I had clung to the insane hope of rescue by Beatles to be carried off to some hippie island paradise. My psychedelic experiments had come to a thundering conclusion with my LSD-induced enlightenment and encounter with the "great white light of the void," only to recoil from it all in fear. I had thought myself to be "god" only to have Jesus Freaks argue my reasoning.
My billfold was empty and I was virtually stranded, living on shared welfare peanut butter and rice, sleeping on an old ratty sofa on the veranda of a cabin in the mountains outside Santa Cruz. I had ditched my hash pipe before leaving Madison and there certainly was no dope to smoke at the Jesus commune.
I was at the end of the road. One thought kept replaying itself in my head: If I don't find the answers that I am seeking, I will be dead by the end of the summer.
I had no thoughts of suicide--I was just exhausted and at the end of myself. I could not see a path forward. If I weren't dead from my quest, my draft number would come up in August and it would be off to Vietnam and certain death. These were not rational thoughts. These were the thoughts of a 19 year old kid whose whole world had been crumbling from the day he went to Madison in September of 1967.
I wasn't morose or depressed. I was just at my wit's end. Everything had become so serious. I had totally lost perspective.
I had always had a strong sense of humor. I got that from my mother. She was the queen of puns. Not only could I make a pun out of anything, but I always had a witty response for every occasion. My comedic sense had abandoned me and I was surrounded by people who constantly speaking of eternal life versus eternal damnation.
These Jesus Freaks seemed to be personally at peace, but participation in that peace required that you accept their black and white view of the universe. It was "accept Jesus" and live or "reject Jesus" and go to Hell. Their pressure was unrelenting and I was stuck there with them without the cash to go anywhere else. And, since I didn't know anyone else in California, where could I go? It would take a couple of weeks for the $40 check to clear at the local bank where I had deposited it. I was stuck with these serious people until then.
If I remember correctly, my ZBT frat brother Barry called his parents and they bought him a plane ticket home. So, I no longer had my LSD tripping partner to help me. Remember that one of the keys to avoiding a bad LSD trip was "never trip alone"? Will here I was on a trip without LSD, but very alone. What had started off as a pleasant drive to find my "California girl" had turned sour. There was no one to help me remember why I was in this mess. I had no one whom I could trust or confide in. And even my own sense of humor had deserted me.
As all of this whipped through my consciousness, Craig reminded me that it was time to go into Santa Cruz for a study at the home of this so-called Bible scholar. As I rode in the back of Craig's car, I tried to enjoy the beauty of the California landscape, the scent of the ocean in the distance.
There is something about water that always calms me. My childhood summers were spent boating on the Ohio river. We used to joke about how muddy the Ohio was, especially before it tumbled over the falls near downtown Louisville. For me, however, the Ohio was a mile-wide playground. My father had served in the Navy in WW II and he purchased a boat sometime after my mother divorced him when I was in 3rd grade. I have lost track of the details, but I remember trying to learn to waterski behind a 21 foot Chris Craft cabin cruiser with a throaty inboard motor that burned more oil than gas. [I finally skied successfully on my first attempt behind 14 foot run-about with a 60 hp outboard engine. It pulled me right up without all the drag of the cabin cruiser.]
When I was 13, my father was travelling for work during the summers and spending more time in Houston than Louisville. He gave the boat to me! Although I could not drive a car, I could ride my bicycle the 4 miles to the dock and take my friends out on the river. Most days I would just sit at the dock, feeling the gentle rocking of the waves.
When I moved to Madison, my dorm room looked out on Lake Mendota, and even though it was frozen most of the year, it calmed me just to be near a body of water. As we came down out of the Scotts Valley mountains and neared Santa Cruz, I could smell the salt in the air. Just the sense of being close to the ocean helped settle me down for the evening that was ahead of me.
Our "scholar" lived in a house a mile from the beach, and although I would have preferred stay outside breathing the ocean air, I settled on a sofa in his air-conditioned living room. The Bible study was on the New Testament epistle of Ephesians. Not only was the New Testament totally foreign to me, but this fellow apparently wanted all of us clueless hippies to know how smart he was. Rather than trying to explain the basic principles found in the passage, he spent considerable effort explaining the Greek grammar and syntax. I could not fathom what an iterative aorist had to do with the ultimate truths I was seeking. Frankly, I didn't understand anything that he said. You know the old saying, "Its Greek to me!", well it really was Greek.
The only part of the lesson that hit home for me was a comment he made about being willing to admit our mistakes. I don't remember the particulars, but at some point he he chuckled as he spoke. I found myself chuckling with him. Somehow his sense of humor awakened mine.
As we took a refreshment break, I wondered outside and sat on his front lawn. Once again I could feel the ocean breeze. I still had a smile on my face from the humorous interlude. For the first time in a week, I was in a positive frame of mind. I began to reflect on all that I had heard from these Jesus Freaks for the last week. I still could not relate to their logic. It didn't make sense how Jesus could be God and man. I certainly could not grasp the concept of personal sin or how it should be the basis of my condemnation to an eternity in Hell. All of this stuff just seemed odd.
What I did still find appealing was the calm self-assurance that they all possessed. They really did seem like they had some sort of relationship with God--and now that I knew Christians were allowed to have a sense of humor, I thought that there could be no harm in trying a little experiment--an experiment of trying to actually talk with God.
One of the freaks, Loren, had just gotten out of the Navy. I was thinking about enlisting in the Navy to avoid the jungles of Vietnam. Anyway, Loren had spent some time with me that afternoon. He had said: Look Jeff, I know you don't understand all this stuff. That is okay. My suggestion is that next time you have some time to yourself that you have a talk with God for yourself. Just have a chat with God and ask Him if all this Jesus stuff is real.
Well, now I had a few moments to myself and it was the first time in days that I was feeling "normal." While I was sitting on the lawn, I just had a quiet conversation that went something like this: Hey there God. Are you listening to me now? Are you really there? I mean, I could be talking to myself--after all, a few days ago I thought I was God. Anyway, if you really are there and you really do love me like all these people say you do . . . and if Jesus really is your son and all this stuff is real and Jesus really did die for my sins (whatever that means) . . . . If Jesus wants to come into my messy life and straighten out, well, I am open to it. God, can you reveal yourself to me in a way that I can understand?
And what happened? Was there a voice of an angelic choir or thunderbolt from heaven? Nope. No thunderbolts, no voices--just the same ocean breeze and the same old me. I had tried the experiment, but it seemed that there were no results. Oh well, it was worth a try and at least I wouldn't have a hangover the next morning.
And now I could get the Jesus Freaks off my back. I could tell them that I had talked to God about Jesus. Maybe they would let up on the witnessing now. And maybe I could move on with my quest for a California girl. There was a real attractive young woman at that Bible study. Our gazes seemed to connect at one point. Hmm, maybe I should attend the study again next week . . . she might be there again.
Next: Is there such a thing as a prayer hangover?
