared how he’d received his own call to Christ. After a brief discussion, we shook hands and with a smile he wished us God’s blessing on our journey. He clambered off the bus and stood next to his cruiser, waving as we drove off. Praise God and thank goodness we didn’t get a ticket!

Our Queens church family had gathered at their church to send us off. I would miss their friendship, the potluck dinners, praying and worshipping with them, and the lovely Korean hymns we had learned. With their nurturing and loving intervention, I had grown in my walk with the Lord. It was bittersweet to leave our gentle brothers Gene, Herb, Kahn, Enoch and Leong, and Sisters Margaret, Carol and Mrs. Sterns. Would we ever see them again? After hugs and tears, Mrs. Sterns prayed that the angel of grace would walk among us to protect us and bless our travels, then off we went.

Shipen carefully maneuvered the bus through the narrow streets of Harlem on our way to the Cathedral of St. John the Divine. It seemed like it would never fit through the rows of parked cars crowding the streets but somehow it did. Entering Spanish Harlem, we lowered the bus windows shaking our Sanctus bells at startled strangers. Another new tradition! With bells still ringing, we pulled up to the towering gothic giant - the Cathedral of St. John the Divine. Canon West had agreed to meet us at 3:00 p.m. at St. Martin’s chapel. Each wrapped up in our own thoughts, we filed silently into the chapel and sat cross legged on the ornate rug in front of steps leading to the altar. Meanwhile, the sanctuary was filling with hundreds of people for a special service being held in celebration of Canon West’s 30 years of service. I prayed silently for our journey, asking God to guide us in the days ahead. Suddenly there was a loud blast of trumpets from the massive Cathedral organ. At that exact moment, Canon West swept into the room dressed in a flowing black robe. What a perfect dramatic entrance! Immediately, he instructed us to kneel on the steps in front of him for a blessing. In his typically solemn yet profound way, he stretched his arm over us in blessing as he read from the prayer of St. Francis:

Lord, make them an instrument of your peace. Where there is hatred, let them sow love; where there is injury, pardon; where there is doubt, faith. Where there is despair, hope; where there is darkness, light; where there is sadness, joy.

O Divine Master, grant that they may not so much seek to be consoled as to console; to be understood as to understand; to be loved as to love.

For it is in giving that we receive; it is in pardoning that we are pardoned; it is in dying that we are born to eternal life.

Then he spun around and was gone. I had heard these words many times as a child, but on that day they held special meaning. I felt empowered and commissioned to a Divine purpose! I prayed that I could do my best to follow God’s calling embodied in those powerful words.

Quietly we filed out of the chapel and joined hundreds of other people already seated in the main sanctuary. Stephanie joined the Sisters from the Community of the Holy Spirit who were marching in the opening procession.

"I got to be crucifer for the Sisters in the procession. It was the most awesome experience for me - the JAP. I was so honored! When the ceremony was over, we processed out of the cathedral with such pomp, dignity and solemnity - into the courtyard where there was a totally different celebration. It struck me as so odd, like some sort of oxymoron."

Bishop Donegan led the special service honoring Canon West, which was full of elaborate high church Episcopal pomp and ceremony. There were processions, music by the Cathedral Boy’s Choir, speeches and readings including a special poem written by Canon West’s closest friend, Madeleine L’Engle. Then the Cathedral organist played a glorious anthem composed in Canon West’s honor performed on the magnificent pipe organ. Afterwards there was a reception at which Canon West was presented with special gifts and many, many congratulatory letters.

Eager to be on our way, we left the reception and gathered on the bus, saying goodbye to Madeline, Violet Drakes and others. Suddenly Canon West swept on board in his flowing vestments swinging a silver pot of incense on a long chain. The bus filled with the ancient smell of myrrh as Father West solemnly christened the bus, chanting and swinging the smoking incense in a sacrament of blessing. I felt awed at his incredible sense of timing and delightful theatrical flair. As I watched him proceed slowly through the bus, I thought about Christ’s admonition to his disciples as they went out to spread the gospel. I wondered if they too felt this curious mixture of excitement, wonder and apprehension. I still didn't know exactly what our mission would be. As Canon West left, Shipen promised to write and call to “keep him informed.” Little did we know Canon West would be a lifeline in the difficult days that lay ahead…

Just before we pulled away, our dear friend Rodney Kirk hopped on board. With a broad smile and sparkling eyes, he presented us with a silver wine chalice, explaining that it had been a special gift to him upon his ordination. Our farewell was bittersweet as we waved to our dear friends at the Cathedral. Then we were off! As the bus lurched and bumped along, I felt a delicious sense of adventure and freedom. This is it! We’re on our way!

I ran to the back of the bus and peered out the back window at the huge gothic structure, gazing fondly at the carved gargoyles in its turrets and the beautiful spires of the cathedral stretching upward into the cloud filled sky. What was it like for those early Christians, setting off without any itinerary or plan, leaving everything up to God? Did they feel the way I did - both exhilarated and humbled at the same time. Thus began an adventure that would transform our lives in ways we could not even imagine.

Claudia Gumbiner, Shipen and Roger Gumbiner on the bus

By the time we set out it was late in the afternoon. Roger and then Shipen drove for a while, then parked at a roadside park. We ate dinner, prayed together, and then climbed exhausted into our sleeping bags. My mind was spinning and it took me quite awhile to finally fall asleep.

May 3rd was a rather chilly spring morning. It was the first day of our new adventure and brought us to our third unexpected lesson involving money. David Lynch recalls the events leading up to that fateful morning:

"It began on the afternoon of our going away visit to St Johns. I already had all the community funds in my pockets -- and here we were leaving the bus (in the Cathedral lot) and going out and into Harlem -- OK only round the corner and into the Cathedral - BUT I was not very familiar with the area and freaked when Stephanie right at the door of the bus handed me her purse and said "Here, this is the money Shishonee and I earned from the supermarket" ($400 cash). And off she went into the Cathedral. I stood in the bus with her purse in hand thinking I really didn't want to carry any more "cash" on me. I looked around the bus - opened a couple of drawers thinking where can I put this that will be safe till we leave? I turned to the pot bellied stove - opened the top and it was completely laid full of coal. I thought - no one would ever look in here - I'll leave it here and then retrieve it after the service when we are leaving town. Thinking no more about it I put the little purse under a big hunk of coal, closed the stove top and exited the bus "locking" it by slamming the door closed -- "I must remember to get that after!"

After the service we were invited over to the Synod House for "Episcopal goodies" - which of course I do recall always also meant some fine sherry. After the meal and the goodbyes prayers and good wishes on our imminent, Shipenicly named, "Abrahamic Journey" - We all piled into the bus and with Ship' driving, and our Sanctus bells ringing, we headed north - This was May the second 1971. We continued to drive north through the rest of the rapidly cooling afternoon and on into the night. By eight or nine o'clock, the exciting events of the day had us all pretty wacked out and we pulled into the first of many Trees highway "rest stops", this one off the "Taconic Parkway or the Sawmill? - one of them - they both head north - I know we were not on the Thruway. Anyway we pealed off the road and very quickly we were all bedded down for the night. The next thing I knew I was merging into consciousness and peering up over my very comfortable sleeping bag at the back of the bus, and wafting thru the bus was a wonderful combined smell of porridge, coffee, homemade bread and warmth. The bus was toasty. I was just beginning to "wake up" when I heard Stephanie from the front of the bus making inquiries. "has anyone seen my ----- and then "David do you have my little leather purse?" -- Suddenly promises and memories came flooding back into my head and I leaped out of the bag and stumbled to the kitchen looking aghast at the potbelly stove whose metal skin was actually glowing bright red --- "Oh holy bugger!" or some such epithet ran through my mind as I vainly used the tool to open the cover to reveal the roaring fire inside the stove. I even remember looking in the fire grate underneath where bright sparkly ashes were accumulating!

Shortly after that, after checking that the main money stash was safe, I told our fledgling community on wheels that about half of our funds was now "missing" relating the story of my "good intentions" to my incredulous brothers and sisters and admitted to my folly. I do remember it occasioned an informal prayer session - and a confirmation that we were indeed stepping out in faith - and then I believe I was formally (perhaps as a punishment of sorts?) confirmed as the community treasurer. From then on I did keep pretty accurate records of our financial activities!

Ariel bless him, comforted me as we looked into the flames of the radiating red stove that morning with the idea that we could take the ashes to the US treasury Department and be reimbursed!!!!!"

Love-Inn and an unusual exorcism

2009-02-05T11:39:00.000-08:00

Love-Inn in Freeville, NY

The Eastern Sky
by Shishonee

The eastern sky is darkened.
The stars barely give out their light
The earth quivers beneath
The birds fly past in flocks

The hills are rimmed with a faint glow
The air all about lays as a blanket
The oceans are strangely still
The mountains remain distant in solitude

Who has heard this report
Who has called this moment from the beginning
Who will cast our lives on the rock
Who will gather the pieces together into one.

Ye creatures of the Lord await His voice
You the work of His hands to utter forth praise
For the day of the Lord approaches
Then shall all the nations hear it
The people of God shall sing at the shout.

Before the Coming Lord
At whose feet all creation shall fall down,
For He has made us
And we are His.

It was our very first day on the open road. Half of our money had just burned up in our pot bellied stove. Sobered and praying for God's help, we headed to a place called "Love-Inn" that had been recommended to us by some dear friends. All we knew was that it was a Christian community led by a man named Scott Ross, located at 1768 Dryden Road in Freeville, New York. We arrived toward early evening and elders Joe and Terry warmly invited us to join them for dinner and a tour. We handed them a steaming loaf of honey wheat bread Ariel had just baked in our bus oven as we travelled. After dinner, we joined them for a prayer meeting and finally, at midnight, we returned to the bus for evening prayers and bed.

For the next eight days we stayed at Love-Inn, worshiping, helping prepare meals, playing our music, and helping out at their coffee house. At first, things went smoothly and we were even invited to do a TV show with host Danny Taylor for a special Christian cable TV show called the “Upper Room.”

However, later that day, I was surprised when during prayers and discussions with their community we were told to "refrain from ministering and to constrain ourselves". What did that mean? We returned to the bus to pray about it. Little did I know this would be an exhortation we would hear over and over again in the coming months as we travelled throughout the body of the Christian Church.

That evening, I was in for an even bigger shock. At dinner, Ariel met “Laura”, a quiet, mousy 50 year old woman who was sitting dejectedly at a table. She started crying and Ariel gently ushered her into the bus where she explained her situation to us. As she spoke, a sense of urgency crept into her otherwise meak voice. She told us her twenty-year-old daughter was doing drugs and getting heavily into tarot cards and witchcraft. Lifting a gold chain from around her neck, she showed us a glimmering gold pendant that she reported was a satanic medal her daughter had given her. She fingered the medallion as she spoke, shyly explaining that ever since her daughter got into witchcraft she'd felt strangely vacant. She told us of having blackouts - odd spells of forgetfulness for hours at a time when she couldn’t recall anything that had happened…

It grew dark outside and David K. moved silently through the bus lighting the lanterns. Sitting in the flickering light, I shuddered as I listened to this woman, feeling oddly unnerved. Something didn’t seem quite right about her but I couldn’t put my finger on it. I felt anxious and uneasy. Finally, around 1:00 am, Laura left. Even though it was quite late, we sat together praying quietly for the next hour. I wasn't sure if I dozed off or not but suddenly I felt the whole bus sway and rock. My eyes flew open and I saw a huge dark figure climbing up the steps. Oh! I held my breath until I realized it was a tall black man with a broad smile and friendly expression. Climbing up the steps behind him was a heavyset, black woman. I let a sigh and relaxed. He smiled and introduced himself as John and his wife, Lucille. He was surprisingly cheerful for 2:30 in the morning and said the Holy Spirit had drawn him to the bus and that he felt a grieving of the spirit. He felt led by the Lord to minister to us. We prayed together, hugged them goodby and finally got to bed around 3 a.m.

The next morning, I struggled out of my sleeping bag, tired and groggy. After hot coffee, fresh bread and oatmeal, we were just cleaning up when there was a timid knock on the bus door. It was Laura, looking pale and upset. I invited her in for coffee and bread. A few minutes later, John and Lucille, once again drawn by the Holy Spirit came in and sat down. Almost immediately, Laura set down her coffee and whispered, “Can you help me?”

Shipen offered her a comfortable seat toward the middle of the bus. While he spoke with her, we gathered around. We laced our hands together and silently prayed as Shipen interceded, “Oh Lord Jesus, we come before you with our sister Laura and ask that you would bless us. That you would come and enter the heart of this your child and take complete charge over her mind, body and spirit. Raising his voice, Shipen cried out, "In the name of Jesus, I command you Satan to loosen your hold over her! You have no power over her any longer!"

At first, Laura slumped over. But then she began coughing and gagging as if trying to release something from deep inside. John and Lucille rose and laid hands on her. Shipen commanded forcefully: “In the name of Jesus Christ our Lord and Savior you cannot hold her any longer, Satan.” Gently, we layed our hands over her shoulders and head, hand over hand, as our prayers grew stronger and louder. Laura shook and coughed and when I looked over I was astonished. Her face was contorted and she kept coughing and sputtering as if something was blocking her air supply. Again Shipen cried out, “In the name of Jesus, I command you to name yourself!” In a strange, inhuman way, her lips began to move and trembling violently a low, guttural voice burst from her throat: “We are many! We are Legion!” and immediately she started coughing again.

Shipen and John laid hands around her face. Shipen commanded, “In the name of Jesus Christ and with the authority of God the Father I demand that you release your hold on her, Satan. Legion, you must leave this body that is the temple of the Lord. Her name is written in the book of life!” Gently, Shipen placed his hand over her throat and on her face. Just then a great force was released from her body. She coughed loudly and with a sudden jerk became completely relaxed. Whatever had been in her was gone. Almost immediately her countenance was transformed. Praise God! The air fairly rang with victory. I felt utterly amazed at what had just happened.

By this time it was already late in the evening and in the soft light of the kerosene lamps, Laura’s face seemed peaceful, her features had softened, her eyes were clear. She turned, sighed quietly, and thanked us for helping her. Exhausted, we trudged into Love Inn and ate dinner together. The funny thing for me was that I had been so caught up in the intensity of the experience, it was only later that I realized I’d been part of an exorcism! The way it had unfolded it seemed like the most natural thing in the world. (Some months later, I made the mistake of seeing the movie the Exorcist and was so disturbed by it that I could hardly sleep for weeks afterwards. Hollywood was much scarier than the real thing!)

After dinner we joined everyone for lively fellowship in the coffee house. At Love-Inn, both our groups shared prophecies during the prayer sessions. A young man named Danny had a curious prophetic message from the Lord, “I have heard your songs, I have heard your harp, but I haven’t seen you dance. Your pride I have broken and evil I have removed from my sight. I will show you my love for you. I have heard your songs, I have heard your harp, but I haven’t seen you dance.”

Was this a message from the Lord asking us to celebrate the birth of a new soul? Or was the Lord asking us to lighten up a little and not be so serious? I was too tired to worry about it. After the service, totally drained, I went back to the bus and fell fast asleep.

The following day was Sunday and everyone had breakfast in the main building. Laura soon joined us smiling and looking relaxed and content. Around her neck hung a plain copper cross. After the meal there was another prayer service with readings from scripture. As we worshiped, people called out blessings or said whatever the Holy Spirit moved them to say. Then shy, quiet Laura started babbling almost nonsensical sounds. At first, I was worried that it was another demon or something, but Scott Ross leapt to his feet and cried out, “There’s nothing wrong! It’s the new, heavenly language!” Soon everyone was speaking in tongues in what seemed like a joyous river of foreign languages. This flowed into beautiful singing and dancing. In the chronicles I wrote:

"At this point everyone began to cry out with joy overflowing and the whole room was swept up by the Holy Spirit. Lifting our voices in praise, many were anointed and the sound of running, living waters was everywhere as tongues took over our speech. The heavenly music kept pouring through us until we reached a place of deep reverence and grace-filled worship. Eventually, a lone voice ever so softly started singing, “Dance, dance, where ever you may be… I am the Lord of the dance said He….”. We linked hands, joined together and the Lord showed us how to dance. Moving with us, the Lord of the dance united us in His Love. "

As we danced, I felt deeply moved by God’s grace. My whole being resonated with joyful exhilaration and thankfulness to God. The Lord is dancing with us! God you are so powerful! You can defeat Satan! You speak in wondrous and mysterious ways! I give my whole life over to you.

Throughout the day, powerful events continued with several individuals receiving anointing of the Holy Spirit. People moved from place to place ministering, praying, eating and talking, hugging, crying together or sharing. It was a day filled with unusual intensity. Before arriving at Love-Inn, we had received a prophecy about going into a place with living waters pouring out over all the people. That was exactly what had happened! God moves in mysterious ways!

At bible study the next morning, we realized it was time to move on. We said goodbye to Laura, John, Lucille and others and prayed for God’s direction for our next move. Lord, guide us in our every move. Let us know Your will in our lives. Help us follow Your way for us.

We drove to a tranquil spot at Sampson State Park on the eastern shore of Seneca Lake in New York. After dinner, we held a worship service and Shipen shared a beautiful new poem he had written that later became part of our daily worship service:

Let us not go to far from thy bosom beloved Jesus,
Let us not go to far from thy love,
Let thy word frame our world of rejoicing,
That the city of God is our home.

As the sun was setting, we brought out several instruments. Sitting together by the water, we played a long impromptu musical raga centered around the sitar, tamboura, harp and flute. It was one of those times I felt completely at peace. I prayed thanking God for letting me be a part of something so powerful and terrifying but so victorious. As I played the harp, the lyrical tones mixed with the delicate sounds of the other instruments. The music drifted out over the lake as the sky filled with ribbons of pink and purple against a canvas of turquoise, indigo and translucent yellow mirrored in the still water... That the city of God is our home.

Nomadic Life

2009-02-04T16:59:00.000-08:00

Shipen driving the bus

Beloved, since God loved us so much, we also ought to love one another.

No one has ever seen God; if we love one another,

God lives in us, and his love is perfected in us.” (1 John 4:11-12 )

Worship and music became the mainstay of our nomadic lives. Wherever we went, whomever we were with, we held daily prayer and worship services. Though we might quarrel or argue, during worship our lives burned with an intense faith. God continued to provide direct revelations and prophecies as we struggled to follow Him. We lived and breathed the gospel. We poured ourselves into prayer and confessions, into daily worship and song, into music given over to glorifying His name. This fire burned bright and I was filled with a constant, overwhelming, almost insatiable desire to be nearer to Jesus. To strangers who encountered us on the road, we must have seemed absurdly obsessed and overzealous. Every move we made we checked in with God to be sure we were doing His will and following His plan. Was this what God wanted for us at this time? When someone suggested we visit a certain Christian community this was always turned over to God in prayer. At other times, it seemed like sheer serendipity when the bus broke down stranding us somewhere.

Despite our cramped quarters I was truly in love with our nomadic way of life. A gypsy at heart, it was everything I had always dreamed of! I loved traveling to new places and experiencing new things, never knowing where we would end up next. I loved our family who had come to mean so much to me in such a short time. After feeling like an orphan for so long, I truly felt I had found a loving family with those ten other souls.

Our next stop was the House of Life at 2798 Delaware Avenue in Kenmore, New York. We were immediately taken to meet a very special elderly woman who lived nearby at the Wheelchair Home, Anna (Mrs. David) B. Van Dyck. We crowded into her small room in the nursing home. Sitting in her wheelchair, her face was framed in wisps of white hair and her thin crinkled face radiated joy and laughter. Gathered around her, she proceeded to weave stories and what an amazing storyteller she was!

One story I will never forget was her near-death experience. She explained that it all started when she had a heart attack and was rushed to the hospital. As the doctors and nurses were standing over her, she found herself floating up by the ceiling and she could see her body lying on the bed below. She heard them say, “I’m sorry…she’s dead.” The next thing she knew, she was going through a dark tunnel. At the end of the tunnel she saw a bright light. After she passed through the darkness, she saw old friends and family (who had died). They were walking toward her smiling and welcoming her. Looking directly into the brilliant light and she thought she could make out another figure. As she went closer, she knew at once it was Jesus. He drew her close and immediately she felt enveloped in His divine love and peace, a sensation more powerful than any she had ever felt before. The Lord told her that he loved her and would always be with her. After a moment, He said, “Anna, your work is not done yet.” Reluctantly she realized she had to go back. All of a sudden she was back in her hospital bed waking up. She explained that this experience strengthened her faith and a given her a renewed mission in life. Wow!

At the end of our visit, she asked if she could see the bus? Roger left to get it while the rest of us said our goodbyes. Hearing the unmistakable sound of the approaching bus, Sister Anna wheeled herself over to the window and leaned out. She bounced up and down in her wheelchair, clapped her hands together and laughingly exclaimed, “Now I know just how to picture you when I pray for you! Don’t worry my dears, I’ll pray to God to send angels to watch over each wheel of your bus!” I felt sure that she had, in fact, petitioned God to send guardian angels for us as we never had an accident. (Too bad she forgot the engine because we did suffer numerous breakdowns over the years!)

As we drove away, I couldn’t get Sister Anna’s story out of my mind. It was so vivid and so amazing. Would God ever come to me like that? Would I ever experience that kind of miracle that would forever erase any of my lingering doubts?

We left the House of Life and drove across the border to Canada, stopping to visit Niagara Falls and play tourists for a day. Then we continued on to Bathurst Street Church where we met people from two visiting Christian communities, the House of Emmaus and the House of Life who were in town for a big festival. They invited us to come visit their communities. Once again John and Lucille seemed to appear out of thin air and we talked about our recent exorcism experience and shared good fellowship with them.

That night, we attended a huge “Maranatha Praise and Power” festival. Walking into the huge stadium, I was struck by how people were acting like a bunch of sheep. They stood with their arms raised into the air and glazed, mesmerized looks on their faces. On stage, a preacher dressed head to toe in white, was gesturing and shouting as he jabbed the air and strutted around the stage. Coming from my quiet, Midwestern sensibilities, this noisy charismatic show struck me as deeply offensive. We found seats toward the back of the stadium and sat down. As I listened and prayed, I grew more and more judgmental – this was definitely not my cup of tea! The parade of gaudy outfits and loud, overly dramatic preaching was a complete turnoff. The whole event seemed like a weird freak show full of a monstrous charismatic irreverence that was very disturbing. Alienated and disgusted, midway through all ten of us stood up and left. We drove directly to the House of Emmaus at 25 Draper Street in Toronto.

That night, Shipen wrote Canon West about our adventures:

Dear Father West:

Peace be with you, and love from God the father, and from our Lord Jesus Christ.

I would that there were many days to spend in discussing the ways in which our Lord has prepared glory to God, and how His gentle hand has guided us safely through hard and heavy danger by air powers and land forces.

Once in a soft countryside having a woman delivered of 10 demons under a head she had secretly covenanted with – thanking the Lord she can sing praises in new tongues.

But then dealing in praise and power charisma – more fearful for the deception of appointing duties for the “spirit” to fill and to operate in. Something very near a frightful disrespect known now as “Jesus Nazism” – the Jesus power movement, the asking for and use of spiritual gifts as if their acquisition were the fruit itself – a fearful lot, able to defeat saint’s words of love, and carry away new born sheep lofting on the promise of experience.

Priests, by way of holding secrets of Enoch – getting arrayed for a display of knowledge on Judgment day.

