Category: History

That August of 1976 found me, a 31 year old from Canada having hitchhiked my way across some forty-five US States, arriving in Kansas City, a city poised on the brink of an American political spectacle: the Republican National Convention. 

My very first stop, and this is crucial to understand the unfolding tapestry of those days, was the Roman Catholic Archdiocese Office of the Archbishop. My mission, even then, was deeply spiritual, not merely political. There, I was received by the Archbishop’s secretary, a pleasant priest with whom I shared a long and, I believe, significant conversation. When I inquired about a simple bed for the duration of my stay, a humble request for lodging, he revealed, to my genuine surprise, that all available beds were taken, filled not by the local clergy or by ordinary supplicants, but by “People from the Vatican,” here, mind you, for the Republican Convention, operating far from the public’s curious gaze. 

Why, I wondered then, as I still do now, was the Vatican so deeply embedded, so discretely present, at a major American political convention? It was the first sign, perhaps, that the spiritual powers I sought to address were indeed interwoven with the very fabric of worldly governance. And that priest, seeing my shoulder-length hair and beard, took me in his own car, driving me to the Liberty Memorial Mall, stating with an air of knowing certainty, “This is where where you belong.”

And he was right, for the moment I arrived, I knew it too. It was there, on the opening night of the Convention, in Penn Valley Park, that the Youth International Party, the Yippies, had set up their stage: a microphone atop a school bus, amplified by speakers so powerful their sound reverberated against the very windows of the Crown Center Hotel across the street, where President Ford and his partisans were staying. Hundreds, even thousands of young people, were gathered, exercising their democratic rights, a sight more vibrant than any political rally I’d witnessed, truly akin to the energy of a rock concert. I climbed onto that bus, and when my time came in the lineup took the microphone, and for an hour or more, I spoke, pouring forth the ills and hopes of the world as I saw them, feeling an incredible energy, even as others on the bus roof, to my surprise, massaged my neck and shoulders, rubbing my back—an unspoken connection, a silent affirmation.

It was during this fervent address that the curtain truly lifted. Across the street, on a terrace of the Crown Center Hotel, at precisely my eye level atop that bus, appeared Vice President Nelson Rockefeller and his  retinue. I seized the moment, addressing him directly, recalling for all to hear those widely reported instances in newspapers of his immense financial generosity, gifting millions to his powerful friends in government regulatory agencies. And then, I asked him, a simple, profound question, challenging the very notion of their power and privilege: would he, out of his vast wealth, be kind enough to donate just “a few hundred dollar’s worth of groceries to feed the poor among us,” those very young people who had hitchhiked across the country, many without a dime, to peacefully protest for their future democratic freedoms? 

His immediate, visceral response was to give me “the finger”—a moment so raw, so utterly undignified for a man of his stature, that I confess, it brought a wry smile to my face. Years later, I would find the photograph online, capturing that precise instant. In the background was Bob Dole talking with several others, laughing, having heard those very same words that had so profoundly incensed the Vice President.

After that encounter, a curious twist of fate. Descending from the bus, I found a crisp $20 bill lying on the grass. O Lucky Day! Thank you, Jesus!” I thought,  and decided to use it for a meal at one of the hotel’s restaurants. But stepping into the hotel lobby, I was immediately surrounded by Republican Party Security. Before I could utter a word, I was physically lifted, and unceremoniously thrown out. The very next day, the protest had been moved, contained within police barricades at Washington Square, facing the hotel entrance, a clear attempt to control the message, an effort I saw frustrated as police then moved news media away from filming us. 

It was then, after that dispiriting sight, the unexpected happened. The Hotel Manager himself, observing from the other side of the barricade, called me over. He bought me breakfast in the Hotel, and after an hour of conversation, in a gesture that felt nothing short of providential, he granted me full access to the entire hotel, saying, “This is my Hotel, and I give you permission to go anywhere you want. If anyone causes you any problems, you just call me.” 

