QUESTION of the DAY
Each man chosen of the Twelve Jesus selected had been called disciples, or "students"
(meaning "one who learns"). (Latin discipulus; Greek μαθητής mathētḗs; Hebrew לִמּוּד limmûdh;
Jesus is stated in the Bible to have sent out the Twelve using a new description: Apostles, "whom he also named apostles" (Luke 6:13), first before his death "to the lost sheep of Israel" (Matthew 10), and after his (resurrection to spread the message of the Good News to all nations (Matthew 28:16-28:20).
With the above firmly in mind, the question arises:
“Why aren’t the Governing Body called Apostles?”
Posts by Terry
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12QUESTION of the DAY (a brain teaser)
by Terry inquestion of the dayeach man chosen of the twelve jesus selected had been called disciples, or "students" (meaning "one who learns").
(latin discipulus; greek μαθητής mathētḗs; hebrew לִמּוּד limmûdh;jesus is stated in the bible to have sent out the twelve using a new description: apostles, "whom he also named apostles" (luke 6:13), first before his death "to the lost sheep of israel" (matthew 10), and after his (resurrection to spread the message of the good news to all nations (matthew 28:16-28:20).with the above firmly in mind, the question arises: “why aren’t the governing body called apostles?”.
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Terry
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Ballad of Armageddon (to be sung sort of like Ballad of the Alamo
by Terry inthe ballad of armageddon _________________a sinner trudged to salem and he went down on his knee asking heaven for a token or a sign of what would be but a wind came out of nowhere and a thunderbolt flashed high as a sudden hush of stillness brought a rumble and a sigh.
the valley of meggido beckons hordes to reckon blood higher than a bridle comes that roiling, gruesome flood in the valley of the shadow where the dead will surely rise on the day (maybe tomorrow) you will understand if wise.
yet the sinner slept in salem and his dreams of monstrous fears woke him screaming much affrighted as he mumbled washed in tears
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Terry
Oh thanks, titch.
I was up in the middle of the night and sometimes I write
something crazy. Sure would like to hear Marty Robbins sing it :) -
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Ballad of Armageddon (to be sung sort of like Ballad of the Alamo
by Terry inthe ballad of armageddon _________________a sinner trudged to salem and he went down on his knee asking heaven for a token or a sign of what would be but a wind came out of nowhere and a thunderbolt flashed high as a sudden hush of stillness brought a rumble and a sigh.
the valley of meggido beckons hordes to reckon blood higher than a bridle comes that roiling, gruesome flood in the valley of the shadow where the dead will surely rise on the day (maybe tomorrow) you will understand if wise.
yet the sinner slept in salem and his dreams of monstrous fears woke him screaming much affrighted as he mumbled washed in tears
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Terry
THE BALLAD of ARMAGEDDON
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A Sinner trudged to Salem and he went down on his knee
asking heaven for a token or a sign of what would be
But a wind came out of nowhere and a thunderbolt flashed high
as a sudden hush of stillness brought a rumble and a sigh.
The Valley of Meggido beckons hordes to reckon blood
Higher than a bridle comes that roiling, gruesome flood
In the Valley of the Shadow where the dead will surely rise
on the day (maybe tomorrow) you will understand if wise.
Yet the Sinner slept in Salem and his dreams of monstrous fears
woke him screaming much affrighted as he mumbled washed in tears
"There's a Harm a Gettin' closer
There's battle drawing nigh
And the Judge will render verdicts
Will you Live or will you Die?"
In that Valley of Meggido, scorpion stings will paralyze
and the wrath of God will tangle - with those captives demonized
Summon Satan and his warriors from the Pit of blackened smoke
as the prophecies of Prophets who so long ago bespoke.
Carrion and carnivore with raven beaks will share
every morsel from the torso of the fallen who died there
Comes a fearsome roar from every corner of the Earth with sword and shield
on that day the Lord of Warriors summons to his battlefield.
Sinner wept in Salem but his prayers were much despised
"Get away from me" God bellows to the fellows He derides
"There's a Harm a Gettin' closer
There's battle drawing nigh
And the Judge will render verdicts
Will you Live or will you Die?"
Moon, blood red, now overhead as stars from heaven fell
graves surrendered all the dead came crawling out of Hell
Oceans boiled over where the hissing serpents writhe
Rich and poor the whole world o'er gave feckless final tithe
Time for mercies have now ended every forehead marked for sign
Came the final trumpet ...some for living some for dyin'
Well, you should have been a preacher and you should have been a teacher
and you should have chose the narrow gate because your Fate is sealed
The Day the Old World ended
the last bell finally rang
Ending every sinner
with a whimper not a bang.
The Lord of Hosts gave blessings and a New World came with Dawn
But the memory of the sinners once and ever after gone.
"There's a Harm a Gettin' closer
There's battle drawing nigh
And the Judge will render verdicts
Will you Live or will you Die?"
Will you Live or will you Die?
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Terry Edwin Walstrom
(Sort of like the tune to The Battle of the Alamo) -
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My escape from Jehovah's Witnesses to seek a life as an artist
by Terry indream of the unborn butterfly.
my escape from jehovah's witnesses to seek a life as an artist .... (1974 - i pulled up stakes in fort worth, texas, packed my wife and 3 small kids into a ford maverick, and headed to california seeking a job of some kind where i could earn a living --not as a janitor, window washer, or minimum wage slave - but as some kind of artist.
) ________________ “konichiwa” he spoke with a smile wrapped in mischief.it was paul miyoshi.
