Dear Friends, We are looking for people we can interview on our television program, Spiritual Paths and the Pastor.

We do the interviews via Zoom. The focus of this program is talking with people who have been engaged with occult/psychic practices like Reiki, Tarot, astrology, crystals, mediumship, channeling, Ancestor Worship, and much more, and who are now followers of Jesus.

If you know of someone who might be a fit for this, please ask them to email me at: kentphilpott@comcast.net, or call me at: 415.302-1199.

By going to milleravenuechurch.org a person can see who we are and poke around and find our television programs.

A little help with this is much appreciated.

Kent and Katie Philpott

Chapter 11

After a while, people in the Haight knew who I was—the preacher or the reverend—mostly because I often carried a big, black Bible. This was in 1968, and I didn’t want people, especially cops, suspecting I was one of the many dope dealers peddling their wares everywhere at that point.

LSD and marijuana were the usual, but speed and heroin soon crept in, and the turf rights to sell that stuff in the Haight were something to fight over. It was also safer to get dope in the Haight than in the Fillmore District, which was only a short distance away.

Added to that were other kinds of groups, like the motorcycle gang that moved in. One day around noon, a hippie ran up to me and dragged me down the street to a house where something awful had happened the night before. A young hippie kid had been thrown through a window by the bikers and had landed head-first right on the sidewalk on the less frequented side of Haight Street. I had already heard about this death, so I didn’t know what the big rush was.

We climbed up to a second-floor apartment, empty of furniture but not of people, since about ten young hippies had moved in and were now squatting there. Some of them had witnessed the murder; now they had a place to stay.

Among the group were two youngish girls who did not fit the typical hippy look; in fact, they appeared to be fresh from a midwestern farm. I think there were seven guys and four girls, but the kid who had brought me to the place was mainly concerned about the girls. They were naïve, innocent, and vulnerable, and he knew what was likely to happen if they stayed in that apartment.

The four of us went into a side bedroom and talked. One girl was nervous and obviously uneasy; the other could hardly wait to have a good time. The kid and I did our best to warn them, but it was not working. After a time, I left with a heavy heart.

The next day I made it a point to drive into the City as fast as I could to check on the girls. The door of the apartment was partially ajar, so I gingerly stepped in and saw sleeping bags all over the floor. There they were, mostly naked, some still stoned, and one couple doing the deed, but the one girl could not be found—the one who showed some fear the day before.

My presence was not appreciated, so I started to leave but then decided to check the rest of the rooms. In the back, perhaps a pantry off the kitchen, I found the one I was looking for. She was partially dressed, and I could tell that some clothing had been ripped off her.

She recognized me, ran over, and put her arms around me and wouldn’t let go. We stood like that for some minutes. I simply said, “Let’s get out of here.” I walked her to my car and drove back to Marin, and the next day the girl was on a Greyhound headed out of hell.

“One was taken, but the other was left” (see Luke 17:35).

I tell this story to say that this was not uncommon. Kids turned up from everywhere, thinking the way to happiness was through chemistry, free love, and rock and roll. What they found was altogether different. By 1968 the Haight was a snake pit, but still they came, and the work of direct personal evangelism picked up steam.

Other Christian groups started to appear. The Living Room with Ted Wise, Danny Sands, Lonnie Frisbee, Rick Sacks, Jim Dopp, Steve Heathner, and others came to do what they could. The Clayton House, a block up from Haight Street, was up and running with the Assembly of God’s Dick Key. Teen Challenge sent folks in to evangelize and gave me a place where new believers could live for a time, though it was some distance from the Haight.

In Marin, we were opening new Christian houses, disciples were being developed, and the work was becoming more complicated and stressful. The early days and months, when I walked the streets asking the Holy Spirit to lead me to whom He wanted—those were the best times. The “love and peace” Flower Children were mostly already gone, but kids from afar were still flocking to the City to tune in, turn on, and drop out. Many did not survive it.

