Local Man Accidentally Joins Cult, Stays for Snacks

It started innocuously enough. Jeremy Collins, a 32-year-old accountant from Cedar Falls, Iowa, went for what he assumed was a weekend “mindfulness retreat.” He left his apartment wearing sweatpants, carrying a backpack with granola bars, and thinking vaguely about meditation apps he’d never downloaded. Little did he know, by the end of the weekend, he would be a devoted member of The Luminous Circle of Eternal Enlightenment and Occasional Snacks—primarily because of the snacks.

Jeremy’s introduction to the cult was entirely accidental. He misread the flyer at the community center. “It said ‘Meditation, Mindfulness, and Muffins,’” Jeremy explained later, sitting cross-legged on his living room floor while sipping from a mug that read World’s Okayest Cult Member. “I thought it was just like a brunch club. Honestly, I was mostly excited about the muffins.”

On arrival, Jeremy was greeted by a tall man in flowing robes who identified himself as “High Snackmaster Liora.” Liora immediately asked for Jeremy’s life story. Jeremy, interpreting this as a casual icebreaker, began to discuss his favorite flavors of granola bars and the emotional resonance of peanut butter chocolate chip. Liora nodded sagely, jotting notes. Jeremy assumed this was normal.

The first ritual Jeremy participated in was called The Dance of the Eternal Bagel. Participants circled a table while chanting what sounded like instructions for assembling a BLT. Jeremy joined in enthusiastically, mostly because there was cream cheese involved. By the third rotation, Jeremy was convinced he was learning something profound about the universe, though he could not articulate what it was beyond “bread is sacred.”

Within hours, Jeremy realized something was slightly off. The cult had an unusual number of rules, mostly revolving around food. No one could eat anything before sunset, unless it was fruit leather. Water was optional but encouraged after completing the ritual chant of We Are The Bagels. And all discussions about taxes were strictly prohibited unless prefaced with a haiku about kale.

Jeremy, however, remained committed to his original objective: snacks. “I thought if I stayed long enough, maybe there would be free cookies,” he explained. “Turns out, the snacks were… plentiful. And spiritual. Which is weird, but fine.”

By Sunday afternoon, Jeremy had inadvertently been given the title Junior Snack Sage. He had not performed any actual enlightenment work, but he had successfully distinguished between three types of crackers and one suspiciously crunchy protein bar, which apparently was “essential to the ritual.” He received a small robe as a reward, which he promptly wore over his pajamas back at his hotel room, feeling both accomplished and slightly ridiculous.

The cult’s weekly meetings, which Jeremy attended for the next three months, followed a confusing yet oddly comforting structure. First, there was the Circle of Insight, during which members shared their innermost fears and occasionally demonstrated interpretive dances inspired by granola. Jeremy often went last, reporting trivial concerns like “I worry I’ll eat the last cookie before anyone else” and “The oatmeal was undercooked.” The responses were always supportive nods and murmurs of, “Ah, yes. The oatmeal.”

Next came the Meditation of Minimal Movement, where members were encouraged to remain still while thinking about their feelings. Jeremy often used this time to strategically plan which snack he would eat first. The meditation lasted for ninety minutes, though Jeremy admitted he usually spent forty-five of them napping under a table, which no one seemed to notice.

The final segment of the meetings was the Sacred Snack Sharing, a communal potluck where members brought small dishes. Jeremy, after a week of careful observation, realized that his commitment to snacks had earned him a reputation. People started bringing miniature cookies, fudge, and artisanal popcorn just to see what Jeremy would do. He sampled everything politely and nodded knowingly, making it appear as though he understood the deeper meaning of each bite.

Interestingly, Jeremy’s accidental ascension in the cult hierarchy did not go unnoticed outside of the group. His mother, who had called to check on him after missing his usual Saturday breakfast of cereal and lukewarm coffee, expressed mild concern. “I asked him how his weekend retreat went, and he said he had ‘transcended through snacks,’” she recalled. “I thought he meant he learned something meaningful. Turns out, he mostly just ate a lot of fudge.”

Even coworkers began noticing changes in Jeremy. At the office, he arrived each Monday wearing his small, ceremonial robe tucked neatly under his suit jacket, and he kept a small snack pouch in his briefcase. He would pause in mid-conversation to nibble a cookie, explaining, “It’s a mindfulness exercise.” HR did not question this. His productivity remained steady, though several colleagues reported being slightly intimidated by his serene focus on chocolate chips.

