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The Worship of Ammunition
An Interlude with Moon’s Church
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Having recently watched documentaries of various dismal cults, notably Buddhafields and Scientology, I bethought myself of Moon’s Church, owner of the Washington Times, and my brief association with it ages ago. Thinking that it might be of sociological or psychiatric interest, I post the following. Early Seventies. Unpublished.

The tall scrawny freak with the red hair converted in the spring of 1972, several months before Jerry wandered, roaring, onto the scene. I had recently graduated from both Vietnam and college and, not knowing what else to do, was living with a collection of hippies at Stafford Court House, Virginia. The other freaks were the usual unemployed prophets, fruit-juice drinkers, tarot-card readers and desert patriarchs in from communes in New Mexico. Most were sane without being extreme about it. A few were psychic train-wrecks trying to reassemble themselves, and mind-burnt druggies who had learned to package brain damage as mystical insight.

The Sixties were waning fast. The freak years had been fun for those who could handle them, but by now everybody sensed that the ride was over. Kids looked sourly at the future, judged that the market for aged hippies was limited, and wanted out. They weren’t sure how to get there.

Seeking the escape hatch, the crowd at Stafford started changing religions the way other people changed their socks. For a while the preferred faith was acid. Everybody stared for hours at patterns in the upholstery, garnering wisdom. Then Buddhism held a corner on truth for a week, but faded. Hinduism had its brief moment. A bearded seer form somewhere out West once peered into my eyes with bovine serenity and said, “Hinduism. You know it’s true, man.” His cow-like assurance was like a current of water, carrying me along so that I thought, “Yeah, hadn’t thought of it, it is true, isn’t it?”

Finally the skinny red-head thumbed to Washington with his girlfriend, who had been a Moslem the week before, and returned full of confused faith in someone called Sun Moon. At first we assumed that anyone named Sun Moon must be an itinerant witch doctor from one of the desert tribes, perhaps a protégé of Carlos Castañeda. We soon heard that Moon was a Korean guru with holdings in an ammunition factory.

“I think I really believe it,” the red-head told me regarding the epiphany of the weekend. “It’s really, like, you know, true. I know it is.”

“What’s true?”

“I’m not sure yet.”

He wanted to believe that something was true. He didn’t much care what, and anyway he could find out later. Within two weeks several others from Stafford had joined Moon’s church. They were formally committed to the worship of a Korean arms manufacturer. The idea was curious, even for the times.

The Sixties were treasure years for the connoisseur of oddities: bikers, SDSers, hopheads, hallucinating paranoiacs, anything you wanted. Moon’s church, however, seemed a genuinely new kink in the social rope. For the next several months the lunar faithful (I tried desperately not to call them Loonies) was a hobby, sideshow, and source of free meals. Seen from the inside, from the level of the sidewalks of a giddy age, they didn’t bear much resemblance to later accounts in the newspapers. They didn’t bear much resemblance to anything.

Soon the Stafford believers thumbed up to the Moonie hives at 1611 Upshur Street, NW. I went along, wondering what to expect. The Moonies were not the only new product on the faith market. There was the New American Church, which worshipped the better grades of dope, and the Hare Krishnas, who seemed to worship attention and Georgetown, and something called Maharaj Ji, such a tender golden-brown butter ball that one’s instinct was to baste him. The Moonies were the first faith to crack the defense sector however. A faith based on ammunition was categorically worth seeing.

The Moonies had rented several adjacent row houses on Upshur and, as I soon learned, held picnics to attract proselytes, of which there seemed to be a bumper crop. We arrived looking like refried death and discovered a swarm of kids in suits, ties, stockings, pretty dresses, and a state of unearthly cleanliness. An attractive girl in an up-market blue dress hailed us with a bright smile. She was pretty, deliberately pretty, which was startling in an age of funk.

“Hi! I’m Linda Marchant. I’m so glad you could come. Won’t you join us?”

I thought to myself, “Soap.” Even today people think “soap” when they meet Moonies. But the outgoing friendliness was undeniably nice, very nice. They could turn it on and off like water, but it was nice. It appealed powerfully to the lonely and confused who, however they talked of Thoreauvian independence, were getting older and suspected they had missed an important boat. This assertive gregariousness, grown devious and systematized, later become known in Moon-talk as “love-bombing.”

Under spreading trees in the back yard, girls rushed about with bowls of salad. They all looked like Heidi. The guys looked like stockbrokers. Several other freaks stood around, kind of embarrassed but kind of…you know…digging it.

We all sat. After a brief prayer to a god as yet unspecified, whose chief quality seemed to be syllabic extension (“Faa-aa-a-a-ther….”) there were a few words about the sacred mission of the United States. Characteristically the Moonies told us very little about themselves. They preferred that a recruit find out what he was committed to only after he was committed to it, an idea acceptable to a surprising number of people. The peculiar gift of the Moonies was to pursue sincerity, frankness, and a revival of ethical values by means of deception, manipulation, and a disregard of ethics.

A heavily freckled kid next to me, explaining that he was in real life in the Coast Guard, said, “We ought to put naval mortars on the roofs. For protection.” Good idea. “Protection from whom?”

“Communists. They want to break up the church. These people need military advice.”

He kept looking up at the eaves.


Shortly thereafter, in hopes of working the fertile recruiting grounds of the University of Maryland, the Moonies established a splinter cell in Hyattsville in a decaying frame house that is now a parking lot. Like most political cells, it should have been padded. They began rehabilitating the house furiously in shifts. About that time I was angling for a job as a part-time special-education-and-computer-science teacher at Suitland Senior High, and hoped that maybe some of the Stafford converts might arrange to let me stay at the new hive for a week while I found an apartment. They couldn’t unless I converted, which was too much rent. For a week I lived in the back of my 1957 Chevy, the Blue Bomb, which had a mattress running from the back seat into the trunk. By day I helped the Moonies rebuild their house The stability of the set-up was uncertain. Instead of killing the termites, I noticed, the Moonies caulked up their holes.

