Everybody was cordial and the retreat went by pleasantly. I didn't see Bennie once during the weekend. On the last evening there was a big final gathering to sum itall up. Before it ended, Reverend Morton stood in the audience and said, "We have had two young men as guests during this retreat, and we appreciate their coming here to share their insights with us. They haven't been given a chance to address the assembly, but I'm going to ask that they have that chance. After we adjourn here, everyone is invited to come to the conference area at the end of the hall to hear them say a few words."    

Then the most interesting thing of the whole conference happened. A group of maybe 25 or 30 people of all ages gathered at the designated location after the benediction. Bennie and I ambled down there and stood around waiting to do whatever it was we were going to do.    

I noticed that a man of the cloth with several youths in his entourage took a seat front row center.  He was a handsome man of about 45 with prematurely gray hair and a ruddy complexion.  The young people with him obviously idolized him.    

Bennie went first. He talked about things important to him and to Catholics and made a case for hallucinogenic drugs as a way to experience God. I don't remember whether thepriest or anyone asked any questions or made any comments when Bennie was done, but I do remember that no one seemed to take him very seriously. I think they assumed he'd been on too many "trips."    

When it was my turn, I began a rambling discourse on what I believed was happening with youth and the counter culture and whether there really was an underground church,when the priest suddenly interrupted. I was in the middle of a sentence when he blurted: "Are you a Christian?"  with a sneer.

There seemed to be some discomfort in the group at the rudeness of the interruption.    

"Yes,"  I said, "although I don't really feel worthy to call myself one."    

He let that go and pressed on. It seemed he was almost desperate to discredit me.    

"What makes you the spokesman for this Underground Church? You seem pretty worldly, do you think you should be telling these young people what they should believe?  By whose authority do you come here?"    

I probably should have said I could only answer one question at a time, but I thought of the moment when the Pharisees came to Jesus, trying to draw him into a debate. This egocentric reverend was a Pharisee. He was miserable, jealous, insecure, sinful. I thought of that day in Christoval Baptist Church when I had professed belief in Jesus at age seven; I remembered that special moment at twenty-one when my own father had put his hands on my head at my ordination. I looked at the priest for a long moment. All this passed with our stares locked. It took me so long to respond the sycophants started to giggle.  

Finally I said, "I represent no church, no dogma or creed. Before I was invited to attend this conference I'd never heard of the Underground Church. I can only speak for myself." "But I can tell you this," I said, looking straight at the silver haired man, "Jesus said, 'I came not to save the righteous but the wicked'--which one are you, Sir?"

He flushed crimson. He sputtered. Finally, he said, "I'm--we're all sinners in God's eyes."    

"Then you're in luck," I said with a smile, "Jesus came to save you, too."

With that, he was done, and so was I. I felt that maybe I finally understood the purpose of the whole trip.    

That night about fifteen people, mostly young, came to my room. There were Sunday school teachers and one school superintendent in the group. They acted like I was a rockstar or something. They wanted to know about drugs, college, sex, this underground church, everything. It was as if they now had access to the authentic word and they wanted to know it all. We stayed up talking 'til two. Everybody exchanged addresses. I got up early the next morning and went back to real life.***  

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