Encountering the Revolutionary Jesus and the Inward Teacher on the Road to Anywhere

[This is part of what I shared during my men's group, Brothers on a Journey, regarding my "Journey with Vulnerability."]

I grew up as the child of working class immigrants in Princeton,NJ, an elite town known for its university and the Institute of Advanced Study, where Einstein spent his final days. My family was working class and neither of them graduated from high school. Most of my classmates belonged to the Princeton elite—many of them children of college professors or at least college-educated. We owned a home but not a car and I was keenly aware that I belonged to a different world from that of most of my friends and classmates.

I was also different intellectually. From an early age I preferred books to sports and was always fascinated with ideas, which led to my being placed in honors classes. I had an aptitude for languages and loved poetry.

As far as religion was concerned, I was never a believer. I was baptized Greek orthodox, and raised in the Episcopal church, but I became an agnostic at age twelve or so after reading H.G. Wells' Outline of History. I was appalled by the holy wars, witch hunts, and pogroms of Christians described in this book. Religion made no sense to me.

In retrospect, I realize that in spite of, or maybe cause of, my agnosticism, there was a God-shaped hole in my life that I tried to fill with poetry and eventually with mind-altering drugs. I became fascinated by Timothy Leary and Ram Das when they came to Princeton to lecture--or maybe a better word is evangelize--about psychedelic drugs. During my last two years of high school I tried every drug from morning glory seeds to LSD, from hashish to speed.

This path led me to my getting busted in my senior year of high school—I spent a terrifying night in a jail cell and became a cause celebre because of my outspoken defense of drugs. Some wanted to make an example of me, and and have me locked up. But thanks to the intervention of sympathetic college professors who believed in me, I eventually went to Boston University instead of prison.

I began as a Classics major but didn’t really have the discipline or the inclination to devote the rest of my life to dead languages, much as I love to read and resuscitate them. I hung out with rock musicians and jazz buffs and druggies, often imagining myself as a character in a novel I would someday write.  In my junior year of college I was accepted into the poetry workshops of Anne Sexton, where we were encouraged to write about the dark places in our souls. I had plenty of material to write about!

During my last two years at Boston University, I was editor of the college literary magazine and found my calling as a poet. Like many creative people, I led a crazy life, moving from apartment to apartment for financial and other reasons. I was also living under the shadow of war and my father’s impending death.

When I was in junior high school, my father became disabled with osteoarthritis, which his doctor treated with steroids. These potent drugs helped with the stiffness and pain, but had very serious side effects. He often ended up in the hospital, sometimes in the emergency ward, because of these powerful drugs. This complicated my relationship with my father and my mother.

My father died around the time of my 21^st birthday, before I was supposed to graduate. Instead of going to my graduation ceremony, I went to my father’s funeral. My father’s death was long expected, but when it came, it was no less devastating to my family and to me. My mother worked as a seamstress and lived off my father’s SSI, which also helped me through college. Fortunately, the mortgage was paid off so my mother and ten-year-old sister weren’t in dire financial straits. As a would-be poet, I had no interest in making money and couldn’t help out in this regard. The best job I could find was washing pots at Sears—which I did just to earn some money to go traveling.

I wasn’t much emotional support for my family since I was barely able to take care of myself.  My final semester of college was a stressful, depressing time for me. I had no idea of what to do with my life, other than try being a poet. I got some encouragement Anne Sexton to pursue that path, but no clear ideas of what to do. Everything I’d read about poets convinced me I needed to live a free, poetic life. To take risks, be vulnerable, have adventures, and then write about them.