At a Moonie recruiting session one night in an apartment in College Park Towers, I met Jerry, a short club-footed Nazi who liked blacks and Jews. Actually he wasn’t a Nazi, but said he was, which is stranger than being one. The Moonies were hawking the Divine Principle, as they called their theology, to a gaggle of freshmen. These latter were all agog, what with being at a real college for the first time, and hearing about a genuine exotic oriental religion and all. They had never heard of anything so advanced, not even in Wheeling.

At the time Principle involved something called the Base of Four Positions, which looked on the blackboard like a baseball diamond with God on second, Adam and Eve on first and third, and humanity at home plate. The idea was that Satan, currently in the guide of communism, had long ago gained control of the earth, and God kept sending people to try to redeem it. Abraham, Moses, and Jesus had all tried and failed. (“Oh Lord, whyfore hast thou forsaken me?” was considered corroborative.) Moon by implication was the next redemptive Marine to storm ashore on the cosmic beach.

People drifted and munched on potato chips. I was bored to the point of twitching but didn’t want to go back to the Chevy. The door opened and a deep bass voice growled, possibly not intending to be audible, “Hello. I’m looking for a bunch of maniacs…wait. I think I’m here.”

Jerry was about five feet six inches tall and nearly as wide, with bushy black hair, a tangled beard, and a big orthopedic shoe. A fierce angry energy radiated from him. We shook hands–he had the delicate fingers of a pianist-and he growled, sotto voce, “You don’t look like one of these. Are you?”

“God no.”

“Let’s go somewhere and talk.”

We escaped to the balcony. Jerry then spoke roughly as follows, always in staccato bursts. “Yeah, I’m getting a Ph.D. in political science…god, it’s nonsense…quantification of political behavior. I can make it work but who cares? These crazies, ain’t they something? It’s the decline of Rome all over, the Weimar Republic gone bad…four thousand years of progress for nothing…everything is downhill, heehee. This little Nazi is sick of it…If there any hope, it lies with the proles.”

Jerry called himself a Nazi, but purely as a rhetorical device. He lacked the ideology, the mean streak, any obsession with race, in fact any of the traits necessary to Nazism, and had in most respects the politics of an angry Democratic populist. He said he had been a real rostrum-pounding right-winger in school up north, but reality had grown on him.

“Right wing politics in nonsense. So’s left-wing politics. The center doesn’t have politics…Took me a long time to see that…God, it’s awful.” He was mad at everything in general, perhaps because of a difficult life and a crippled leg, or perhaps because of excessive observation. He was too rational to be mad at anything in particular.

Anyway, Jerry was drawn to the Moonies by their psychiatric interest, by his lack of anywhere else to live, and by Caroline Libertini of the Hyattsville nest. Lib was a basic broad-hipped Italian earth-mother with bronzed skin and high cheekbones that looked almost Indian. She radiated the Italian womanly virtues, genuine in her case, like an antenna: Warmth, security, friendliness, concern, and a funny sense that you were part of her family. The lonely and shell-shocked fell in love with her, absolutely inaccessible though she was, whereupon the Moonies tried to convert them. I don’t think it was conscious tactics, but it worked.

Soon Jerry was following her around like a growling congenial puppy. Then he moved into the Moonies’ tiny unfinished basement on the tacit understanding that he might convert any day now, which he had not the slightest intention of doing. It was strange to see him stomping around the kitchen making spaghetti or acting as a towel rack for Lib, a troll among Snow White’s dwarves. Beneath the fuming, he was sociable, and they were pleasant by ideology.

The Moonies didn’t know what to make of Jerry. They themselves were given to indirection, manipulation, diplomacy, and a certain understatement of the truth. Jerry had the finesse of the Wehrmacht. Upon listening to a circuitously phrased obliquity intended to get him to do something, Jerry would amiably say, “Dumbest goddam idea I ever heard. What idiot thought of that?”

“Hey, Reed, gimme a hand moving my hate. Gotta lot of hate to move,” Jerry said to me one day.

By this he meant a large collection of screwy far-right books. He also referred to mail as hate: “Gotta go check my hate-box.” Soon we were laboring up and down the stairs to his bare cubby hole with some of the strangest literature known to man: Six-volume sets about the communist influence behind the fluoridation of water, and disintegrating works by obscure syndicalists. I felt trapped in a comic book: In the basement of a weird Christian cult somewhere in the nation’s capital, a right-wing troll and his accomplice, a crazed hippie anthropologist, discuss the destruction of America’s brains by toothpaste….” Jerry banged away with hammer and scrap wood. He didn’t believe in his books any longer, but he collected them as a connoisseur.

“Need some more hate shelves.”

“Jerry, this stuff is nuts.”

“Yeah, bonkers. Real loony-tune stuff. Let me show you something really wild….”

We became friends, in part because of a common fascination with the curiosities inhabiting the ground floor. We discussed them endlessly in the beer dens of the University. Jerry would sit bristling with horror and foretell the collapse of society.

“It’s all over. You see, don’t you? Cults are the sign of collapse. The Orphic mysteries all over. Except they’re sexless. Like monks. I’m going to go to Canada and live. Tell them I went to Mexico, will you?”


Sexless they were. Despite all the mass gimme-eight-hundred-volunteers weddings, mostly in the future then, they were as hostile to sensuality as the early Christians. The few married couples had pledged four years of abstinence to Fa-a-a-ther. I forget why they thought he wanted it. Dating outside the church was discouraged. So was dating inside the church.