The hip, glory days were gone, but the Jesus People Movement, which we did not know about yet, was just taking off.

Here is part one of the story of Sharon Dutra, who made shipwreck of her life, and has now had her ship uprighted and is engaged, with her husband Michael, in a wonderful ministry to those who are in prisons.

   Sharon’s Story of New Life

We all have our “life stories”. Some turn out well, but many end in sadness and emptiness. I hope that you will take the time to listen to my story.

My name is Sharon, and I was born in Los Angeles, California. My father was an alcoholic and womanizer, and he was married 4 times by the time I was 17. My real mother left me when I was about 5 years old, and I never saw her again.       

Every time my dad would divorce, he would put me into foster care, only to pull me out when he would remarry. Subsequently, I was moved from foster home to foster home all of my growing up years. I started using drugs when I was 13. I believe that’s when I finally realized that I hated myself. Up until this time, I had been able to ignore my feelings of worthlessness, and block out my rejection and abandonment issues. But this increasing awareness only led me to run away from home when I was 15. I lived on the streets until I was arrested. And this began my life with the law.          

I ended up at Eastlake Juvenile Hall in Central Los Angeles, California. I was definitely the minority there, and a hot target for the ethnic groups, because I was a white girl with long blond hair. Those were the days when they didn’t separate criminals according to the severity of their crimes; murderers, thieves, and gang-bangers were in with those who had only run away from home. I gained a whole new understanding about hatred, racial tension, gangs, and fear.                                            

I would be sent back to that Juvenile Hall many times over the next few years. I was later transferred to Florence Crittenden, an open-placement girl’s home in East Los Angeles. “Open placement” just means that I was able to leave the grounds at will. It was against the rules, but there were no bars or walls.                                                    

During that time, I was transferring buses from West Los Angeles to Central Los Angles to East Los Angeles at night, unaware of the potential danger I was in. Pimps, predators, and gangsters abounded in those neighborhoods. I look back now and KNOW that God had His hand on my life.                                                                                                       

I was unable to stay in an open placement – I was too restless to stay anywhere for long. After I ran away from the East Los Angeles girl’s home for the third time, I was re-arrested and sent back to Juvenile Hall.

I was a ward of the court by now – my father and stepmother had divorced. Neither of them wanted me to live with them. So the court placed me in a closed facility in Central Los Angeles, called the Convent of the Good Shepherd. The neighborhood was so unsafe, we had to move our beds away from the windows on holidays, because gang members had shot through the windows in the past. The convent walls were 12 feet high. But I even ran away from there, climbing up onto the roof of the laundry building and crawling up the ivy to escape. There are many other stories in between these stories, all of which led to increased self-hatred. I was raped on several occasions, and my anger was overwhelming. My contempt and mistrust of authority, life, and people in general escalated. I didn’t realize it at the time, but I was headed for absolute destruction.         

Luke 24:13-35

Find a quiet place, alone and apart from distractions. Be comfortably alert, still and at peace. Say the Lord’s Prayer. Sing or cant the Jesus Prayer. Pray for family, friends, neighbors, and yourself. Slowly and carefully read the passage of Scripture.

1.         Two followers of Jesus, not among the called Twelve Apostles, but part of the other followers, are headed home to Emmaus, a town about 7 miles NW of Jerusalem, on the very day of the resurrection. They are disheartened because Jesus had been crucified.

2.         All of a sudden Jesus comes alongside of them, but the two did not recognize Him. Jesus then heard what they were talking about, and they are surprised that this stranger did not know what had happened in Jerusalem.

3.         Of the two, Cleopas, began to explain what had taken place, how that Jesus had been treated then crucified. He explains that they had been hoping this man would be the Messiah, the redeemer of Israel.

4.         Cleopas even reports that some of the women said that they had been told by angels that Jesus was seen alive, but when some of the male disciples went to the tomb, they did not see Jesus.

5.         Jesus then explains that they are not knowledgeable about what the prophets of old had said, that the Christ would experience all that had happened, and thus proceeded to lay out these events to the two.