Evangelists claiming hold over sheepfolds by clinging to power and “absolute” security in “now there is no condemnation tactics to enforce liberty of all the devil’s ways.

Would the Lord had me in a monastery, father, that I could pray for another deliverance of Israel from Egypt...
-Yours in faith, Shipen

Over the next few days, we joined with the House of Emmaus community for bible studies, prayers, shared meals and we helped them fix up their house. We cleaned bathrooms, washed windows and sewed curtains. One afternoon, a young man stumbled onto the bus saying he was having a bad trip. We gathered around him in prayer and we stayed with him until the drugs wore off. He asked God to help him with his addiction, and eventually he left.

Our new friends John and Lucille from Love-Inn popped by often, fascinated with our group. We were to meet many people over the course of our travels that were similarly attracted to our odd lifestyle. At the end of our visit, John came rushing in brimming with excitement. It was a shock when he excitedly revealed that he felt God had called them to join us on the bus! My immediate thought was that I didn't see how we could squeeze anyone else into our traveling home, let alone another married couple. Was this God’s will? Confused and uncertain, we decided to fast and pray about this new development. After a long talk, it was decided it was time for a retreat.

We left Toronto and drove to a secluded spot in an unused campground and parked the bus next to a wooded area surrounded by a vast meadow. For the next four days we fasted, prayed, read scripture, talked, and held services. We prayed asking God if it was His will for John and Lucille to joing our community or not? We also asked the Lord to heal our differences and bind up our wounds.

After just two weeks on the road, things had grown tense on the bus. Petty arguments and disagreements left all of us feeling cross. Thoughtless habits like leaving dirty socks on the floor were just plain annoying. For me it was getting frustrating to lay awake all night listening to Stephanie and Shipen snore so loudly that despite earplugs and a pillow around my head I couldn’t sleep. It was really getting on my nerves!

It was difficult living with ten people and a dog on a 30 foot-bus. There was no privacy and no personal space. And now two more people wanted to join and they were not exactly small people either! There just wasn’t room. During the crash-pad days of the Loft, it didn’t matter as much who came and went. Now that we were a band of traveling disciples, it was important to me that we remain a stable family. So that first night in the meadow I prayed for answers about John and Lucille.

Shipen called a family meeting. We would have to agree to certain ground rules. First, everyone needed to pitch in and do chores. Second, we would have to figure out how to keep the bus clean and tidy. After a long discussion, we each decided on different jobs. David Karasek graciously took on the task of cleaning the kerosene lantern globes and setting them up every evening after the sun went down (we had no electricity). It was a tedious, dirty undertaking. Every night he had to clean the sooty black carbon off ten globes, trim down the wicks, add fresh kerosene, then wipe up all the spilled kerosene. Ugh. Shipen, Roger, David Lynch and Ariel took turns driving. David Lynch had been given the job of treasurer and financial wizard he kept meticulous financial records of all expenditures, income, and debt. We women did most of the baking, sewing and cooking though Shipen, Steven and Ariel often enjoyed creating delicious ”feasts”. (Shipen and Ariel were excellent gourmet cooks and though Shipen tried to teach me, I never enjoyed cooking like he and Ariel did). We all took turns cleaning and washing up. It was agreed that dishes would be immediately washed and put away, counters cleaned and floors swept after each meal. We still used chopsticks. Water was a precious commodity and this cut down on having to wash tons of silverware. Sarah was the seamstress. I kept The Chronicles, our official diaries, filling the pages every evening with the day’s events.

Shipen stressed it was imperative to keep our small space clean and neat with everything stored away in its proper place. “A place for everything and everything in its place” had a Zen-like ring to it. It certainly helped that Sarah and Ariel were neatnicks who struggled valiantly to keep the bus clean. Upon rising, everyone would struggle into their clothes inside the privacy of their sleeping bags. Beds were quickly converted into a dining room table. As soon as I woke up, I would roll up my old flannel sleeping bag, wrap it tightly into an embroidered cover, and place it on the back platform bed to be used as a bolster. My “bed” was on top of the stove and kitchen counter. This didn’t protect me from the snoring but at least I had a great view out of the bus windows. Sometimes I would pitch a small pup tent away from the bus to get a good night’s sleep! People often asked us how in the world we managed to live constantly knocking elbows and smelling each other’s bad breath! It wasn’t easy and it was downright stressful. Sometimes, it was only through God’s grace that I got through the day.

By the fourth day of the fast, I was feeling weak and physically depleted. I barely had strength to go for a walk. Everyone looked pale and sickly except, curiously, Shipen and Roger. Only recently, Claudia explained why. While the rest of us were soldiering on with our total fast, Shipen and Roger were sneaking off to eat hamburgers at a nearby restaurant! Ah, the sins of human frailty.

David K., Shipen and Roger

Finally, on Sunday, we broke our fast with a simple communion service in the middle of the meadow. After four days without a shower I felt grubby and dirty, weak and sinful (some of us more sinful than others). Sitting amidst the sweet smelling wild flowers that radiated God's gracious goodness we held communion. What a contrast! The bright sunshine spilled over us as we sat around a clean, beautiful embroidered white tablecloth.

Roger and Claudia

We passed around the wine filled chalice that Rodney Kirk had given us the day we left New York and broke off pieces of unleavened communion bread to share. As I took communion, I felt weak and confused, like God was trying to tell me something but the connection on my end was too fuzzy and gunked up for me to hear what he was saying. What is it you’re trying to say, Lord? Is it Your will for John and Lucille to come with us? Please guide us to do your will.

Later that afternoon, I picked dandelion leaves and dug up the burdock and Queen Ann’s Lace roots that Shipen insisted would make a wonderful wild stew. He had been reading a book by Euell Gibbons about harvesting wild foods from the land called Stalking the Wild Asparagus. The stew tasted delicious but made us really sick (probably from the burdock root). I’m glad we didn’t add wild mushrooms!

Although we still had not received a clear answer to our prayers about John and Lucille, we agreed that if they were to join us, it was not yet the right time. Would their ministry be with us? Or without us? We prayed for God’s will and waited for a sign. Should we stay or go? Where? Later, we ate a supper of beans and rice and continued our prayer vigil late into the night.

The following morning the sound of a huge tractor mower woke us up. A man was mowing the field, moving back and forth across the meadow and getting closer and closer to the bus. God had answered our prayers. Clearly it was time for us to move on! Recently, Claudia recalled how that lawn mower became a symbol of the Lord’s word for her and Roger at various junctions in their lives. When it became clear that the Lord was speaking to them about something, Roger would remark, “that’s our lawn mower.”

Hurriedly, we left our meadow retreat. Someone recalled that at the House of Emmaus they’d told us about an unusual Christian farming community of Hutterites in Canada. It seemed like as good a destination as any.

Shipen drove west through Canada until we arrived at the Hutterite Community just in time for tea. Thus began a new chapter in our lives that would affect us in ways we could never have imagined…

Hutterites: There shall be Showers of Blessings - Community Farm of the Brethren

2009-02-03T15:07:00.000-08:00

There shall be showers of blessings
This is the promise of love
There shall be seasons refreshing
Sent from the savior above
Showers of blessings this is the promise we need
Mercy drops round us are falling
But for the showers we plead. (from a Hutterite hymn)

Working in the Noodle Factory at the Community Farm of the Brethren

It was 3:00 in the afternoon of May 28, 1971, when we pulled into the Community Farm of the Brethren, a sprawling Hutterite farming complex in Bright, Ontario. As we drove up the long gravel road off Highway 61, small groups of women were walking through the fields wearing long full-length skirts, their hair pinned up underneath headscarves. Several bearded men dressed in long sleeved shirts were leaning against the front porch of an old stone house. As we stepped off the bus, they walked up to greet us. It was teatime on the farm so they invited us to come in for tea.

It was not until later we discovered the Hutterites wouldn't even have invited us in except that they’d received a vision from the Lord shortly before our arrival. They were praying about a recent division in their community (more on this later) and asked the Lord how they could get the harvest in with only half a workforce. The Lord told them through prophecy: "Do not despise strangers because they may be angels unawares." We arrived the very next day – an answer to their prayers.

As Stephanie recently recalls: We gained so much from being loved by the Hutterites...I liken it to their "Fresh Air" program, you know, where you take kids out of the city for the summer and clean them up, love them, and show them a different way to live. Here we were hippies who left the city but the city hadn't left us till we left the farm.

With our long hair and bus painted with admonitions from scripture, we must have looked as strange to the Hutterites as they did to us. As had become our tradition, we gave the farm community a loaf of homemade bread but they topped that by giving us two loaves of their homemade bread, three packages of homemade noodles, and two-dozen fresh eggs! While the men were hustled off to meet with the Hutterite elders, we women were given a whirlwind tour of the farm complex. It was very impressive! There was an egg noodle factory, a massive barn with hundreds of egg laying chickens in wire cages, apple and cherry orchards, a wide fenced area with hundreds of honking geese, hay and grain fields, large plots of vegetables and strawberries, and a chicken processing building. Wow!

Hutterite family housing units

Next, we were shown their living quarters. Each family had a room in a row of motel-like housing units that looked neat but rather austere. The old stone farmhouse stood in the middle like an ancient sentinel guarding over the rest of the farm. The Hutterites looked so much like the Amish that it was surprising to see gasoline tractors and mechanized farm equipment. Seeing our puzzled faces, they explained they were different from the Amish and gave us a full history of their community.

The Community Farm of the Brethren was started in 1931 by three different men: Alexander, Fred Kemp and the late Julius Kubasek. They founded the community with a vision to live as the original Christians did. They started with several families that came over from Germany and grew to over 100 people and 16 families by the time we arrived. Originally, they farmed only 375 acres but by 1971, their land stretched to over 1,200 acres. My first impression was that they were kind, simple, salt-of-the-earth people who welcomed us with wide smiles and a refreshing openness.

After tours and introductions, we parked our bus in their apple orchard and joined the brethren for dinner in the dining hall and then for the evening worship service. As I sat in the chapel that first evening, it seemed refreshingly quaint to listen to the nasally women’s voices mixed in with the men singing the lovely old-fashioned hymns that resonated straight to my heart like Bringing in the Sheaves and Blessed Quietness:

Joy is flowing like a river since the Comforter has come,
He abides with us forever, makes the trusting heart his home
Blessed quietness, holy quietness, what assurance in my soul
On the stormy seas he speaks peace to me
While the billows cease to roll. [From a Hutterite hymn]

The very next morning Naomi, Sarah, Claudia and I were given blouses and plain skirts to replace our Indian madras hippie style skirts. It seems the elders had agreed to allowing us to work with the brethren over the summer. And what an experience it was to be! I was introduced to a work ethic that was so strong I am still influenced by it today. In their Hutterite community, everyone had a job to do and each member worked very, very hard at everything they did. In fact, it was to become a source of frustration to the some of the Hutterite women that the women of our group were too “lazy” as we struggled to match the intensity of the work these women put forth every day.

I have a vivid memory of one hot summer afternoon when Stephanie, Claudia, Naomi, Sarah and I helped clean the dining hall. I can still picture lines of women dressed in full skirts down on that hard floor on their hands and knees scrubbing the vast dining hall totally by hand. It was so hot that sweat kept dripping into my eyes as I scrubbed the never-ending length of floor that seemed stretch to the horizon. I can still feel my aching knees and back as I worked my way slowly along, wringing out the steaming water from my rag as I dragged a sudsy bucket along beside me. I worked beside lines of other Hutterite women who chattered on happily, oblivious to my sullen discomfort. Wiping away the sweat tickling my nose, I noticed I was way behind the Hutterite women who efficiently worked circles around me!

There were some clear divisions between women’s chores and men’s chores. Some jobs were shared by all (such as working in the noodle factory) while others were not. The women worked in the kitchen canning, baking and preparing meals or afternoon tea. Women cleaned the houses and communal kitchen and dining room, sewed clothing and took care of the children. Men plowed the fields, baled hay or drove the tractors.

A Hutterite woman sorting baby chics

We parked the bus, pitched our tents in the apple orchard and settled in to our new life.

Over the next months, I worked with the brethren learning all kinds of new skills: packing noodles in the noodle factory, processing chickens, helping stuff pillows with goose feather down, weeding and harvesting crops from the gardens, fields and orchards. The men either worked in the factories, farmed, rotated planting or harvesting, or did other farming activities. Often they sang hymns while they worked which seemed to lighten the load.

Farming took some adjusting for us city folks and there were some humorous surprises along the way. David Lynch describes one disasterous situation that occurred when the men were collecting eggs in the chicken barn:

"One morning the brethren announced that the busmen would be given charge of the chicken house. Wowie! This huge barn like structure had three floors, full to the rafters with chicken “machines”! Rows and rows of wire cages with four chickens crammed and squawking in each little cubicle. Running the length of the floor under the cages was a long outer trough, which "magically" collected their eggs.

There was a huge heavy wagon-like cart that carried the feed for the birds and also a big sorting cart/collector wagon for the eggs. We'd start off on the top floor and run up and down the aisles collecting all the eggs on the floor. At the far end of the barn there was a large flat platform elevator cage with wires that you pulled to stop and go - like in an old New York loft only bigger. We'd steer our cart of eggs into the thing and yank the wire and very slowly descend to the next floor and repeat the process and then to the first floor and do the same thing.

The routines of feeding and collecting had become fairly established, and we Busfolk had begun to lobby on behalf of the chickens against what to our citified sensibilities was extreme overcrowding in the cages. The stressed out birds were literally eating each other in the frustration of such confinement. The farm geese and ducks on the other hand had palatial open barns to roam in and large fields surrounding the barns. But the chickens were literally cooped up in prison-like cells. This resulted in the cannibalistic behavior and inevitably to not infrequent ex-chickens.

The brethren maintained that it was economics that dictated four birds to a cage but we agitated for change and eventually through attrition and natural selection/death we were able to decrease the population to two chickens per cage. And it seemed evident to us that production and overall quality of the eggs increased and the health of the birds improved substantially.

One morning after Ship had done a feeding with the big heavy feeder cart, Ariel and I were also making our egg collection at the same time. Usually Ship would have finished the top and be down on the other floors ahead of us. So, we had all finished the top floor together, the feeding, and the gathering and a bumper egg crop too! We entered the elevator together and it creaked loudly as the feed wagon joined us aboard!

Ship closed the bars and pulled the wire for the second floor. Nothing happened. There was no motion. Then suddenly there was a weird sound and the gears groaned and began to slip. They screeched and the elevator car seemed to lurch and then began a somewhat rapid decent! We could not stop it on the second floor and it was obvious there was a fairly serious problem! It wasn't hurtling down like in a movie, but definitely moving much faster than it usually did! The egg cart was itself very heavy and this day we were very full of eggs and we had the monster feed machine! Yikes! We were approaching the first floor very quickly - the elevator gears fairly screaming! It seemed inevitable there would be a bad accident.

As we approached the bottom, I remember leaping into the air as high as I could. There was a gigantic thunk and shudder and a huge cloud of dust and feathers as the egg cart lurched over - eggs flying! and then the impact shattering most all of the rest! We all were in some sort of shock, but quickly assessed that none of us was seriously hurt. Ariel and Ship said they had whiplashy sorts of feelings but were OK. I was sort of stunned. And then we could hardly believe what had just happened. The ensuing silence was followed by heartfelt prayer and then laughter!"

After false starts and many lessons learned, we settled in to farm life. From the day we arrived, one man, Julius Kubasek, stood out from all the others, befriending us and easing our transition into this farm community. He was a quiet, friendly man whose warm handshake and kind smile set me at ease immediately. Dressed in a plain shirt, work pants, a straw hat and sporting a full beard, he reminded me of a young Paul Bunyan. He soon became a stalwart friend - always there to give advice and ready to lend a hand.

Julius Kubasek

Julius had a way of connecting people and seeing the broader picture. He drove us to visit other Christian communities, invited us to tea with his wife and children, prayed with us, and often joined in our discussions and meetings. He became a good friend who counseled us and acted as a liaison between the Hutterite brethren and us. I recall once he invited Sarah and me to drive to the Kitchener farmer’s market with him. It was pitch black outside when I awoke at 3:00 a.m. that Saturday morning. Groggy and half asleep Sarah and I loaded up the truck with cartons of fresh eggs, vegetables, bread, egg noodles, jars of pickles and jam, and goose down pillows. Then we drove through the dark night to the market and set up in one of the booths. After everything was arranged neatly the market opened and we were free to go look around.

I was thrilled to wander around the market, enjoying the wonderful smells, sights and sounds: listening to the cadence of an auctioneer selling dairy cows, eating home-baked cookies and muffins, the smell of straw, horses and livestock, looking at all the different booths filled with colorful homemade quilts, produce, honey or baked goods. So much more exciting than shopping at Wal-Mart! After a successful day at the market, we returned to the farm. I remember thinking, I love this farm life! Good friends, honest work, good food, animals, the simple life – this is the life! (Keep Manhattan just gimmee that countryside!)

Sadly, things were not perfect on this idyllic farm. We quickly realized that within the farm complex there lived another community of Hutterites who were completely estranged from the main group. An elder named Fred Kemp led the community that we knew while the other group was led by John Entz. Either because of philosophical disagreements between elders or factional differences, when we came on the scene neither group was speaking to the other.

This division ran deep. Almost immediately, we felt called to pray and do whatever we could to intercede and try to bring healing and unity to these people. Every evening after worship there was a curious event called the “faith march.” At the end of the daily service in the chapel, everyone would stand up and process out of the chapel. Imagine all the Hutterites, men, women and children marching slowly around the other group’s building while singing hymns. We were told this strange march was done as both a form of intercession for God to “bring the others back into the fold” but I saw it as a means of trying to pressure the renegade group into compliance.

Concerned, we took a different tactic. We prayed for God to heal the division and reunite both factions. We tried to encourage both sides to, at least, start talking again. Throughout our stay, children and adults from the splinter group would clamber onto our bus to visit and we used those opportunities to discuss forgiveness, loving your neighbor, and the need for healing. At other times, Naomi and Shipen would go meet with the other group, trying to help break the impasse.

On our third day at the farm a peculiar thing happened that would set into motion a chain of events that would have serious ramifications for us later on. Eight hippies approached the brethren and asked the Hutterites if they could camp on their property by the river. The brethren said yes so the hippies set up a camp. We met and talked with the hippies and even sang a song that moved one young woman to tears, but then had nothing more to do with them. We were surprised when several weeks later the police raided their camp, and arrested them for growing marijuana and possession of a variety of drugs. Alarmed and worried for their impressionable children, the brethren closed down the remnants of their encampment.

There was a beautiful naïve and gentle quality about the Hutterite children. I was touched by their delightfully sweet nature and refreshing innocence. Sometimes they brought us gifts such as fresh picked flowers or they scampered aboard the bus with little kittens draped in their arms. (We couldn’t resist keeping some of the kittens as pets).

Hutterite children

Naomi seemed especially drawn to these little ones and she often spent time playing and talking with them. Whenever she was around them, I noticed it was like a weight was lifted from her. Immediately her eyes would sparkle and her whole countenance would brighten up. She seemed to have a natural rapport with children and they loved doing things with her.

As we settled into farm life, the question of John and Lucille's joining our community remained unanswered. It was time to visit them at the House of Emmaus back in Toronto so Julius kindly offered to drive us down. We arrived laden down with 12 boxes each of cake mix, pancake mix, coffee cake mix and 12 cartons of eggs. Wow! It was surprising how many changes had occurred within such a short time! The community was strong and growing. We met our friends John and Lucille and were surprised to learn that they had been called to a powerful ministry in the House of Emmaus community. Praise God! This answered our prayers and solved the previous dilemma about their joining our group. We returned to the farm relieved and renewed.

I loved life on the farm! I could wake up in the morning and snack on fresh apples from the orchard. I learned how to shuck peas and thin out the young carrots. I discovered the delicious taste of raw asparagus and learned how to snap the slender young shoots off just above the ground. I also learned the hard way that there’s a limit to how many fresh cherries you should eat, no matter how tempting they are as you pick them. I can still recall a young Hutterite girl with long light blond hair who proudly showed me how to crack open raw eggs right into her open mouth. “Delicious!” she insisted, “Try it!” “Ah, no thanks, maybe some other time,” I declined.

One thing I didn't like about the farm almost turned me into a vegetarian. I hated the “processing” of chickens for meat. The Hutterites raised geese and chickens, both for eggs and feathers and for food. Jobs were rotated so eventually it was our turn to work in the slaughter house. Ugh! Everyone pitched in and was given a different task. The chickens were moved through a sort of assembly line. First they had their throats cut in an area that was, thankfully, blocked from my view. Sometimes the brother who did this horrible job would come out, and my eyes were inevitably drawn to stare at his apron, covered in dried layers of bright red blood. When the chickens arrived at my station, my job was to break their legs by bending them back and forth and then cut them off at the knees. Yuck! Once they left my station, they proceeded to be dipped into vats of hot wax which made it easier to strip off and remove the feathers. It was grisly, gruesome work and I hated the sounds and smells in the killing room. Sometimes I had to help pluck out the remaining feathers and the smell of heated flesh was overwhelming. I much preferred working outside in the fields picking strawberries, cherries or vegetables or working in the egg noodle factory filling bags with freshly cooked and dried egg noodles.

After the day’s work, everyone gathered for evening prayers in the chapel. The women sat on one side of the room and the men sat on the other. Often Elder Fred would read long passages from the Bible in a kind of monotone. After a hard day’s work it was all I could do to keep from nodding off. There was always the singing of old style hymns, many of them in German “Eich bein ein pilger nacht Zion’s hern” (I am a pilgrim in Zion’s Land) and others in English such as "Standing on the Promises of God my King" and "There Shall be Showers of Blessings.” After a scripture reading, those who were so moved would share a teaching, a prayer or prophecy. In one prophecy, we were abruptly informed that all the “bus men” should get their hair cut short! Wary of false prophets (and probably a little vain) it took several days of prayer and soul searching before our menfolk finally relented. It was a major event when Shipen, David Lynch and Roger finally got their long hair cut off and their beards neatly trimmed! We were starting to look like real Hutterites (minus the suspenders and straw hats). They were the outward manifestations of inner changes as we learned to trust the brethren and accept their wisdom and guidance.

Meals were incredible and I began to put on weight. A loud whistle would sound the call for mealtime and afternoon tea, which we ate with the brethren in the communal dining hall. The women on the farm prepared tasty home cooked meals that included delicious homemade bakery bread and jam, egg noodles, cookies, pies, roasted chicken or goose dinners, fresh vegetables and fruit, most of which came right from the farm.

About mid summer, our relationship with the brethren grew strained. Possibly this was because Shipen and Naomi were meeting with members of the splinter group of Hutterites or possibley it was the fact that our bus was a magnet for their vulnerable children. I suspect that the elders were wary of our influence on their young minds (and bodies) as well. We had the potential to create rebellion among their young people since we were outsiders with worldly ways and influences, disrupting the normalcy of their lives. This was confirmed when the elders finally convened a meeting with the men in our group and delivered what amounted to an ultimatum: we should stop meddling in their affairs and that we could either “shape up or ship out.” What did that mean? It was disheartening We were hearing a similar message to what we had been told at Love-Inn: “Be quiet and don’t minister.” This was especially hard since we had come with the best intentions in the world and were entertaining ideas for a long-term involvement with the brethren.