“Oh, twaddle,” I said, “It’s just…well, auto-therapy.”

“It’s brainwashing. Just like a North Korean POW camp. You see how much sleep they get? None. They don’t sleep. It’s destroying their biochemistry.”

“Moon doesn’t make them crazy, Jerry. He just collects them. I think.”

Actually I had to admit that Jerry might be right. No sleep, constant frantic activity, the unvarying presence of the group, rigorous discipline, lots of ritual. Maybe it did gum up the old metabolism.

The Moonies were a peculiar phenomenon: Extremists of the center, militant middle-wingers. Yet theirs was a cultural, not a political, centrism. They were kids who had grown up in the optimistic brick-box suburbs of 1953 when the economy was booming and it really seemed possible that all of humanity, after thousands of generations of struggle and evolution, might finally get a washing machine. On countless Saturday mornings the Moonies had watched Superman jump out of the window in a howl of wind while the announcer intoned approvingly of “Truth, Justice, and the American Way,” which were then thought to be synonymous. Two Buicks and glossy teeth were ingrained in their psyches.

Then somehow they had fallen into the fetor and anomie of the Sixties. For them the age was not a time of thumbing through glowing green mountains and having adventures. They were the casualties. They had waked in too many sour crashpads, engaged in too much thoughtless sex, done too many drugs. Moon’s church was the way back. It was the faith of clean shirts and fanatical normalcy. Thus they managed to be those strangest of creature, zealots of moderation.

I was still living in the Blue Bomb when Jerry saw his first prayer session. The Moonies knelt in the living room as the spirit moved them, put their foreheads on the floor, and gasped, “Fa-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-a…ther!” with a little explosion on the last syllable. Then a tumult of prayer would burst from the penitent, mostly apologizing to Fa-a-a-ther for the pain caused by errant humanity. Then they looked at Jerry and me to see whether inspiration might have taken hold of us. Invariably it hadn’t. The first time Jerry looked at me in candid dismay. “This isn’t happening, is it?” he whispered.


“It can’t be happening. That’s obvious.”


“It’s the end of civilization.”

Later, Jerry learned to grin an aw-shucks-fellers, maybe-next-time grin. The Moonies waited, figuring he had to crack sooner or later.

Washington had now discovered the Moonies and contemplated them with a pleasant sense of alarm. The war in Vietnam had grown boring. Here was a new lunacy to titillate the jaded palate of the Potomac Byzantium. With luck, the Moonies might do something horrid and interesting.

Liberals, easily puzzled by unfamiliar categories, decided the Moonies were fascists. Almost everyone assumed that they had some hidden agenda, the reason being that they had no obvious agenda. Generally ignored was another possibility, that they had no agenda at all, a suspicion supported by the eerie pointlessness of everything they did. All zealots are narcissistic tragedians, wrestling with destiny beneath their inner Klieg lights, and not especially interested in practical results. This is a truth that few in Washington could afford to concede so they figured the Moonies had to be up to something.

Actually they seemed to be engaged in the passionate, urgent, frantic pursuit of nothing in particular. Nothing they ever did had an effect. Their propaganda persuaded no one, and wasn’t well calculated to persuade. If Moonery was a conspiracy, it was a conspiracy without a purpose.

One day in late fall they came running into the house from a local shopping mall, faces red with cold, an ecstasy of self-sacrifice lighting them like bulbs.

“We’ve been having a Rally for God! It was great!”

“Yeah! People were spitting on us!”

They constantly invented new religious tics. For a while they made a fetish of standing for a second of silent prayer before entering any door. Then there was Holy Salt which they sprinkled around at times of solemnity. I’ve seen sumo wrestlers do the same thing.

One evening in winter I dropped by to see Jerry in his cubby hole and found the whole cell bundling up.

“Hi! We’re going to Holy Ground. Want to come?”

Holy Ground, it seemed, was a patch of earth on the Mall which Moon, for mysterious reasons, had declared sacred. Stranger things have happened, though probably not much stranger.

“Sure, why not?”

Off we went down Michigan Avenue. They were bubbling and happy, infused with the usual sense of warmth and illusory direction. They knew Fa-a-a-at-ther was with them, pulling them through life like a rope, and they left a broad wake of enthusiasm. At the Monument they piled out, well-groomed and middle-class and home at last from the alien ideologies of scag and Lenin. They rushed to a spot apparently located by triangulation, stood in a circle, and looked reverently at the sod. It had grass on it.

The church was starting to get a bad name, not so much because of anything it really did as because it stole children–or so the parents preferred to put it. With few exceptions the Moonies were so warped by a wretched home life that they became susceptible to Moon–but this was not the wisest thing to tell parents whose kids were buzzing and clicking.


And there was the practice of Divine Deception, which is exactly what it sounds like. Some of it was airport technique (“Hi! I’m taking a survey….”) but through the years a lot of kids would go to what they thought were summer camps, only to find out later that they were at the robot factory. Angry apostates told tales of psychological ruthlessness that wobbly proto-Moonie egos couldn’t take. The Moonies responded that anyone who wanted to could leave. Unfortunately many of those sufficiently off balance to be Moonies in the first place were not good at independent action.

The Moonies earned their worst reputation among those groups who produced the most Moonies. Jews seemed especially hard hit, perhaps because they were especially vulnerable. The Jewish Moonies, all from secular families, had the usual Moonie problems of unloving homes. They also had the additional burden of not being Jewish enough to feel rooted in it, but too Jewish to be entirely at home in the surrounding society, and not about to convert to Christianity to assuage their spiritual yearnings. So they ducked the question by joining Moon.