“O Joy!” I thought, believing this was a fulfillment of the Prophecy in the Revelation of Jesus Christ, I have set before you an open door, and no man can shut it: for you have a little strength, and have kept my word, and have not denied my name. 

For the next four days, armed with this unique “Laissez-passer,” I walked the Crown Centre Hotel lobby, approaching Senators, Congressmen, and Delegates, introducing myself with “Good Day! My name is Ray, and I’d like to talk with you about some issues.” For four days, not a single one would talk to me, dissolving into the crowd as if I were an apparition. It was on the fourth day I changed my tactics. I walked into that very lobby, no longer seeking conversation, but bearing a pamphlet of the Constitution of the United States covering my heart.It was a symbol, I felt, of a sacred document whose spirit of the letter has been abandoned in the pursuit of power. 

This simple act triggered an unauthorized astonishing spontaneous Convention demonstration, as the Republicans gathered around me, demanding, “Who are you? What are you doing? What is the significance of your actions?” As I began to speak, Republican Party Security intervened again, attempting to kick me out me, saying “you can’t walk around here carrying a club”—referring to the big stick I walked softly with for the previous 4 days, now transformed into a perceived threat. I thought, ‘Jesus. They have the Power and they’re that Paranoid‘ This time, I told them “you don’t have the authority to expel me and called upon the Hotel Manager for the 1st time since he bought me breakfast. He arrived, a true man of his word, silencing the Republican Whips and affirming my right to be there. The Whips did their job and the crowd dispersed.

It was immediately after this episode, continuing walking softly carrying my big stick and the Constitution pamphlet, I experienced another profound encounter. To my great surprise, there he was: President Ford himself, on the restricted Mezzanine, some fifteen feet above me, surrounded by about twenty-five people. I simply greeted him with “Good Day “Mr. Ford!” How are you Today, Sir” and he, to his credit, acknowledged me, asking how I was. “I’m doing great,” I replied, lifting the pamphlet of the Constitution clearly for him to see, “but I’d love to talk to you about the Constitution of these Un-United States.” 

In that instant, upon hearing those challenging words, President Ford and his entire retinue moved in unison, almost like a single-celled organism, an Amoeba, silently sweeping away from the uncomfortable truth I had just presented.

That night, President Ford secured the Republican nomination over Ronald Reagan. By Divine Grace, I found myself, shoulder-length hair, beard, wearing my trademark #13 jersey, a Revolutionary image standing at the Podium of the President of the United States, on a Secret Service restricted balcony. It was a sight visible to thousands in the lobby below and, incredibly, live on ABC, CBS, and NBC. I had simply been enjoying the atmosphere, listening to the cover band sing Paul McCartney & Wings ‘Let ‘Em in’. 

I don’t know what anyone else in that huge compressed crowd was thinking, but hearing that so generic song, I was thinking of these Words of Christ in the Revelation, Behold, I stand at the door, and knock: if any man hear my voice, and open the door, I will come in to him, and will sup with him, and he with me.

The Hotel Manager spotted me and called me to come up to the Secret Service restricted Mezzanine. There was no quick way to get out of the throng, everybody pressed against everybody. I ascended the stairs to be told by the manager the Secret Service wanted to question me. But instead of an anteroom, to my great wonder and surprise, I was led directly to the Podium itself, the Presidential Seal prominently displayed, clearly visible to the networks. I waved to the Republicans below, a fleeting moment of recognition. An agent then questioned me at length finally asking, “Are you Jesus Christ?”

Having no illusions about that THEN and NOW, I immediately answered “No.” Then came the second, more unsettling question, “Who are you then? A Prophet?” And for a moment, I was dumbfounded, unable to answer as definitively. The Secret Service, citing security, took my walking stick—that simple tool, now a perceived weapon—as the President was expected to be standing at his podium any minute.

It was a profound, unexpected confluence of spiritual mission and political theatre, a moment recorded for history, revealing the layers of power, control, and the sometimes overwhelming presence of Divine intention.