Just after this confrontation, our men were out running an errand when they ran across a nearby farm that was for sale. Shipen was immediately reminded of Rodney Kirk’s original idea about our starting up a farm to which people could come on retreat for healing and work. It was something we had talked about before we left New York City, but had long since forgotten. Was this God’s way of pointing us toward our new mission? Was the Lord calling us to start a farm retreat ministry? We talked it over amongst ourselves and then our men met with the Hutterite elders to discuss this new possibility. Together, they drove off to look at the farm while we women remained to pray and ask God for a clear vision and confirmation that this was His ministry for us. God, what do you want of us? Are we meant to continue traveling? Are we to stay? Lord, what is your will?

Summer at Community Farm of the Brethren

2009-02-02T13:11:00.000-08:00

Shishonee and Naomi sitting on the hill overlooking the apple orchard on the farm

The Community Farm of the Brethren had been in contact with two leading Hutterites from Germany and invited them to come to visit and minister. So it was that one summer afternoon, two charismatic visitors arrived at the farm. “Reinhold” and “Earnest” arrived like gangbusters and my immediate response was one of skepticism and judgmentalism. That first night they led the brethren in prayers, read from scripture and then announced a revelation that the faith marches should end immediately (so they did!).

From that moment on, those two powerful men took over leading the evening meetings and prayers. Energetic and dynamic speakers, much of the Hutterite community seemed to hang on their every word, accepting their ideas and admonitions as absolute truth. Personally, I thought the women were acting liked schoolgirls, nodding and giggling at whatever the German's said. I wrote in my journal one evening that it was just ridiculous. If the brother’s uttered the words “go left”, the entire community would proceed to walk to the left. If they said “go right”, everyone would suddenly march to the right. They could easily lead them over a cliff! Listening to the apocalyptic tone of their sermons, we busfolk disagreed with the move-back-to-Israel vision they were preaching. Here we were in the process of trying to establish our own ministry alongside the brethren on a nearby farm and suddenly these German preachers were talking about packing up and moving to Israel!

Admittedly, I had my own pet peeves. Typical of the Pentecostal worship style, the German brothers prayed with their arms reaching upwards. I had seen this many times before but I couldn’t imagine it with our salt-of-the-earth Hutterites. Yet sure enough, four days after their arrival even Alexander, his wife and Ma Kubasek were praying with their palms upward, arms outstretched. Oh boy.

As the early summer days passed, tensions mounted again in our small family. It started when Claudia fainted during a service. Shipen decided we needed to pray to cast out a “spirit of mesmerism.” This led to extensive scriptural admonitions and a long meeting with the Hutterite elders. I thought he was being melodramatic. Maybe it was just too hot and stuffy in the chapel! Maybe she just had the flu.

Shipen called for a family meeting and Stephanie shared her strong desire to get married and have a family. She explained she wanted to go back to New York on retreat to try to sort things out. Then David Lynch shared that he was considering leaving the group too. As everyone discussed their feelings and desires, I felt like I had been punched in the gut. I had a horrible sinking feeling that our family was going to fall apart. I wondered if we could continue holding things together much longer.

In the morning, Shipen called Rodney Kirk who urged Shipen to return to New York for a short visit. With things pulling each of us in different directions, Shipen decided it was time to seek Canon West’s counsel. So Shipen and Stephanie left for New York for two weeks, while the rest of us held down the fort. I prayed for the Lord to bring our family back together and keep us whole.

Almost as soon as Shipen and Stephanie left, the two German brothers came over to the bus to chat with us. They shared their vision of a community in Israel and urged us to consider the idea of going there. We prayed and talked for a long time. Finally my resistance fell away when Reinhold gently said, “Dear Ones, I love you.” That was it, I melted and from then on I accepted them, as did the rest of our group. Was it because our elder Shipen was gone that we suddenly accepted these men? For me, I think it was their humble attitude that finally allowed me to see them simply as two human beings, affectionate and kind. I did a complete “about face”, let go of my judgmental armor and relaxed. However, although I warmed to them and accepted them I could not connect with their message calling for creating a community in Israel.

Over the next days, there were conversions and baptisms as various people were “born again.” Still Old Fred, one of the original elders, remained quietly steadfast in his authority. He would periodically stand and give admonitions or a blessing. I admired his old fashioned strength of character. His simplicity endeared him to me in a way that no slick, charismatic preacher ever could. He would speak in his quiet, simple English, “go, your sins are forgiven now… and don’t do it no more!” Precious!

The Germans had attracted dozens of new visitors to the farm so after services, there were many new faces joining us for nightly gatherings on our bus. I found those two weeks very peaceful and fun. There was no bickering or arguing. I used the time for self-reflection and relaxation. I enjoyed some new experiences like attending a local farm auction, picking and canning cherries alongside the Hutterite women, and attending an old-fashioned baptism down by the river. One highlight was the beautiful wedding celebration of our friends Nabile and Katherine, which we all attended, dressed in our Sunday best.

On July 24th, Arnold, the son of John Entz from the outcast group, came to attend a service in the chapel. Was this the beginning of healing between the two Hutterite factions? The next day, three more girls from the splinter group came to services. Then the German brothers called for a symbolic healing ceremony. That Sunday, the men and women split into separate groups for a religious ceremony. The men washed one another’s feet and the women also washed each other’s feet in a symbolic act of humility. Afterwards, there was a huge feast and the German brothers served steaming dishes of food to everyone. Five days later Reinhold and Ernest flew back to Germany and things returned to normal.

Just after they left, Shipen and Stephanie returned from New York City and we gathered on the bus to hear about their trip. Shipen filled us in on his meeting with Canon West and his stay with Rodney. He and Rodney had once again discussed the vision of a farm ministry and the many ramifications of such an idea. It could be a place for young people to go for rehabilitation from drug habits or to detox. It would be a way to clear their minds and bodies as they worked on the farm. Excited, we kicked around various ideas wondering if this was God’s purpose for us. We talked on and on, eventually agreeing to pray about it first.

Then Stephanie eagerly told us about her retreat at the Community of the Holy Spirit, the Episcopal convent that Canon West mentored and advised. She was bubbling with ideas and suggested we should establish daily worship services, communion in the mornings and create a general “Rule” (the framework a monastic order uses to layout it’s routines, discipline and overall guidelines). To me, her ideas rang true. We prayed asking God if this was the type of life he was calling us to. That evening we sang Psalms 4 and 147 responsively, in the same manner as the nuns did. Though we had not been playing our instruments together for some time, Psalm 147 had some prophetic words for us:

Praise the Lord.
How good it is to sing praises to our God,
how pleasant and fitting to praise him!

The Lord builds up Jerusalem;
He gathers the exiles of Israel.
He heals the brokenhearted
and binds up their wounds…

Sing to the Lord with thanksgiving
make music to our God on the harp
He covers the sky with clouds
He supplies the earth with rain
and makes grass grow on the hills…

God seemed to be saying that he would heal our divisions and care for all our needs. He was encouraging us to praise him and worship him through our music. Immediately I felt a sense of confirmation. Yes, Lord this is right. This is what we should be doing to praise and honor you.

The next day after work, we gathered in the bus and Shipen brought up the question of our ministry and the idea of the farm again. But before we could really get into a discussion about it, Roger and Claudia surprised us by announcing they wanted to leave to go on retreat. Roger explained they needed time to think about the group, their marriage and if the Lord wanted them to start a family. They didn’t think a baby would work in the bus environment. Ariel chimed in saying he too felt called to go on a retreat to make some decisions of his own, as did I. We all agreed it was time to examine our personal commitment and calling. So once again we split apart as Roger, Claudia and Ariel left for New York City and Sara left on vacation back home.

I went on retreat to The Sisters of the Church, a convent at 1151 Lakeshore Road in Oakville, Ontario. Almost immediately, I found myself connecting to monastic life. I found the structure of daily routines comforting and the long periods of silence helped center me spiritually. The sisters were kind, loving and supportive.

After hearing so much about the Community Farm of the Brethren during my retreat, the sisters were intrigued. When it was time for me to leave, they offered to drive me back so they could visit the Hutterites, see our bus and meet the rest of my Christian family. So we piled into their car and they drove me back to the farm. Feeling like a kid at the end of camp, I showed them around and then brought them to see the chapel. The nuns stayed for lunch and sat with us at our table in the dining hall. As we ate, they peppered us with questions about our community life, our history and travels. They joined us for our evening service on the bus and then gave us a lovely gift of two elegant brass candlesticks. Touched, I hugged them promising to visit them again in the future. That night I lay in my sleeping bag convinced as Stephanie was that it would be helpful if we adopted a similar daily structure into our own lives. I felt refreshed and centered and totally rededicated to our community life together.

It was August and we were very busy harvesting fruit and vegetables, canning and pickling. The dining hall kitchen was a delightful place full of laughter, singing or good natured teasing. Usually the kitchen was off limits to all of us bus folk. Thus it was a rare treat when I was invited to learn how to make dill pickles. I was shown which herb was dill in the garden, how to wash and rub off the prickly points on the cucumbers, what ingredients to add, and how to prepare the dozens of jars of pickles. Hard work, but I was delighted to be included!

As Shipen tenaciously focused his efforts on his vision for a farm, we grew more and more excited about it. The idea was that our group would establish some kind of semi-monastic community or religious order based on a farm and run a rehabilitation center. It would be a place for wayward souls to come and get away from outside worldly influences while working on the farm. Clearly our own work with the Hutterites had helped us a great deal and increasingly we saw the value in simple manual labor. Shipen spoke of various possibilities but the vision of a permanent home in the country was key to every permutation. As the summer wore on and cold weather approached, our conviction to purchase the nearby farm grew stronger. (Especially since our tents were pitched in the apple orchard and it would be getting mighty cold come fall).

Shipen met repeatedly with the Hutterite elders and they revisited the barn and grounds. Fervently he pitched his dream, explaining that it could become a refuge for hungry and weary young souls, a school, or maybe an orphanage. They agreed to consider it and discuss it amongst their elders.

We also prayed for a clear vision, asking for God’s confirmation. Was it a coincidence that the brethren were being presented with two distinct visions for a future farm ministry? On the one hand was the vision presented by the German brothers that called for a communal farm/kibbutz in Israel. On the other was our vision calling them to work alongside us in establishing a farm retreat center.

I think the turning point came one day when Shipen shared with the elders that he felt God had called him to minister to a Native American boy named "Don". The young man was addicted to Darvon and needed to get away from his current home situation. He asked if the elders would consider allowing Don to come work and live with the Hutterites for a while? He launched into his vision of a farm where Don and others like him could come to retreat, worship, and work with their hands while breaking addictions. Unfortunately, this was probably not the best idea since the brethren still had a sour taste in their mouths regarding the hippie camp incident. It was still fresh on their minds that they had allowed hippies to camp on their property only to find out they had grown marijuana, were dealing and using drugs there. Not a good influence for their children!

After many discussions and prayers on both sides, we received our answer August 10th.. The elders regretfully informed us they did not want Don to come and they did not want us to start a ministry on the nearby farm. They countered with the suggestion that they would support us in establishing a farm somewhere a long distance away. They also said they could not be joined with us unless we accepted the doctrine that the German brothers had been preaching which required that we be willing to go to Israel (an idea that we did not agree with).

I was so upset at their answer at the time that I missed the amazing fact that they were willing to finance our venture albeit on a farm far away. I was deeply disappointed and suspected their decision had more to do with protecting their children from an influx of strangers with drug or addiction problems. Wasn’t God calling us to this ministry? Why couldn’t they see that? I recall reading the Bible at the time about God calling Abraham to sacrifice his own child on the altar and that though God tested Abraham’s faith, he never allowed anything to happen to that child. Didn't they realize God wouldn’t allow their children to be harmed? Or was I just being naive? I felt totally betrayed and let down. I kept thinking that God had called all of us to a farm ministry and to me the brethren were getting bogged down in fear that blinded them to God’ purpose.

Nevertheless, it was a loving gesture for them to propose to help us finance a farm somewhere else. We thanked them for this kind offer and said we would pray about it and confer amongst ourselves after Sarah, Ariel, Roger and Claudia returned.

That afternoon Sarah returned to the farm with her father, her aunt and her brother. The next day, Ariel returned from his week at the Society of St. Francis. Much like Stephanie and I, he too had been strongly affected by his retreat at the monastery. He shared many fresh ideas for new routines and procedures. I liked his new self-confidence. His previous feelings of inadequacy and indecision had been replaced by grace and strength.

Finally Roger and Claudia returned from New York and we were back together as a complete family again. We celebrated with some of Julius’ homemade blackcurrant wine and spent the evening talking about our future. We went around the circle and each of us shared what we saw as our personal “position in the Lord.” Knowing some decisions would need to be made soon. Eventually, we agreed that each of us needed to pray about our own commitment to The Symphony of Souls. It was time to examine our own hearts and then share what we understood the “vision” of our community to be. Also, how did think we fit into it? Would it be on a bus, on a farm, or where? Would it be in this community or another one? What shape would it take? This was still unknown. The one thing we all agreed on was that we each saw ourselves as living in a community, whether there or elsewhere.

Roger and Claudia making ice cream

Two days later we were shocked when Roger and Claudia announced their decision to leave our community because of their desire to have children and raise a family. Upon hearing Roger and Claudia’s intentions, the brethren resoundingly approved. The rest of us generally did not feel a similar conviction and there began a round of prayers and meetings that went on throughout the day. I was absolutely sure that this was not what God wanted for our family. He still had work for us to do and we’d barely begun our musical ministry. I couldn’t understand why they would want to leave and abandon our mission? Couldn’t they remember how we felt as we set out on the bus?! I felt overwhelmed with sadness and distress.

When it came time for evening services, Roger and Claudia walked over to the chapel. All the rest of us stayed behind to pray and talk. Shipen said he was upset with the lack of loyalty and commitment and called for us to re-dedicate ourselves fully to the Lord’s service. After a while, we again went around the circle voicing our personal commitment to the group, all except for Naomi who admitted she was still undecided.

Naomi had been wrestling with her own misgivings and difficulties about remaining with our group. She seemed increasingly unhappy and withdrawn, going off by herself to her tent or taking long walks alone through the orchards. I admired how she continued to go out of her way to fellowship with the splinter group of Hutterites, and her kindness, love and courage. She had a deep sensitivity to the Hutterite children and she had a gift of spiritual discernment. I just wondered if she was happy.

Later our good friend Julius joined us for prayers and received a prophecy, “Fear not little flock but take pleasure in me.” He shared a vision he'd had of a ram beating its head against a shield and losing its horn. As soon as the horn fell off, the ram stopped fighting. It grew still and saw green pastures awaiting it. Did this mean we were right and Roger and Claudia should stop trying to fight God’s purpose for them and that somehow everything would work out? Or did this mean we should stop fighting their desire to leave, relax and everything would work out? I just didn’t know.

When Roger and Claudia returned from the chapel, we prayed together for some time, asking God to confirm that Roger and Claudia’s decision to leave was the right one for all concerned. Finally, Roger spoke up saying, “You’re going to think this is pretty dumb but I’ve been listening to my mind all day, yet my heart has been crying out, “No, don’t go!” Then he started crying. When I realized that Roger was changing his mind and that they were going to stay, I was greatly relieved. Pretty soon we were all crying and embracing each other. Praise God that he returned Roger and Claudia to us and answered our prayers! Roger stood up and prayed for guidance in the days ahead and as he spoke I felt immense relief, joy and thankfulness that God had changed Roger’s heart. Hurrah! We weren’t going to lose them after all! Curiously, Claudia sat very quietly over in a corner saying very little. I wasn’t sure she was completely in agreement. She was crying, but were they tears of relief or of frustration?

Shortly thereafter the Hutterites offered Roger and Claudia some much-needed privacy. They arranged for them to enjoy a weekend retreat in the old stone farmhouse. It was a wonderful, romantic time for them to finally be alone! Dear brother Fred even snuck in a bottle of wine. Lovely! I had no idea what big changes were thus set in motion that night…

Realizing that buying the nearby farm was never going to be a viable option, we accepted the sad fact it was time to move on. For whatever reason, we didn’t even seriously consider the idea of a distant farm as a viable possibility. We decided to put together a final performance of poetry readings, hymns, music and songs to present to the brethren before leaving. We practiced a Japanese Noh play and a song David Lynch wrote called “The Lord Will Provide.” In the meantime, the prophecies continued. Johanna came by one afternoon saying the Lord had given her a word for us: “Come ye out from amongst these my people.”

Shortly thereafter, we held another meeting during which Shipen clearly laid out how he envisioned our group and that he realized now that it would have been nearly impossible to join in a venture with the brethren because of their high anxiety and fearfulness. Shipen then shared his concerns that maybe we should return to New York. Later during services in the chapel, sister Margaret shared a prophecy in which she saw a plane with a broken wing circling around the farm and being tossed to the wind. She felt the plane was being called back to New York and it arrived there safely. Was the Lord calling us to start a farm/retreat ministry somewhere else? Did He want us to uproot totally and return to New York? Were these prophecies from God or images born of the mistrust and discomfort the brethren felt with our being in the middle of their community?

The next day one of the Hutterite women had another prophecy for us...There were two groups. One group was dressed in white (the farm brethren) and another group (the bus people) were under an umbrella like structure which dimmed their view (of spiritual things). There was a figure in black between us all (the hippie spirit). Hmmm. Shipen took this as another indication that the gulf between our two communities was widening and there were too many deep differences separating us which prevented us from having a common vision. Later Julius dropped by and suggested we visit a community called Koinania in Georgia.

Over the next three days we packed, cleaned, sorted out clothing, built shelving for the bus and even washed the bus engine. We finalized our new daily prayer service called “The Trees Liturgy” and had copies printed up. We held a communion service on the bus using our newly printed Tree’s Liturgy. The blue booklet included psalms, readings, prayers and hymns and began with the following passage written by Shipen, which bears the hallmark of his mystic roots:

“Now say thus saith the Lord God, I am in your antechamber as a seed forming in the fruit – when the ripe fruit falls I will gather for you a new tree, and I will name it again after the fruit that fed me from my first tree. Then I will take that tree which is mine in the seed, and plant it in the kingdom of God; in that I shall transplant it through a fiery ordeal and it will be remade supreme in eternity, from whence its idea emerged in the word at the beginning.

Now brethren, through faith in Christ Jesus, know that this is talking in the man brightly, that our love for the Lord may be bound in truth. For I say unto thee, that no man goes to the Father but through the Son whose name is Wonderful Giver, Jesus Christ our Lord – by faith in His blood, our chambers are made glowing by apportionment through Christ, from the light of lights. Our Father, which art in heaven unto His own.

The grace of our Lord, Jesus Chris, and the Love of the Saints, be with you all, evermore.”

August 27, 1971 was our last full day at the farm. I felt an overwhelming sense of melancholy as I worked one last time packing noodles in the noodle factory. I took mental snapshots in my mind, trying to save visual images of these wonderful people and the farm so I would never forget them. How could I leave my good friends? What would become of Fred, Julius, Johanna, Violet, Margaret, Nabile, and all the children I had grown close to over the past three months? Various brethren stopped by including, of course, our good friend Julius, bringing special gifts and goodbye messages.

I was having a hard time leaving my special farm pet, Henrietta the chicken. I had freed her from her cage and hand fed her ever since. Often, she sat on my shoulder and pecked gently at my hair. Reluctantly, I gave her over to one of the children only after she promised not to let her ever be eaten! My sadness was eased by the antics of our new kittens. The farm children had given us three kittens that we named Buki, Emma and Uzi II. Emma was my favorite. She was snow white with one green eye and one blue.

Shipen and three kittens (Buki, Uzi II and Emma) 1971

There were many hugs and tears. Old Fred came by with a wonderful surprise, a check in the amount of $2,000 from the brethren in payment for all our labor. Looking at the mischievous smile on Old Fred’s face as he handed us the check, once again a wave of sadness swept over me. We had been among people of substance. These Hutterites were truly the loving people of God.

For some odd reason just before our farewell service, David and Shipen decided they had just enough time to drop off a load of garbage. Well, they would have except the bus ran out of gas! They had to hitchhike home, making it back just in time for the ringing of the bell for prayers. They rushed in as the rest of us were busy tuning up our instruments and the chapel filled up with Hutterites.

Fred opened with a sermon and prayer. Next Shipen gave a moving speech about our hope and longing to be one with them and thanked God for the love that had grown between us. Then we performed a small concert for about a half hour. David Lynch played guitar as we sang “The Lord Will Provide” accompanied also by sitar and cello. Next were readings from scripture: Isaiah 61:1-6, Ezekiel 17:22-24, Isaiah 57: 6-13, Psalm 29 and Psalm 1:

Blessed is the man
Who walks not in the counsel of the wicked,
Nor stands in the way of sinners…
But his delight is in the law of the Lord,
And on his law he meditates day and night.
He is like a tree planted by streams of water
That yields its fruit in season
And its leaf does not wither… (Psalm 1, NIV Bible)

We sang the Apple Tree in the Orchard song and Lord of the Dance followed by a Spiritual song (impromptu singing) and a closing prayer. We ended by moving slowly out of the chapel as the now weeping Hutterites sang Alleluia, Alleluia over and over. Soon everyone joined in singing and then the brethren changed the words to “Farewell, Farewell…” until I could no longer hold back my tears. The brethren gently sang, “until we meet again, may God be with you.” That did it. I was swept away in a sea of emotions as I shared hugs, kisses and tearful goodbyes.

In the morning after communion on the bus, we joined the brethren for our last breakfast in the big dining hall. Reluctantly, we climbed in the bus and drove down the driveway ringing Sanctus bells from the windows. My heart was filled with bittersweet emotion. As we drove past Old Fred standing next to his wife Teresa his smile seemed as bright as the sun. None of us could stop crying as Teresa lifted her handkerchief to cover her own tears and the bus slowly pulled away from the farm. I felt sadness mixed with love as we drove away from the Community Farm of the Brethren.

What did the Lord want us to do now? Why was it every time I started to feel things were really going great, all of a sudden we had to leave? Would we ever get a farm or a place of our own?

The bands of a worried man's strife: Some disturbing Experiences

2009-02-01T15:58:00.001-08:00

Jesus-He knows-why a selfish man closes
His heart to his own cry for life.
Only his peace can loosen the hands
And the bands of a worried man’s strife

Jesus-He knows-the heartbreak of Mexico,
The sun parched suffering of Spain.
He knows how an oak tree dies in the heat
On the languishing grass of a plain

But lo I am with you always
Even to the end of the world.
I am truth, I am Life.
I will come again
I bring my kingdom without end
The far reaches of the earth
Will have light.

...from our song Jesus He Knows

Our next destination was a lovely cottage on Clear Lake in West Branch, Michigan where Shipen’s parents still lived. For the next few weeks we enjoyed swimming, playing music and visiting with Shipen’s family and friends. Early in the morning during morning prayers, Shipen received an urgent phone call about a close friend of his named “Dale.” His mother was very upset, explaining that Dale had “flipped out” on LSD and jumped through a plate glass window, yelling something about committing suicide to save the world. “Please,” she begged, “Can you try to find him?”

Shipen, David, Ariel and Roger leapt into the family car and combed the neighborhood for Dale. Shipen led the search to all their old haunts around town. Finally they spotted him striding down the middle of Highway 55 with brisk, determined steps. He had ripped off his shirt and bright red blood streamed down from cuts on his face and chest leaving a crimson trail along the blacktop. His injuries had a surreal quality to them, as if he was part of a Dali painting. Mindful of how easily an acid trip can go bad, Shipen stepped out of the car and gently tried to coax him into the car as they strode along the deserted road.

