(A Hippie in Hawaii)
By Suzanna Leigh
If you asked me now if I love Jesus, I would probably say something like “Yes! and also Yeshua, and Isa and Buddha, and Quan Yin, and every other Spiritual representation of all-encompassing love.”
Years ago, when I was a hippie in Hawaii living in a Christian commune, it was Jesus, Jesus, Jesus all the time. We sang songs to him, studied the Bible, and told people Jesus is alive! (Well, some of us did. I was never much at proselytizing.) We tried to live by Jesus’ commandments as we understood them from reading the Bible. There is power in that name, a power I sometimes see perverted today. I experienced this power deeply, as a love that transcends this material reality, at least twice.
One day, when I was living in the mansion in Hilo, I was singing one of our songs, “Jesus, Jesus, Jesus, there is something about that name.” Over and over I was singing it, until I was immersed in … how do I describe it? Wonder. Compassion. An awareness of holiness. WOW!
A few months passed, and James and I were moved to Kona, on the other side of the Big Island. Here we lived in a smaller house, one of several in the community. This one had fewer people, and a young haole man as head. The men worked outside the home and we women stayed home, read the bible, took turns cooking, and went to the beach.
Lindy, my besty from Vashon, had come to join me – only her reality was very different. She and her two children, ages 3 and 5, lived in the jungle, in a hut down a long path on the side of the mountain. One of her neighbors read the words in the Bible about avoiding lustful thoughts, and “if your right eye offends thee, pluck it out” – and took it literally. Only it wasn’t his eye that offended him. He mutilated himself. Oddly, the horror of that didn’t sink in at the time.
The several households often came together for worship or picnics on the beach. It was on the beach, sitting on a tree branch the thickness of my waist, that I met Jesus again. I was singing, “Jesus is the rock of my salvation, his banner over me, his love” when I felt a strong loving presence beside me. I knew I would never be alone again.
June came, and James flew back to the mainland to spend the summer with his father. I was moved to Honolulu, where I lived in a small house with other brothers and sisters in the Waikiki Jungle, the high-crime slum part of Honolulu. My bedroom was kind of an unfinished place under the eaves, where cockroaches roamed. I prayed that they would stay off my bed and not bother me, and my prayer was answered.
One day, some sisters and I visited an old woman neighbor. We cleaned the bloody spittle from her bedside table, floor, and other surfaces while she lay in bed coughing. Her son was so grateful that he offered to take us sailing on his Hobie Cat in Honolulu Bay. I was the only one who accepted. The sun, the bright blue water, and the wind washed away any yucky feelings. Another time, I took in a couple who had escaped from an asylum and got them into the commune. They lasted a month or so before they left.
I loved going to the art museum in Honolulu. There was a stone statue of the Buddha outside the entrance, and the joy and compassion on this statue’s face matched the feelings I experienced with Jesus. I concluded that “Jesus” is much bigger than Christianity. I realized that it isn’t the name that matters, or even the dogma or theology we use to explain it, but the spirit of Divine, all-encompassing love, a love that transcends our mortal understanding.