6.         Arriving at Emmaus, Jesus lingers with them, and during a meal, Jesus took bread and broke it and gave it to them. And at that point, the two suddenly understood and that this man wa actually Jesus Himself.

7.         They thereupon, on the next day, returned to Jerusalem and told the apostles what they had experienced.

Chapter Nine

My brother Gary’s suicide is still embedded in my mind, and I experience periods of regret to this day, which makes me very sad. I have to accept the fact that the memory of it will never go away.

Gary was four years younger than me and was a combat engineer in the Army.  He was part of a team that would move into neutral or enemy territory and make ready for later teams of soldiers to have a little fortress, so to speak. It was dangerous stuff.

When he returned home from Nam, about 1968, he moved in with his and my parents, on Whitegate Avenue in Sunland, CA., still within the city limits of Los Angeles. Gary was a tough guy, started a gang called The Eagles, and twice I took him to an emergency room, once to get his jaw wired and another to do the same to a wrist. All the Philpott boys were boxers; my dad trained us to do this when we were really little. I still pound the body bag and work the speed bag every Wednesday at the gym. Our brother Bruce ended his career as a cop as chief of police of Pasadena. After he died, we found boxing trophies in his closet won in a boxing league formed by L A cops plus the county’s sheriff’s department.

Gary and I were very close, and I blame myself for not acting when we found out he shot himself in the hand. My parents were very concerned and started getting him help at an Army hospital. But one day, early in the morning, he drove to a Lutheran Hospital in San Fernando Valley, parked his VW Beetle under an American flag, and shot himself in the head. My mom, dad, brother, and I were shocked to the core, and we each blamed ourselves for not taking action earlier.

You can see where I am going with this. Yes, what about my family members, my five kids, eight grand kids, three great grand kids, and here their relative, and a long-time pastor, killing himself. Then my ex-wives, my present wife, and all my friends at the church, all the kids I coached at high schools in Marin here, and more as well. How would my suicide impact them? Certainly not good, and some likely very badly.

Right now I am sitting here typing this and I am not feeling good at all. I am almost shattered to even think like this. To be truthful I have wanted to write this little booklet a long while ago, but always seemed to find ways not to.

This is likely the number one reason that when I have considered doing myself in that this issue comes up. I may seem like a real basket case to you reader right now, but let me say I am far stronger now in my desire to continue living than ever before. Please do not worry about me.

I am putting this little chapter toward the ending of this booklet so as not to upset any reader. But it is this reason, the possibility of hurting and damaging others who know and love me if I killed myself. Especially my dear daughters and son, these would be shattered and would never get over it.

Also, I am presenting this chapter so that others who might be considering doing away with themselves to stop and think about how this would trouble others, those who love and know you, even those who you do not feel good about.

Now then, as we near the conclusion of this short series of essays, if you reader are mired in a desire to kill yourself, stop and think it over. Give a family member or friend a call and start talking with them, be real about what is going on in your head and heart. You do not have to feel embarrassed about this, it takes courage and strength to reach out for help.

Feeling, thinking, or planning to take your own life is not at all unusual, especially in this crazy mixed-up world we are living in. I mean, it goes with the territory. To have thoughts or a desire to end it all is not surprising, and I would guess that a sizeable percentage of the population today is experiencing such things, especially the young people. You would be surprised if you knew how many of the people you know are going through some rough spots.

Last Sunday at church, we had a congregational meeting following the morning service. At one point, while making a summary of what was coming up, I talked about writing this book. And wow, so many looked at me and nodded their heads in agreement. Turns out, I was not the only one who had these disabling ideas in their heads. It was at that point, when with the heads nodding and a couple of thumbs up, that I knew this little booklet had to get out.