Oblivious to his surroundings, Dale marched on with a rapid, staccato gait. After about a mile, David Lynch joined them in their strange parade down the middle of the highway. Finally, with Shipen and David on either side they managed to guide him to the side of the road. Dale kept insisting the world was totally corrupt and that he had to keep walking to find release from all worldly ties. Shipen countered that corruption exists in all of us and that only by God’s grace can we be freed to become children of the light. At that point Dale finally agreed to accept a ride back to the cottage where he called his mother to let her know he was safe. We washed him up, bandaged his cuts (nothing serious) and gave him some breakfast. A little while later he lay down in a back bedroom and fell into a deep sleep. When he finally woke up he was relaxed and clear-headed and he seemed quite serene when he eventually left. Over the next two weeks we met with Dale frequently, and by the time we left, Dale was well on the way to mending the broken fragments of his life.

I thoroughly enjoyed our lakeside vacation! Our days were structured with The Trees Liturgy, prayers, our new midday “Psalmody and Trumpet” and evening prayers. Yet how delightful to be able to relax, laugh and kick back with swimming, sailing, and water skiing. Shipen’s mom prepared some delicious dinners and the vacation worked wonders on our morale.

We were within a few hours of Leelanau, the boarding school where I first met Shipen. His sister Judy invited us to their Homestead condo there so Shipen, Ariel, Roger, Claudia, Naomi and I left for the weekend. While there I ran into some of my old schoolmates. They were having a party later that evening with other Leelanau alumni and invited us all to join them. I eagerly accepted but the others (wisely as it turned out) declined.

I felt a little awkward when I arrived at the party to find everyone laughing, drinking beer, smoking and listening to loud rock music. An old classmate “Jim” asked me what I had been doing with my life? Feeling embarrassed, I nevertheless told him about my experiences since I left Leelanau and my newfound faith. I noticed snickering and knowing glances and it dawned on me that they were not at all interested in how I came to find the Lord. Turning the conversation back to him, I listened quietly as things grew more and more rowdy. Eventually, I grew so uncomfortable I excused myself saying I wasn't feeling well. I slipped outside into the night, chiding myself for opening my big mouth. What is the matter with you Shishonee! Don’t you know when to keep quiet? That was really, really stupid! They were drunk. They weren’t ready to hear your testimony! As I headed back to the condo, I realized I was still holding the loaf of bread I had brought as a gift. I stood debating with myself but finally turned around, determined to just hand it over quickly and then leave.

I approached the door but before I could ring the bell, I overheard everyone laughing, mocking my words, and then screaming out the Lord’s Prayer. Deeply humiliated, I rang the doorbell, thrust the bread at whoever answered and then fled. As I rushed through my old campus that night, I was flooded with a range of emotions...What was wrong with me anyways? Why did it seem like I was always on the outside looking in? Why did I go there in the first place?

Before I could reach the condo, I heard footsteps behind me in the dark. I jumped as I felt a hand on my shoulder but thankfully, it was only Jim. He apologized for the way the others had acted and assured me he’d been touched by what I'd said. Through his words I felt the Lord gently reaching His arm around my shoulders to let me know that despite my shortcomings, He still loved me just the way I was. After Jim left, I stood gazing upward at a blanket of stars glittering in the inky black sky. I realized I had come a long way from the old Shishonee and I could never go back. As we drove back to West Branch early in the morning, I recalled the prayer of St. Francis of Assisi:

Lord, Make me a channel of your peace
Where there is hatred let me bring love
Where there is injury, pardon
And where there's doubt, faith.

Make me a channel of your peace,
Where there's despair, let me bring hope
Where there is darkness, only light
And where there's sadness ever joy

Oh Master, grant that I may never seek
So much to be consoled, as to console
To be understood, as to understand
To be loved, as to love with all my soul

Make me a channel of your peace
It is in pardoning that we are pardoned
In giving to everyone that we receive
And in dying that we are born to eternal life.

On September 5th, 1971 we were invited to sing at our first church service at the Methodist church in West Branch. Five days later we gave our first concert at Jordan nursing home in West Branch. It was to be the start of our new ministry of music.

At that first concert, I felt a bit awkward but the residents were all smiles, welcoming us politely. Those early songs were unsophisticated and full of simple melodies, raw energy and a lot of musical improvisation. The highlight was David Lynch belting out his song, You Gotta Have Love in your Heart on guitar accompanied by the seniors clapping and ringing all kinds of different bells we'd passed around. [Eventually this was dubbed The Bell Song]. They listened attentively to The Lord will Provide and joined in singing Rock of Ages and What a Friend we Have in Jesus. We brought things back down with my harp song He Was Wrapped in Flesh, and David’s See the Apple Tree in the Orchard, a favorite of the Hutterites. Then Shipen told the astonishing story of how God drew us together. We ended with “Dance, Dance, wherever you may be, I am the Lord of the Dance said He” as we walked slowly toward the back of the room. Afterwards, the residents rushed up to pump our hands, their eyes bright with excitement while others inspected our exotic looking instruments. This first concert taught us the importance of pacing, order and placement of the music. I was surprised at how the music had touched these dear people and I sensed the power in this type of ministry. I realized I loved performing. This is it! I thought. This is my calling!

On September 8, 1971, the Bay City Press sent a photographer and reporter to interview us and shoot some pictures. All ten of us climbed onto the bus or sat in front of it until it seemed they had just the right shots. [Photo taken by Norm Barry].

On September 10, 1971, Paul Greiner arrived from New York City. A transplanted Frenchmen, he had lived with us off and on during our early Loft days. He joined our community looking tired and worn out from his trip. Paul was a kind, careful, fastidious man who was deeply spiritual with a brilliant mind. I adored his delightful French accent and sharp wit. Everything Paul did he did eloquently and with grace.

With his humble manner and quiet countenance, he immediately fit right into our small family.

With Paul's arrival our group consisted of eleven souls: Stephanie Arje, Ariel (Phillip) Dross, Naomi Goldman, Paul Greiner, Claudia and Roger Gumbiner, David Karasek, Shipen, David Lynch, Sarah Benstein, and myself, Shishonee Ruetenik. Three days later, renewed, refreshed and ready to move on, we said our goodbyes to Shipen's doting parents and pointed the bus toward St. Gregory’s Abbey in Three Rivers, Michigan.

His Banner Over me is Love: Three Rivers Monastery

2009-01-30T17:03:00.000-08:00

St. Gregory's Benedictine Monastery

Three Rivers, Michigan

From the moment we arrived at St. Gregory’s Abbey, I was impressed with how welcoming and kind the brothers were. As we pulled up to the monastery, I felt a quiet stillness that filled a deep longing in my heart. As we were greeted by the brothers in their long robes, what struck me first was their gentleness and affection. Over the next three weeks, we either stayed in the guest house or parked on the grounds when the guesthouse was full. It was the perfect place to write music allowing us the freedom to create free of criticism, or pressure. Even during heated discussions with the brethren, there was an underlying foundation of camaraderie and respect that built up our admiration for each other and eventually led to delightful exchanges with a healthy dose of ribbing, bantering and jokes.

We quickly settled into the rigors of monastic life. Matins began at 3:30 in the morning, then Lauds at 6:00 a.m., followed by our own service, the Tree’s Liturgy at 6:30 a.m., which ended our time of silence. Breakfast was at 7:00, Terce at 8:30, Mass at 11:30, Vespers at 5:00, followed by our own prayers or a prayer meeting usually at 7:00 p.m., Compline at 7:45 followed by silence and finally bedtime. Typically after our Trees Liturgy, we would meet together amongst ourselves for confession, meetings, and sometimes heated discussions to work out differences of opinion or clear the air.

We pitched in to help with whatever was needed: we picked grapes, chopped wood, cleaned, or did other chores the monks had for us. We broke bread with the brothers and on Sunday evenings everyone enjoyed Brother Bernard’s splendid "mead". For me it was wonderful to be able to go to private confessions with Father Anthony. It was refreshing to be accepted warmly and openly without a hint of judgment or criticism such as we had experienced elsewhere. New songs poured out and our music flourished.

Some evenings we sat around exchanging simple guitar songs. Other nights there were delightful conversations with Brother David, a gentle man with a gift of reconciliation who always seemed able to resolve conflicts and calm our differences of opinion.

About a week after our arrival, a disturbing situation developed reminiscent of our exorcism experience with Laura at Love-Inn. The monks had a weekly charismatic type prayer meeting in their chapel led by a monk named Father Leo. He was an excellent speaker with an easy manner and a commanding presence. I enjoyed listening to him as I found his message clear and easily understandable. On that particular Wednesday evening, Father Leo spoke about the power of the Holy Spirit and the importance of making a commitment to God. Various people offered prayers and intercessions and he invited people to come forward for intercessions and laying on of hands. One of the novices named “Richard” knelt down asking that love come into him and asking for deliverance.

Richard had been one of the first brothers we had met the day we arrived. With intense, dark eyes and a haunted look about him, his demeanor reminded me a lot of Laura. After we exchanged greetings, I remember his first question struck me as being rather odd for a monk. After reading the inscription on the side of our bus that said, Jesus Christ the same yesterday, today and forever he asked, “Brahma is the same as Yahweh, isn’t He?” I thought, Huh? What? As he rambled on and on about Brahma being the divine reality of the universe, the true Holy Trinity, etc. I wondered if the Lord had drawn us there for a specific purpose? If we weren't there to help in another exorcism, then maybe God had brought us to work on our judgmentalism!

That night at the end of prayer meeting, Richard walked up and knelt in front of the altar. Several monks gently placed their hands on his shoulders. Shipen, Ariel, David and Roger also went up and laid hands on him and prayed. Soon the room was filled with the sounds of praying and speaking in tongues. Richard cried out several times and we “hunkered down” and set to praying, realizing it might involve hours of prayer and intercession. Eventually, Brother Leo asked "Who is your Lord?" and Richard responded, “Brahma.” Then, with a loud, firm voice, Brother Leo commanded the spirits binding him to leave him in peace and asked him if he confessed Jesus to be his Lord? Richard responded in a strange voice, “I move over the land and the sea!” All of us continued praying and after a while Richard fell silent. Eventually, he stood up and slipped out the meeting and immediately Shipen, Ariel, David and Roger quietly followed him out of the chapel.

We women were unable to go with them into the monastery (it was off limits to women) so we stayed in the chapel to keep a prayer vigil for Richard for the rest of the night. Several hours later, the men returned explaining they had found Richard praying and chanting to a skull surrounded by other talismans and relics. They laid hands on Richard (just as we had with Laura) and eventually, he was delivered of the spirits that had plagued him. (I was kind of glad I wasn't able to be there to be honest!) The eleven of us then prayed together in the chapel and finally, exhausted, I retired to bed while others continued praying in shifts throughout the night.

On September 30th, we received some shocking news that would be life changing for our small group. Claudia was pregnant! It came as a complete surprise to most of us. That wonderful romantic evening in the Hutterite farmhouse had produced an unexpected result! We brought out our instruments and poured our emotions into a long improvised raga to celebrate the astonishing new reality. Then we talked for a long time as the news sunk in. A baby. What would it mean? How would this work with our strange, gypsy lifestyle? I remember trying to wrap my mind around the idea and being totally astounded. I just could not imagine why the Lord had thrown us such a curve ball? I don't think I was angry or upset but it was just such an incredible cosmic surprise. That night I prayed offering our future to God: "Lord, bless our dear sister Claudia and brother Roger. Bless this new life you have created. But please Lord, whatever this means, don’t let us lose Roger and Claudia. Let us do your will. Please, show us what to do." Doors were opening but others would soon close.

The Lord answered our prayers the very next day when a man named Jerry Barker from Church of the Redeemer in Houston, Texas came to visit the abbey. He showed a documentary movie about the Redeemer community and spoke at length about their work and lifestyle. It was a fateful event for us. The Church of the Redeemer was a charismatic Episcopal church composed of about forty “households” with members living together in extended families. Suddenly, a new possibility opened up for Roger and Claudia to establish their family in a Christian community with a strong Christian mission. Immediately it struck a chord with Roger and Claudia. After discussions with Jerry and much prayer, they decided they would not continue with us on our journey but would move to Church of the Redeemer. I had mixed feelings about it. I really did not want them to go yet I wasn’t sure how they could stay and raise a child given our nomadic life.

Over the next week, our small family prayed and talked about the upcoming change. It would be hard to lose Roger and Claudia and I felt a deep sense of sadness and melancholy as we prayed and played music together. From the earliest days in the loft, Shipen, Roger and Claudia had been a trio united in their love and friendship for each other. Their ragas over the years had developed into a private language between them. The evening before their departure, we gathered for one final raga with Shipen on sitar, Roger on tabla drums and Claudia sitting serenely on the carpet with the tamboura in her lap. For me it was bittersweet as the raga took on a life of its own, like a shifting, ever-changing conversation - a fluid dance in total harmony. One of the brothers taped the concert and it is the only recording that remains of the remarkable music created by those three beloved friends. As I watched Claudia’s fingers moving gracefully over the droning strings, I kept realizing how much I would miss my sister, her kindheartedness, her beautiful grace, delightful warmth and love. I would miss her laughter and friendship. How could we continue on without them?

On our last night at St. Gregory Abbey, we donned our pastel colored robes and, looking very Benedictine, joined the monks for a wonderful evening with a delightful exchange of conversation, songs and music. The evening was taped and whenever I listen to it I'm struck by the rich sense of joy, laughter, the warmth of our friendship with the Three Rivers monks is incredibly moving. Shipen, and then father Anthony, talked about how our visit had enriched both our communities, remarking that even though we argued about dogma and had our differences of opinion, the camaraderie between us had just grown stronger. Someone watching us that night might have thought it was all kind of corny, but there were lots of smiles and laughter as we sang Blessed be the ties that Bind followed by His Banner over me is love. I always thought the hand movements for Banner were kind of dorky but this time it led to giggling and choruses of laughter. The evening ended after one of the brothers sang a lovely Korean hymn.

October 8, 1971 was a very sad day. Not only were we leaving our new friends at the monastery but more importantly we were leaving Roger and Claudia. After loading up the bus, there was a last minute frantic search for a missing wallet (which was eventually found) and finally it was time to say goodbye. It was one of those moments when you memorize every detail and savor every gesture. I melted into Roger’s bear hug squeezing back my tears. Then I turned to Claudia. All these years later I can still see her smile; her eyes crinkled up at the corners as we faced each other and said our goodbyes. I can still feel her warm, loving embrace as we parted, tears streaming down our faces. Even though I knew this was coming for a long time and that it was the right thing for all of us, it did not make it any easier. She was my older sister. It was incredibly hard to let her go.

When a People Long for the Strain of a Song: Reba Place

2009-01-29T14:50:00.000-08:00

Reba Place

October 11, 1971. Nomadic travelers once again, we headed to Elkhart, Indiana to perform at a large Mennonite assembly and later at a coffee house at the Associated Mennonite Biblical Seminary. This was followed by a concert at Pleasant View Mennonite Church, and then on to St. Mark’s Missionary Church where we split up into pairs to stay in people’s homes for the night. At this point the bus promptly broke down. While getting the bus repaired (it needed a new hydrovac whatever that was), we tried to get in touch with Roger and Claudia to see how they were faring at Redeemer. Shipen finally tracked them down at Roger’s cottage in the upstate New York. That was a surprise since I assumed they were at Redeemer. What was more shocking to me was the fact they owned a cottage! I suddenly realized that they hadn’t given everything away on that fateful day when we left New York City like the rest of us had! First Roger sneaking off to eat hamburgers while we fasted; now he and his wife had a cottage no less! What next!? (It was more than likely a family cottage but I did not know that at the time so was upset. I had a lot to learn about misjudging others! More to the point, better to just focus on living my life as a disciple of Christ and stop comparing myself to others).

With bus repairs completed we drove to our next destination, Sara and Ken Oscarson’s home at Reba Place in Evanston, Illinois. This was a Christian community ministering in an urban setting. Over the next two weeks we rehearsed, performed, prayed and made new friends. I was delighted to be reunited with my former housemother from Leelanau School, Annie, who lived in the area. I hadn’t seen her since the day we left New York City.

Eating together at Reba Place

Parked at the Oscarsons, the bus became a gathering place with visitors coming and going at all hours of the day and night. As was often the case, our bus was a magnet for desperate or troubled people. On our third day there a woman named “Hilda” rushed in high on some kind of drugs, hysterical and on the verge of suicide. We prayed and talked with her throughout the day. She moved from staring blankly ahead to trembling to smiling to screaming, “I don’t want to die!” We prayed with her, laying on hands and assuring her of God’s love. Sometimes we sang softly and at other times we read from scripture or prayed together. Eventually, she fell to her knees, weeping and thanking Jesus for loving her.

It was a busy time. We worked at the Reba coffee house, helped others prepare meals, painted the community's houses, baked bread, helped in the nursery, joined prayer meetings, and, as always, worked on music. At this point, our music was growing into something richer and more complex as each visit with another branch of the Church added new flavors and textures to our “symphony.” We drew from monastic plainsong from our contemplative friends at the Abbey, German hymns from the Hutterite brethren, and the Christian pop rock, which was pervasive in most of the church groups we visited. Added to this were the powerful influences of Indian and eastern music from our Loft days and the marvelous possibilities we were discovering daily in our huge assortment of exotic instruments and noisemakers. Somehow it was decided that we should wear costumes to perform in. We sewed full length brightly colored robes and we women wore long head coverings that reminded me of outrageous outfits from some bizarre nativity scene.

Performing at Reba Place

We played our first children’s concert at the Reba Place Playhouse, which included: The Bell Song, The Lord will Provide, a reading of the story of Jesus feeding the 5000, His Banner over me is Love, and Lord of the Dance. The children were delighted and joined in doing all the hand movements with the Banner song, giggling and laughing with delight. It was magical to experience this new ministry unfolding. Though writing the music was stressful at times, the performances drew us together in a special way, healing and renewing us.

During our stay, a young man named Ken Moore came to visit and expressed his interest in staying on with us. Shipen explained what a commitment to our group would involve along with our practical day-to-day living arrangements (bus duties, pooled money, daily confessions, family discussions, etc.). Shipen also warned him it would be a difficult life and that it was not as romantic as it might seem at first. Ken was still determined to join and on the day we left Reba Place he became our newest member.

Then we had a shocking surprise! While shopping one day at a local supermarket, David Lynch and I filled out an entry form for a contest to give away a new Cadillac. Since our bus was not really a useable address, I put in the address for the Oscarsons. As I filled it out, I had a curious but very strong premonition that we would win. Sure enough, about a week later, we received a call saying we had won the Cadillac! Amazing! But what would we do with a car? It seemed that God must have a plan so we prayed, asking God to show us what to do. Almost as soon as we finished voicing that prayer, the godmother of one of the Reba Place members burst onto the bus. “Sister Cleo” was a loveable, flamboyant, bodacious black woman who greeted us with “Hallelujah! Praise God!” the moment she stepped onto the bus. Immediately she launched into testifying about the power of the Spirit in her life and God’s overwhelming love. I loved Sister Cleo! What a woman! She asked us to sing some songs for her and then we prayed together.

Suddenly she grasped our hands, closed her eyes and shared a prophesy with us. It was of a tree standing beside flowing water whose leaves would never wither. Yes Lord! (This was providential and soon afterwards we changed our name from the Symphony of Souls to The Trees Community.). After she left, we discovered she didn’t have a car and had to rely on others in the church to help her shop or run errands. After prayer, we felt convicted that the new car should go to Sister Cleo. The next day she was utterly delighted with the news. “Praise God! Hallelujah! Praise Jesus!” she exclaimed, beaming with joy and thanksgiving for God’s bounty -“Oh the Lord will provide.”

Terebinths of Integrity: The Trees at Plowcreek Farm

2009-01-28T15:57:00.005-08:00

Visiting Plowcreek Farm

The kingdom of heaven is like a mustard seed
that someone took and sewed in his field;
it is the smallest of all seeds, but when it has grown
it is the greatest of all shrubs and becomes a tree,
so that the birds of the air come
and make nests in its branches.
Matthew 13: 31-32

October 25th. We drove out of Evanston ringing Sanctus bells from the open windows. Ken and Shipen drove in shifts heading to Plowcreek Farm in Tiskilwa, Illinois. We had heard of the farm from the Reba Place brethren and felt called to visit them. As we drove, Shipen argued amiably about the theory of evolution versus the biblical version of creation with Ken. I preferred to watch autmn’s colorful countryside out of the bus windows.

When we arrived at the farm, we were shown a spot to park for the night. Almost immediately both Shipen and Paul proceeded to snore LOUDLY all night long. Being such a light sleeper, I was getting more and more sleep deprived. I stuffed earplugs in my ears, snuggled inside my sleeping bag and then wrapped my pillow tightly around my head. No use. I barely got a wink of sleep. As dawn broke, I dragged myself out of my sleeping bag for communion and then breakfast. Immediately afterwards, we offered our services to this community. Plowcreek farm was building a new house on their farmland so our men pitched in to help dig its foundation, then puttied windows or did carpentry work on another house while we women helped bake bread or babysat eight sweet little children.

After dinner, Ken had a taste of his first family meeting. Thankfully, there was no picking or harping on one another, just confessions and then prayers. I chimed in asking that God might somehow find a way for all God’s people to find peace and rest. That night I was immensely relieved when the men slept in a loft of the barn so I was finally able to get a quiet night’s sleep.

At the building site, someone suggested that the foundation holes for the new building would make an excellent location for a photo shoot. David Karasek grabbed a camera and we each climbed into a hole, stretching forth our hands to the heavens to become eight terebinths of integrity. The prophecy Sister Cleo planted for a new name now took root and from then on we became “The Trees Community”.

That night, Stephanie prepared a delicious dinner in the bus kitchen. After eating our fill of bean burgers, potatoes, and biscuits, Stephanie brought out her homemade peach pie! Delightful! Afterwards, feeling stuffed, we continued our long discussions with Ken about evolution, demons, sin and evil.

Several days into our stay, one of the Plowcreek brothers approached us testifying that “man is as the head in Christ over women” and admonishing us that according to the Bible, all women should be completely submissive to men, especially to their husbands. We took issue with this literal scriptural interpretation. Though we believed in submitting to an elder who was in a position of authority and in submitting ourselves to Christ, this was different. This was a different kind of submission based merely on gender which we felt was just wrong. We argued that scripture was written by men who were a product of their time but our arguments were not accepted. Encountering this kind of rigid Biblical literalism was not uncommon in our travels. We attempted to deflect the contentious atmosphere by offering our best expression of good will: physical labor. Still influenced by the strong example set by the Hutterites, we worked hard doing whatever was needed.

After a week at Plowcreek, things had grown tense given the daily theological arguments with Ken, the inner discontent and disagreements amongst ourselves, and all manner of differences and disapproval from the Plowcreek folks. After only seven days Ken was not adjusting to our community. His chief complaints were over our basic theological differences: our belief in the devil, demons, sin and evil, his feeling he was not innately a sinner, our belief in regular confessions to a person as opposed to privately confessing to God, along with other issues. After dinner, David Lynch and Shipen fell to arguing about evolution versus the Biblical interpretation of creation. The evening disintegrated into sullen anger and bristling resentment.

Outside the thin metal walls of the bus a storm raged, the wind howling and rattling the windows. As we settled in, Ken announced he was going to leave. This led to a stormy argument inside the bus as we attempted to persuade him to stay. Ken remained steadfast and insisted he was leaving. Eventually, we turned the matter over to God in prayer. Sadly, the next day Ken left. It was disappointing. It seemed as if I hardly knew him before poof, he was gone.