Kids from military families also showed in up numbers. Having authoritarian fathers possessed of a certain combative simple-mindedness and not much affection, and having gone through the terrible insecurity of moving and losing their friends every two years, they needed something warm and fuzzy to hold onto. A fair number of Catholics showed up, feeling at home in a heavily ritualized faith. So did kids from Protestant families in which a great show is made of Christianity for the purpose of browbeating the child and out-holying the neighbors. The parents were furious, twenty years too late.

For a while Jerry resisted my view that the Moonies were dynamic idlers, but the evidence kept coming in. For example, they held what everyone called a Nuremberg rally on the Monument grounds. It was wonderful. Scaffolding went up. Technicians in white jump-suits scurried about, assembling great banks of phenomenally large loudspeakers and a big platform for dignitaries. An enormous speaker’s platform went up. The reverend Moon’s face in cyanotic blue began to peer from posters on every fence in the city. Sound buses drove crazily through the streets. Suddenly in front of Woodies would come an unintelligible blare of loudspeakers. A bus would turn the corner, plastered with blue Moons. As it drove past bellowing nothing understandable, which echoed from buildings (“Arblewargmonumentwunhwarbworworworld”), scrubbed faces peered out with the characteristic crazed expression, hands waving mechanically. “Join us, join us!” The impression was of a mechanical asylum worked by a spring.

On the day of the rally the big speakers roared, perfectly intelligible from anywhere on the grounds. The technicians had not been amateurs. The grounds began to fill as an efficient Moonie organization bussed people in from Philadelphia. A hootenanny outfit began singing to pull in more audience. The chestnut smell of dope wafted about in clouds. The scale, the volume of sound, were Orwellian. The moment demanded a howling demagogue to bay hatred at the cosmos. This was it, everybody figured with a little frisson. The Moonies were going to demand that Nixon be made Reichschancellor. Instead, the political speech was brief, a hiccup in the hootenanny, and said America was a great country and the world depended on us, and now have a nice day and back to the music. That…was…all. I walked through the crowd, mostly hippies and inner-city blacks, and asked what the rally was for. Hey, man, I don’t know, wanna toke?

I didn’t know either. Neither, I think, did the Moonies.

One night Jerry and I were sitting in my largely bare apartment, drinking beer and trying to figure out Moon’s Barbie Dolls. He started talking about himself, and I suddenly realized why he knew so much about nickel-and-dime politics. He was a celebrity of sorts. A few years back on the strength of his then-impeccable conservative credentials, Jerry had gotten a job with Liberty Lobby, which exists in the airy region where the right wing runs out of feathers and empty space begins. Discovering a lot of virulent anti-Semitism in the Lobby’s files, he had decided that Liberty Lobby was nuts, stolen the files, and given them to Drew Pearson.* There was a certain brutal directness in Jerry’s approach to things. The resulting expose had somewhat tarnished his reputation in the circles of the loon Right, and left him unsympathetic to cults, political or otherwise.

Who did he like, I asked? Well, just sort of folk, he said. Especially the under-folk, such as blacks, and those who had otherwise suffered discrimination-you know, Italians, Jews, Poles, Indians, and so on.

God, I thought. I’m living with a liberal Nazi.

The ferment rose again at Upshur Street. The Moonies were gearing up to smash world communism. The trouble was that, being mostly kids, they identified communism with the student Left, the only Left they knew. Consequently they attached great importance to the Trotskyite left-deviatonist schismatics of the International Bracero Labor Party’s Maoist-revanchist wing, consisting of two half-literate sociology majors who were about to graduate and become management interns. The central hive on Upshur Street seethed with excitement. They began having workshops on the techniques of political action. Jerry and I showed up for one of these.

We got a chilly welcome. Friendliness to the Moonies was a political technique only, their real interest being their spiritual scar tissue. They got real cold real fast.

“Are you expected?” asked a prim girl who reminded me of a motel manager. All Moonies reminded me of motel managers. I’m not sure what brought on the freeze, but I think too many hippies had learned that you could, as at the Salvation Army, get a free meal if you listened to the prayers.

“We’re from Hyattsville,” I said, thinking it would be adequate explanation.

“Who do you wish to see?”

“Barry Cohen,” I told her, Barry being head of the Hyattsville cell.

“One moment. I’ll check with Mr. Cohen.”

Mister Cohen? Another administrative lunge. First names were too informal for a movement that saw itself as a spiritual IBM. The frost princess finally let us in. The basement was full of folding chairs. A fellow with a flip-chart was lecturing approximately as follows:


“To be effective we have to know the enemy and how to counter his techniques. The communists and their allies use street theater, for example, a powerful technique. What do you do when you see three SDSers dressed as Vietnamese peasants with American soldiers beating them? We have to learn to speak effectively, how to handle hecklers. And remember, it won’t be easy or pleasant. We will be abused, even beaten up. Possibly some of us will even lose our lives….”

Hard and lonely work, I thought, but somebody’s gotta do it.

“Martyrs looking for a stake,” growled Jerry. “It’s the end, I tell you. This stuff is spreading.” Jerry’s problem was that he took the collapse of civilization personally.

To demonstrate counterhecklerism, the instructor appointed some Moonies to simulate the SDS and launched into a speech on American values, a big Moonie theme.

“And save….”

“Fascist pig! Fascist pig!” shouted the heckler-appointees, warming to the role. The speaker, demonstrating correct countermeasures, waited in lofty silence and continued with heightened feeling.

Jerry was chortling with delight. “Aw right! Belt out that hate! Let’s hear some good hate!” The Moonies weren’t sure what to make of this, not understanding that his was the technical appraisal of a student of maniacs.

“Hate! Hate! Hate!” shouted Jerry encouragingly.

“Stop giggling, dammit,” I said, “or they’ll turn on us.”

The Moonies thought they were combating communism, but really they were just scraping up fill dirt for the inner emptiness. None of it mattered at all.

