Heaven's Harlots: My Fifteen Years in a Sex Cult by Miriam Williams

began a praise session of “Hallelujah—praise the Lord—we love you, Jesus” that lasted at least twenty minutes. I had my eyes closed the entire time, and when I opened them, I looked out the window. It was snowing.
    The event seemed so symbolic. I had closed my eyes when we were in the filth of the city, and now, after asking to be filled with the Spirit, we were driving by a clean, snow-white field. Maybe I really did get filled with God’s Spirit after all. It reminded me of the Bible verse I had memorized recently,“Though your sins be as scarlet, they shall become white as snow.”
    The bus stopped frequently on the way up. Each time this happened, everyone would start praising the Lord while the leader and some boys got out to tinker with the motor. The story I heard was that the bus was really out of gas, but the Lord just made it start anyway, contingent on the amount of praising we would give Him.
    Eventually, I fell asleep, but not before I had concluded that this was my fate. Had I not been searching for something to dedicate my life to, having found nothing for me in all the usual places? Had I not seen a film on this very group just weeks before, and even then decided I would like to live in such a place? Had I not gone through one of the most hellish and depressing experiences of my life and been rescued by these people—perhaps my spiritual family?
    It was the middle of the night when we arrived at the campsite in Ellenville, New York. Awakened from a deep sleep, I followed Praise in a daze to a bunkhouse and crashed. I woke the next morning to a group of girls crying,“Hallelujah—praise the Lord—we love you, Jesus. ” This was a frequent event throughout the day, and soon I would participate in the praise sessions myself.
    The camp was a beautiful nature retreat that would have been comfortable in the summer. Unfortunately, it was not built for winter use, and every room was freezing except in the main building. There were two bunkhouses, a large one that held the girls and a smaller one for the boys. There were also a few cabins down by the wooded area and a bungalow set off by itself. On that cold December morning, I was grateful to leave the freezing bunkhouse and go into the warmth of the main building.
    The main building contained a large meeting hall, a huge industrial kitchen, some rooms reserved for special classes, one bathroom, and a second floor. I would not even see the second floor for months. I stayed in the meeting room or kitchen those first few days.
    In the morning we had a collective breakfast in the meeting hall converted into a dining room. There were close to a hundred bedraggled young people forming a line. Ezra came in and took me through the food line, quoting verses to me that I later learned he was memorizing.
    “Wow, we got some doughnuts this morning, praise the Lord,” he exclaimed, referring to a big cardboard drum filled with squished pastries. “Don’t you want any?”
    I declined. Instead, I took a bowl of watery oatmeal and some very weak coffee. I was soon to learn that choice of food was limited, but in those early days, food was the last thing I was concerned about.
    Ezra ate with an enthusiasm that struck me as rather exaggerated. He always came with me when we went through the food line, and when I realized he was hungry, I took everything allotted me and offered him what I could not eat. He seemed to really appreciate this, although he never said anything but “Thank you, Jesus!”
    Someone talked with me every minute of the day. Either Praise or Ezra or one of the two hundred or more other people who lived there. By design, I was never alone, and I hardly ever saw Daisy alone either.
    However, when Praise came with me to the bathroom, I protested.
    “Okay, praise the Lord! I’ll be right out here,” she said sweetly.
    It was quite interesting. I had no idea what commune life would be like, but this seemed to be a prime example. We ate together,