Chapter 10

Shortly after my graduation from Golden Gate Seminary, the Philpotts—wife Bobbie, daughters Dory and Grace, and I (Son Vernon would come along about a year later)—had nowhere to go, so we moved in with my parents on Whitegate Avenue in the twin cities of Sunland and Tujunga, snuggled up against the San Gabriel Mountains in the northern most part of Los Angeles. My parents had moved to this lovely little community from Portland, Oregon, in 1954, and it was where I attended Verdugo Hills High School. I had resigned as pastor from the Excelsior Baptist Church of Byron in 1968, and there were no more options for my working with Southern Baptists, so I was on my own. (Though I had been appointed as a missionary of what was then entitled The Home Mission Board, I was denied work as a missionary to the hippies in San Francisco, since the California Southern Baptists would not give a salary to anyone who spoke in tongues.)

Then began a tortuous period where I alternated doing construction work all over the LA area for a couple weeks with my father-in-law, Robert Davidson, then traveled back to the Bay Area. After making some money (Bobbie worked as a telephone operator), I would hitchhike up to San Francisco and continue my work in the Haight-Ashbury. There were times it would take more than a day to make the trip, and in winter it could be most miserable. This was the time during which I worked with David, and the Jesus People Movement was in full bloom. This was also the period I often stayed at the Anchor Rescue Mission in the Fillmore District.

Sisters Drayton and Yvonne, large and wonderful and most gracious African American women, ran the Anchor Rescue Mission near the corner of McAllister and Fillmore streets. David discovered the place and stayed there from time to time. Whenever I returned after my two weeks in LA, I would also stay there.

Large numbers of white hippies descended upon the mission every evening for dinner. David and I peeled potatoes, cut up vegetables, preached and sang to the hippies, and cleaned up afterwards. It worked for both the sisters and for us. While staying at the Anchor Rescue Mission, one thing I learned was not to carry a wallet or money with me. More than a few times I was robbed, usually at knifepoint, and after a while the thieves left me alone, because they knew I carried nothing of value.

It was at the mission that I finally became convinced that there was an actual devil and demons. It happened this way: One of the sisters told me there was a man who frequented the place who was demon-possessed. I listened to her, inwardly chuckled, and decided to just keep my mouth shut. One night after I thought everyone was gone, I was sitting in a chair in a kind of lounge area in the center of the mission, when I heard a noise deep in the back behind the kitchen. I turned to see the person in question, a fairly tall white guy, walking toward the front door. For some reason it occurred to me to use the occasion as a chance to test whether the guy did have demons or not. And, of course, if he did, it would challenge my worldview. So I said, in a loud voice, “Jesus.” The guy jumped straight up in the air, perhaps a foot off the ground, then came down and continued walking. I did this several times, and the result was the same each time. He got to the door, never once looking my way, opened it, walked out, and that was it. I sprang from the chair, locked the door, and spent a rather tense night there at the mission.

I loved preaching to the hippies every evening, but I felt it was wise to find someplace else to live, until I was able to bring my family back up north. That was one impetus for starting Christian houses, though not the primary one.

One of the first Christian houses on the West Coast was Soul Inn, born out of the Lincoln Park Baptist Church. The Soul Inn began late in 1968. The House of Acts in Novato, led by Ted and Liz Wise, Dan and Sandy Sands, Jim Dopp, Steve Heathner, Lonnie Frisbee, Rick and Meagan Zacks, and others was begun earlier, sometime in 1967. It was maybe the first of all the Christian communes of the Jesus People Movement. John MacDonald wrote The House of Acts in 1970, published by Creation House, in which he describes that period and the beginning of the house.

The Way Inn, a Christian house that David began in 1967, not long after his conversion and after he moved out of my place at Golden Gate Seminary, preceded Soul Inn as well.

The Way Inn was in Lancaster, California, where David had landed after an attempt to go to a Bible college in the Los Angeles Area. David wanted to grow in his knowledge of the Bible, which had prompted his move out of our place at the seminary. I recall visiting the Way Inn, a series of dilapidated buildings that had once been a TB sanitarium, and David gave me an old faded blue jean jacket that had been worn by a patient, likely a decade or more before. I proceeded to wear that jean jacket throughout my ministry in San Francisco, and I still have it, with some leftover Gospel tracks we used still in the pockets. Up until then I had worn my field jacket from my military days, but as we began to engage, in various ways, with the anti-war demonstrations, it became painfully clear that I needed a change of clothing.

