A BIT OF NECESSARY BACKGROUND

When I was eighteen years old, I dropped out to live in a Christian commune. It was 1971, at the height of the “Jesus People Revolution.” While I was attending college in Austin, I met this group of young Christians in a park where they frequently came to “witness” to all the young folks. They traveled around in an old school bus with Bible verses painted on the sides. They would dance around, singing spiritual songs while playing guitars. When I described what I saw to my friends, they said, “Oh, yeah. Those are the Jesus Freaks.”

Just why was I drawn towards this group? In high school, as a good little heathen, I claimed to be an atheist. I thought it made me seem intellectual, like I had grappled with the concept of a higher power. The truth was I thought about God as little as possible. The pursuit of pleasure was my goal and God just wasn’t convenient. Even so, pesky God thoughts occasionally popped into my head—especially when I behaved like a jerk, which was often.

But after graduating from high school, things changed radically in 1970 with a severe panic attack. At the height of anxiety, I prayed, “God, I really need your help now!” What happened next is difficult to describe—words are not enough. I suddenly became aware of God’s presence. I knew God was with me and I was overwhelmed by the love coming my way. It saturated my mind. One thing became perfectly clear: God loved me with a love beyond anything I thought possible. It filled me because I knew I was not worthy and had done nothing to deserve it. But God accepted me despite all my flaws. I burst into tears and asked, “Why me? Why me?” I went outside and walked around in the dark for hours before dawn, repeating this phrase, “God is love. Love is God.”  Speaking to God seemed like a natural thing to me now. I asked, “What am I supposed to do? Show me the way.”

I told one of my friends about my profound experience of God’s love. He was interested in my story and said, “Someone told me once that Jesus said, ‘I am the way, the truth and the life.’ I don’t know what that means, but I can’t stop thinking about it.” After he left, I couldn’t stop thinking about it either. Didn’t I ask God to show me the way? And Jesus said, “I am the way.” I had a good feeling, like I was about to get an answer.

So, that is why I decided to talk to the Jesus Freaks and see what was going on. I spoke to them for hours over the course of two days. They would pull out their well-worn Bibles and read scriptures to confirm the things they were preaching. They showed me verses from the book of Acts where it said all the believers were together and had all things in common. They even sold their possessions and distributed them to whoever had need.

One of the members said, “We live in colonies with other Christians just like they did in the early church. I can tell that deep in your heart you love Jesus. I think Jesus is saying to you, right now, ‘Come and follow me.’ Do you want to be a disciple and serve the Lord?”

I was almost in tears, “Yes! Yes, I do.”

He put his hands on my shoulders and said, “We are leaving on the bus in the morning. Come back with all your possessions, brother, and your new life will begin.”

That night I was thinking, “Should I do it? Can I do it? Nah! There’s no way I can do it.”

I decided to do it.

That was how my eight years with this group began. At first, we were all focused on studying the Bible and witnessing to others about Jesus. But sadly, it didn’t stay that way. Later, I found out the group had a leader who controlled all the members with his teachings. He eventually proclaimed himself to be a prophet of God and began replacing the Bible with his own strange beliefs, turning to the dark side.

Why did I stay in for so long? I suppose it was the camaraderie of the group, an experience of belonging that filled some need in my life. This was twisted by the leader’s delusions: (1) We were in a special class because we modeled ourselves after the original followers of Jesus; (2) Because of our super-disciple status, we had a special connection to the Lord; (3) Therefore, God gave us a unique prophet with new and exciting revelations.

As those eight years rolled along, I lived in five different countries, picked up two languages, married, had a son, and even attended Montessori courses in order to become a teacher. However, I slowly became aware of the faulty teachings of our self-proclaimed prophet and left the group in 1978. Even though I now realized it was a cult, it was not an easy exit. I was plagued by thoughts that I was deserting God’s movement. My previous assumptions about myself were peeled away, layer by layer.

When I became a member of the group, I believed I had found the secret to a fulfilling life—a hidden treasure—and I gave up everything to obtain it. When that dream was smashed to bits, I spent many years down on the ground, picking up the shards, vainly trying to piece them together again. I was like an ex-convict, feeling out of place after being released from a long prison sentence. I had become institutionalized and missed my former inmates and the familiar prison routine. “It was bad in there,” I thought, “but not all bad.”

Life in a commune has a way of tearing down social walls—no small talk is required in the tribe. In the group we knew each other’s stories; we ate together every day; we took care of each other’s kids; we greeted each other joyfully with hugs and kisses. When I left the group I didn’t know how to replace the rapport I shared with the group members. Relationships like that proved hard to duplicate. Years of counterculture had damaged my ability to make social connections. It was like a type of PTSD that eventually led to clinical depression.

I know many folks that left the group and managed to get on with life while others crashed and burned. But no one left the cult unscathed. Depression and suicide were common problems. I can relate because of my own depression. I remain a member of MELANCHOLICS ANONYMOUS. “Hi, I’m John and I’m melancholic.”

The process of writing has helped in my recovery. I have discovered quite a bit about that 17-year-old who found God, the 18-year-old who joined the commune, the 26-year-old who struggled after exiting the group and the 41-year-old who collapsed under the weight. I’m presently a dim version of Jacob in the Bible. I wrestled with God’s angel and have limped along ever since—somewhat lame, but grateful to be on my feet.

John Titus with his Muse

Note

Carma and I have been married for over fifty years. We both got out of the group and stayed together. Carma will add her personal story soon.