Cult following, p.15
Cult Following, page 15
‘So, no one author?’ Sofi asks.
‘High-deity authorities and super mortal personalities . . . So, not of this world. Maybe aliens, ghosts, angels, who knows? It’s a lot to take in, even the Bible had physical authors.’
Thirty-five of them to be precise.
I perch a foot on the dashboard, turn the music down low and start to read the book to Sofi. The Urantia Book is a baffle that tries to explain a multitude of topics: the origin and meaning of life, mankind’s place in the universe, the relationship between God and people and the life of Jesus.
Simple stuff.
Sofi looks over at the giant stack of printed papers.
‘The book is long,’ she says.
‘Unsurprisingly.’
‘And complicated,’ she adds.
‘What I do like is that it tries to fuse together physics, science, cosmology and religion,’ I offer. I’ve never really understood religions that don’t update with scientific progress. It just seems a little daft not to modernise when you can. Imagine my shock when I found out at The Dog and Gun pub quiz that the world was more than 6,000 years old.
We could get tied up in this giant volume for days. I come to the realisation that it’s like trying to read all 66 books in the Bible so you can understand the Children of God.
A fruitless, complex task that really wouldn’t get you any closer to the mind-bending teachings of David Berg.
*
We pull into our motel. It’s brilliantly cheap, wonderfully tacky and right in the middle of a stunning stretch of desert. I’d booked it because the website said ‘Jacuzzi’.
‘We hundred per cent deserve that,’ Sofi said.
The dusky pink, Adobe-style units look out onto the mountains and what we hope will be a good sweep of desert sky to stargaze. I check us in and grab a six-pack from the tiny store – this cosmic cult exploration might take a little while.
‘This is perfect,’ Sofi says, grabbing one of the chairs.
After cracking open a beer, I throw my head back as the fresh cold bite hits the back of my throat. I close my eyes, the sun strokes my face. The smell of chlorine and sun screen mix together – it pulls me back into multitudes of holidays.
I sit up and a drip of condensation hits my papers, reminding me to get on with it.
‘If you’re going to set up a cosmic cult, Sedona is the perfect place to do it,’ I say.
Sedona is described as a cathedral without walls because of its glorious red vortexes. Some claim spiritual energy is at its highest point in these vortexes and you can tap into the frequencies of the universe. And it’s where three million tourists a year come in search of spiritual renewal.
‘Which is a tonne of potential recruits, if you think about it,’ I say.
Sofi nods, her eyes closed. Like a Texan lizard, she lies back on the hot pink plastic recliner, absorbing the desert sun.
But, as well as the vortexes, Sedona harbours cosmic magic: it’s one of America’s most popular destinations for spotting UFOs. Every night, UFO hunters go out equipped with night vision glasses, binoculars and telescopes. There are a staggering number of reported sightings of everything from orbs and portals to aliens, all within the high desert sky.
‘I’ve always loved the idea of aliens and UFOs,’ I say.
‘I mean, why not?’ Sofi says.
‘Yeah, why not believe in the magic of it? It’s not like we’ve ever started any wars over people “believing in UFOs”,’ I say.
‘Unless, of course, that’s still to come.’ She laughs.
*
Gabriel has written three other books: The Cosmic Family, Volume 1, The Cosmic Family, Volume 2 and The Divine New Order: A Cosmic Shift in Consciousness. These books are meant as a follow-up to The Urantia Book and aim to provide ‘real answers’ for the crises our world faces, explaining ways in which every soul can genuinely contribute to healing their own lives and our planet.
Sounds both rational and progressive.
A little bit more left field are his beliefs in reincarnation, which Gabriel calls ‘repersonalisation’ or ‘souls who have lived before as starseed’. According to him, most ‘starseed’ had their very first life on another planet, in another universe. Gabriel believes he himself is starseed with several repersonalisations: he was a Jedi knight, Confucius, Lao Tzu, Buddha, Moses, Abraham, Alexander the Great, the Apostle Peter, King Arthur, Saint Francis of Assisi, Mozart, William Wallace (after the movie Braveheart came out), George Washington, Abraham Lincoln, Joseph Smith Geronimo, Chief Joseph and many, many others.