The second time I travelled to Lancaster, David and company, which included Gary Goodell and the members of a Four Square Gospel Church pastored by Gary’s father, had utterly transformed the place into a thriving community filled with hippie converts. How I wish I had been into photography at that time.

Back to the Story of Soul Inn

Among the many young people who were becoming Christians were a significant number of the homeless, mostly because they had walked away from their parents to live the hippie life. Many of them had burned bridges or were so enraptured by their new lives in Christ that they preferred to stay where that had happened.

Al Gossett was pastor at Lincoln Park Baptist Church, a storefront church in the Richmond District of San Francisco. Al was a graduate of Golden Gate, and he and his wife Letty were so very friendly, accommodating, and eager to reach out to the hippies. The major influences and driving forces behind the Lincoln Park church were really Dr. Francis DuBose and his wife Dorothy. It was Dr. Dubose who, through his classes and his personal involvement in what I was doing in the City, made a very large impact on me. He was a great preacher of the old time Southern Baptist style, and in class after class he focused on the passage in John 20:21 where Jesus told His disciples, “As the Father has sent me, even so I am sending you.” He hammered that verse in every class, and I got it. I saw myself as one being sent, and sent directly by Jesus. My dear old friend Dr. DuBose is gone now, but I will never forget that kind and generous man.

Little by little, I spoke to various folks at Lincoln Park about the need to house new converts, and the topic of starting a live-in place came up at a business meeting. They gave me the green light to move ahead with adapting the few small Sunday school classrooms into a kind of dormitory and gather those things necessary to care for new believers, chief of these was a shower arrangement that eventually found a home in the back end of the kitchen.

Soul Inn’s opening night was quite unforgettable. The Salvation Army had donated bunk beds and blankets to us, we scrapped up a few kitchen implements, paper plates, and plastic spoons and forks, and we were ready to open the doors.

On the corner of what I think is Haight Street and Clayton, at about four p.m. each day, a grass roots organization of Hippies called the Diggers set up a card table and tried to steer people into finding food, shelter, and medical help. For weeks I had been stopping by and telling them the Soul Inn would soon open. Finally, the day arrived, and I made the grand announcement.

That evening, four of us were sitting around a makeshift table, a sheet of plywood sitting on the backs of four metal chairs. Dave Palma, Paul Finn, Roy, and I were talking about spending our first night at the Soul Inn. It was late—a winter’s night—and our only remaining food, a quart can of pork and beans, had just a small amount left in it. That was it, no other food, but we did have some Lipton tea bags. It must have been about ten o’clock, and there was a knock on the door. Outside stood twenty-six hippies, mostly young, who had just walked several long miles from the Haight to Balboa Street between 41st and 42nd Avenues in the Richmond District. The Diggers had given out the address as requested, but now what? Paul Finn and I went back into the kitchen or what passed for one, and we started scooping pork and beans into paper bowls. Within a very short time, both of us realized we were in the middle of a miracle. There was enough in the can to feed all twenty-six people, with as much left as when we started. I scooped, and Paul carried the bowls in. Twenty-six bowls filled with pork and beans that came out of what had been a nearly empty quart can. That was only one of what would be many miracles, no two identical, but happening when we least expected them. There were also miracles of healing that were plain and incontrovertible—not a large number, and they did not happen as seen on television. I tended to play down the miracles, knowing from the biblical Gospel writers that Jesus had done the same. As time went on, I realized why Jesus did not publicize or sensationalize miracles—strange and dangerous results often follow. But there were indeed miracles.

Soul Inn did not last long, and the primary reason was that I needed to move my family up from Los Angeles.

