I first met the Unification Church on the streets of San Francisco in March of 1978. But at the time the group went by the name of Creative Community Project. I had just quit my job as a supermarket manager in Elmwood Park, New Jersey and felt inspired to travel to the promised land of California to begin living an idealistic lifestyle. Two weeks later, a perky young woman by the name of Poppy approached me by Union Square. "Hi," she said. "Where are you from?"
"New Jersey and New York," I quickly responded, in case she could detect both a New Jersey and New York accent in the words flowing out of my mouth. "Great. What are you doing here?" Hey, I got nothing to lose, I told myself; just tell her the truth. "Well, I’m looking for a bunch of idealistic people living on a commune who want to create a better world."
"In that case, come on over for dinner," she invited me. Later that night I was off to a farm in Booneville. I had never been on a farm before. After a week of farming and listening to inspiring lectures, Bob Hogan finally got around to asking me what I thought of a guy by the name of Reverend Moon. "He brainwashes people," I shot back. "Plus they have orgies. I saw something about him on ‘Sixty Minutes.’"
That weekend everyone on the farm went down to Berkeley to hear a concluding lecture...except me. Bob invited me to stay on the farm another week and I was only too happy to help out. Everyone seemed so nice, and everything I heard about God seemed so true to this former Catholic/atheist/agnostic.
But the following week Bob couldn’t hold me back anymore. Then early on a Sunday evening I heard a little more truth. Poppy and Bob were Moonies! So were Matthew, Jennifer, Kristina and Noah! Confused, I left Hearst Street house and took the Bart to the San Francisco library. For two days I read everything about the Unification Church and Reverend Sun Myung Moon that appeared in the overflowing special section of the public library, most of it submitted by deprogrammers. It was all obviously false.
My heart felt relief. I walked over to the Bush Street house and claimed a small piece of rug as my home.
From 40 Years in America, pp. 310-11.