I pull up a YouTube video of Gabriel saying, ‘I’m either insane or egotistically mad, or I am who I say I am.’
What a brilliant statement.
‘Classique,’ Sofi says.
In this video, Gabriel looks like a classic ageing new-age hippie – tie-dye smocks, grey hair and beard, beads and crystals round the neck, archetypal (clichéd) headband. Sometimes he even carries a staff like a Shepherd – a metaphor for a Leader in many a group, including my own.
‘Woah, look at that!’ Sofi says, pointing upwards.
The sun is beginning to set on our motel. First, it explodes with reds, oranges and hot pinks, then the deep blue of night follows. We sit and watch in awe. Each passing moment reveals more glowing pinpricks in the universe’s fabric. I get lost in the Milky Way, my head swirling from the beer, the day’s heat and galactic gratitude.
One of the past lives Gabriel has had is who he was immediately before ‘Gabriel of Urantia’ – which was Anthony Delevin from Pittsburgh. Anthony had stints as a Catholic priest, a Protestant pastor and a musician. He claims to have invented the genre ‘CosmoPop’ and recorded an album called Love Unicorn.
‘Wait, is that online?’ Sofi interrupts me.
We search, and while this brilliantly titled album isn’t online, his newer music is all over YouTube. We lose ourselves in the cyber rabbit hole. Just two girls sitting in their bras and pants in a car-park Jacuzzi, on the edge of the galaxy, following the digital footprint of a cult leader.
By 1989, he co-founded the Aquarian Concept Community and was calling himself Gabriel of Urantia.
‘Amazingly at this time, he had also been bequeathed with the story of the universe from the universe itself. How brilliantly convenient!’ I say.
‘Or perhaps egotistically mad,’ Sofi says, imitating Gabriel’s accent.
‘Gabriel is a mouthpiece to celestial beings and can channel alien transmissions. He was given this message by an alien: “I am the commander of a fleet of three thousand spacecraft that will participate in the evacuation of the planet when the change point comes”. The ET went on, “You are needed to help us prepare for this evacuation. It will not be an easy task. You will be called a fraud and a deceiver . . .”’
‘No shit! He’s covering all bases there,’ Sofi laughs.
‘Ha! My parents used to say, “If you are being persecuted by society, you know you doing the right thing!” A failsafe get-out clause . . .’
‘It’s clever, mad . . . But clever.’
‘I’ll tell you what’s mad: Gabriel of Urantia . . . whatever . . . is somewhere right now, under this same magnificent sky that we are under . . .’ I say dreamily. ‘Maybe channelling an alien or two.’
*
The group recruits new followers in a few different ways. One is through their tour company that takes you on a spiritual tour of the vortexes, through their WWOOF’ing; a farm training programme where you gain room and board for working the fields, via their deli in Tucson.
Yep, another deli.
‘Once you have been recruited, full membership means you give over everything you have – land, savings, everything – to the group and live within the commune. If that’s too much for you, you can also join them for a weekend for $500 or get a personalised alien transmission for $1,000.’
‘One K for an alien transmission, from someone who has been both Buddha AND Alexander the Great? Sounds cheap to me . . . Hand me that towel?’ Sofi says.
The desert temperature has dropped, the cold has got to me too.
Sofi dries herself, breathing in short, sharp, quick breaths as if she has picked up something hot. Her wet skin is tanned, smooth, reflecting the neon lights of the motel that have just been switched on. Pinks and greens mixed with wet flesh create an other-worldly scene on her body. I see a flicker of images: Gabriel, the Cosmos and the future that awaits us.
She catches me staring at her.
‘So, what’s the plan?’
‘I reckon we just call them and ask if we can join, like we have before,’ I say, my voice fuelled by beer and bravado.
‘Sounds simple,’ she says.
Then I get a pull on my stomach, a twinge of the Twelve Tribes in my belly.
A large black dog patters over and lies on the tarmac near us. He stretches out and rolls on his back, legs splayed.
‘Cuuuuute!’ Sofi says.