In late 1968 the Philpotts, David Hoyt and wife Victoria, and David and Margaret Best (Margaret and Victoria were sisters) moved to San Rafael and shared a rental on D Street. This was the beginning of a Christian house we called Zion’s Inn.

Note: After not talking to him since about 1970, Paul Finn called me from his hometown of New York a few years ago, maybe 2008, and we talked about the old days. He and Dave Palma, also from New York, had gone home when Soul Inn closed, and each started their own Christian House, one of which was called Philadelphia House and the other, The House of Philadelphia. (The word Philadelphia must have meant a lot to them.) Paul and I talked, and I thought it was a chance to see whether or not I had been wrong about the miracle of the food multiplication. I asked Paul what he remembered about the evening all the hippies showed up on our first night. He said, “Oh yeah, the big miracle. Yeah, I remember it, and it is like I am right there now.” We went on for a while, but I had the confirmation I was hoping for. Funny how it is that miracles impact us; even when we see them, it is often hard for us to admit they actually happened.

PHOTOS OF INTEREST:

EIGHT:

This brief note is for those who would like to contribute you story for a future edition.

            What I have learned and experienced I have passed on to you. You may now like to do the same for others.

            I invite you to send me your story. Since I will not be able to re-write or edit much of anything, please go over every sentence carefully. What you send in is what will be published in the future edition. As you write have in mind that person out there who is so depressed and discouraged that they are not sure they can carry on.

            My email address is: kentphilpott@comcast.net.

            May our Lord inspire and bless you.

Luke 24:1–12

Find a quiet place, alone and apart from distractions. Be comfortably alert, still, and at peace. Say the Lord’s Prayer. Sing or cant the Jesus Prayer. Pray for family, friends, neighbors, and yourself. Slowly and carefully read the passages of Scripture.

1.         All four Gospels, Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John relate the resurrection of Jesus on “the third day,” the first day being Friday, the second Saturday, and the third Sunday, which is why Christians, after some period, began gathering together for worship on Sundays.

2.         A number of women set out to anoint the body of Jesus, and this done traditionally, only to find that the body of Jesus was not in the tomb. Two men, in Matthew it is one angel, in Mark one man, in John two angels (likely two angels who looked like human men and only one spoke), told them that Jesus had risen, and they reminded them that Jesus had spoken of this earlier, actually on three different occasions.      

3.         The women thereupon returned to where the eleven apostles were staying to report what had happened, but these called disciples of Jesus did not believe the report of the women.

4.         Peter, however, headed for the tomb (in John’s Gospel we find young John went with him), and when Peter looked into the tomb, he only saw the linen cloths that Jesus had been wrapped in lying there; there was no body.

5.         Peter thereupon “went home.”

6.         The linen cloth that had ‘wrapped’ Jesus’ body was done by Josephus of Arimathea, a secret disciple of Jesus and a member of the Council of the Seventy, the Sanhedrin. Is the Shroud of Turin, discovered in the 1300s, and today in a cathedral in the Italian city of Turin, is that the linen cloth Joseph used to wrap Jesus’ body? I think so.

Chapter Eight

Recently I wrote a book about how I had made “shipwreck” of my faith and my life, and this based on something the Apostle Paul said in 1 Timothy 1:18–19.

I confess I have contemplated suicide from time to time, no attempts, but the thoughts brought on a depressed state of mind. And during the pandemic we learned about S.A.D., Seasonal Attitudinal Disorder. I had it, mostly all gone now as we are in the Spring of the year, but I did not hide it from others. The result was a number of these told me they felt the same way.

Once again, I have to admit that my two divorces yet haunt me; I was not the sole trouble, but enough to impact my life as I think back over those times. No question but that I was a “bad man. And those who knew me, even other ministers and pastors, some of these rejected me then and continue to do so to this day.

How I faced the really stupid and rebellious things I have done made all the difference. And this because I came to a greater understanding of the forgiveness I have in my Lord Jesus Christ, and the personal admission that I am a not as wonderful as I would like to be.