Each morning was a little colder and tensions mounted within our community as well as between Plowcreek and us. Our theological differences and disagreements over scriptural interpretations seemed insurmountable. Each meeting between our two groups grew more tense than the last. The deal breaker was their perception of Jesus. They argued that Jesus was just a good teacher and human being like us and not divine, not God incarnate, nor part of the holy trinity. We could not accept that. When Canon West heard about it, he was gravely concerned and made sure to advise us this was absolutely not the case. Later that issue was to become a major point of clarification for us during our educational sessions with Canon West.

Another point on which we diverged was psychology. It began when Stephanie had gone to help a young girl who was going through psychotherapy sessions. She was being taken to these sessions four times a day, which involved some kind of new “patterns” technique. It was our belief that instead of turning to psychology for help that she should instead pray that God heal her. They believed psychology was a useful tool for healing. At the time, we did not. On another occasion, Stephanie came upon one of the women beating a child with a stick. She scolded the woman insisting this was not loving or godly.

There were several more meetings with the Plowcreek elders with long discussions about psychology as a tool for spiritual healing and the divinity of Jesus. It became increasingly clear that our differences created a chasm that could not be breached.

On November 10th, we were informed there would be no more meetings, that our help was no longer needed and we were asked to leave. Disheartened and discouraged we agreed to go. The evening before we left, we held one final prayer service with the Plowcreek brethren and some visiting Hutterites. We all managed to be gracious, thanked each other publicly and prayed for one another. After the service, we called a contact, Rev. Bill Cohea in Chicago and made arrangements to visit his church.

The following morning we battened everything down and David climbed into the driver’s seat. He fired up the engine but when he tried to punching it into gear he realized there was no clutch! For the next five hours, we struggled to get the bus going. Eventually, with some help, we limped off, headed to Chicago. Just ten blocks from our destination in the heart of Chicago, we pulled into a gas station to refuel when the bus again died. Oh come on! The owner came out ranting and raving that we better get off his property so we all had to pile out of the bus and push it down the road. That must have been a sight! We called Rev. Bill Cohea who located a friendlier mechanic who came over and soon got the bus running again. Meanwhile, he drove us to Lakeside Presbyterian Church for dinner and a prayer meeting. That night we women slept in the church while the men snored away in the bus parked behind the church. We stayed in Chicago for a few days, performing at the Sunday service and joining in a family conference there. We sang at another senior complex. The stress of living on the crowded bus was setting all of us on edge, and we were all increasingly desperate for a peaceful place of refuge.

We’d been told of Gethsemani, a Roman Catholic monastery in the hills of Bardstown, Kentucky so on November 14th we pointed the bus southward. This was where Thomas Merton had lived and having heard a lot about Gethsemani, we were eager to visit. At first, things didn’t seem promising. In response to our phone call, we were told by the monk who answered that we could not stay there. Nevertheless, with no other options, we ventured on faithfully, praying that if it were God’s will, the gates would be open when we arrived.

Lest I forget Gethsemani: The Monastic Life...Again

2009-01-27T17:25:00.000-08:00

Gethsemani Monastery

King of my life I crown Thee now
Thine shall the glory be
Lest I forget Thy thorn crowned brow
Lead me to Calvary.

Lest I forget Gethsemani
Lest I forget Thine agony
Lest I forget Thy love for me
Lead me to Calvary. (Hymn 160, Queens Fellowship)

November 14, 1971. At 8:30 in the evening we lumbered down the long, tree lined driveway to the whitewashed gatehouse. David Lynch recalls that one of the monks, brother John, "happened to be out front chanting his greatly expanded/reduced mantra/silent prayer of “GOD GOD GOD” when we came rumbling down the driveway!! He showed us where we could camp on a hill in the woods nearby. Once again, God had answered our prayers."

We slept in on our first morning at Gethsemani, having driven 11 hours the previous day. After communion and brunch, brother John came bringing gifts of bread and cheese. He joined us as we worked on a new guitar song reminiscent of early Beatles rock, I’m packin my bags written by David Lynch and a more pensive song I was writing called Way up high on Calvary.

Suddenly, a novice named Mark came bounding onto the bus. With his black beard, short cropped hair and wide smile he looked like he was fresh from a Krishna temple.

Brother Mark

Brother Mark explained he had once been a disciple of Swami Satchidinanda but had turned to Christ and monastic life. He gave us incense and joined us for a lively afternoon discussion after which we set off for Vespers.

Entering the sanctuary at Gethsemani, I was immediately overwhelmed by its architectural majesty. The smooth, stone walls swept upward into a huge vaulted ceilings and disappeared into the massive darkness of that cavernous space. The monks slowly filed in to their wooden benches dressed in long robes of black and white. Soon their voices rose and fell in plainsong, their voices rising to echo throughout the dim room as candles flickered in its many alcoves and dim corners. I closed my eyes and soaked in the ancient beauty of their plaintiff melodies, letting the unknown Latin words reach into the deepest part of my soul. All the busyness of my mind, all the anxiety, anger and tension gradually fell away and as I opened myself up to God.

Gethsemani. What a special place that monastery would soon take in our hearts. The monastery was surrounded by high whitewashed walls, nestled in the rolling hills of Kentucky with woods, fields, ponds and a pristine lake. There were cows grazing peacefully in the fields near a cow barn. There were beautiful flower gardens and trails meandering through the woods. For the next nine days, we stayed parked in the woods by the lake, enjoying long walks among the hills and cold swims in the chilly water. Some of us pitched tents and others slept inside the bus. (I decided to sleep outside in my tent to get away from the snoring.) In the early mornings, I awoke to a symphony of bird songs. It was so peaceful after the busy contentious days at the farm, Reba Place and Plowcreek.

David Lynch and Ariel at Gethsemani, November 28, 1971

Life at Gethsemani was refreshingly different from our life over the past year. It was full of clarity and peace and some of the heaviness of spirit and intensity of our lives fell away. The brothers must have felt sorry for us or something as they often came to visit bearing gifts (cheese, fruitcake, bread, 25 pounds of honey, eggs, butter, a Bible in French for Paul). At other times, brothers Mark, John or Baldwin would simply sit quietly and listen to us rehearse. I enjoyed listening to the lively debates on theology, as the monks bantered goodheartedly with Shipen, David, or Ariel on Thomas Merton, the Virgin Mary, Catholicism, eastern religion and its validity, or other points of doctrine.

Curiously, the fact we were parked outside the gates of the monastery seemed a metaphor for how we felt theologically separated from the brothers during that first visit. At first we struggled with our tendency to be judgmental but slowly and steadily the patience and prayerful ways of these monks drew us into a more tolerant and peaceful perspective.

One evening in the middle of the night, screams from inside the bus echoed against the hillside. I quickly unzipped my tent and rushed onto the bus. Inside was pandemonium with some shrieking, “Get it off of me! Here it comes again! Ahhhhh!” and others hiding under their covers. A small brown bat was flapping frantically around the bus, landing on Shipen’s head, then on Ariel’s feet and then back into the air again with Buki the cat leaping around after it. With a prayer to St. Francis, I grabbed a blanket and placed it over the trembling bat and gently lifted it outside where it quickly flew off into the night. The next morning over breakfast we laughed and laughed over the hilarious encounter.

The incredible religious music at Gethsemani would become a lasting influence on our music. I can still envision the 50 or so monks processing slowly into the cavernous sanctuary, their voices echoing Gregorian chant off the high stone walls in the middle of the night. I can still recall a dramatic moment during one service when all the lights suddenly went out and dozens of candles bathed a statute of Mother Mary in gentle radiant light. The dark room was enveloped in silence and prayer. Then the monks sang a beautiful ancient plainsong honoring the Virgin Mary called Salve Regina, their voices rising and falling in haunting rivers of melody. I found it deeply compelling and entrancing. For years when my sons were young, I would sit with them on the edge of their bed, saying prayers and then singing old Hutterites hymns or songs until they fell asleep. The last song was always Salve Regina, and as I watched the sleeping faces of my little boys, my mind would return to Gethsemani…to rows of monks singing reverently, our voices blending together over time and distance.

For me, Gethsemani was a place of solace, of complete peace and spiritual restfulness. I savored the oneness with God I found there. It gave me time to work on new songs, adding richness to some new sections and honing down others. I found it reassuring when the brothers shared that they thought our music reflected a very personal love affair with Jesus. I set one of my poems to music calling it Lift your Weary Hand, a duet Shipen and I sang together.

Lift your Weary Hand by Shishonee

Lift your weary hand
And give ear in your heart
For a voice is gently calling
As the wind whispers through the trees
As the movement of the Spirit
Like the sound of flowing water
Reaches the soul saying
Cause your roots
To sink deep in my Love
And I will give the breath of my Spirit
To kiss your branches
And make the buds
To come to fruit in loving praise
And I will adorn you with the
Fresh garb of humility
As the spring tree in green foliage
And I will fill your heart
With my rich blood
For the lost lamb is my beloved
And mountains will be moved to save her
Lift then your hand
And come with me
For even now my holy angels
Are with thee
As ever I am with thee.

A few days before our departure, we were invited to move our instruments into the front room in the gatehouse where we rehearsed daily in preparation for a formal concert. We added a new Indian raga section to the middle of Fervently We Pray and added other dramatic musical effects to our concert such as The Split - an unusual song that began with all of us sustaining the same note in perfect unison. Then, very gradually, our voices would diverge, slowly pulling apart creating eerie overtones something like swarming bees or like the otherworldly sounds that accompany the shot of the black monolith in “2001 A Space Odyssey.”

Brother Camelius

Thankfully, Brother Camelius set up his reel to reel recorder and taped our final concert for the monks. We spread out our instruments on an oriental rug in the chapel. Robed monks and some visiting nuns slowly entered the room. Shipen gave a background on our group and then asked for God’s love to bless the brethren. The hours of music practice in this peaceful place came to fruition. We offered our music as a gift to these gentle monks and to the Lord as we sang The Lord Will Provide, The Apple Trees in the Orchard, Oh Jesus How I Love You and the Resurrection Waltz (Lord Fervently we Pray). Scripture readings were followed by He was wrapped in flesh, Lift your weary Hand and a new bluesy song Packin my Bags. The concert ended with the haunting notes of the Split and impromptu spiritual singing. We felt a unity with the monks of Gethsemani – a deep sense of abiding love and camaraderie that would draw us back to Gethsemani again and again and sparked a relationship that still reaches across the years.

He knows how an oak tree feels in the Evening: On our way again

2009-01-26T18:25:00.000-08:00

Symphony of Souls in Christ Christmas Card 1971

On November 28, after more gifts, prayers and blessings, we reluctantly left Gethsemani and drove to visit the Sisters of Nazareth for a brief performance for the nuns. Then we were off to Berea College in Kentucky where we met with groups of students to pray and witness, sharing our beliefs and give a concert.

After a few days at the college, an odd thing happened. Ariel completely disappeared! Alarmed, we looked everywhere and asked around but it was if he had just vanished. I honestly wondered if he'd been kidnapped or had a heart attack or something. Calls to local hospitals proved fruitless so we prayed throughout the afternoon and evening for him. The next morning, still no Ariel, so we were forced to continue our meetings and performances without him as our worries grew. Was he o.k? Had he decided to leave?

Finally, late in the day Ariel called from Florida! Florida? He was staying at a friend Rudy’s but insisted he'd left us a note along with some money in a box on the bus. He aplogized for upsetting everyone but he'd assumed we would find the note and the note would explain everything. He was very apologetic for leaving without telling us beforehand but felt he could not continue with us - he just had to get away to sort things out in his head. This came as a total shock to me. Belatedly I recalled how Ariel had been restless, like a caged lion pacing in its cage, increasingly unhappy and frustrated. I recalled that the day we left Gethsemani, Ariel came to the group to express his unhappiness and discontent. After a long family discussion (which I don't think really got to what exactly was bothering him), he’d resumed his air of grace and gentility so I assumed he had worked out his personal problems – not so. After his call, I prayed for Ariel to find God’s purpose, which I hoped would bring him back to the Trees.

On December 6th (my birthday), we packed up and left the college. The mood was somber and I felt shaken and distressed at having lost Ariel. We decided to stop in Atlanta to visit members of the theater group Stomp, a group we had known in New York City. On the way we stopped briefly to perform for the patients at Marymount College Hospital, then off we drove for Georgia. We stopped in Tennessee to eat, celebrate my birthday and rest for the night.

David Lynch wrote the traditional poem for my birthday card, beautifully painted by David K as usual:

Jesus, My Lily of the Valley

After the rainstorm
The sky cleareth, and the sun’s brilliance
Doth reveal a lily growing steadily
In the valley by the river of life.

She is born in the tears of the earth,
As a seed of faith’s planting; a promise
Of the hope of glory, and called to be a
Child of God.

My lily, come thou most precious, my love,
Drink of the waters of life.
Draw freely long draughts of the
Goodness of the Lord

His mercy doth refresh thee.
His voice comfort thee.
His arm surround thee in sweetness
More than the finest spices.

My sister, the Lord doth protect you,
For He hath caused an orchard of his peace
To grow up around you, and a
Gentle wind to strengthen and nourish
Your flowers.

His spirit he hath put in you: to lift you,
To touch your heart, and draw you
Night to Him
Our love, our prayer, our celebration –
Jesus. Amen.

Lovely! The next morning, as we pulled away, there was a sudden loud explosion from under the hood followed by a rapid series of grinding noises that ended with one horrible Boom! The old white bus was completed incapacitated, luckily, near a gas station. Unfortunately the diagnosis was: You need a new engine. Oh boy. First Ariel, now this.

As if guided by an angel, we met a Christian named Billy who introduced us to the minister of a nearby Church of Christ. We women were invited to sleep in the church overnight while our men stayed on the bus as the new engine was installed. The next day we reconvened back on the bus for another family meeting to make our own internal repairs: talking over resentments, disagreements, and what was bothering each of us. I expressed my upset and annoyance at how Ariel had left and how it made me feel...others chimed in then we ended with a scripture reading.

With the bus repaired, we drove to Atlanta to visit Stomp. Upon approaching, it seemed dark and kind of spooky. Peering into the windows we saw nothing but dark, empty rooms. Disappointed, we headed to 917 Piedmont Avenue looking for the House of Judea, a Christian community we had heard about from Love-Inn and the House of Life. When we arrived, we discovered that the house had been taken over by the Children of God and was being used as one of their “training centers.” To make matters worse, just as we were about to leave our cat Buki disappeared and we spent hours looking for him. Rats! Eventually, he scampered out from under a bedspread on the bus, so finally, annoyed and extremely peaved, we headed off, then pulled off the road for the night.

At this point, we firmly believed that the Holy Spirit was in control - God was in the driver's seat, sending us to serve. Next Stop - Our Lady of the Holy Ghost Monastery where we had to wait several hours before we could meet with anyone. Finally, we were given a tight-lipped smile and a firm nudge to be on our way with a donation of $40 for “lunch money.” Believing, however, that we were called by God to be there, we offered to perform, work or meet in fellowship trying to convince the abbot to let us at least visit for a short while. Unfortunately, he made it resoundingly clear we were not welcome saying something like “your guitars and hippy ways will never see the inside of this place!” Alrighty then. We thanked him for the donation, “shook the dust off our feet” and left. Somebody had their signals crossed, that was for sure (or maybe it was time for haircuts again!) Late in the afternoon we drove to Koinania Farms, a community that our Hutterite friend Julius Kubasek had encouraged us to visit.

Here the reception was a little warmer. We were greeted with “Oh, yes, we’ve been expecting you” and were directed down a narrow, potholed road to a campsite where two huge open-sided canvas tents on platforms were set up. One had a stove, refrigerator and sink in it, along with beds and a table. There was running water, outhouses and outdoor showers - Oh joy! The women slept in the tent while the men slept in the bus.

At dawn the next morning a mist enveloped the emerald green woods glistening with dew drops, surrounding the tents like silent sentinels. As I lay awake in my tent, the soft, staccato sounds of raindrops began to patter against the canvas - a gentle counterpoint to criss-crossing bird songs. After morning prayers and breakfast we walked down to the farm to see how we could help out. The brothers and sisters of Koinania reminded me of Plowcreek farm and I felt an odd sense of déjà vu.

After dinner in the main dining hall, Shipen asked to meet with the elders, planning to offer our services for as long as we would be needed. A short time later, brother Ted came down to inform us that, unfortunately, we were only welcome to stay about four or five days, then we would have to move on. Hmmm.

For the next four days we worked on the farm planting blueberry bushes, shelling and sorting pecans, then packaging and weighing shipments in the post office. In the evenings, we talked about marriage, how living is worship, and other points of faith with members of the community. On Sunday, a day of rest, we picked our way through the mud down to the main house for a potluck dinner, study and fellowship. The next day, it rained again so we worked in the post office then returned to the bus and spent several hours once again talking amongst ourselves and "confessing" various frustrations. The biggest ongoing problem that came up centered on sexual frustrations and the inability to let down one’s guard and truly love others because of the fear of being seduced. The discussion turned again to the question of either splitting up our group or re-evaluating everything. After dinner, somewhat disheartened, we nevertheless pulled it together enough to perform for the Koinania community since we would be leaving the next day.

On December 14th, after communion we packed everything back onto the bus and struggled down the slippery, rutted stretch of road trying to avoid deep holes and slippery mud until we ended up at the dining hall for a farewell brunch. After saying our goodbyes, we rang our usual Sanctus bells from the bus windows, bright dancing bell tones cascading through the fog.

As we lumbered along my thoughts kept drifting back to Ariel. Where was he? Was he ever coming back? Was it time for us to split up? What was God calling us to do?

David Lynch recalls what happened next:

We drove through Alabama and on into Florida, driving late into the night looking for a place to stop. Everywhere along the road were cheap motels and strip mall-like spaces. Then we turned left off the beachfront onto a very dark narrow paved road that paralleled the beach. We drove along for several miles with our eyes searching the dark. Then we spied a sandy turnoff to the right. We pulled in and secured the bus, David K bless him, doing his nightly distribution of the oil-lamps. After shortened prayers we quickly bedded down exhausted from the day's travel.

The next morning we were awakened by bright sunshine streaming in through the curtained windows and the sound of several cars cruising slowly by the bus. As the community arose and began the day, some of us walked out of the bus and followed the car tracks to what appeared over the dunes as not only a beautiful bay but as was rapidly ascertained from the "fishermen" probably the finest oyster bed along the whole coast. Breakfast and then lunch on the bus took on all the earmarks of gourmet cuisine as we had raw oysters in their shells along with sautéed oysters lightly tossed with seaweed and brown rice. What a bounty we received from the goodness of the Lord on that day! (Once again I was also thankful for the blessing of gourmet cooks!) The best part of the day for me came when we drove into town to pick up Ariel at the bus station. He had done some soul searching and decided the Lord was calling him to return to the group. Praise God! We rushed up and hugged him, delighted to have him back with us. I thought he seemed more peaceful, settled, and rested.

Our cats Emma and Buki romped and played, chasing sand crabs then racing up the sides of palm trees, thoroughly enjoying their freedom. What a delightful time we had camping out by the ocean! Peaceful - no pressures. I found it totally relaxing to stroll along the beach, sunbath, read and write poetry. We hand printed Christmas cards using cardboard, a carved potato and sliced broccoli. Inside were the lyrics to my new song He Was Wrapped in Flesh. Living off the bounty of the ocean was invigorating. Each day we gathered oysters and then leapt and frolicked in the ocean, jumping and splashing through the crashing waves. Shipen prepared a wonderful festive dinner with hors’doeurves of roasted pecans and the main dish, which Shipen proclaimed, was “stewed oysters flam-boy-yeah”! After dinner, Shipen brought out his sitar, Ariel played tamboura and David joined in on flute. They played a beautiful sunset raga accompanied by the slow, steady rhythm of the ocean waves. What a glorious day! With sheer contentment and a full belly, I sat on the beach listening to the raga and enjoying sparkling diamonds glittering in the waves and the stars flickering in the night sky.

Strand by Stephen Gambill

The crab the crab
sand crystals in the sun
crisp sea petals
the wild sea bass
wanders through volumes
of water
shells like snow
the wave a surprise structure
standing in the bell air
a large razor
that cuts true.

The next day we drove in to town for provisions and on our way back we happened upon another “bus family” living in a bright blue school bus parked along the beach. We stopped to introduce ourselves. Out poured four gregarious children and a young, married couple. I think they were as fascinated with us as we were with them. After swapping stories in that special language of gypsy life, we drove off. Out over the ocean we saw a beautiful rainbow arching over the horizon with dolphins leaping from the blue water beneath. Amazing!

Returning to our home by the bay, we prepared for a special festival day, resting, cooking, reading, and writing. David strummed away on his guitar, working on various songs. At 7:00, we sipped cocktails and then ate another feast celebrating our brief but very relaxing and much needed vacation together. This was the life! I loved it all the more because there were no heated family discussions and no picking at one another.

December 18th. Reluctantly we left our glorious seaside retreat and drove to One Way House in Pensacola where we gave a one-hour concert. Then we were off for a long, bumpy drive to Picayune, Mississippi. We arrived at St. Michael’s Boys Farm just in time for vespers. Afterwards, Father Adams showed us around and introduced us to the boys who were residents at this teaching order for delinquent boys. We were invited to a boisterous dinner with the boys in the dining hall followed by Compline. Then we were split up once again with the women staying in the main house and the men sleeping on the bus.

After shadowing the monks and their charges for most the day, we left to tune and set up, promising the boys a special treat. After vespers, they gathered excitedly in the chapel, which was thick with lingering incense from Vespers. We performed several of our newest songs and Shipen gave a Christmas homily. The boys were remarkably quiet and attentive, exploding into applause after each section. Afterwards, the boys told us they had a surprise for us. They ushered us into a large gym area, and we were treated to a rock concert including a variety of songs from Hendrix and a very special song they had composed for us called "God help me to go another way now" - very sweet.

The next morning we pulled the bus around and parked, intending to drop in on our host before leaving. As we opened the door, there sat Father Adams, working doggedly at his addressograph preparing another mass mailing in hopes of much needed funds. His parting words struck me as somewhat comical, “I keep praying for that million dollar check!”

Unfortunately, as we pulled away, the bus wheels sank into a deep rut in the road and the bus lurched drunkenly to one side. Suddenly the inside of the bus filled with a cloud of steam. A pot of boiling coffee left precariously on the stove flew into the air and splashed all over David Lynch, scalding him. So off we rushed to the hospital with David moaning and rocking back and forth cradling his arm. Curiously, as we waited in the Emergency Room, we ran into the First Baptist youth director and choir director. All of us felt God had drawn us together for a special purpose, so they gave us a stack of tracts and urged us to go proselytizing in New Orleans. So after they gave David some ointment and bandaged him up, we did! Arriving in the French quarter, we parked on a narrow street and piled out. There we stood, looking like long haired Jesus freaks standing outside the smoky bars with tourists laughing and pointing as we passed out “Good News” tracts as naturally as if it was something we did everyday.

Once we ran out of leaflets, we hit the road again and headed toward Houston and Church of the Redeemer. Our intention was to visit Roger and Claudia and learn more about the Redeemer community first hand.