Nothing lasts, not even the end of civilization. One day Jerry got seriously fed up with political science and decided to go to Florida and live by tuning cars. Exposure to a political-science department will make any sensible person want to work with engines. My teaching job ran out. For that matter, the Hyattsville hive was showing sings of falling apart: Only the hardy can stay with a cult for long.

One last time Jerry and I sat in the apartment with a case of beer, trying to understand Moon’s giddy sideshow, lobbing the empty bottles across the room into a cardboard box.

“Its the age of the cult, amigo,” he said. “They’re starting the slide into the mist. The whole show’s gone bonkers…If there’s any hope, it lies with the proles.”

The next day he disappeared southward. I never heard from him again. I packed the Blue Bomb for a drive to California, planning to go on to Taiwan and learn Chinese. For several years I heard nothing from the Moonies. Then in maybe 1979 I bumped into Diane Something-or-other in Dupont Circle, a nice kid from the Upshur Nest. She wore a turban and spoke of her devotion, to Islam, which had given meaning to her life. Her eyes were unhappy and she was looking a bit old for that sort of thing. Moonies? Oh, she had passed that stage. We said we should have lunch soon and, by tacit agreement, didn’t.

*Drew Pearson was a noted political columnist.

(Republished from Fred on Everything by permission of author or representative)
• Category: Ideology • Tags: Reverend Moon 
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  1. David says:

    Fred, I love you. But what I see here is exactly what the cis-ho poet Ginsberg lamented, finest minds of generation etc. You could have been somebody, Fred. You could have come of age in 450′s Athens or 1450′s Florence, but you let me down. And you followed the crappy examples you were given.

  2. Dan Hayes says:


    You described Drew Pearson as a”noted” political columnist. I do not regard him as so described. He was justly rewarded for his many journalistic political character assassinations by being slugged by Senator Joe McCarthy in a DC washroom. Just deserts for a truly despicable character.

  3. Ha ha, Fred–I had a second cousin you just reminded me of–whacked out druggie who got Jesus in 1969 and married a missionary at 16, moved to Venezuela (I think) to convert the Indios down there in the jungle, had FOUR children three-days canoe ride from anywhere.

    Her youngest got sick, so everybody did what they could to bring the family back to the states. Of course, they had NO skills, so her mama put preacher-boy through trucker school, and then Cousin got breast cancer, so naturally, preacher-boy dumped her for some truck-stop floozy and she ended up on welfare at 26 with 4 kids, none of whom spoke English by the time they came back.

    And the sick little boy? Grew up to be a fine, strapping young man with a fondness for meth and went and murdered someone on a binge. Now doing life at some prison in Oregon.

    The mind boggles.

  4. they were as hostile to sensuality as the early Christians

    Early Christians weren’t hostile to sensuality.

  5. Well… now we got Oprah and Homomania

  6. Another reminded that ACOWW or Afro-Colonization of White Wombs will be the undoing of the West.

    It’s not the Muslims.

    • Replies: @Alden
  7. “Jerry would sit bristling with horror and foretell the collapse of society.”

    In the financial world it is often said that being early is equivalent to being wrong, but that’s not always the case.

  8. We laugh at Mhoon because he was a nutty guy. And he was indeed. I mean the idea of some rich guy(whose wealth was built on sweat of his minions) being the second messiah..

    Surely, secular people look right through such nonsense. Only suckers could fall for it.

    But then, what has so-called secularism done to the US? It has turned MLK into something bigger than god. Even secular people worship him and the idolatry of the Magic Negro. Oprah became a cult figure. And the #1 cultural pick of American elites is HAMILTON, rap musical with founding fathers as a bunch of dumbass rapping Negroes.

    Americans also worship celebrities. Even their political views depend on which celebrity said such and such or endorsed which candidate. Airhead celebrities and their vain moral posturings shape much of social discourse and iconography.

    And how did Homomania become a new religion? Americans saw clean-cut angel-like saintly homos on TV sitcoms and movies. Homomania is such a thing that it went from secular struggle for homo freedom to worship of homos in churches. It even led to associating marriage with what homos do.
    And who can remember media hysteria about Obama, The One, what with suckers fainting left and right and foaming at the mouth.
    And for many Americans, Ellen Degeneris is the icon of all that is good and pure and holy.

    So, in a strange way, Mhoon, kooky as he was, was ahead of his time. He was ridiculed for claiming messiah-hood, but it is so-called secular America that makes new messiahs of everyone. If Bruce Jenner is ‘woman of the year’ and an icon of ‘courage’(according to Obama), why shouldn’t we admire rappers as new prophets? According to secular America, we should look to George Takei as a wiseman and guru because he takes it up the bung. Mhoonies are bad, but homo-moonies are good.

    Mhoon’s ritual of mass weddings was ridiculous… but now we have ‘same sex marriage’ where a man can ‘marry’ a man(???) and a woman can ‘marry’ a woman(!!!). In Canada, even bestiality has been legalized as long as there is no penetration, but it won’t be long before they allow that too.
    And secular culture of reason gave us 50 genders, something we better accept on faith. And fecal penetration is promoted even among teen girls even though it vastly increases the chance of rectal cancer.
    (What’s the point of normalizing fecal penetration among women when they have vaginas?)

    Also, the current ‘gender politics’ refers to men and women as “prostate owners” and “vagina owners”.

    But the craziness doesn’t end there. We have ‘hate miracles’ galore. Always more U-MOFO sightings.

    Political Correctness is a kind of neo-religion, and one of the tenets of PC is Magic Negro Worship.

    Negroes, along with Jews and Homos, are a sacred people.