Perhaps she’s missing her dog and maybe her life, back home. The dog meets her gaze, holds it lovingly for a second, then cocks a leg and starts licking his balls enthusiastically.
‘Mmm . . . lovely!’ she says.
‘What IS for dinner?’ I laugh.
*
We arrive in Tucson the next day. It’s buzzing, erupting with artists and musicians, vintage stores and hipsters on every corner. The fashion is effortlessly cool – Stetsons teamed with Doc Martens, crisp shirts and battered jeans. Old-school Americana with Beatnik and bohemian details.
We are pulled into an art exhibition by the sight of fresh culture, fashion kids and free booze. Within minutes, we are being chatted up by a photographer who wants to do a shoot in the desert with us the next day. He is selling it hard when a voice from behind interrupts:
‘Eric, you pervert! Trying to get another unsuspecting out-of-towner on a shoot?’
The voice comes from a guy in a cowboy hat and the confidence to wear double denim. He grabs two drinks from a passing waitress and hands them to us without missing a beat.
‘I’m Cliff, welcome to Tucson.’
Cliff works his way round the exhibition, sprinkling charming stories about each person we meet, presenting us with a sparkle: ‘These girls are documentary makers, isn’t that fantastic?’ He radiates graceful coolness, warmth and sarcasm.
‘Who was that guy?’ Sofi asks, pointing to the photographer from earlier.
Cliff laughs: ‘Ah, that’s Eric Kroll. He’s photographed a few faces – Debbie Harry, Madonna, people like that.’
‘Ha! Good job Bexy didn’t know about that a minute ago . . . She would have ended up in a sand dune with her knickers down.’
She’s joking. But she’s probably right.
*
Cliff takes us to a bar that feels like stepping into the carriage of an old train. We walk past old-school indoor telephone booths, leather chairs and dark wood. It smells like cigars in here – not cigar smoke, but the smell of one when you hold it up against your nose. Unrecognisable Blues songs strut through the air as I order drinks.
‘Are you with Cliff?’ the barman asks. ‘These are on the house.’
At the table I am enveloped in the glow of Cliff’s life story; we hear about the music he played in the seventies, how he ran for mayor in full drag with a mop bucket, promising to ‘clean up the city’. He was a part of scenes I am obsessed with (and only learned about in the last few years): the seventies New York Punk scene, the Factory, he was mates with Johnny Thunders, David Bowie, Angie Bowie (who lives in Tucson now) and he once went on tour with the New York Dolls. His life feels like a movie plot.
He offers us somewhere to park our van, says he’ll show us around the town and make sure we’re taken care of.
*
The next few days in Tucson are colourful and musical, saturated with sunsets and local street art. We spend nights hanging out with artists, going to gigs on front porches, looking through Cliff’s photo albums stuffed with the greats of the 1970s. We take long, philosophical walks with Sadie, his gorgeous dog. We almost forget about Gabriel.
Almost.
We’re up at Cliff’s house. We’ve just done a little film shoot in his back garden (the desert) and we’re fixing dinner in his kitchen. By this point, Cliff knows what our plans are and he’s done a little digging of his own, talking to locals and people who know people who lived at the commune. And the picture we have of the cosmic group starts to change.
Cliff tells us that the families that live there have their kids taken from them and put under the charge of other adults. That Gabriel practises polygamy but no one else is allowed to. That Gabriel has had sexual allegations raised against him by former members of the commune. He uses his transmissions from aliens to suggest that attractive women should leave their partners for him as they have ‘already been with Gabriel in a past cosmic life’.
‘That’s handy,’ I say.
‘Also, apparently, he thinks he can heal you with his penis,’ Cliff says.
‘Aha, that old chestnut!’ Sofi says, nearly spitting a mouthful of water out.
‘If I had a nickel . . .’ I laugh as I continue to chop onions, unfazed.
Cliff continues, ‘It is funny, sure, but he apparently also has a really bad temper and I don’t know, I just worry about you going in there . . . The other thing is, he’s just recently been fucked over by a couple of journalists, so I don’t think you’ll get in as “filmmakers”.’