With Shipen in the driver’s seat, we drove on and on through the dark night. I tried to rest in my usual spot with my sleeping bag stretched out on top of the kitchen counter and stove but it was just too bumpy. After a brief rest stop, David took over early in the morning and drove the rest of the way to Roger and Claudia’s house. It was our plan to pull into their driveway and totally surprise them, which left most of us too excited (or too jounced around) to sleep. We managed to find their house on Walker Street and knocked eagerly at their front door. However we were the ones who were surprised. A stranger answered the door and told us they had just left for the airport 20 minutes earlier because Roger’s father had passed away the night before. How sad for Roger.

We drove over to the church where we met Mikel Kennedy, a warm, friendly long haired young man who welcomed us and showed us around as he gave us a crash course in the Church of the Redeemer. We did not know it at the time but the Lord was drawing us to Houston to undergo some painful changes over the next six months there.

Church of the Redeemer: Jesus He Knows Exactly Why Indigo Can Cause a Painter to Cry

2009-01-26T17:34:00.000-08:00

The Trees and friends from Church of the Redeemer

Our stay at the Church of the Redeemer brought difficult lessons and tested the strength of our fragile family bonds. By the time we left, we lost almost half our members and our family was nearly pulled apart and destroyed. Why? Was it due to the powerful influence of Redeemer’s leadership and lifestyle, or was it because of months of constant internal bickering and personality warfare. Certainly we had lessons to learn about submission and authority! Maybe it was the Lord who drew us to Texas to gently tease away those who were being called to a different path. For Roger and Claudia who had a baby on the way, Redeemer seemed a more realistic choice than traipsing around living our gypsy lifestyle. Whatever the reasons, by the time we left, five members of our community would decide to stay at the Church of the Redeemer.

We arrived at Redeemer just four days before Christmas. Our early days there began innocently enough with an invitation to stay at North Main House, one of the many ministering households within the Church of the Redeemer. Redeemer consisted of satellite “families” that typically included at least one married couple and various single people that lived together in one house. Each household had an elder (usually married) who exercised leadership and authority over the household. These elders were directly under the leadership of other elders of the church and ultimately the head of Redeemer was the founder, Graham Pulkingham. The head of our household, North Main, was Jon Wilkes (who was married to Sylvia), a tall, lanky, friendly and gracious man who welcomed us almost immediately.

Redeemer was a charismatic community with a variety of ministries, including a coffee house ministry that featured the Keyhole singing group, and a network of prayer, Bible study meetings and ongoing Christian worship and study that threaded all the different households together. During the day, members of each house either held outside jobs or worked at the church’s various ministries or at the Way In coffeehouse. Every evening, there were Bible studies and evening worship services held at the church in addition to the big Sunday service. There was also a daily informal Eucharist at noon for all who could attend. Each month we were there, there was a “Weekend of Renewal” teaching conference. So much was happening at Redeemer and almost immediately it seemed we were innundated with powerful waves of conflicting interests and personalities vying for control of our little family. Not wanting to lose our identity, we held our own daily services in keeping with our traditions including prayer in the morning and Compline in the evenings before bed.

Graham Pulkingham

The head of Redeemer was Graham Pulkingham, a balding, heavy set man with intense eyes and a powerful, no-nonsense manner. He had been called to Redeemer in 1963 and transformed what had been a run down inner city church located on the east side of Houston into a dynamic, charismatic community. Pulkingham was the guiding force behind the community, the man who made the major decisions on matters of authority or doctrine at the church, at least while we were there. He was an imposing figure, a curious blend of the earthly and the divine – a man who was much admired and respected at Redeemer. Under his leadership was a small group of elders and these men formed the nucleus of Redeemer’s leadership.

We parked the bus outside North Main house and settled into shared community life there. The house was a two story house with huge windows that overlooked a noisy, railroad-shipping yard. The garage was a separate structure that had been converted into a Christian coffee house called Way In. The area had become a local gathering place for disenfranchised youth and hippies. This was not lost on the leaders at Redeemer, who had converted the garage into a coffeehouse, a magnet for the lingering lost. This building would double as our sleeping quarters for the first two months of our stay.

David Pulkingham and Mike Kennedy at Way In Coffeehouse

On our first few days at Redeemer we met with two elders, Jeff Shiffmayer and Jerry Barker to discuss our purpose and goals for being at Redeemer. They shared that they had a vision of us in a house together there. Shipen countered that it was important to lift everything up to the Lord, letting him kill everything inside that fights back or is destructive, and being truly poor in spirit without desiring anything. The meeting ended with a prayer that God provide us with our own house if it was what the Lord wanted.

Meanwhile at the mid day communion, I had quite a unique experience. I was doubled over with extremely painful cramps (something I had suffered with every month for over a year). I sat inside the church in agony, sweating and gritting my teeth during prayers. Jeff Schiffmayer quietly walked over and laid hands on me. Immediately a wave of peace surged through me and I was completely healed of the pain that had been unbearable seconds before. I had always been skeptical of healers, but I couldn't deny what I had experienced myself. Praise God!

On Christmas eve, all of us in the North Main household dressed in our Sunday best and gathered for a festive dinner of turkey, cranberries, stuffing and all kinds of delicious food. Then it was time to exchange gifts. Shipen, Ariel, David K and David L had made a gift for the household - a handmade Plexiglas cross with 12 different stones glued on representing the 12 foundation stones of the city of Jerusalem. Then we piled onto the bus and drove over to the church for a beautiful candlelight service at Redeemer. Afterwards, most of North Main house crowded onto the bus for the ride home, with all of us singing Christmas carols as we wended our way through the city streets. Finally, at 2:00 a.m. there was a Christmas party back at North Main.

Later in the week, in the middle of a music rehearsal in the coffee house, Jerry Barker came by to once again discuss our position and role at Redeemer. We explained that we had not come to infiltrate or preach other doctrines. We felt called by God to minister through our music and that the Lord was indicating we should have a house there. I shared a recent prophecy I had received, “My walls will be your salvation.” Then we prayed with Jerry and we women played and sang the song I had written called Daughters of Jerusalem. When we had finished the song, Jerry left but there were other people who had slipped into the coffeehouse, so we continued playing more of our music for them before we left for dinner.

Two days after Christmas, as we were eating lunch with everyone at North Main, a young Redeemerite named Randy Ostertag quietly walked into the room and asked to become a part of the Symphony of Souls. Immediately we welcomed him in to our small family. This brought the Symphony to 10 members and our combined household up to 29 members. Even as Randy was eager to join us, David Karasek once again insisted he was ready to leave. He spoke with Jerry Barker about it but Jerry convinced him that he should remain with us, at least for a little while longer. Meanwhile, pressures to submit to Redeemer’s authority were mounting all around us. It came through teachings and sermons with messages such as respect and revere those who are in a position of higher authority than yourself, don’t fear your elders and offer respect and obedience to them. Shipen was increasingly worried about what was happening to us. He met with the elders of North Main, Jon and Sylvia Wilkes and Nancy for what turned out to be five hours! The issue of submission was to be a recurrent admonition to us.

A dear friend and former Redeemer member Max Dyer recalls what our arrival meant from his perspective:

"Although it certainly wasn't apparent at the time, I think a lot of the friction between the Symphony of Souls and the Redeemer probably came from the
general contrast of their "vocations.” The Symphony had a sophisticated New
York-based artistic lifestyle with a strong contemplative dimension. Redeemer,
on the other hand, was a middle-class charismatic church with a family lifestyle
so a lot of the life and worship was centered around the children. It was pretty
unsophisticated and simple and, because it was a church, was more open to the
world at large.

Roger and Claudia, who were expecting a baby, found the family centered households of Redeemer to be a welcome change, as did Naomi and Stephanie who seemed drawn to marriage and a family-oriented lifestyle. Others in the group had an understandable reluctance to see their own close-knit community disbanding!

The Symphony did have a powerful influence on the Redeemer. For many people, including me, this traveling band of mystical gypsies was quietly mind-blowing with their eclectic spirituality and their exotic musical influences. Their intense spirit of abandon in worship was phenomenal and I know they certainly inspired and deepened Redeemer's worship life as a whole. Still, the Redeemer ethos had a wide stripe of blue collar Americana and unfortunately, a prevailing anti-artistic bias.

I, who was a cellist studying music at the university, felt the effects of this prejudice and perhaps that's why the Symphony represented such a liberation of my spirit. From them, I caught a glimpse of my own artistic vocation before God.

But certainly not everybody was as smitten as I was! The Redeemer elders were reluctant to grant a sanctioned ministry to a group within their church who
had a strong sense of their own identity and a cagey resistance to submission."
[end of excerpt]

Former Redeemerite Jeff Schiffmayer comments:

"I wish now that we had had the grace to accept them for exactly who they were. None of us had ever seen such a close intimate community before! And we Redeemer elders fell into a kind of competition with them. The most frustrating matter was that we really wanted to free some of their members to do whatever they wanted with their lives."

December 30th, we met in the bus to discuss whether or not we should stay together or split apart into separate households. David Karasek expressed his discontent, questioning whether he should remain or leave. I was sad and disappointed when over half of our family said they were unhappy and wanted to leave and get a fresh start. It left me feeling deeply distressed, praying for healing and for God to pull us back together. Curiously, at the time, I could not accept that God might actually have a different calling, a different purpose for Naomi, Stephanie, Claudia, Roger, David Karasek or Paul. It did not occur to me that maybe they were just fed up with the constant wrangling and bickering. I felt so strongly that God had called each of us to our community, that I believed they were just being stubborn and rebellious.

January 8th was a busy day with all of us focused on the evening presentations at the Way In coffeehouse ministry. After a hectic dinner and last minute preparations, we met with the Keyhole singing group and drama group in the coffeehouse. As others served the Eucharist, we tuned and warmed up our voices. Before we could go on, Naomi confessed she just didn’t feel like singing or doing anything at all. Great. Paul chimed in saying he felt like an empty shell without love, so how could he go out on stage and sing a lie? Someone else shared they felt nervousness and fearful. After a few minutes we agreed we needed to lay aside our feelings and perform anyway. We quickly changed into our pastel colored robes and as we walked out, we sang, “Holy, Holy, Holy”. Looking out into the audience, I was surprised and delighted to see Roger and Claudia who had just flown back into town. We sang seven songs that segwayed into other readings, music and drama. Afterwards, we chatted with Roger and Claudia, and helped clean up. The only drawback to sleeping in the coffeehouse was the fact we had to wait till all the patrons dispersed before we could settle down to bed. That night bedtime was 1:30 a.m.

That was one of only a few performances we gave at Redeemer. I recall Graham Pulkingham admonishing me to "hang up my harp" and thinking this didn't seem right. I listened and nodded my head, keeping my reservations to myself, agreeing to at least pray about it.

Instead of accepting our ministry of music, the elders quickly decided that we should work as maintenance workings doing house cleaning and cooking for large events. This meant cleaning everything from dirty houses to the church facilities, mopping, scrubbing, washing curtains and linens, cooking, setting up for conferences, etc. In addition, we were also assigned the task of ferrying people to and from church for services or for other events on our bus. Sadly, though Shipen requested time and again for us to be able perform our music for the huge church services, this was never allowed. I remember listening to Max Dyer on cello or Charles High on piano at the services and thinking we could share so much with them if they would allow us to play. No go.

The first two or so weeks, we worked during the day, then met at one household or another for dinner, prayers and intense discussion and scripture readings. It seemed to me that almost every night there was some kind of long, involved intercession or conferring, counseling or discussion going on. I wondered if anyone ever just kicked back and watched tv or read a book?

After only two weeks at Redeemer, our community was being pulled apart. Paul Greiner and David Karasek wanted desperately to join the Redeemer community and move to another house. Naomi and Stephanie also agonized about leaving. I saw all this as a result of unrelenting outside pressure and influence. I had hoped we would find a nurturing, supportive environment at Redeemer yet my perception was that we were being bombarded with demands to submit, give up our musical ministry, and essentially be broken up and absorbed into Redeemer. I found it deeply upsetting. Why didn't the others see what was happening to them? We had been through this before back when prophets entered the Loft and insisted we follow them and at many other places we’d visited when we were expected to give up our identity and views and conform to their way. To me Redeemer was attacking the very fiber of our family bonds and I prayed earnestly that our members wouldn’t be enticed away by the Redeemer siren song! Sadly, even though we averted another crisis after several lengthy discussions and everyone decided to remain “on the bus”, it was a harbinger of things to come.

January 16th pressures at North Main reached a boiling point. That evening, Jon Wilkes called a meeting of North Main and our community. For the next four hours, inner antagonisms came bubbling and boiling up to the surface like seething liquid in a hot caldron. At one point we were talking about dress and modesty and Shipen, in his typical long-winded fashion, was going on and on. (Something that drove me nuts but I tried to bite my tongue and put up with it). Suddenly one of the household members Jane screamed, “Just shut up, damn it, shut up! You really make me angry!” This opened up the floodgates and soon everyone jumped into the fray spewing forth their anger and annoyances with one another. Eventually, after all the pent up emotions were voiced, things grew quiet and we prayed together for healing. Amazingly, a peace settled over the room and I felt drawn into a place of healing that only God's grace could provide. Finally, Jon suggested that maybe now it was time for the Symphony to cease being just guests and that we should be official members of the household, joined together as one united family. We agreed.

Two days later there was a new wrinkle. Redeemer was a fairly mainstream blue collar, working class church and as such was relatively homophobic. There were no gay households or openly gay members. The church was largely made up of heterosexual individuals and families and if there were any homosexuals, it was not openly accepted and they were immediately dealt with by the elders. It all began when Ariel met privately with Jeff Cockran, one of the elders. Afterwards, during our Eucharist with North Main, Ariel confessed to the “sin” of being a homosexual and asked for absolution. I recall thinking that it was strange and feeling confused about his confession. I wondered, why was being gay suddenly a sin? What was wrong with being a homosexual? Had he been pressured into this or what was going on?

A week later while having dinner at Roger and Claudia’s, Shipen told us of his own encounter where he’d been "laid flat". He was called before a council of Redeemer elders where he was accused of being gay. He explained that it felt like he was on trial. To me it seemed like a scene from the Roman Inquisition as Shipen described how he knelt before the group while being interrogated and grilled about his “homosexual tendencies”. He admitted to being a “sinner” (aren't we all?) and eventually he was excused after Father Graham said something to the effect that we are not responsible for our temptations to sin, just for how we behave in response to those temptations.

Elder Jon Wilkes, who was there, remarks on this unusual set of events:

"Living together under crowded conditions is difficult at best. This situation quickly became difficult for all the usual interpersonal reasons - compounded in my mind by the growing intuition that the Symphony's leader, Shipen, was not as removed from homosexuality as one might hope. (How I intuited this I don't know.) I became upset enough about it to inform Graham Pulkingham. Graham convened a meeting of senior leaders at Redeemer and invited both Shipen and me to attend - to discuss the situation.

Shipen sat on the Rectory living room floor, half kneeling, in a posture reminiscent of a martyr awaiting execution. He admitted to the group assembled that he did have homosexual desires, temptations. Graham's judgment, with which the meeting ended, was that a person was not responsible for his temptations to sin - only for his overt behavior. The corollary was that none of us (read me, the complainant) should go around the community judging others for their "aura," the secondary expressions of their sexual proclivities.

This mild rebuke and teaching were Solomonic to me. My old denomination taught a
fundamentalist viewpoint, which was extremely intolerant. Graham's way of perceiving the varieties of humanity was something beautiful - generous to others and (since I knew my own weaknesses) a great reassurance to me. Persons in some conservative Evangelical traditions suffer profound fears of rejection by God on technical, capricious grounds. You know, Moses loses his temper once and is forbidden to enter the Promised Land. "Narrow is the road...and few there be who find it..., etc." In the theology of early years at Redeemer the emphasis was on the Psalm, which reassures us that the Lord remembers we are but dust."
[end of excerpt]

I viewed this as one more attack on Shipen’s leadership and authority and as a group the Symphony immediately rallied around Shipen and Ariel. We had always accepted one another’s differences and in our close knit family sexual orientation was just another aspect of our uniqueness in the eyes of God. Coupled with the tensions and interpersonal difficulties at North Main, things were getting increasingly uncomfortable.

Tempest Tossed: To Submit or Not?

2009-01-26T17:30:00.000-08:00

Stephen Gambill

Into this growing tempest walked a surprise visitor. On January 23, 1972 we attended the 11:00 worship service. One by one we walked up, took communion, then returned to our pew. Finally Shipen went up and knelt down at the railing waiting for his turn to take communion. To our total surprise, Stephen Gambill walked up and knelt down beside him. How terrific to see him, what a delight! After nine months of letters and phone calls back and forth to New York City, finally he had come back into our lives. After the service, we circled around him, laughing and hugging, peppering him with questions. Then we clambered on the bus and returned to North Main House where all of 13 of us, including Roger and Claudia, celebrated with a reunion picnic on the lawn.

Stephen arrived at a turning point in our relationship with Church of the Redeemer. It began with a weeklong conference entitled “The Charismatic Institute of Christian Health.” This featured speakers including Dr. Jim Stringham, Rev. Herman Riffel, Michael and Jeanne Harper and Father Graham Pulkingham. We worked frantically behind the scenes with our friend Doy (who we worked with) setting up tables, preparing meals and coffee hour, and cleaning up for the 300 people attending the conference.

During the conference, our doubts and concerns about “psychological humanism” continued to grow. One of the presenters, Dr. Stringham, was a Christian psychiatrist who spoke on broken relationships and their healing. He explained that bitterness and resentment is like a cancer in one’s body that affects your relationship with others and can often have physical effects such as stomach ulcers, high blood pressure or coronary disease. He then spoke of the psychological signs and symptoms, which include depression, anxiety, obsessive/compulsive behavior, persecution complexes or marital problems. He also spoke about the benefits of psychoanalysis to heal bitterness and resentment. This might make perfect sense today but in 1971 to our distrusting ears it seemed like heresy, at least to Shipen and to me.

One of the biggest ongoing disagreements we had with some of the teachings at Redeemer (and incidentally with Plowcreek Farm) was in the area of psychology. Shipen became increasingly alarmed by the teachings on psychology and how it meshed with Christianity. In fact, he refused to attend the sessions, preferring to stay back to “intercede” for Redeemer and to pray. At the time, I was convinced that what was being taught was a grave distortion of God’s truth. [Stephanie kept detailed notes from the lectures, which I recently poured over, trying to understand why I had such a deep distrust of psychology. In retrospect, examining the notes from the seminars and lectures now (over 35 years later), it makes perfect sense to me. Having gone through ten years of psychotherapy with an excellent therapist, I re-read these notes and teachings in a completely different light. I only wish I could go back and explain it to that youthful, naive me who so easily dismissed it as deceptive teaching and distorted doctrine.] At the time, it seemed to me as if a veil had fallen over the eyes of all the participants. In our typical over-vigilant, judgmental manner, we remained skeptical and deeply concerned. Let me clarify – most of us remained skeptical. I will speak for myself and say that at that point I firmly believed this was heretical teaching and no one (except probably Shipen) could tell me otherwise.

On Friday evening we held one of our special “are you with us or not” type of meetings. Shipen led off with his fears about this doctrine of “humanistic psychology” and his discontent with what was being taught. After lengthy discussion, we each reaffirmed our commitment to being in the Symphony.

Meanwhile, Shipen met with Jeff and Graham Pulkingham - the upshot of which was that Graham chided Shipen to lead by example rather than by evangelizing. Graham explained that the more we tried to teach and evangelize, the more our light would fade out. In other words, he felt our mission was to quietly listen, learn and live our faith rather than preach it. He also said it was the Lord who wanted us to be there and that we should submit to Redeemer. Oh really?
I was not convinced!

Reluctantly, Shipen agreed to accept Graham’s directive to be there in a ministry of intercession. Often, as I mulled things over late at night and prayed, I wondered exactly what God wanted our role to be at Redeemer. I felt we had talents, gifts, a musical ministry that was not being valued or recognized. Sitting quietly and praying did not seem like much of a mission to me. Why had God given us such incredible music during the Loft days? Why would God suddenly change his mind and want me to loosen the strings of my harp? Was this really God’s will? I turned this over to the Lord in my prayers over the following weeks.

On Sunday, Shipen reached his own epiphany regarding his relationship to Canon West. He explained that he finally realized that Canon West had, all along, been our spiritual elder, guiding and praying for us, yet standing quietly on the sidelines, waiting for us to receive God’s word on this too. Faced with a choice between submission to the authority of Graham or submission to Canon West, Shipen said he knew our first loyalty and calling was to Father West. This rang true to me whereas Graham’s words did not.

On February 2nd, Shipen called all thirteen members of the Symphony of Souls together to discuss our future at Redeemer and our future together as a community. Our group then consisted of: Shipen, Ariel, Stephen, David K., David L., Paul, Stephanie, Claudia, Roger, "Naomi", Shishonee, "Sarah", and Randy (new since Redeemer). We taped the meeting and listening to it again recently revealed several key features of our life together. First, we argued and disagreed, but there was a deep undercurrent of love evident in our conversations! Second, decisions were turned over to God and it was our conviction that the Lord would guide us into doing what was right. Finally, we used honest, open debate to work through our differences.

We opened with prayer and a reading from scripture. Then Shipen kicked off the discussion with the issue of submission, obedience and whose spiritual authority we should be under, Father West or Father Pulkingham? Even though we disagreed, it was a friendly, loving discussion. Paul voiced his concern with obeying an elder blindly and how he would have difficulty following a directive or doctrine he disagreed with. Roger spoke of his growing conviction that Jeff Schiffmayer was being raised up for a special ministry at Redeemer and Roger felt called to support Jeff. Shipen spoke of his new realization that Canon West was (and always had been) our spiritual authority figure. Then he pointed out that he had always sought God’s guidance before presenting a directive. He explained he could just demand that we submit to him as our elder and obey his command to return to New York City in typical Redeemer fashion but he preferred to wait for the Lord to confirm it in each of us instead.

Throughout the discussion there was a friendly comradery as we bantered back and forth, respectfully and with humor, seeking a consensus. As I listened to those long silent voices, they echoe across the years with the love and care we had for each other and our deep desire to do what was right before God...

Shipen: The thing which I think we should discuss tonight frankly, honestly and
openly is the idea of submission to authority and how it could possible relate
to submission to power. We’ve talked about our elders, but we haven’t talked
about whether or not God was speaking to us in terms of actually committing
ourselves into the hands of another leader; an elder in the church. Actually
plugging into the body of Christ, and thereby gaining the direct support and
leadership abilities of the elders of the church…I was wondering if anybody has
any ideas about it…

Ariel: I was thinking of every place we have been to from the monasteries to Koinania and everyone has been submitted in the way we’ve been speaking of. Sr. Miriam is vowed to obey the mother superior, Mother Ruth who is their shepherd on earth; they are vowed in marriage to Jesus. The monks are the same way.

Shipen: The idea we are discussing is an idea of obedience; and the spirit of obedience …What it comes down to, in terms of personal taste is that we’re New Yorkers and used to a certain kind of life and these people are Houstonians. They are not geared to monastic life and not about to be, no matter what Jeff says in terms of obedience; they are not going to call 300 people to sit in that church all day.

Stephanie: I also don’t think we can deny what the Lord has done in our short heritage. I don’t think we can deny the ministry to us by Canon West, St. John’s, Madeline, Sister Miriam, and the convent. What they have given to us, what they have laid down for us is just incredible…

Ariel:…most of us had never seen Canon West, he had never spoken to us, and for many of us he never has; I think he said hello to me once, and I shook his hand but, that is the most mysterious and holy thing…which was Canon West in the Cathedral of St. John the Divine blessing us with the Lord’s holiness because that was the first time I ever felt the spirit of Jesus Christ and it was ministered by a person and I didn’t have a thought for…
Claudia: …As you were saying we’re all New Yorkers and we can’t deny that past, it is with us. It makes us where people can’t understand us; we just feel like we’re in a different world when we’re in Houston, Texas.