    So, anything that is deferential to and reverential of Negroes is endorsed and encouraged. So, it doesn’t matter that these ‘sightings’ are almost always bogus. What matters is such displays of gushing sympathy(toward Negro) and intense outrage(about phantoms of KKK) are deferential to the Holy Negro, one of the gods of the holy trinity of PC.

    It’s like the Catholic Church has known for a long long time that the miracles and Madonna sightings are bogus. But it didn’t matter since the intentions behind the hallucinations or hoaxes were in deference to God and Jesus. Sanctimony justified and redeemed the bogus nature of the claims. So, even if a ‘miracle’ of a weeping Madonna statue was fake, it could be forgiven for having the heart in the right place. Better yet, exploited to reaffirm blessedness to the faithful.
    In some cases, the ‘miracles’ were hallucinations of hysteria or delirium. In other cases, they were clearly hoaxes. Whatever the cause, their thematic service to divine glory placed them on the right side of God. Even if false in fact, they were correct in faith to what was deemed an indisputable truth.

    PC ‘hate hoaxes’ operate on the same logic. In some cases, they are clearly fakes. In other cases, PC-warped simpletons(mind-addled by too much Hollywood, TV, and public education) project their mental patterns on the world around them. So, having been instilled from grade school that the greatest evil is the KKK with the noose, these young people see KKK in every bed-sheet and a noose in anything resembling a loop.

    Surely, the Liberal Elites know that these sightings are ridiculous(if delusional) or fradulent(if hoaxes), but they indulge them just the same for the same reason that the Catholic Church overlooked fake ‘miracles’. For the church, even fake miracles were doing God’s work, and for PC, even ‘hate hoaxes’ are on the ‘right side of history’.

    PC is really a new religion.

    • Replies: @joe webb
  9. Alden says:

    I’ve emailed this to everybody. Best article yet. lOL

  10. Alden says:
    @Priss Factor

    Get a sex life instead of wanking about other’s sex lives. BTW, do you know that every sex episode does not result in conception?

    Black babies? That’s what abortion is for.

    Never heard of the people in the daily mail article and I don’t want to read about them. If they are some kind of celebrities they might not have a relationship at all. It’s just a public relations stunt to get them in the papers and you fell for it

  11. just when I thought fred is religious, fred throws up this bomb :) this is as good as the linh life pieces.

  12. Agent76 says:

    John 14:6 NIV Jesus answered, “I am the way and the truth and the life. No one comes to the Father except through me.

    Why I Hate Religion, But Love Jesus

    In the scriptures Jesus received the most opposition from the most religious people of his day. At it’s core Jesus’ gospel and the good news of the Cross is in pure opposition to self-righteousness/self-justification. Religion is man centered, Jesus is God-centered.

    • Replies: @Anonymous
  13. joe webb says:

    “Hello. I’m looking for a bunch of maniacs…wait. I think I’m here.”

    Why did I link that immediately about The Unz Review?

    I must be losing it.

    Then, I reflected on Reed and his apparently last Group Experience living with nice Mexicans and married to a Jew, or so it appears to be, or alternatively, to a Mexican who provides maternal love no matter what. Unconditionally.

    That Social Life amongst Mexicans, who can love you without demanding a political or ideological passing grade, makes for the simulacrum (? is that the word) of Ozzie and Harriet, my half-understood TV alternative to real life. warm and fuzzy until a discouraging word is uttered sparking a shoot-out.

    Fred’s view seems to be that everybody is crazy except Fred. Fascists are as bad as communists, and liberals are worse, in that they are boring. Etc.

    Once a dope smoker, probably always one. Also does Fred sport a pony-tail, even if its sort of symbolic due to scarcity? I don’t trust anybody over 30 with same.

    Joe Webb

  14. joe webb says:
    @Priss Factor

    G.K. Chesterton more or less : the problem in an Age of Disbelief is not that people believe in Nothing, it is that they will Believe Anything.

    Equality of Race today is the best example. It works well for international capitalism however, that requires it to sell its bads to all without concern for race, religion, or national origin, or preferences for whatever orifice sexually.

    PC indeed is a sort of religion and you can figure out the parallels if you work on it. However it is subject to means testing more than the usual religions.

    I have a cousin, very nice guy by temperament, who graduated from the Moody Bible Institute of what folks call Christian Fundamentalism. He has an answer for all queries, almost.

    He does see that racial inequality exists however. I asked him how come God created inequality of races? The first time I ever heard him say, I don’t know.

    Now that first, and so I don’t know how fast the Dutch Boy’s finger in the dike is being removed. The resulting erosion spreads fast.

    The dikes are giving way as we speak. A recent poll in jewyorktimes a couple weeks ago had ‘Americans’ putting Race ahead of Economics as what they are most concerned about. Whether one is for or against….the squirt turns into a gusher.

    And the hypocrisy is so obvious in relatively rational whites who are wide-open to the impolite suggestion that you apparently married a White Person….so stfu.

    True Believers are increasingly belligerent thus removing their smugness and replacing it with contorted faces…this does not sell well in a TV age.

    Joe Webb

    • Replies: @Anonymous
  15. Sam J. says:

    That was really entertaining to read. Thanks.

  16. Moon, eh?
    Donald Fagen got it right the first time:

  17. songbird says:

    I recently read a book about the Jim Jones cult, and I found it really fascinating.

    They called themselves Maxist-socialists, and it is easy to see a lot of parallels to regular, nation-state based Communism, from the cult of personality (some would say mistaking celebrity with virtue is a common failing on the left) to the intentional isolation as a method of control (Jonestown was in the jungle). To relatively low literacy rates as a fertile ground (many of the elderly blacks were near illiterate) to the false promises, elevated life-style of the leadership, while others were starving, etc., etc.

