NYC: The Church of the True Inner Light
Please allow me to preface this entry with a brief explanation: I acknowledge the fact that most people will find The Church of the True Inner Light to be a proverbial shithole run by raving lunatics. Contrary to this fact and the title of this publication, however, I personally found my experience with the Church to be positive, friendly and maybe even a little enlightening.
So we’re headed towards the Bowery for $4 pitchers at Phoebe’s when my astute travel partner notices a colorful mushroom painted on a first level apartment door. Already half in the bag and feeling pretty cherry merry from a forty of Colt 45, I thought it appropriate to knock on the door as an inquiry to the nature of the institution. Soon a cracked door reveals dreadlocks and a pair of eyes at about 5 foot 4. He takes about 30 seconds to size us up, shuts the door for another 30 seconds, then swings the mushroom open bearing a set of lawn chairs he then offers us on the sidewalk. A scenario such as this wasn’t really that unusual at the time where, as a young man, one could catch a wink from the actual construction worker from the Village People one day, be offered membership consideration to Hell’s Angels another, or find oneself doing lines of China White in Jim Henson’s uptown 5th avenue penthouse a couple of weeks later. So we all take a seat and he begins to tell us that we have arrived at the Church of the True Inner Light.
He explains that the church mission is to commune with God through the use of hallucinogens, offering communion ceremonies to visitors. He explains that all hallucinogens are literally God and that by ingesting them a person can experience oneness with God (or something like that). He further explains that their preferred hallucinogen is DPT, a derivative of DMT, because it has not yet been outlawed and because of its short-term effect of about 20 minutes. He explains that after the 20 minute ceremony, we are required to stay another 20 minutes. This strikes me as logical since they don’t want anyone running out of the place freaking out naked kicking and screaming, but I’m just dreading the obligatory indoctrination spiel that this extra time will surely offer.
After the lengthy mission statement, our host revealed that the whole lawn chair lounge on 3rd St. was really an interview for eligibility to join in and trip our balls off in their group home, and he invites us in. I knew there was a good reason to knock on that door! We enter a room dimly lit by nothing more than sparse candles and Cricket lighters illuminating bongs in homemade bunk-beds of recycled 2x4’s with dudes constantly checking their watches for reasons I did not at the time understand. There were some disconcerting elements to this environment. Firstly I enquire, “What’s that smell?” I’m thinking he’ll most likely reply, “We all share a collective enthusiasm for not bathing,” so I clarify before he has a chance to answer so as not to offend. “I mean, there’s a strange sweet burning smell, sort of like incense but not as strong.” “Well, we sprinkle DMT (God) onto raspberry leaves and smoke it.” “Kay… Boy, you guys sure have a lot of milk crates full of moped parts and plumbing supplies,” my partner begs the answer. “Yeah, we fund our church by plumbing and other odd jobs. We get around on mopeds.” “Thrifty and convenient,” I reply. Our leader unscrews a Mason jar lid and packs a pinch of its contents in his bong, all the while we speak he also writes notes in a pad. “Whatcha workin’ on,” I ask. “I’m writing the Church scriptures,” he replies. I knew that my buddy and I were both thinking “We’re just a couple of college dumbshits looking for a gratis bacchanal, and you’re writing us into your Bible? How’s that gonna read after generations of folkloric editing and translation?” AND THUS SAINT STEPHEN RAISED THE SPIRITS AND BODY OF THE ANGEL WE CALL JESSE, WHO WALKED ON A CLOUD OF SMOKE. TO THE ENLIGHTENED, HIS HOLY SPIRIT CAN STILL BE SEEN FLYING AROUND CENTRAL PARK AND OCCASIONALLY OVER JERSEY CITY ON HIS MOST SACRED MOPED.
If a man finds himself in an unfamiliar setting with a holy bong filled with a Eucharist comprised of raspberry leaves infused with DPT in his lap, there are some things he really doesn’t want to hear. And so our Master speaks. “Oh, and I forgot one thing that could result in catastrophe, possibly death. Now this has never happened, but you need to know that our scriptures decree that if at any time during the communion you see Jesus Christ or God in me or any other church member, something truly horrific will occur. We don’t know what since this has not happened, but it’s bad. Jesse and I glance at each other nervously until he chuckles through his nose. I reply, “Yeah, I don’t think that’ll be a problem.” Our Leader checks his watch once again, I take a hit, and sure enough about 3 minutes later I’m floating around the joint like a choir angel. Crazy as the whole thing is, it occurs to me while I’m tripping that it isn’t really much crazier than any other organized religion, and furthermore, it provides an excellent means for a man to contemplate and take ownership of his own deuchiness.
Nobody spoke a word for the next 20 minutes until normal consciousness resumed. Jesse breaks the ice and says something like, “That was a pretty good buzz, but come on man, the whole religion thing is just a rouse to get the brass off your backs. I mean, you guys just like getting fucked up, right? You don’t have to answer that, but what’s with the constant time checking? Are you guys all late for an appointment or something? ” Our blessed Guru explains, “We check our time pieces regularly so that we are in a perpetual communion with God.” I ask for clarification, “So you guys are fucked up all day long? I can’t fathom how in that condition you men repair plumbing let alone operate a moped.” At this point, the Shaman or whatever and the followers or whatever and we, the disciples or whatever, are all just laughing our asses off.
Some ten years later, life brings me back to the Village. Cave Canem’s down…bummer. Pyramid club’s out…I still got my memories. Brownie’s is looking corporate…What the fuck? Phoebe’s sold its pool table and wants $6 for a pint now…Come on, man! I see a glimmer of hope. Wow, you can still purchase a previously owned 12 inch dildo off the sidewalk on MacDougal but, tempting as it is, it’s priced out of my market. After all, I still hold a mortgage with NYU. All this walking is making me hungry, so it’s between my previously usual slice of Sicilian pie or my favorite falafel shop chicken sandwich with a side thimble of mud they call Persian coffee. You know, the kind that tastes like they forgot the filter. Just when I catch a wif of that heaven scented beverage, I hear my name. “Hey, Steve. How ya doin’, man. What’s Jesse up to?” I’m trying to process a white dude with nappy hair approaching me holding a wrecking ball chain in one hand and a 2 inch galvanized pipe in the other who seems to know me. “Are you still on 11th and A?” Alright, this guy really seems to know me. “No, now I’m on 11th and Q in D.C. How’ve you been?” I’m trying to buy some time to figure this out when I spot a moped parked on the sidewalk on the corner. Nappy hair/ hippie, wrecking ball chain/ bike lock, 2 inch galvanized pipe/ plumbing accessory: Add Jesse and multiply by moped and…Voila! The Church of the True Inner Light.
Next addition: Washington, D.C.
The Royal Palace
Any local Washingtonian recognizes this institution as perhaps the most fucked-up of any development of our prestigious Connecticut Ave.
© Words Stephen Scarf