The cult itself benefited from Jeremy’s accidental expertise. Membership increased steadily after he began enthusiastically endorsing the group. “I didn’t really mean to recruit anyone,” Jeremy admitted. “But whenever someone asked why I kept showing up, I said, ‘For the snacks, obviously.’ And apparently, that was persuasive.”

High Snackmaster Liora later admitted that Jeremy’s role was critical. “He embodies the essence of our mission,” Liora said in a recent interview. “Not enlightenment, not wisdom—no. Snacks. He reminds us that true spiritual fulfillment comes from sustenance and joy.”

Jeremy’s commitment was not without challenge. There was the time he mistakenly ate a ceremonial kale chip and experienced what he described as “an existential crisis in my mouth.” There was also the incident with the powdered tofu, which led to an emergency group meditation and three hours of chanting. But through it all, Jeremy persisted, motivated by an unwavering desire for cookies, muffins, and pretzel rods.

Despite all this, Jeremy maintains that he did not intend to become a cult member. “I still thought this was just a weekend thing,” he said. “I came for relaxation and snacks. The chanting and robes just… happened.” When asked whether he believes in the cult’s teachings, Jeremy shrugged. “I believe in snacks. Everything else is negotiable.”

Local authorities reportedly investigated the Luminous Circle after anonymous tips suggested it might be a “suspicious gathering.” They arrived to find Jeremy calmly explaining the proper way to dunk a biscotti into herbal tea while other members chanted about quinoa. Officials left confused but impressed, noting that no one seemed to be in immediate danger, except perhaps the office carpet, which had several crumbs.

Jeremy’s story has since inspired a wave of imitators. Social media hashtags like #SnackEnlightenment and #CookiesAreLife have begun trending nationally. Self-proclaimed “Snack Sages” are forming small gatherings, each mimicking Jeremy’s accidental approach: attend for a mundane reason, stay for the snacks, and absorb whatever spiritual meaning happens to drift by.

Interestingly, the cult itself has embraced Jeremy’s fame. Liora has announced plans for a Snack Pilgrimage, a weekend retreat highlighting the group’s most sacred confections. Jeremy has been named the official tasting supervisor, a position he accepts with humility and occasional crumbs on his lapel.

Psychologists studying Jeremy’s case call it “a fascinating instance of accidental adherence,” noting that pleasure-based reinforcement (i.e., cookies and muffins) can be a surprisingly effective method for long-term commitment. “It’s a very human thing,” said Dr. Marlene Higgs, a behavioral psychologist. “If the cult were based on interpretive dance alone, Jeremy wouldn’t have lasted five minutes. But snacks? Snacks are universal.”

Jeremy’s mother continues to express cautious pride. “I always told him to follow his passions,” she said. “I just didn’t think it would be snacks and chanting.”

Meanwhile, Jeremy has embraced his role fully. He now keeps a small snack inventory in his car, teaches newcomers the subtle art of biscuit selection, and has begun crafting what he calls Snack Reflections, a journal detailing his profound thoughts while nibbling. One excerpt reads:

“A cookie is not just a cookie. It is a vessel of experience. To bite is to live. To savor is to transcend.”

Jeremy admits that he sometimes worries he will one day run out of snacks, but he remains hopeful. “If the cookies end, I guess I’ll start advocating for muffins,” he said. “But I hope it doesn’t come to that.”

The Luminous Circle has since become a local legend. Cafés in Cedar Falls now report a 37% increase in pastry sales, which analysts attribute to curious onlookers inspired by Jeremy’s accidental evangelism. Jeremy himself has been invited to speak at local schools on the importance of mindfulness and snack appreciation, though he keeps his remarks simple: “Eat something good. Maybe share it. Or not. That’s fine too.”

In the end, Jeremy’s accidental journey into cult membership is not a cautionary tale of gullibility. It is, in his words, “a story about snacks, perseverance, and the strange ways life sometimes leads you into robes and herbal tea.”

And so, Jeremy Collins remains a devoted member of the Luminous Circle of Eternal Enlightenment and Occasional Snacks, proving that sometimes the greatest spiritual lessons can be found between a scone and a cookie, and that one man’s accidental commitment can inspire a community of snacking enthusiasts worldwide.