    But what really struck me was the parallels to modern Western Europe. They have moved far away from regular Christianity and now denigrate it as part of their new religion. They are obsessed with radical egalitarianism. Terrified and paranoid of fascists. Motivated by racial inequality and the fear of public shaming. Where the whole movement is leading is nakedly suicidal. Many of them now realize it, but are still way too afraid to say anything. Many are willing to drink the Kool-aid. The rest will have guns pointed at them and be injected.

  18. There is a kind of charminology, or terminology of charm-making.

    Control of words is crucial, as Gospel according to John makes clear that in the beginning was the Word.

    Most words are neutral and elicit no emotional responses.
    But some words become terms loaded with ‘magic’. They become like talismans.

    It’s like the ‘charm of making’ in EXCALIBUR. Merlin has the power because he knows the ‘charm of making’.

    If pagan charms were for the initiates only, Christianity universalized the charms.
    In Hindu culture, not anyone could read or hear the sacred texts. They were reserved for the Brahmin only.
    If anyone deemed unworthy listened to the Vedas, the punishment could be severe.

    Jews were less extreme than the Hindus, but their sacred texts were mainly for themselves, and Jews regarded as renegades those Jews who went to create universal Christianity.

    Now, Catholic tradition also created rituals that only the clergy could perform. And since most people were illiterate in Medieval times, the clergy had special power over words, especially as they spoke in Latin during rituals, a language unknown to most rubes(even in Italy).

    Still, Christianity universalized the charm of making. The Bible no longer belonged only to the elite religious caste/class. Anyone could and should read the New Testament and quote ‘charms’ of truth and wisdom. (There was some of this in China as well, as anyone could quote from Confucian texts to justify his position or view.)

    But even with the universalization of charminology, not all words are equal. Select words gain holiness while some become profane. Most remain neutral. ‘Cow’ means nothing to a Christian, but it might mean something to a Hindu. But ‘golden calf’ is a loaded charm-word that invokes the sin of idolatry.

    Anyway, certain terms gained such charmic power that they were used by all sides to justify even matters that had nothing to do with the creed from which the charms sprung. So, if kings wanted to wage wars, they invoked the charm words of ‘God’, ‘Jesus’, ‘Salvation’, ‘Heaven’, etc. The charms became like all-seasoning.

    In a Christo-centric world, you season your interests with charminology of the Holy Bible, and then, even non-Christian and un-Christian interests seem ‘holy’ and ‘uplifting’ due to the charm effect.
    It’s like salt and pepper make even non-salt-and-pepper items taste salty and peppery. It’s like BBQ sauce will make non-BBQ items taste like BBQ. It’s like beef-flavoring will add beef-ness even to non-beef foods.

    It’s like when Bush justified Iraq War with talk of God and such. Even though it had NOTHING to do with Christianity, he suckered a lot of his supporters by making it seem like he was doing God’s work. He seasoned it with Christo-charminology.

    And such rhetoric has a magic effect on people accustomed to a particular charminology. It’s like a communist steeped in Marxist ideology will think well of anything ‘charmed’ with Marxist-Revolutionary talk. So, even if the interest/action has nothing to do with Marxism, the charmic Marxist gobbledygook makes it seem like it deserves the support of Marxists everywhere. This is why leftism has changed so much but still goes by the name of ‘leftism’ or ‘progressivism’. Even though globo-progs are now aligned with the agenda of the 1%, their interests are seasoned with radical flavoring.

    Well, Christianity is dead and so is communism.

    So, what are the charms-of-making or charms-of-faking today? There is ‘liberal democracy’. US invades and bombs other nations always by invoking ‘liberal democracy’, even though US is allied with Neo-Nazis in Ukraine and Saudi goons(against secular modern Syria).

    But the problem of ‘liberal democracy’ or ‘free enterprise’ as charm-words is they are too generic. They sound positive but not pure and holy. They don’t arouse much in the way of passion.

    For emotionally-charged charms, there are the special words associated with Magic Negro, holy homos, and wonderful Jews.

    So, if you want to justify something, you have to use charm words associated with Negroes, Homos, and/or Jews.

    If a US policy is pro-’Israel’ and combats ‘antisemitism’ and confronts ‘new hitlers’ in the Muslim world, it must be on the ‘right side of history’ and blessed by progod, the ‘progressive god of all truth’.

    So, if third world leeches want to come to the West, they justify their craven material self-interest with charm words associated with ‘racism’, ‘Holocaust’(reducing immigration is like not taking Jewish refugees during WWII), or ‘xenophobia’. During Obama’s final yrs, ‘BLACK LIVES MATTER’ became mantras, charm words repeated over and over, as if charged with voodoo magic. Even Asians got into it to serve their own narrow interests:

    And of course, since homos are holy, even non-white invaders who have no love for homos use the pro-homo ‘charm’ words, as if more third world immigrants is the best way to combat ‘homophobia’.

    Indeed, homomania is now bigger than Christianity, and it is Christians who seek the blessing of holy homos to faptize their churches with the benediction of teletubby homo colors.

    You have to know the ‘charm’ words and the ‘harm’ words.

    ‘Gay’ is a charm word. ‘White male’ is a harm word.

    So, your personal, political, or material interest must be presented as being aligned with charm words while maligning peoples and ideas associated with harm words.

    So, if mass immigration is good for Jews, homos, and blacks AND bad for white males, then it must be good by rules of current charminology.

    Of course, the biggest charm word is ‘racism’. If you want attention, just associate ‘racism’ with anything. If you’re just an environmentalist, most people will ignore you. But if you say you oppose ‘environmental racism’, then you gain center stage. Salt-and-pepper anything with ‘racism’.
    A new charm word is ‘cultural appropriation’, a kind of ‘racism’. So crusade against taco joints or Hawaiian-themed restaurants and believe yourself to be doing progod’s work.