I have to explain a paradox here, and that due to two Greek words that are found in the New Testament, and both of these are translated by the word “time”. They are, Kairos and Chronos, that is using English equivalents for Greek words. Kairos is God’s time, Chronos is human time. 

And here is the saving grace: my sin, and all of it, past, present, and future, was placed upon Jesus on the cross. This is Kairos time, and it is in Kairos time where God is. Chronos time, ongoing, day by day, and is where I am and in which I sin.

Let me say it another way: my sin, even that yet in the future, was laid upon Jesus on that “Good Friday” so long ago. Yes, the sin of all those who trust in Jesus as their Savior and to whom the Holy Spirit reveals the truth and does the saving work, from the beginning of creation to the very end, the whole of that sin is covered in the shed blood of the Lamb of God.

Chapter 9

Here I will stop and relate three incidents taking place in three separate years, events that were each bizarre in their own way. They illustrate the outrageous extent to which those involved in the San Francisco hippie scene had sunk into degradation, even evil, and how they desperately needed rescuing. The stories also convey a certain sense of adventure inherent in our work there, although some of it we would have been happy to avoid.

A warning must be issued at this point: the following stories are bizarre, but more than that. I have stopped short of excessively lurid detail, but the subject matter of two of the stories might disturb impressionable readers.

The 1967 Story

David and I regularly walked up and down Haight Street during 1967, and we were meeting dozens of people every day. One girl we encountered (I will call her Sherrie) hailed from Sun Valley, a town at the northern edge of the San Fernando Valley. She was a seventeen- or eighteen-year-old runaway of Italian descent, and she was beautiful in every way.

One or the other of us came across her several times over the course of maybe two months. We had no idea how she was surviving on the streets and couldn’t tell whether our witnessing was making a dent or not. She did hang out with a small group of kids, some of whom we also got to know during our forays.

One afternoon, one of Sherrie’s friends ran up to us, agitated, and announced that Sherrie was being initiated into a satanic cult at that very moment. The friend led us to the place, a store front right on Haight Street, but the windows were covered and we couldn’t see in. The door was locked; no one answered our knocking, and we didn’t know what to do next. Before giving up we went around to the back of the store. Again, we couldn’t see in, but we could hear things, weird sounds that reminded us of chanting. Faintly, we could see lights flickering as though candles were burning. We decided to act.

We smashed open the door and rushed in. The room we entered was mostly dark with only a few candles providing any light. My impression is that there were maybe six or seven people huddled around a table in the center of the room. As we approached, most everyone scattered to reveal Sherrie lying naked on the table with someone in a black robe shaving her pubic area.

David and I pushed the people aside, picked Sherrie up off the table, and quickly half-carried/half-walked her toward the front door. We managed to open it, and in a moment we were on Haight Street, in mid-afternoon, on a summer day, with a naked teenage girl in tow. We peeled off our own shirts and covered her as fully as possible. Immediately, we headed for the car, which was parked one block down on Waller Street, and away we went.

No one followed us out of the store. If they had, there would have been a big melee that would certainly have brought the cops, and it would have been a difficult situation to explain. Once back in Marin, we called Sherrie’s parents and arranged for her to fly home, which happened the very next day.

Sherrie’s friend had been correct; she was being initiated into a mini satanic cult that focused on dope and sex.

About a year later I visited Sherrie and her parents in Sun Valley. They lived in a duplex on Glenoaks Blvd., the street I always took to get to my brother’s house in Glendale. I had ridden down on a big road bike, and I have a photo that Sherrie’s dad took of me with his daughter posing on the back of the bike in front of their place. Every time I pass that way, I think of the day David and I committed felony breaking and entering and rescuing. 

The 1968 Story

I was alone when this story unfolded. For weeks I had been walking past a store front near the corner of Cole and Haight Streets, close to where the Safeway Market stood on the corner of Stanyan. In the window was a sign notifying readers that a satanic priest was available for consultations.