I didn’t go to my graduation ceremony, but if I had, I would probably felt as Bob Dylan did. In 1970 he received an honorary degree from my hometown Princeton and wrote a song called “The Locust Sang” which spoke to my condition. I even memorized the words:

Oh, the benches were stained with tears and perspiration
The birdies were flying from tree to tree
There was little to say, there was no conversation
As I stepped to the stage to pick up my degree
And the locusts sang off in the distance
Yeah, the locusts sang such a sweet melody
Oh, the locusts sang off in the distance
Yeah, the locusts sang and they were singing for me

I glanced into the chamber where the judges were talking
Darkness was everywhere, it smelled like a tomb
I was ready to leave, I was already walkin’
But the next time I looked there was light in the room
And the locusts sang, yeah, it give me a chill
Oh, the locusts sang such a sweet melody
Oh, the locusts sang their high whining trill
Yeah, the locusts sang and they were singing for me

Outside of the gates the trucks were unloadin’
The weather was hot, a-nearly 90 degrees
The man standin’ next to me, his head was exploding
Well, I was prayin’ the pieces wouldn’t fall on me
Yeah, the locusts sang off in the distance
Yeah, the locusts sang such a sweet melody
Oh, the locusts sang off in the distance
And the locusts sang and they were singing for me

I put down my robe, picked up my diploma
Took hold of my sweetheart and away we did drive
Straight for the hills, the black hills of Dakota
Sure was glad to get out of there alive
And the locusts sang, well, it give me a chill
Yeah, the locusts sang such a sweet melody
And the locusts sang with a high whinin’ trill
Yeah, the locusts sang and they was singing for me
Singing for me, well, singing for me.

The images in this song captured how alienated and uneasy I felt 1971—“darkness was everywhere, it smelled like a tomb….the man next to me his head was exploding…” This is how the world seemed to me, and many others: dark, crazy, out of control. Even though most American opposed the war, and 12,000 protesters were arrested in a May Day demonstration in DC, the  Vietnam war continued to rage and Nixon was still telling us there was light at the end of the tunnel. (Many of us believed this was an oncoming freight train, and we were right.)  It was a dark, crazy time. And the locusts were definitely singing for me. I wanted to escape to someplace sane, somewhere far away from Princeton and New England and my sick, war-crazed country. Instead of the Black Hills of Dakota, I decided to go to Canada. I had broken up with my girl friend, so I decided to go on a solo roadtrip. Just like Jack Kerouac, the writer who inspired the beat generation (and would-be beats like me) with his novel On the Road. Ever since reading his book, I had dreamed of going on the road without a road map, just as Kerouac wrote:  “There was nowhere to go but everywhere, so just keep on rolling under the stars.” 

I didn’t ride the rails, like Kerouac. I got a ticket for the TansCanadian Railroad, which allowed me to stop off anywhere and get back on the train, just like a Eurail pass. I hitchhiked to Montreal with two books I had never read, but wanted to study—the Bible and James Joyce’s Ulysses. I memorized long passages from both books during this summer.

I should make it clear that I wasn’t a draft dodger—my draft number was very high—but I definitely wanted to escape from the American war machine. That’s why I went to Canada: it seemed like a peaceful place and the Tran-Canadian railroad seemed like Cat Stevens’ Peace Train “bound for glory.” As soon as the train started off, I felt a sense of boundless joy. I was on the road to nowhere and everywhere!

I had many adventures on this train, which was filled with students and hippies. I loved having the freedom to get off and on wherever I pleased. No agenda, no timetable. Just doing whatever felt good. As we traveled through the prairie lands, I met a farmer’s daughter who invited me to visit her in Moose Jaw, Saskatchewan, so I got off at Saskatoon, the capitol of this province, not realizing how this would change my life forever.

I fell instantly in love with this city of a quarter of a million souls, located in the middle of an endless prairie,  with a river running through it, a slow winding river that I spent hours sitting next to and contemplating.  I loved the city’s slow pace and relaxed attitude. In New England, if we liked something a lot, we’d say it was “dynamite.”  In Canada, they said, “It’s not half bad, eh.” Saskatoon was not half bad. Which was good enough for me!

