- By Brandon Harris
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- June 4, 2013 7:03 PM
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- 0 Comments
The allure of cults has always escaped me. Collectivism, communism, various forms of communal religious experience, even The Borg on "Star Trek: The Next Generation" not so much; since I don’t lump especially egregious forms of each in with the garden variety pejoratives often associated with cults and their members, perhaps I’m giving in to convention. Yet whether the flavor of the month is eastern inflected or based on the ramblings of a burly sci-fi writer, I don’t have the time of day. Especially anything proselytized by folks like Jim Jones or David Koresh or Aleister Crowley I could do without, but the extreme examples always grab all the headlines. It’s not just in "Martha Marcy May Marlene" that one may glimpse modern culthood. Where previously unforeseen spiritual clarity and emotional intelligence in some newfound way is promised alongside a simple, back to the basics lifestyle, the cynical, post-aughts side of my consciousness always veers toward thinking I’ve encountered a scam. I’m sure Father Yod would be no different.
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