I could see that in the center of the room was a desk with a chair behind it, and against the opposite wall was another chair. The desktop was bare—no phone, nothing. And there was nothing on the walls. All was empty, drab, and kind of gloomy.

There were businesses on either side and what I thought were apartments above. For weeks I often stopped at that storefront and stood there staring in and knocking on the door. My behavior might have been seen as strange, since it was obvious the place was deserted. But one day a man was sitting at the desk.

It was the middle of the afternoon as I stood at the window and tried to size the situation up. Of course, I had to knock, and when I did, the man at the desk just sat there unmoving.

He looked to be about thirty years of age, not a hippie but clean-shaven with short hair. He simply sat there, with nothing in this hands and nothing on the desk. I couldn’t resist, so I turned the doorknob, found it was unlocked, and walked in.

He said nothing. I picked up the chair and moved it closer to the desk and sat down. After a few seconds, I began to question him. “Who are you?” “What are you doing here?” He responded, little by little, not making much sense or really answering my questions.

Then, after a couple minutes of this, I heard a loud explosion, like a sonic boom. Then another and another, maybe a dozen. Loud, really loud, ear splitting loud, and the guy at the desk seemed not to notice. I tried to keep up some kind of conversation while the loud booming went on. One crash seemed to come from the ceiling, the next time a wall, then another wall, then the ceiling again, then the floor—boom, boom, boom, louder that an M80 firecracker going off.

Finally, I couldn’t take it any longer and walked out. Stunned, I walked up the street, away from the park, and tried to make sense out of what I had just experienced. I collected myself to some degree and  decided to go back and get to the bottom of it.

The guy was gone, but all else was the same. I began to wonder if I had not been slipped some LSD or something else. I assured myself I was in my right mind and decided to check whether anyone else had heard the booming; I thought it must have been heard for blocks.

What a shock as I went up and down the street and across the street, knocking on doors, describing what happened, and no one, not one person had heard a sound. Over the years, I have turned it around a thousand times in my mind and have been able to come up with only one explanation.

During deliverance ministry, where demons were cast out, there were often times when the demons attempted to frighten us by one means or another—threats, physical violence, and screaming, to name a few. Perhaps that’s all it was—the noises were intended to scare me away. And, I must admit, if that was the case, it worked.

The 1969 story

Steven Gaskin was a spiritual guru type who attracted hundreds of hippies. Down in the Richmond District just up from Ocean Beach, he took up shop in a storefront or some kind of hall and held what was known on the streets as the “Monday Night Class.”

Gaskin was an eclectic, meaning he gathered his ideas from various places. He was older, educated, street wise, spiritually wise, and a compelling speaker. I had heard of him for some time, but since I never heard of him visiting the Haight, I paid him little heed. Then I heard that he was teaching tantric yoga to the hippies, meaning they were getting naked, pairing off, and having sex while Gaskin instructed them. This I had to see.

One Monday evening, I made the trip by car from Marin where I was living. Sure enough, what I heard was true. Within ten feet of the front door, in the semi-darkness, dozens of couples were having sexual intercourse while Gaskin sat in the lotus position up on a raised platform and coached them. Part of his line was that union with god is approached through human union, and that meant intercourse. So, everyone was getting spiritual.

I came back on the next few Mondays armed with a flyer I had written that started shaking things up. It did not take long before I was causing a problem, but I persisted and persisted, until finally I was barred and ignored.

That is not the end of the story, however. It was not long before Gaskin and crew, now called The Farm, moved out of San Francisco and headed east for an actual farm. The strange thing is, they stopped for a rest stop in their big yellow buses in Nashville, Tennessee, at the very moment and at the very spot I was standing that day.

I do not recall why I was in Tennessee at all, probably speaking at a church in the city, and I just happened to be downtown by the Grand Ole Opry, when the first bus showed up. Instantly, I knew who they were by the writing on the sides of the buses, but imagine their surprise and exasperation! I was the first person each one saw as they got off the bus, and the last person they wanted to see.