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Then, later, when they would find themselves in an intellectual environment
like the Seminary, they would never let mere ideas get in the way of
unthinking loyalty and obedience. (Neufeld, 89)
Only, finally, when I was sent to the Unification Theological Seminary in Barrytown, New
York, in the fall of 1978, did I experience a let-up in the demands imposed by the
Unification Church for complete emotional repression. At the Seminary, Moon expected his
followers to study a variety of religious ideas and systems and to become able to counter
believers in those systems with Unificationist theories that would win them over to Moon‘s
views. In such an environment, there was less insistence on constant frantic activity, and so
there was time for students to reflect and to form deeper friendships. At the Seminary—to
again refer to Lifton‘s model for thought reform—I experienced a relaxation of ―milieu
control.‖ And although the effect was not instantaneous, by the end of two years in that
environment, I had become more favorable to emotional expression and had concluded that
repressing feelings is not always appropriate, despite what the larger church continued to
urge. Many of the other Seminary students likewise experienced a gradual loosening up of
their mental processes, and for this very reason the Seminary was regarded with suspicion
or disfavor in other parts of the church, where seminarians were sometimes nicknamed
―cemetarians.‖ Nevertheless, the Seminary continued to enjoy the whole-hearted support of
Moon himself during that era. In my own case, the change that brought me to this new way
of thinking occurred suddenly, due to the friendship and kindness of another Seminary
student.
Part Two: Vacillating Between Repression and Expression, 1980 to 1986
Late one night in November 1979, after I had been a Seminary student for more than a
year, a well-meaning young woman, also a Unification Church member and a Seminary
student, approached me with words of friendship. I had slept briefly that night, and then I
woke up to study from midnight to 4:00 A.M. because I could find no other way to keep up
with the many demands placed on my time. Because I was a loyal follower of Sun Myung
Moon, I felt it would be shameful to even think any complaining thoughts about these
extreme demands. Whenever I felt a hint of complaint, I was expected to repress it at once
and substitute a feeling of gratitude at how ―Father had saved me.‖ Like most long-term
members, I had become so good at doing this that I had completely lost touch with my own
real feelings. I wasn‘t even aware that I was having a hard time until this well-meaning
young woman pointed it out to me. (For the purposes of this article and my book, I have
called her Fran).
It is important to understand that Fran‘s act of kindness did not, in one swift stroke, ―snap‖
the effects of mind control. Mind control should not be regarded as something that is either
completely present or totally absent. Rather, mind control persists in a faded form even in
the minds of those who have long since left a totalist environment, and, as such, it often
causes emotional difficulties for years until it has been identified and resolved. In my own
case, Fran unknowingly stumbled across the key to unlocking my real feelings again. She
pointed out to me that I was ―having a hard time,‖ and she offered to be a special friend to
help me through this ―hard time.‖ This was not intended as a romantic proposal it was
simply an offer of deep friendship. But I was profoundly touched by Fran‘s offer it was so
different from the usual advice I received from church leaders, who would generally say
something like this: ―Having a hard time? Well, buck up! Think of Father‘s much greater
suffering in the early days of the church!‖ Instead of being told to repress my feelings, Fran
was asking me to go ahead and feel them, and to talk about them to her. This had the
effect of plunging me into a profound turmoil as I tried to decide whether God actually
wanted me to feel these feelings, or to lock them away again.

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If my ―mission‖ (that is, my assigned role in the church) had been anything other than the
Seminary, I would have been compelled by my church superiors to repress my feelings
again. However, because I was at the Seminary, where Unificationists were expected to
wrestle with intellectual questions, I was not compelled.
At first, I was so euphoric about the rediscovery of my own real feelings that I set out to
spread the word to the entire Seminary. So I wrote a heartfelt, poetic sermon titled
―Seeking the Oasis,‖ which I gave first to my Homiletics class, and then to the entire
Seminary. I still have a copy of this sermon, and I will quote from the last page because this
is probably the first piece of writing I produced since joining the Unification Church that
proceeded from my own authentic thoughts and feelings:
No one had ever penetrated to touch that depth of my heart before, and I
cried in gratitude to God that He had taken such special interest in me as to
even find a way to look after me I hadn‘t realized I needed. My tears were
like a small rivulet from the great, broad river flowing from the heart of God.
If we can open our hearts to it, then this river of love can wash over the roots
of our being, bringing forth even the Tree of Life from out of the desert sands.
All we need to do is to find the time and take the risk to bare our hearts to
our brothers and sisters. Our hearts may be as dry and thirsting as the most
barren ground without our even knowing it. Replenish them with the
nourishing water of your tears, and from the seed of your liberation will
sprout the sturdiest tree to give shade and comfort to all who come after you
there, with sunbaked, parching lips, seeking the oasis.
For the next six years, the more I tried to remain loyal to these ideas, the more I found
myself being pushed to the fringes of the church, and eventually out. Yet, throughout this
entire time, I continued to fear that I was straying from the straight and narrow, and I
struggled with the question of whether I should force my feelings back down again. (At one
point, I even considered voluntarily returning to the M.F.T.).
In the summer of 1980, I started a diary, which in my book I called the Boston Diary,
because I started it while I was in Boston as part of a contingent of seminarians in the new
three-year Divinity program who were expecting to return to their studies in the fall.
The Boston Diary demonstrates very clearly my divided state of mind, as I swung back and
forth between my authentic self and my cult self. This is how I describe the Boston Diary in
my new book:
I still have this diary, the only one of the many diaries I kept during my
Unification Church years that I did not later destroy in a fit of self-reforming
zeal. This one was special to me because the entries in it are so heart-
rending, so full of lacerating pain and desperate questioning, that I could not
bring myself to repudiate it. It is a small book with cream-colored pages,
covered with brown cloth, in which I wrote in ball point pen, my handwriting
sometimes scrawling and expansive, sometimes cramped and mechanical, as
I vacillated between the two sides of myself. (Neufeld, 111)
My inability during that summer in Boston to voluntarily repress my feelings made it almost
inevitable that, upon my return to the Seminary, I would be swiftly shown the door.
However, because of the high regard that Sun Myung Moon had for the Seminary during
that era, I received different treatment than I might have received if I had been an ordinary
member. The usual way to handle members who are having problems is to send them to a
Divine Principle workshop if that doesn‘t work, they may be placed in a demanding mission
such as the M.F.T. or, if all else fails, they are sent home to their parents. But instead of