Shipen: Isn’t it strange how the different parts of the body do different things? I feel the strongest support in prayer from Gethsemani….I feel totally edified by Gethsemani. It’s really something, at St. Gregory’s a greater ability for creative talent and here there is a greater ability to become a maintenance man…

[laughter]

And personal struggle:

Paul: You don’t have to agree with your spirit; that’s what I am saying. I love Graham, I really do Shipen, he can say anything to me and I would do it. But I will not preach something I don’t have in my spirit, but I still love him. And what I
read yesterday morning, Paul and Barnabus, they split up because they didn’t
agree; they were still of the Lord.

Shipen: I agree with you. But I think, Paul, what the Lord is asking us is not to; now Roger disagrees with me, he thinks we should submit to someone we don’t like and can’t respect in our flesh. But I maintain that we can’t, I can not submit right now to Graham Pulkingham because of the reason you just gave me; I disagree with him. But I fully believe the Lord will establish the authority we can submit to and respect as having a really holy authority, not a great deal of power but a holy authority. I think he will confirm it and then we will know and we will gladly lay down our lives.

And on contemplative life:

Roger: The greatest gift the Lord has given us is that of prayer. This is the monastic life whether we’re here or anywhere else. The Lord is just beginning to open up to me that avenue of approach…

And future prophesies:

Shipen: "…I somehow had the idea that we would be responsible for being that “Hair” presentation at St. John’s. Now the reason I think that is because before I left New York I talked with Sister Miriam and she said there was a prophesy given once in regard to Canon West being the warden of the convent and that was that Canon West would be the would be the warden of three organizations: Community of the Holy Spirit, the farm in Rochester, and a third one…So if that’s the case, Canon West’s business on earth will not be finished until he receives his third community.
Which means if we are the third community let’s say that he is to support us and
we decide to tie with him, then we give him the edification he needs to complete
his ministry, to be obedient to God and Canon West to finish whatever work he
has been given…"

After the meeting, we decided to continue to worship, work and fellowship at Redeemer as a separate community but without submitting to their authority, even though the Redeemer elders exerted renewed pressure for us to do so. Shipen adamently and steadfastly refused this coercion insisting Canon West was our authority not Graham Pulkingham or the Redeemer hierarchy.

Meanwhile, as Redeemer elders kept up the pressure for us to submit to them, Shipen cranked up the pressure on each of us. Some in our community were waivering, undecided if they should join Redeemer or stay with the Symphony. Three days later, Shipen called us together on the bus for yet another "on the bus or off" type meeting. This time Paul, Randy and Stephanie voiced their uncertainty of God's call and I felt our family slowly unraveling at the seams.

On Ash Wednesday, Jon Wilkes announced a Lenten fast for North Main. For the next 40days of Lent the North Main household would eat only three bowls of soup a day. Afterwards, we met on the bus and agreed to join in the fast, remaining in our position of silent support for Redeemer, that is, remaining wordless (not preaching), ambitionless and waiting on the Lord. Shipen suggested our group’s fast should also include fasting from all desires, demands and to want nothing. We all agreed. The bowls of soup started out rather thin but about half way through Lent they were almost thick enough to eat with a fork! An ongoing joke of ours over the years was one “soup” that consisted of huge chunks of steak, potatoes and carrots with just a hint of broth. The only thing missing were the buttered rolls. Hah!

We had entered a new phase of imposed silence and submission. On February 20th, we attended a dinner and fellowship with Dr. Bob Eckert’s household. We were specifically asked ahead of time not to give a musical performance. Dr. Bob was one of the Redeemer elders and certainly one of the more conservative ones in my view. During the course of the evening, Shipen talked about what the Lord had been revealing to us regarding submission. As he was speaking, Dr. Bob grew visibly tense and angry as he sat frowning and glaring at Shipen. Suddenly he burst out, interrupting one of Shipen's endless monologues, “Just submit right now, give it up and submit yourself to what the Lord is trying to say to you!” This cut Shipen off in the middle of his sentence and we all just sort of sat there in stunned silence. I kept thinking we can’t even talk about what we’ve been going through, they don’t even want to hear what we have to say! How frustrating!

How long is a little while Jesus Christ?

Not only was Shipen’s authority being challenged but also we were not welcome to share our musical ministry anymore, period. The family was being pulled apart over the whole issue submission and our merging into Redeemer. At the end of the evening, Naomi and Roger both shared that they felt the Lord wanted us to join Redeemer. As we left, someone remarked, "You know, sometimes elders can be wrong." (Or maybe Shipen just needed to knock off his long-winded preaching and get to the point is what I thought!)

Two days later Shipen called Canon West who counseled that we should stay at Redeemer for a short period of time at the end of which we should make a decision. It was agreed we would ask the elders if we could stay until June when Graham was due back in town, remaining in our status as a "visiting community". The very next day, Ariel met with David Lynch and several others of our group expressing his struggles with commitment to the Symphony. This led to another on-the-bus-or-off family meeting. Ariel said he just didn’t feel he could give up his worldly desires for food (remember we were fasting), freedom, sex and everything else. Despite pleas and prayers, Ariel decided to leave the group, again! He explained he felt he could not honestly make a commitment to stay and though we tried desperately to dissuade him, he abruptly left. (He was gone for a month.)

We met together that evening to discuss Canon West’s advice and what we should do. Shipen asked each of us to make a four-month commitment to the Symphony and asked us to commit ourselves to the Church of the Redeemer in a supportive stance. Eventually, everyone agreed, if somewhat reluctantly. As I lay in bed that night I prayed for a miracle to keep our family together. I also prayed for Ariel wherever he might be.

The very next day our commitment to Redeemer was put to the test. Shipen was called to meet with the elders. We were preparing to drive to Ft. Worth to get the bus repainted, but the elders did not think we should go. Jeff and John Farra explained to Shipen that they felt a burden for the Symphony not to go to Fort Worth since they felt that our leaving would be detrimental to our relationship with North Main house and might indeed sever it. In addition, the elders said they had not been informed of our intentions and it was the weekend of the renewal conference on marriage and family, which they felt was an important conference for us to attend. (Oh, in other words, they needed us to work at the conference, I thought, ever the skeptic.) When Shipen explained our desire to stay committed to Redeemer for fourth months, the elders were somewhat confused. They asked him if the Church of the Redeemer could take a member of the Symphony and place him wherever they wanted? Shipen countered that they could not because of our recent commitment to each other. Then they asked, why couldn’t we submit now? Shipen replied that we were not at liberty to submit ourselves to the Redeemer’s leadership because of Canon West’s advice that we should not commit ourselves fully to the vision of Church of the Redeemer - rather we should stay for a delineated period of time and then decide.

Next they discussed the relationship between North Main and the Symphony of Souls. It was agreed there was a definite separation between our two groups but that it seemed appropriate that we should remain distinct from each other. The relationship of the Symphony to North Main House was further defined by clarifying our roles: The North Main House ministry was to staff the Way In coffee house ministry four nights a week. The Symphony of Souls was a separate group with a “ministry of intercession.” We were not to be directly engaged with the coffee house’s musical ministry. This didn’t seem right! Why was our gift of music being squelched? I thought of the parable of the talents. Our music was like a candle that should not be hidden under a bushel basket. It just didn’t make sense to me.

Grudgingly we accepted a position of intercession for the Lord’s intentions for this coffee house. Shipen reminded us that Canon West had asked us to stay awhile longer before making any decisions. The upshot of the meeting was that we would not be going to Forth Worth. The elders agreed to put off making any judgment regarding our status as a visiting-family-being-fathered-from-New-York pending Graham’s return. It was also agreed we could remain at North Main for the next four months. In the meantime, the elders said they would confer and get back to us on the particulars of our relationship with Redeemer.

On February 28th, our entire community was summoned to Graham’s office to receive the decision that the elders had made about us. Expecting the worst, we came “girded up” in our commitment to each other. John Fara and Dr. Eckert surprised us all by sharing that we were totally accepted as “visitors” and that they were giving us Willard House to live in for at least the next four months. How wonderful! John Farra would be our “pastor” but it would be up to us to determine our relationship with him and with the church. We were welcomed to move in to Willard House immediately. Wow! Roger and Claudia decided to continue living apart from us, though they assured us they would still be with us in spirit.

This was very exciting and an answer to earlier prayers. After the meeting, our good friend Doy joined us on the bus kicking up his cowboy boots in celebration at the news! Relieved and delighted, we began packing and making plans to move into our new home. Our own house – awesome! That evening, John Farra invited us to come in and perform at the coffeehouse (even more amazing!) so we played Sweet Jesus and Eastern Sky. It seemed like a complete turn about. The Lord works in mysterious ways…

Symphony House

2009-01-25T17:41:00.000-08:00

A musical jam session at Symphony House

Finally our original vision of having our own house had been fulfilled. Glorious! Eagerly we said goodby to our brothers and sisters at North Main, loaded the bus with all our belongings and moved into 419 Williard Street, Houston, Texas, our new Symphony House! It was a large, two story wood sided house with oak floors and big floor-to-ceiling windows. What a delight to be able to spread out into that spacious house. We women would have one bedroom and the men the other. Downstairs there was a dining room, living room (which we used for music practice) a kitchen, and a back patio area. Throughout the following weeks we cleaned, stripped wallpaper, painted, scrubbed, washed and waxed floors and made this home our own. We painted some walls soft green like a meadow and other walls a darker green like a forest. We removed wallpaper from the dining room and stained the wood. We made a dining room table from a huge piece of wood covered with linen that was set about a foot off the floor. There we ate our meals Japanese style. You either had to sit with your legs crossed or stretched out underneath it or kneel. There were always visitors who joined us for meals of miso soup, beans, vegetables and rice or delicious homemade bread and bowls of hot chili that Shipen seasoned with secret ingredients – once he used a dash of cologne!

Meals in the Dining Room were Japanese style

I'll never forget Shipen trying to teach me how to cook Texas chili. It was one of my first real cooking lessons. As we sat adding seasonings over a huge dark blue enamel pot, he told me that cooking was a lot like art. You had to think creatively and experiment. It was important to start slowly, adding only one ingredient at a time, always tasting carefully – "a good artist knows when to stop"! After a few drinks, he might even toss some beer or coffee into the chili! No matter what Shipen added, the food was always excellent. I remember he would get out this heavy, three inch thick book called Gastronomic that was all about the art of French cooking. Sarah and I were supposed to read a chapter a month or something like that, and then we were supposed to cook some of the soups and meals from this massive tome. Unfortunately, I never got past all the misunderstood words just in the ingredients alone so nothing ever really sank in. Pretty soon I was back to my mixed up, throw-in-the-left-overs casseroles. Though I did learn to cook “42-cloves-of-garlic-chicken”, sourdough bread and delicious chili, stews and a few other basic dishes, I never came close to becoming the master chef that Shipen was. I just never had his passion for cooking.

I loved our expansive new home. Suddenly there was room for art, painting, rehearsing, and lots of physical space to move in - even a backyard. Steve turned the backyard into his private studie where he created beautiful artwork using small wooden shadow boxes filled with poignant and delicate artifacts. He scrounged up discarded raffia mats and placed them around the patio creating an intriguing outdoor hideaway. There, he and Ariel carefully pruned bonsai trees or worked on art. Another room was transformed into a wonderland of exotic instruments artfully placed around the room and tied to the walls with colorful pieces of ribbon. We were to have many wonderful jam sessions in the next weeks, some going on into the wee early morning hours as we traveled on musical journeys with Redeemer friends and guests, exploring and building off one another.

Max Dyer, formerly of the Fisherfolk and now a professional cellist, writes about one such experience:

I loved the music room! One afternoon, I wandered in alone and sat down on a
cushion next to the wall and picked up an instrument close at hand. It was an
autoharp. I gave it a strum with my finger. Someone had retuned it microtonally
and a swoosh of esoteric overtones filled the room! Shipen came in smiling and
sat down Indian style opposite me and picked up some exotic instrument. I
suddenly felt a little flattered by his complete engagement. I gave a tap on the
autoharp and plucking a few strings I was struck by his concentration, his deep
receptivity, how his own sounds now merged with mine, instantly creating music!…
I offered a few new notes and he took them up smoothly, responding with a
fluency and grace that was obviously born of high intelligence. This was
irresistible. I launched out. Improvising suddenly became effortless. Everything
I did sounded great. It was fun! A sense of my own expressive power arose within
me and my soul began to sing. We jammed! We rode the currents of this intuitive
sound language, taking pleasure in the enjoyment of some outrageous truth…. Then
gradually it ended and we both sat silent, exhilarated and bathed in a powerful
peace. I began to marvel at Shipen’s extraordinary giftedness that had become
the foundation for this group. [end of excerpt]

Throughout the house, we set up our kerosene lamps and often used them at night for our evening services or for reading. I recall once I was feeling restless so I decided to go for a walk in the cool evening air. As I returned I paused, seeing our house from a distance. I was filled with emotion looking at our home -so warm and inviting lit by the old fashioned lamps, with Sarah sewing as she sat by the window and David bending over his guitar, practicing the chords of a new song. I felt oddly melancholy and inexplicably sad. One word reverberated through me – home. This place seemed like a real home to me, more so than any other place we had lived in before. Once again I wondered, “Is this the place where we can finally sink roots? Will we ever find that physical space where we can slow down and begin to really grow? What is your will Lord?”

Thus began a new chapter in our lives at Redeemer, with new freedoms and a return to our own daily rhythms and traditions. We returned to having regular chapter meetings after morning worship, music rehearsals, dinner together and Compline.

The next hurdle was finding a source of income. Some of us still volunteered at the church and fixed up church houses while others found various temporary jobs through Manpower. I got a job at a local health food bakery baking bread, cookies, and muffins. On my first day, I walked into a small, dirty, unorganized back room in a warehouse type building and discovered this was the “health food bakery.” After being given a quick tour, the boss tossed a handful of recipes on the counter, told me to bake 20 loaves of whole wheat bread and left. Feeling a little overwhelmed, I washed off a counter, put on an apron and rolled up my sleeves. I can do this, I thought to myself as I laid out all the ingredients. I reached into a huge bag of whole wheat flour sitting on the floor to scoop the flour into a giant mixing bowl then dropped the cup in horror. The bowl was alive with hundreds of tiny dark wriggling things! Leaning down for a closer look I saw the bag of flour was crawling with bugs. Disgusting! I immediately closed up the bag and heaved it into the dumpster. When my boss returned a few minutes later he scolded me for being so wasteful saying the bugs were only on the top layer! Just scoop them out, he insisted. Shocked, I inspected the other bags and as soon as he left I threw out about four bags of contaminated flour, oats and wheat germ. I repackaged all the rest in airtight containers from a nearby closet and spent the next three hours scrubbing and cleaning up the bakery. When he returned later in the afternoon and asked where everything was, I explained I had cleaned and reorganized and that it would help the food taste fresher to have everything sealed up. He seemed pleased and let me take over the running of the bakery. Phew!

Baking was a gas! I knew I would never be a chef of the caliber of Shipen, Ariel or Stephen but it was something I really enjoyed. I baked blueberry muffins, oatmeal cookies, all kinds of healthy bread, and I even experimented with making different kinds of granola. I brought it home for us to try out and it was a hit! My boss liked it so much he suggested we market it under the name “Aunt Shishonee’s Granola.” I was thrilled when the granola and some of my other recipes like “Aunt Shishonee’s Oatmeal Cookies” became hot sellers at local health food stores.

In the new music room we returned to working on our music again. David Lynch’s wrote an upbeat song called The Captain. I wrote a new meditation song called Baptism ending in the words, “Eloi, Eloi, Lama Sabackthani.” We met and fellowshipped with members of the Keyhole, the music group from The Way In coffeehouse. Mikel Kennedy came by often and there were wonderful free form experimental jam sessions with Mikel, Max Dyer, Bonnie, Kathy, Diane Davis Andrew, and other Redeemer musicians. I especially loved the music sessions with Max Dyer on cello and me on harp. It seemed no matter what I played, his cello parts provided a perfect counterpoint, his rich melodies weaving through the staccato plucking of the harp chords. Diane Davis Andrew was another gifted musician from Redeemer who often joined our musical sessions. She had written the beautiful song "I am a rock, a sure foundation, base your life on me, I am reality, come walk with me" -a richly melodic song that was often sung during Redeemer worship services. Easter morning, she and I sang a duet with harp that I had written called I Went Walking in the Garden during Communion at Redeemer. Sometimes Roger and Claudia popped in to play ragas.

Our pets at the time were still Emma and Buki, our two Hutterite kittens. They became very ill during our months at Redeemer with some type of feline influenza and nearly died. Luckily with care, nursing and several expensive vet bills later they pulled through! I loved our kittens. Sometimes our little white deaf kitten Emma would climb into the sounding hole in the front of my Venezuelan folk harp. When I would pluck the strings, suddenly her head would pop out and surprise us all! We also adopted a wonderful dog for a few weeks that we named Leaf Puppy. We called him that because the first time I met him on the street he picked up a leaf and delicately delivered it to me like a treasured gift into my waiting hands. He reminded me of a circus dog because he could do all kinds of amazing tricks! The most impressive was when you would hand him a note and say, “Now go give this to Stephen.” He would ever so gently grasp it between his teeth and off he would trot happily taking it directly to whomever you had said! What a remarkable dog!

On March 28th, Stephanie and a friend picked Ariel up at the airport. He arrived grinning his old mischievous grin and carrying a tiny potted bonsai tree. He had called four weeks prior asking to come back, so we had agreed to turn it over to the Lord in prayer. I was very relieved to have him back! He returned seeming refreshed, happier, and with a twinkle in his eye again.

Meanwhile, the group was still struggling with being on-the-bus or off-the-bus, joining Redeemer or not joining Redeemer. On Good Friday, we met after dinner for a long, painful and angry discussion. Roger and Paul both expressed their loyalty to Church of the Redeemer and there were many angry outbursts and bitter words that followed. In the end, Roger and Paul remained adamant that they would stay outside our community. I had the feeling we had reached a crossroads and there would be no turning back.

About a week later, our group reached the breaking point. Paul, Randy, Stephanie and Naomi announced they were unwilling to commit their lives to the Symphony and expressed their belief that God was calling them to commit to Redeemer. As we were about to leave for church, Shipen asked David Lynch, Ariel and I to stay back for a private meeting. Sounding us out, we soon realized each of us was in complete agreement that we should not forsake the gift God had given and one by one reaffirmed our commitment to our musical vision. The next day we met as a family and the four of us shared our firm commitment to that original vision with the others. Alas, no amount of pleading or eloquent arguments would sway them.

Two days later, we drove over to the church and met with the elders once again. That meeting lasted for three hours, as we worked through fears, frustrations, miscommunications and misunderstandings. The elders expressed their view that our four-month commitment must be broken to set free those who were bound (as they phrased it) so they could chose what they want to do. Finally they asked that anyone who wanted to remain with the Symphony should leave the meeting room. Seven of us (Shipen, David Lynch, David Karasek, Sarah, Stephen, Ariel and myself) stood up and slowly walked out of the room while Paul, Randy, Stephanie and Naomi Goldman remained behind with the Redeemer elders.

Somberly, we stood outside of the meeting room in a sad circle and agreed we should immediately call Canon West. Shipen conveyed the disappointing news. In his maddeningly mysterious manner, Canon West responded by sharing a story of the disobedience and unruly behavior of monks at a monastery and how as a result the abbot had quietly left and gone about his business. As usual, he left it up to us to interpret what his analogy meant. (What a contrast from the down-to-earth directive style of the Redeemer elders who left little to be misunderstood.) After hanging up, we returned to the meeting and shared the story with the elders and our ex-members. At the time, I interpreted Canon West’s story as meaning our four departing members were being the disobedient and naughty monks and that we should turn away from them and quietly carry on about our business without them. In retrospect, I wonder if they thought the same about us? The elders asked Paul, Randy, Stephanie and Naomi to stay behind to talk and I could hear them laughing and talking as we solemnly walked away. Stephanie reflects back on the situation:

"Personally, I never interpreted the parable as some of us being disobedient nor did I ever tell you or any one what had happened (except Naomi - because it happened when we were together) that brought me to my own personal decision about Redeemer.

It actually goes back, way back, to my stay in the convent in NYC the summer we were on the Hutterite Farm. My primary purpose in returning to the City was to attend my brother Roy's bar mitzvah and secondly to have a mini retreat at Community of the Holy Spirit to get clarity on my call. However, I went to Long Island but not my bother’s bar mitzvah because the sisters cautioned me not to. They felt it was too soon to return to "that way of life" and I might be tempted to forsake the Lord. Wanting to please the Lord and not understanding how to be "Jewish" and believe in Him, I agonized in prayer over their advice. Finally, after much weeping, I gave up the desire to go to Roy’s bar mitzvah and instead stayed at the convent the whole time. I know now, it was not necessary - that Jesus, being very Jewish, attended the synagogue and my whole revelation of Him came because by some miracle, I knew the Father. The word says, “if you know My Father who is in heaven, You will know Me." In the remainder of my time there, I sought God about my calling and spent time with Reverend Mother discussing it, the gifts of the Spirit and the fruits of the Spirit. No matter how I looked at it, I came away with knowing that my "calling" would involve marriage and family some where down the road, just not NOW. I also knew that as Reverend Mother said, whatever God wanted to give me, I wanted to receive. After the Maranatha Praise and Power Festival, I had told the Lord I didn't want the gifts of the Spirit, just the fruit. Reverend Mother, altered that determination with her kind words, “my daughter, never refuse what our Lord offers you.”

At St. Gregory’s Abbey, I again wrestled with the Lord about this whole "baptism of the Holy Spirit" issue. At the Abbey, I saw something different than what I saw at the Hutterite Farm or the Maranatha Praise and Power Festival. What I saw was sweet and gentle; it wasn't threatening or disrespectful feeling. Through these eyes and the friendships of two postulates, the Lord opened my heart. To my surprise, I experienced this baptism. Along with it, came an incredible joy I had never known before and the praying with tongues, which I had so previously feared.

The event set into motion what became a very painful period for me in the Symphony/Trees. From that time forward I hit heads with Shipen on a regular basis. What happened to me seemed to have scared him or something, because he convinced Roger and then others, that something demonic had happened to me and he wanted to deliver me. I knew it was not demonic at all! In fact, I had received intense instruction by the Lord through all the encounters I had when I first believed that I was quite confident I knew the difference! I refused Shipen’s ministry offer and felt like an outcast because of it. I do not remember how long this agony lasted but I do remember where or when it changed for me. It was, when we met Sister Cleo. She prophetically spoke words of life to me about being “Abraham’s daughter” and "a princess who had God’s favor". That night, as I journaled I wrote what I later called, “My first love letter to the Lord.” It flowed from me as if it was not from me and I could just “hear it.” After I finished writing the Lord spoke to my heart and told me it was the answer to my prayer for a song and together with David L. He would give us the melody for what we later named, "Oh Jesus How I Love You."