I lie in bed that night, staring up at the beige ceiling of the van, listening to the gentle rhythm of Sofi’s night breath as she sleeps, thinking about Cliff’s warning. Cliff is a great guy and I can see that he is trying to help – this is coming from a good place, he’s not trying to sabotage us.
But while Cliff is wonderful, he doesn’t really know me or what I’m capable of, or what I can handle. I’ve handled scary. I’ve handled worse, I’m sure of it. A cosmic failed pop star doesn’t frighten me. I go back and forth, but I know there is only one way that I want to play this out: I am going to go into the group under the radar. I’ll get in through their WWOOFING programme and see what happens.
As the idea forms, I feel a rush of adrenaline run through me. I’m going off-piste, I’m going rogue. There is no way I’m going to sleep now. I hush the small voice in me that’s murmuring about danger, trauma and risk. Switch her off.
She doesn’t know what she is talking about – if we listened to her, we’d never get anything done.
*
The next morning, I contact the group through their website, saying that Sofi and I want to learn how to farm. I schedule a Skype interview with Gabriel’s daughter, Dharma, who wants to know more about us. The call with Dharma is in two hours. I get myself ready – prepping, waiting, rehearsing what I’m going to say, what likely questions there will be, what curveballs could get thrown, playing the conversation out in my head, over and over.
The sound of the Skype ringtone pierces my thoughts and jolts me upright, even though I have already been waiting at my screen for ten minutes.
Ever punctual.
Dharma’s pixelated face appears on screen and then comes into focus. Her long, dark hair parts around her face, framing a wide smile that wears no make-up.
‘Hello there,’ I say.
I look through the digital window from my world into hers.
My screen is filthy. Dust. Dirt. A greasy thumbprint. Blurring the image in front of me and maybe warping the one she sees in front of her. Her questions come out of a thin smile:
Where are you from?
Why Tucson?
Why Urantia?
I sink into the familiar stickiness of trickery. My well-known world of spun identities, the ones that saved me as a child and the ones that helped me survive when I first left. Like breathing in an entity. On autopilot, another one of ‘me’ takes over the conversation.
But is this entity here to help me now? Is it here to protect or harm?
Dharma ends the call by saying she’ll get back to me in a few days with an answer. I start to feel the thick hot sense of validation. A rush to head, clouding out the pointless chatter saying this is a bad idea.
I have won! And it feels brilliant. I am on the verge of getting in.
‘Ha!’ I spit out wildly.
*
The sun sets on Tucson, the heat of the day pulled out like a sharply inhaled breath. Tonight, the change feels dramatic. Sofi and I sip beers outside a bar as the sun sets. We gather more amber-stained glasses, our sips turn to glugs, our conversation becomes more liquid, loud, rapid. Words spill out, uncontrolled, gushing onto the street that we stand on. A swirl of so many issues: Why are we still here? What did that mean? Why are we going to Urantia? This isn’t a FUCKING HOLIDAY!
The dam that has been holding in months of tension and fear has burst.
I wipe my eyes, registering that people are watching. Are they concerned? Excited? Entertained? I force a laugh through gritted teeth. We’re joking, it says. And then see Sofi’s shadow moving down the street. I squint through the lights, their blurry golden arms blending into each other.
Where is she headed?
Ah, fuck it!
The hot smell of sweat and beer hits me as I walk up to the bar alone. Thuddy sounds go straight to my head. I throw a tequila down, it explodes in my throat and almost shoots straight back up. Someone tugs at my shirt and I turn to see a girl’s face so close up to mine, I can taste the rotten fruitiness of her breath.
‘Do you know, you look like that British girl from GIRLS?’ she shouts.
Fuck off!
I smile.
I push past her into the bathroom, rub the tequila dribble off my lips. I sting from the clumsy comparison of a character from a TV show. It’s not the first time I’ve heard it, but tonight it hits a different spot. My reflection looks back at me: ‘That British girl’. I see a drunk girl with tattoos, wearing a pilgrim hat, standing alone, shit-faced.
Walking cliché.
I pull my hair back, I pull at the skin under my eyes.