As I walked aimlessly around the city, feeling foot-loose and free, I found myself drawn to a church. Walking to the altar, I saw an open bible and started to read it. I don’t remember what I read—all I know it was the words of Jesus touched my heart, and I began to cry. I hadn’t cried at my father’s funeral—it would take years for me to be vulnerable and grieve. But experiencing the power of Jesus’ words, I felt my heart open up in a way I had never felt before. I knew these words would revolutionize my life, and the world. And I knew that they were true.

I left the church changed but perplexed. I had almost no experience with religious people or communities I knew there was a power greater than myself—a power called “God,” but I didn’t know what this meant. I began to have inner dialogues with this Being. I called this “experimenting with God.” Looking back, I realize that I was being vulnerable to the Spirit. I was trusting this inner voice to guide me, just like George Fox, the founder of Quakerism, who as a young man became a wanderer and seeker, much like me. Fox was looking for answers but no one could help him. Finally, he sat down by a fireplace and medicated. After a while, he heard an inner voice telling him, “There is even one, Christ Jesus, who can speak to your condition.”  His heart leaped for joy, and he knew that there is an inner teacher we can turn to for answers to life’s most important questions. I was coming to the same realization.

I went down to Moosejaw and reconnected with the farmer’s daughter and her family and had a wonderful time. I even had a chance to work in the fields, driving her Dad’s combine. Surrounded by an ocean of wheat, we had our meals outdoors, formed a circle and prayed. I had never prayed before meals before—it was something my family never did. But praying under such circumstances made perfect sense. Surrounded by such abundance, how could we not express gratitude to the source of all this amazing life?

I could write a book about my year living in Canada, mostly in Vancouver, growing my hair down to my shoulders, wearing a Canadian mounted police coat that made me look like Sargent Pepper, writing for underground newspapers, and hitchhiking up and down the Coast and across the country. I was penniless, careless and free. Utterly vulnerable to the Spirit. I explored all kinds of religious paths, from the Bahais to the Hare Krishnas, from the Bible to the I Ching, learning and appreciating the amazing diversity of faiths and religious practices.

I had a memorable experience that convinced me that God was real. I was hitchhiking to Eugene, Oregon, to write an article for a magazine called the Bullfrog and got dropped off in Corvallis, a college town. It was late and I decided to go to the campus to find a place to “crash.” Looking like Sergeant Pepper, I usually had no trouble finding students who’d take me in. But this time was different. People seemed nervous when they saw me. Finally someone said, “We’ve had a series of murders of coeds on this campus. That’s why we’re up tight.” He told me to go to the Catholic Newman Center and see if they could find me a place to stay. I went to the Center, which was like a private home, but it was midnight and no one was there. I  decided to sit down on a comfortable chair, put up my legs and snooze. Before falling asleep, I prayed: “God, if you exist, and I’m pretty sure you do, take care of me.” Then I fell asleep.

An hour later I was awakened by a bright light on my face. I opened my eyes and saw two police with drawn guns pointed at me. Words came to me that had to have originated from a Higher Power since they never would have occurred to me. I looked at the police, smiled and said calmly, “Man, am I glad to see you.”

This was not the response they had expected. But I spoke with such calm and genuineness they put down their guns and invited me to their police car. They started asking me questions. Do you have ID? No, I responded. Do you have a job or address? Not really. What do you do? I’m a writer. What do you write about? Politics, religion. I’m just following the Spirit wherever it leads me. After a while, they decided I was harmless and offered to take me to the home run by Jesus freaks. They took me in and gave me a bed for the night. The next morning, an earnest young Christian asked me if I knew the Lord. I replied, “I sure do. He’s a good friend of  mine.”

While I was befriending the Lord, my teacher Anne Sexton was also seeking God. She wrote a book called “An Awful Rowing towards God,” about her religious quest. It was a very dark journey and she ended up committing suicide in 1974. So did another poet I admired, John Berryman. He died by jumping into the Mississippi River in 1972. The more I reflected on the lives of poets, the more I questioned whether I wanted to follow this path.