    And if you’re a neo-imperialist who wants expansion of US power, people will ignore you or even oppose you. But if you say your agenda is pro-Israel and pro-liberal democracy, then you are a saint, a crusader, a hero. It’s like that lowlife toady imperialist Francis Fukuyama always justifies the agenda of his masters by invoking ‘liberal world order’, the charm of faking.

    • Replies: @Anonymous
  19. So many false prophets since the 60s, and now, new messiahs are manufactured dime-a-dozen.

    Dylan, one of the few true ones. Interestingly, his prophetic integrity was achieved by rejecting the official role prescribed by the Establishment eager for a ‘spokesman of the generation’, one who would be especially amenable to progressive politics of the time: prophet as ‘plastics’.

  20. The Moonies earned their worst reputation among those groups who produced the most Moonies. Jews seemed especially hard hit, perhaps because they were especially vulnerable. The Jewish Moonies, all from secular families, had the usual Moonie problems of unloving homes. They also had the additional burden of not being Jewish enough to feel rooted in it, but too Jewish to be entirely at home in the surrounding society, and not about to convert to Christianity to assuage their spiritual yearnings. So they ducked the question by joining Moon.

    Jews gravitate to Buddhism for many of the same reasons.

    Kids from military families also showed in up numbers. Having authoritarian fathers possessed of a certain combative simple-mindedness and not much affection, and having gone through the terrible insecurity of moving and losing their friends every two years, they needed something warm and fuzzy to hold onto.

    I was an Army brat. I attended a different school every year from preschool to sixth grade, in half of the grades I attended two schools in one year. In third grade I attended three schools. My parents never gave it a thought. I don’t have a religious nature so there was never any chance of me joining a cult, but I can understand the appeal of belonging.

    The guy who invented the Pimsleur language program died when his children were young. His daughter, a documentarian, married a rabbi and his son joined a Christian cult. The documentary about the family is called Brother Born Again.

  21. J1234 says:

    I read articles like this (by authors like this) and say, “What’s the point? This is supposed to mean what to me?”

    I think “misspent youth” articles are always more interesting to the author than the reader. And I never put much stock in extreme conservative pundits who are converts from previous extreme lives. I get the feeling that their current outspoken alt-right viewpoints are just a way to pursue the same thrill they got from earlier forays into iconoclast ideas and behavior.

    • Replies: @Anonymous
  22. Anonymous • Disclaimer says:

    I think “misspent youth” articles are always more interesting to the author than the reader.

    I think your chipmunk chattering is neither interesting nor profound — except in your own mind, of course.

  23. Anonymous • Disclaimer says:
    @Priss Factor

    Long, silly, nonsensical… why do you write reams of such eminently forgettable badinage? Does it seem sensical to you; do you revel in a naive belief that you expose deep meanings and truths?

    Either way, blocked.

    • Replies: @Pat Boyle
  24. Anonymous • Disclaimer says:
    @joe webb

    I have a cousin, very nice guy by temperament, who graduated from the Moody Bible Institute of what folks call Christian Fundamentalism. He has an answer for all queries, almost.

    He does see that racial inequality exists however. I asked him how come God created inequality of races? The first time I ever heard him say, I don’t know.

    That’s odd. I have many fundamentalist friends, even relatives. Not once have I heard one of them say, nor acknowledge, that “God created inequality of races”. Never. Equality of race is so ingrained in fundamentalists that one would never utter such blasphemy. Never. So, you are bullshitting. No major sin, nor major event here. Bullshit rules like cloudbursts rain. Pun intended.

    • Replies: @Wizard of Oz
  25. Anonymous • Disclaimer says:

    Religion is man centered, Jesus is God-centered.

    Oh, my goodness, no. That statement screams with horrible theological error. Jesus is God’s intercession in Man’s Sin. Jesus exists for Man; Jesus has no other purpose but to provide Man access to God.

    Recant, or go straight to Hell.

  26. @Anonymous

    But are you confidently denying that his cousin who graduated from the Moody Bible Instiute answered the question with “I don’t know”?

    • Replies: @Anonymous
  27. Anonymous • Disclaimer says:
    @Wizard of Oz

    But are you confidently denying that his cousin who graduated from the Moody Bible Instiute answered the question with “I don’t know”?

    Seriously and fersher, d00d. Now, is the afoe-mainchuned induhvidual truly his cousin? Dunno. But, if it’s a Fundie(TM), it believes all God’s chilluns be equal.

  28. Daniel H says:

    Good essay. The Moonies invaded my college, University of Pennsylvania, in the late 1970s. All of a sudden, they were everywhere. An acquaintance of mine converted. And as you indicated, he was ripe for the picking. A young insecure secular Jewish kid. His parent hired private investigators to kidnap him and bring him hone. It didn’t work, he escaped and retreated further into Moonieism and the incident caused a campus scandal.

    Why were young Jews so vulnerable to the call of Moonieism? Sometime after the appearance of Moonies on campus a scholar speculated (after having done some research on the matter) that many Moonie converts were young secular Jews, but these youngsters came from families where the grandparent had been old-school Orthodox. The scholar didn’t imply genetics but he was led to believe that coming from centuries of a tradition of old-school religion and then being thrust into a modern secular world where ritual and duty were considered ridiculous if not scorned these youngsters were condition for and craving religious transcendence despite being brought up secular, and Reform Judaism just doesn’t do it for lots of Jews. The Moonies entered the scene at the right time, offered them what they yearned for and that’s the story.

  29. Pat Boyle says:

    You certainly have that guy pegged. Thank you. Now I don’t have to write my own refutation of his windy persiflage.

  30. Sorry, can’t remember: how many Rolls Royce’s does Mr Moon have ? Or am I thinking of another cult?

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