By the time we got to Redeemer, I was ready for change. I felt stifled. My musical inferiority combined with my apparent theological differences made me feel like an outsider among the very people that had been my family away from home. At Redeemer, well, lets just say, “the grass” definitely “looked greener.” I saw people living a Spirit filled radical life style that included family. This started my heart thinking; maybe I could do both....maybe I could live radically for the Lord without compromising my faith or convictions and eventually even marry and raise children.

Still I am a slow and careful decision maker, so I made no decision until AFTER that meeting with the elders. It was agonizing, praying about leaving this my first spiritual family. In fact, I never would have made a decision that Tuesday evening if Shipen hadn’t put forth an ultimatum. Even after the ultimatum, I was so angry, that I was not going to rehearsal or to the church; I was just going to sit outdoors on the porch. In my heart's perception, Shipen was being as pushy and dogmatic as the elders had been earlier and it hurt. Yet, for some reason Naomi and I ended up in Randy's car praying about the decision we were being forced to make. As we sat there, I got a very clear, distinct impression/word from the Lord. I knew it was Him because it had only happed to me once before, the night He gave me the words for "Oh Jesus" knowing David had the melody. I am amazed I even knew what to do with this word. The word was one of encouragement from the Lord because of our diligence to pursue Him to know His heart. I knew Shipen was my father in the faith but I also knew, I was meant to stay in Houston.

I hated the way that I ended leaving our Symphony family. I know it was after Easter because I had locked horns with Shipen on the Easter weekend. I was tired of always being the one to ask the hard questions and to challenge Shipen’s decrees. As Paul said one time, our discussions always seemed to end up with Shipen and I in some sort of conflict or confrontation followed by my crying. It seemed to me that if there was one besetting sin we all had, it was pride, followed by an idolatry of sorts. We seemed to take it for granted everywhere we went that “we had a message” to deliver and reluctantly realized we had a message to receive as well. We also relied much to heavily on Shipen for approval, direction, leadership and even parenting. On the other hand, God in His infinite mercy was constantly putting us in a place to humble us and mold our character. Wherever we went, it seemed, He backed us in a corner where we - like at Redeemer, would be tested and have our character proved. Shipen was brilliant, and for God to use him as He planned, humility was a requirement. For God to use me as He planned, humility was also a requirement. I cannot tell you how often I continued to lock horns with men in authority. It took many years for me to conclude, submission is a gift and a choice. Anyone can demand it but I get to decide who I give permission to control me. When I look back on the communities we stormed through, I realize, we were shown a lot of grace by everyone who took us in, including the Church of the Redeemer.

“Oh Jesus, how I love you, thank You for all you have done in my life. Let all I do praise you. Let all that I say, bless Your name. Heavenly Father, my lips shall praise You. And my breath, praise you. Let the heavens rejoice and the mountains sing psalms. All men speak Your name in praise. For the King of Glory has taken His throne in my heart. We shall praise His name forever more. When we all sit down to sup with Him, then we shall sing, “hosanna.”

To this day, there is only one sadness I have in leaving The Trees besides losing touch with dear friends, that is, not having known a relaxed, free flowing, mature grace filled friendship with Shipen. There is something to be said for reconciliation, healing and humility that is better lived out on a day-to-day basis. "

It was very quiet riding home on the bus that night without our friends, as each of us pondered what had happened. As I sat lost in my thoughts, I was depressed seeing this deep schism that had ripped our family apart. I realized that this time no amount of brow beating or coercion, begging or pleading would bring our little family back together. Yet above all, more than anything this is what my heart desired.

Spring Floods

2009-01-24T18:13:00.000-08:00

Shishonee and family 1961

I realize now that for me, this overwhelming need to keep our “family” together grew from my experiences as a child when I did whatever I could to keep my parents together. They almost divorced when I was about ten years old and it was a defining moment in my life. Now it felt like it had happened again and I felt sad and depressed. Gazing out the bus window as we drove home, my thoughts drifted back to that night so many years ago…

It was a Saturday night when I was about nine years old. We’d just finished dinner when my mother and father called us all into the living room. All five of us (ages 9, 8, 7, 5 and 4) came and sat quietly on the couch, sensing something big was up. My mother explained that she and my father were having problems “getting along” and that they had decided they were going to get a divorce. With a tired and defeated tone she told us it would be better for all of us because “your Mom and Dad just don’t like each other much anymore.” Then she said, “Each of you will have to decide who you want to live with, your father or me.” I was shell-shocked and we all sat there in stunned silence. My little brothers started to sniffle and cry. My mind screamed, “No, this can’t be happening! It’s a mistake!”

Throughout that night I wrestled with the dilemma of who I should live with and who would I have to leave? My father? My mother? As I lay in bed, I kept weighing this back and forth, trying to imagine which was the better choice – I loved them both! Then it dawned on me that our family might be split up! As the horror of this scenario unfolded in my young mind, I felt sick at heart, as if I had been punched in the gut. This just could not be! Finally, I determined it was up to me to do something. That Sunday morning after church I gathered my brothers and sister together in our music room and shut the door. I remember all of us sitting on the scratchy rattan rug next to the piano as I explained to them that we just had to do something, we couldn’t let this happen. We sat in a little circle and prayed out loud for my parents, asking them to love each other again and for God to fix things up. Then I picked out passages from our Sunday School bibles for each of us to read. We practiced these for a while until we decided we were ready. I lined my sister and three little brothers up along the wall with their Children’s Bibles open in their hands and called my Mom and Dad into the room. Each of us recited a brief verse to them, then we held hands and said the Lord’s Prayer together. As my Mom and Dad sat with tears streaming down their faces, I had my little brother Ben say a prayer he had practiced until he got it right, “God, please don’t let Mommy and Daddy get divorced, help them love each other again.” My mother came over and hugged us and both my Mom and Dad agreed that they would try harder to make it work out. (They didn't divorce until many years later when I was 24). This experience forged in me the unconscious need to struggle to heal others differences and the unwavering desire to keep our family unit together.

As we drove along, I sat watching the blocks of houses barely outlined against the night sky, each with their own stories hidden within. It wasn’t until I went through years of therapy that I realized how powerfully my parent’s divorce had shaped my life. Sadly I knew this time there was nothing that could be done.

On Tuesday night, April 10th, 1972 Shipen called for a final decision. He issued an ultimatum - either come to the Symphony prayer meeting and rehearsal or go to the Tuesday night Redeemer teaching. If you stayed, you would be with the Symphony and if you left, you would be choosing Redeemer. I watched with a heavy heart as Stephanie, Roger, Claudia, Randy and Naomi stood up and left.

The next day, the elders met and it was decided that Stephanie would move into the Farra household and Randy and Naomi would move into the Neal household. Roger and Claudia had decided to officially join Redeemer and moved in with the Schiffmayers. Paul was still uncertain so he decided to stay with us for the time being. Feeling battered and scarred, it was a very emotional and painful time for all of us. Though we all prayed for healing, it would be a long time before our wounds would heal.

About a week later, we had a delightful visit from Father Anthony from Three Rivers Abbey. We were able to talk at length about our break up and everything that had transpired since we left Three Rivers. It was refreshing to talk with an outsider who really understood what we had been going through and who had very sound, affirming and loving words of encouragement for us. We played him our new songs and he joined us for Compline. He seemed pleased that we still retained some trappings of the contemplative life.

Somehow the elders gave their approval for our previously thwarted trip to Fort Worth, Texas so we left for the weekend to work on the bus and visit the home of the Cavannars. Graciously the couple took us in and helped us repaint the bus, which meant taping over the windows and lights, sanding it down, washing it and then spray painting the entire surface. Shipen remarked that it was a symbolic change in that now God’s word would be inside the bus since it was growing inside each of us. After the surface was primed, David Karasek created a beautiful mural of trees and leaves on both sides of the bus.

David K. painting a mural on the bus

On May 2, 1972 we celebrated our first Anniversary Day. Exactly one year before, we had left New York City as the Symphony of Souls in Christ, a long-haired, newly converted band of hippies ready to face the world. So much had changed in one year! We began by celebrating communion using our traditional Trees Liturgy. Then it was time for a classic Symphony breakfast Ariel had made - homemade

whole wheat bread, oatmeal with honey and steaming hot coffee. We read from selected entries in my journal (that I'd nicknamed “The Chronicle”) - and the entire day was filled with festivity and celebration. We broke out tequila with dinner, followed by a ceremonial burning of a $1.00 bill torn into four pieces to represent the $400 that had burned up in the potbellied stove our first week out. There were readings from Flower A. Newhouse’s books, The Aquarian Gospel and other “heretical” books from the early days. Roger and Claudia and later Stephanie dropped by and together re reminisced, our happiness tinged with nostalgia and sadness. A quietness settled over us as we listened to readings from all those days and all those places, listening to the judgments, the mistakes and the Lord’s victories. Our anniversary ended with a performance of two new songs, I Wander and Jesus He Knows and then Compline. It had been quite a pilgrimage.

I Wander (song by Shishonee)

I wander through the valleys
Searching for Him whom I love
As he knocked, my hand upon the lock.
Too long did I wait.
The last word before he left was,
“Rise up my love, come away.”

In darkness, outside the city gate,
They found me walking there…
And stripped and whipped and beat me
Till I was naked and bare.

Ye daughters of Jerusalem
Wake not my love till He please.
If you see Him passing by,
Tell Him I am sick with love, with love.

He found me in the wilderness
He found me in the wilderness
He found me in the wilderness
And gathered me up unto His breast.

Spring floods
Shall never drown our love,
For love is strong as death.

Make haste, my beloved
Be thou as a young stag
Upon the mountains of spices
Upon the mountains of spices
Upon the mountains of spices
Upon the mountains of spices.

The final two months at Redeemer we grew restless, eager to continue on our journey to minister and spread God’s word through musical/theatrical/artistic presentations. The pressure and tension between our two communities abated somewhat, replaced by a growing warmth and love now that we had reached a mutual agreement about our role at Redeemer.

Throughout May and June, Mikel Kennedy and others often came to visit. I enjoyed the influx of new friends and shared music and ideas. It was a delightful, productive period with the time and space to create new music, experiment, relax and enjoy the kind of fluid, connected experience that came with open jam sessions. They were wonderful journeys into new sounds and stories, reminiscent of the early Loft musical sessions that Shipen dubbed the Sunday Sound and Story sessions.

Canon West - A Different Authority

2009-01-23T18:39:00.000-08:00

Canon West and his cherished Irish Setters

On May 3rd, 1972, Shipen, Ariel, and David Lynch left for New York City to visit Canon West and Rodney Kirk to seek advice on what we should do. Should we stay at Redeemer or leave? Should we remain a traveling ministry? Should we form a religious, contemplative order? In the interim, Jim Bailey (a member of North Main) was appointed our elder. Meanwhile, the rest of us fasted for three days praying for a successful meeting.

Shipen soon called with some surprising news. They had met with Canon West and he suggested our community should consider learning more about becoming a monastic order. To accomplish this, the men should consider entering a monastery such as Gethsemani and the women could enter the Community of the Holy Spirit for a period of a year or two before considering forming our own new religious order. Canon West felt strongly we should form a religious order but he didn't think it was possible for it to be made up of both men and women (months later, he changed his mind.) He promised to mentor us and suggested that in the meantime, we should "travel and be about our business" and be sure to write him every two weeks during our journeys. This was not the answer I wanted to hear. I wanted to know if we should stay and join Redeemer or leave and continue our ministry of music to the body of Christ. Unfortunately, this was not Canon West's way of advising us.

I found it frustrating. I needed concrete direction and I wanted Canon West to give us explicit advice like: “Yes, you should keep playing music, travel to churches around the country and give concerts” or “No, you should buy a farm near Gethsemani and start selling goat cheese” but this was not his way. It was particularly maddening that Shipen, David and Ariel drove all the way to New York City to seek his guidance and, in the end, all he would said was “travel and be about your business.” That was not specific enough for me! What was our “business”? How would we make enough money to live? Travel where? Furthermore, my roots were getting tired of being ripped up every time they began stretching out and getting comfortable and they were in need of some rich, permanent soil!

After the New York visit, the Symphony decided to accept Canon West as our father – even if from a distance. In Redeemer-speak, we agreed to submit to his authority. This deeply reverent and humble man thus became our advisor and the abbot to our community.

I had great respect for Canon West. To me, Canon West was always somewhat of an enigma. He surrounded himself with beautiful religious artifacts like jewel studded Faberge eggs, or ancient silver framed icons, yet he eschewed materialism and counseled living a life of poverty. He was deeply reverent and an authority on early Christian texts, yet he wandered the Cathedral grounds dressed in kilts, cassocks and loved dressing up in flamboyant religious regalia. He lived a simple, quiet life yet thoroughly enjoyed all the trappings of Episcopal high church pomp and ceremony. Though he was the abbot of several religious communities and hobnobbed with the Queen of England, the Archbishop of Canterbury and other extremely influential religious leaders and heads of state, he carefully avoided wielding power. In fact, Canon West was the antithesis of the rich and powerful (despite his being so attracted to them). Over the years, Shipen turned to Canon West as a son would his father, seeking his counsel and advice. In his oddly distant and unfathomable way, Canon West responded, leading us without taking a position of power, allowing us to stumble along and make mistakes along the way.

Shipen wrote the first of many letters to Canon West on May 27, 1972 to thank him for his support and reflect on our need for direction and a place to belong:

May 27, 1972

Dear Father West,

It is hard for us to express our gratitude to you for taking on a bunch of incompetents as we are. The support is so real and so complete that our understanding is boggled, and we are left to be happy and to reflect on all the things that happened those ten days in N.Y.C. We bless the Lord more and more for His taking us under wing and providing for us a man who takes away our mistrust and allows us to find our way of bearing the pain of sacrifice.

There are, of course, many questions that emerge, but in general the countenance of the whole family has risen, and we again may find rest in being foolish human beings at work to praise the Lord. The part that made us vulnerable to envy, the Lord has sealed in our “belonging” and in our “becoming” full “members incorporate”, by way of one whose love cannot be denied, namely our beloved Father West, who we are so anxious to love more and more.

Our main question centers around confession for the family, and our part as the three who you “know.” Also of whether we would be welcome to eventually return to New York. Knowing the death of starvation that has drawn us continually for short times to be with you for renewals. There is a weariness in being on the road without a resting spot.

There are two young men who feel called to come into the family. Larry R. 23 and James B. 24, both have been warned! And we all need prayer s in this.

We have been asked to make a presentation of music to the church here and are awaiting approval, also indicating it to be a departure concert.

We are in question as to how to continue to grow, whether as wanderers, or to line up church visits, and how this can be done, and by what authority. Singing to monks is a special blessing for us.

The family and I hope you can feel our gratitude and we will strive to do as Jesus calls us to.

Love as He did,

Shipen and the Trees

P.S. We have often wondered why as the trees group, we should have a road address in West Branch, Michigan, until the Lord said to ponder on the West branch of His tree of life.

As Shipen mentioned in his letter, we soon gained two new members when two “Redeemerites”, Jim Bailey and Larry Renfroe officially joined our group in late May, even if only for a brief time. Both met first with the Redeemer elders to get official permission and of course met with us to be sure they understood what it entailed. It would be a big change for them, and of course, for us as well. Also Grace K. met with us on several occasions raising the idea of also joining our group. We all agreed to pray about that possibility too.

The week of May 15th, Claudia finally went in to labor. She gave birth to a beautiful baby boy named Joshua. Praise God! We went over to visit Roger, Claudia and their new baby as soon as we could. The only complication she had was a headache caused by a spinal. We had a new baby brother, Praise God! He was healthy, full of wonder and so tiny I could hardly believe it. The Lord blessed us with a new instrumental Chinese sounding song in his honor that we named, “Joshua’s Bird Song.” We gathered for a picture and Shipen could hardly contain his happiness for Roger and Claudia.

Shipen holding newborn Joshua Gumbinner

To raise money for our departure, Ariel had the idea of selling bonsai trees. There was some disagreement about the ethics of the endeavor since true bonsai trees take years to prune and grow whereas these were churned out in under an hour. Nevertheless, they set about pruning and potting the “bonsai” trees, which they tried to sell to different stores - no luck. Eventually they rented a booth in an open-air market and sold every last one for a total of $250!

We made preparations to leave Redeemer, purchasing 800 pounds of food and fixing up the bus by taking apart the kitchen area and redesigning it. The men built a long pantry cabinet around the gas oven with drawers for silverware, dishes,pots and pans and underneath were separate bins that could easily slide open from the front. This was a refreshing change from having to lift off the countertop to access the 100 pounds bins of rice, beans, oats or miso paste. There were sixteen different drawers, carefully placed so that all kitchen, cleaning and writing utensils were immediately accessible. The counter was covered with earth colored tiles. Above the counter they built a long, thin shelf for spices. Above that were barnwood cabinets for storing dishes, paper and canned goods. They designed a built-in kitchen table that converted into a bed at night. We still lacked a bathroom or refrigerator, but at least we had water, a stove and a new kitchen and dining area. The stove was hooked up to a propane gas line that allowed us to bake while we were traveling (which we often did). It saved time to be able to bake bread or a casserole while driving and then pull over at a scenic spot when it was done to eat it.

We prepared a final concert for Redeemer and performed at various locations outside the church. On June 3rd we played at The House of the Risen Sun coffee house and also Sagemont Presbyterian Church. Our set was: He was wrapped in Flesh, Hosanna, The Bell Song, Country Song, Fervently we Pray, I Wander, Joshua’s Bird Song (named after Roger and Claudia’s baby boy), Jesus He Knows and Sweet Jesus. We also worked on two new songs, Trilogy and Rothko, for a performance at Rothko Chapel at St. Thomas University in Houston, Texas. The final five days were busy ones as we got ready to leave by putting in the water tanks and adding the finishing touches to the new kitchen. David Karasek finished the bus mural with a landscape of colorful trees, hills and an ocean.

Unfortunately, we were informed by the elders that we could not give a final concert at the Church of the Redeemer. It was one more disappointing blow, which Shipen outlined in his letter to Canon West:

June 9, 1972

Dear Father West:

Thanks be to God for you all! Each day brings us closer to the desire to be fully obedient and to love with a pure heart. At this point however, we are somewhat frustrated due to our ongoing relationship to the Church of the Redeemer. As I mentioned on the phone we had been denied our request to make a departure presentation to the congregation. We are left feeling a bit rejected, but trying hard not to pass judgment. The elders here have taken the matter back to council for reconsideration. Their stated reason for not granting our request was that they didn’t feel the relationship between the Symphony and them had been sufficiently healed, and that our request sounded to them as a political coercive move to bring about a statement of love that didn’t exist in truth. I think I may have overstepped into my bullyhood, I pray I may be forgiven. I do also pray for a miracle in regard to the struggle of the past six months to come to a relationship of eternal worth. It seems there are so many areas that we are weak in, chief amoung them is our desire for there to be an ecumenical unity, a corporate relationship of trust between all parts of the church. Each bite hurts, but in our failure, as you so lovingly have said, “there is salvation.”

Father, one of the hardest orders for you to give us was the one you did, to continue on as we were. We feel such tremendous support in that. I pray that we not become self involved again, but merely give what we have without our own interpretation of its reasons or benefits. Most of the time I feel such a fervent desire to be at your heels constantly for council, but I see how you love us now.

Larry and Jim did make the move to join the family,

and now we ask prayers for Grace K. who is trying to make a sober decision. If Grace joins us we will be ten, which puts us to capacity for the amount of room we have in the bus. I had thought we might be more comfortable with seven. Will I never stop fighting.

The Symphony has been constantly singing and enjoying fellowship. We've done one coffeehouse performance and one Presbyterian Sunday service, plus four house performances in the last week. We have been asked also to do a presentation in the Rothko Chapel here, which sounds interesting and will allow us to further experiment. The Sunday night experimental sound and story group has grown in the fervency to create to the Glory of God. Last Sunday the group, now twenty, sang spontaneously for one and one half hours without stopping. The story subject was Christ’s mercy gently seeking a response in a seemingly impossible mankind, and the miracle of love, his finding us.

Father, if you have any thoughts concerning our forthcoming journey, please let us know, the desert looms large in our desire.”

Love in Christ, Shipen

Packing up knapsacks in preparation of leaving Redeemer

On June 17th, we took all of our clothes and heaped them up into a huge overflowing pile in the living room. It was time to reduce this down to what would fit into our knapsacks and set the rest aside for a thrift shop. The funniest part to me was how every time someone tossed something into the pile, David Lynch would dive in to retrieve it. Lists and more lists were created of everything we might need. We stocked up on supplies at Kmart and Sears: new knapsacks for Larry and Jim, sleeping bags, equipment, water tanks, a huge tent and other odds and ends.

On Father’s Day, June 18, 1972, after a delicious breakfast we attended an Eastern Orthodox Church for services. There were icons and pictures all around the church and the sermon was a story of two monks, desert fathers, who were our true fathers. We were invited to perform at their 50-year convention with eight bishops and an archbishop, another affirmation of our musical calling. That evening we learned that Paul Greiner would be leaving us. He had finally received news that Graham Pulkingham gave his blessing on his decision to return to France to attend seminary there. I would miss him!

The last musical jam session with the “Experimental Song and Story” crowd was bittersweet. That evening it included: Max Dyer, Jeanette, Nicki, Mary Pulkingham, Bonnie, Ferris, Mark, Matthew, Grace Kraig, Toni and Steve Garfinkle. For the session, everyone picked up an instrument they were not used to playing and attempted to play a motif or just whatever sounds they could create. It was to be our last “jam” session with fellow Redeemer musicians.

On June 21st we performed at Rothko Chapel, an unusual blend of art gallery and religious space filled with the dark, evocative paintings of modern artist Mark Rothko. It was a dramatic space full of contrasts, an excellent backdrop for our music.

Rehearsing at Rothko Chapel

The chapel walls were hung with massive paintings, dwarfing and surrounding us on all sides. The paintings were from artist Mark Rothko’s “dark” period and were painted in broad expanses of black streaked with dark hues of red, like pain staining the canvases. For me, these paintings mirrored the undercurrents of depression and loss caused by losing half our family to Redeemer. Rothko’s art echoed the depth of pain in my heart.

The Rothko performance began with a strident, discordant chord of sound, “Holy…Holy…Holy” – with each of us singing a slightly different note. The dissonant words reverberated throughout the cavernous chapel. With the chord as backdrop, Shipen read from scripture, “What a retched state I am in…I am lost…I am a man of unclean lips…and yet mine eyes have seen the Lord…”

This was followed by Psalm 42, “As a doe longs for running streams, so my soul longs for you oh God.” Then a raga, Baptism, and other heavy, intense pieces. David Lynch and I then spoke about loneliness, depression and the pain of living without the Lord and about the comfort that comes after a struggle. This led into a new instrumental song we dubbed Rothko, ending with the more positive Jesus Fugue and a benediction. It was a powerful, dramatic performance, made even more so by the incredible acoustics of the space.

On June 23, 1972, after six months at Redeemer, the day finally arrived for our departure. It had been a difficult period of turmoil, pain and growth. I found it very hard to leave so many dear friends whom I had lived and worked alongside. It was even harder to leave behind our former branches: Roger, Claudia, Naomi, Paul and Stephanie. Paul would soon be heading off to seminary in France. Roger and Claudia were settling down to raise a family. Stephanie and Naomi were beginning a new ministry at Redeemer. This time as we headed out west, the bold scripture verses that previously adorned the bus were gone. The Lord’s word instead was growing inside us. We gathered in a circle and prayed for one another, asking that God’s will be done for all of us. Then we were off, to begin the next leg of our journey, on our way to Austin, Texas.