It was February 15, 1998; I was living in Lynnwood, Washington, with my daughter, Mooréa, and granddaughter, Raiatéa. Mooréa had needed to get away from her abusive partner; she was an RN on call 24/7, and her daughter was eight years old and couldn’t be left alone. Two years earlier, I had left my precious sailboat and moved north to help her. And I still hadn’t found a way to be in conscious communion with God at every moment.
I felt desperate. I had read every book that I hoped would help: the Bible again and again, The Bhagavad-Gita, The Ramayana, and part of The I-Ching. I’d gone to many churches. I’d spent years praying and journaling.
Then I had tried New Age things: I had meditated under a pyramid, bent spoons with my mind, collected crystals of every sort, immersed myself in channeled books (took two years of praying to get over that), learned to use a pendulum and runes. I felt sidetracked, not enlightened. And I’d had it.
I raised my fist to heaven and yelled at God, “God, I know all the answers are supposed to be inside me, but I don’t know how to find them. You have to help me, and you have to do it right now. I’m going to the biggest bookstore in town, and I’m going to the religion section. I’m not going anywhere near the occult section. I need a book that will help me get closer to you, and you have to make sure the book is there and that I find it.”
A new Barnes & Noble store had opened two weeks earlier, and I hadn’t been there yet. I went to the religion section. There, at eye level, standing alone on a nearly empty shelf, was a trade paperback, front cover forward, titled, “The Lost Teachings of Jesus.” Just in case I might not notice it, a big, round, fluorescent-yellow sticker on it proclaimed that the book was “Now Only $9.95.” Ah. “Thank you, God.”
I soon discovered that I had bought only two of four volumes; Barnes & Noble didn’t have the next two. I called the phone number in the book. A woman named Magda answered. She told me that volumes three and four were out of print in that format, that they had all been republished as four smaller volumes. I bought all four. In those books was an address to write to to get a book catalog, so I wrote. In due time, I received an invitation to a conference in Chicago, but no catalog.
I phoned Magda again to learn what to read next. The Lost Years of Jesus followed, and Magda asked where I lived and told me that there was a Teaching Center near me, and gave me an email address of someone to contact. I sent an email immediately. No one replied.
Magda recommended the next book, The Lords of the Seven Rays, and gave me a different email and a phone number. I phoned and emailed every lead I was given repeatedly, but weeks were passing. I really wanted to go to church on Easter. I felt there was a rightness in repeating the date of my first-ever church visit, and Magda had said there would be a live dictation.
Meanwhile, there were decrees in the different books that I was supposed to be saying every day. I had put sticky bookmarks at every one of them, but it was awkward shuffling through books. Struggling with the recommended hand positions for The Judgement Call, while also holding the book open, I realized that I needed a new solution. I thought about it. Probably each of the decrees could fit on half of an 8.5×11 sheet of printer paper. I went out and bought a small ring binder, a hole punch, and a paper cutter. Then I typed each decree, printed it, and put it into my book of decrees. I made some calls too, and printed them out for my book. I even wrote a poem and added it. Decreeing was fun, and I could do it when no one was home but me. The windowsill was just the right height when I stood, and I could lean the book on the window to have my hands free.
Finally, Nina Cohen returned my call. I told her who I was and that I wanted to go to church. She told me I shouldn’t go to church; it wasn’t good for new people to go to church; I wouldn’t understand it; it might make me not like the teachings. She said they had a Violet Flame Festival coming up in a month, and I should go to that first; it was designed for new people. I questioned and pleaded, but she was adamant. I could go to the event in Seattle. She gave me the date, time, and address. I had already missed Easter; I could wait another month.
Meanwhile, Magda steered me to Corona Class Lessons and Prayer and Meditation, and I read those while waiting for the Violet Flame Festival. At that phone call, too, I had excitedly told Magda about the decree book I’d created, and she had sold me a real one and a real binder. When I told her about the bead decree counter I was inventing, she taught me how to count decrees using either my knuckles or my fingertips. She said she used her fingertips, so I did too.
At last, the day came. I dressed the best I could in my wardrobe of boat shorts and tee shirts, plus childcare blue jeans: my only skirt, a blouse, and a pair of real shoes, not flip-flops. I was nervous. Apparently, this was a closed group, and I had to find a way to get them to accept me.
I was handed a program when I arrived at the Festival; it listed three classes each hour—strange, strange classes. I remember there was an astrology class; I’d given that up with the other New Age stuff, tired of hearing, “Ah, you’re a Taurus; that explains it.” Surely, these people didn’t believe in astrology!* Another class was about the rosary; why? I wasn’t Catholic, and I didn’t plan to convert.*
I tried to choose the least bizarre. One class was about natural stone rosary beads. I knew about crystals, so I went to that. It was easy to believe that the beads would absorb the vibrations of prayers, and the idea of a Great Central Sun Magnet was intriguing. There was a class about the Violet Flame, but it covered no more than I had already read. I took a chance on a class about the Cosmic Clock, but it made little sense.
I wasn’t getting anywhere. No one spoke with me or tried to make friends. I had introduced myself to a few people, but their focus was always on getting to the next lesson, not on talking with me. Sitting in classes didn’t seem to be getting me any closer to being invited to church. I skipped the last one and hung out in the main room. There were some books laid out on tables there, and a man apparently guarding them. I walked around, silently, looking at all the books. The man stood with his back to me and said nothing.
When I had looked at every book and couldn’t think of any other reason to stay in that room, I got up my courage and went to the guard. “I understand you have a church.”
“Yeah, we do.”
“Could I go to it?”
“I guess.”
“Where is it and what time?”
“It’s in Renton at 9:30. Um, here, there’s a map on this flyer.”
He went back to guarding the books.
I could go to church! I fled outside to walk, take deep breaths, and let the adrenaline subside. The guard had said I could go, and I’d take that. It didn’t look as if I’d be welcomed, and if this weird Violet Flame Festival was designed as an easy-to-accept introduction, what would the church be like? But God definitely had sent me to the books, and I could hear a live dictation, which Magda had said I needed to do, and anyway, Jesus would come with me, so I’d be OK.
When I went back inside, classes were over, and a dozen people were sitting on the floor in the big room with the books. One man had a thing like an accordion, but it had only one note. He was pumping it slowly up and down, and the people were singing something repetitive in a foreign language. I sat down and tried to figure it out. A woman leaned closer to me, looked me in the face, and said clearly, “Bah, Johns.”** I felt I’d fallen down the rabbit hole with Alice. Other than the two words, no one spoke to me. After a while, I got up off the floor and went home.
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*I later learned that there actually is a spiritual astrology upon which earthly astrology is modeled, incorrectly, and that no one needs to become Catholic in order to love and honor Mother Mary and secure her protection. But those things weren’t clear from the program.
**Bhajans are mantras in Hindi, sung as prayers.
Very interesting.