I had a vision of the society as a changing-tent down at the beach. The witnesses were all huddled inside, sweating, miserable.
All the while the keepers at the door were admonishing those huddled inside of the hazards outside. Sunburn, glass in the sand, jellyfish in the surf, rogue waves that could sweep one away.
Anyone who left were forbidden to speak to those still inside the tent. There they sat, beet-red, telling each other that at least they were happier in the tent.
I tell you, I've never been a JW, but when a sweet old lady grasps my arm and whispers madly, "Don't worry dear, you'll get used to it." why do I get goosbumps and a terrible urge to run, run as fast as I can?
"Don't worry dear, you'll get used to it." What? The guilded bars? The confined space? Never!
Sure, there's hazards out in the big, bad world. But the sense of freedom should not be sold short. Ever.