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Terry
DREAM of the UNBORN BUTTERFLY
My escape from Jehovah's Witnesses to seek a life as an artist ...
(1974 - I pulled up stakes in Fort Worth, Texas, packed my wife and 3 small kids into a Ford Maverick, and headed to California seeking a job of some kind where I could earn a living --not as a janitor, window washer, or minimum wage slave - but as some kind of Artist.)
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“Konichiwa” he spoke with a smile wrapped in mischief.
It was Paul Miyoshi. He was an old man.
The pupils of his eyes were black, mysterious, as from another world.
The first time I walked by him; he raised his head of white hair setting his gaze serenely upon me. There had been a slight bow that triggered in me a mirrored response.He was both riddle and pun, light and shadow, and his laughter danced in my ears.
Over the next year and a half, I’d get to know this man much in the way a box within a box reveals more boxes. I didn’t know it at the time, but he was about to become my first Sensei.(When the student is ready, the teacher appears.(Siddhartha-)
“This is how art and life are chosen, with Nature or against Nature --. Traditional Japanese life flows with Nature. We surrender as falling leaves surrender to the wind.”
Companion artists giggled about Paul Miyoshi; characterizing his epigrams as a “fortune cookie” style of speaking. But then, young men reared in Western ways go against Nature.
A true student must surrender to his teacher- a lesson to be learned; one for me to follow.“In Japan, traditionally, houses are made from trees. The bottom of our house is from the trunk wood of trees. The top is the boughs and branches. In between, everything fits, slides, rests by clever interlocking joints, and gravity itself. Windows are paper. Light diffuses serenity. In the West, you block sunlight, smothering your world in curtains and bathing your soul with artificial light and tangled electric wires. The western world builds Cities like stone fortresses in the battle for supremacy with nails, bolts, and steel. ”
I was a Texas boy in my mid-twenties. I escaped--a fugitive of my own life--fleeing westward into California with a dream of becoming an artist. I knew nothing about how it might be done.
I was full of an artistic impulse but only barely acquainted with reality.
In France, ducks are force-fed until their liver bursts. In Texas, I had been force-fed religious doctrines until my life burst.
What talents I possessed naturally were suddenly the focus of everything--I had decided it was time for this to be my focus. I would somehow become what I was inside all along.I simply couldn’t go on the way I had been--existing; uncreative, drone-like, endlessly warning others about Armageddon as I tried to “Stay Alive till ‘75.”
“You have a garden?” Miyoshi asked one day.
“No.”
“Nothing in life grows without a garden.”
“Say what?”
“The garden is our lesson: chaos becomes form. Nature flows as it happens. Life becomes shapes; nothing living truly resists that flow.”
“Um, okay.”
“You are an artist?”
“That’s what I’m here to learn.”
“Art isn’t about getting something right.”
“Well, you could have fooled me!”
“A fool learns technique. Other fools are fooled by technique.”
“Technique?”
“Monkey see--monkey do. It is the way of the monkey--not man as an artist.”
“Well. Okay. Art Schools teach technique for some reason.”
“Western schools teach how to lie. An enlightened teacher instructs what comes first.
First: how to see, then how to be.”“Oka-a-a-ay.”
Triangle Industries sounds exactly like what it was: a factory churning out ‘art’ objects representing decorative products at a reasonable price.
My place in this industry was as a production line artist.
Like Henry Ford’s factory assembling the Model T Ford, long rows of easels and artists duplicated copies of ‘artsy-fartsy’ paintings sold en masse as valuable object d’art.
These were: Handmade soulless imitations.
Our Art was like a painting of a piece of cheese in a mousetrap. It caught a certain kind of unwary mouse.You see, this was factory-style art.
Two highly talented artists came up with images that might sell at the market.
They would proceed to break it down into three different STAGES (single canvas examples) per stage: a background, a middle ground, and a finished subject with details and a signature.
I was in a group of living artists-as-living-copy-machines.
Instead of ink, we used paint and brushes.
Stage by stage we copied what was in front of us by rote.
(Monkey-see / monkey-do).Dozens of identical copies, hand-painted on real canvases: that’s the gimmick.
TRIANGLE’s Art Designers designed expressly to be copied like Arthur Murray’s Dance Studio: footsteps stuck on the floor indicating where to place your feet in order to learn to dance the Cha-Cha.Each (in-between stage) required ‘authentic’ flourishes--techniques. Talent was optional.
Personally, this was an exciting but hollow experience that I looked upon as an apprenticeship. It was but it wasn’t - simultaneously.
I was building technique but without any aesthetic dogma attached; mere practicality.“In Japan, a student works to exactly master every stroke of the Teacher. To graduate you must replace your teacher before you are allowed to become what makes you who you are.”
It felt like the joke about the guy who swept up elephant dung in the Circus parade.
A bystander yelled at him, “Hey, why don’t you get a real job?”
The man with the broom shouts back, “What? Leave show business?”Yes, my art apprenticeship was a bucket of elephant dung - but it was still show business.
The paintings were -- start to finish -- strange fiction.
A fiction biography and persona was invented for a non-existent Artist: a fake name, romantic tale of Dickensian struggles crafted into a counterfeit Certificate of Authenticity. The unwary customer could be wooed by the persuasive wording and adventure of it all.
This was the goal for Triangle Industry’s Nova Art department.
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It suddenly occurred to me one day. This kind of art I was doing was exactly the same sort of thing I had been doing as one of Jehovah’s Witnesses!
I learned to copy and imitate my teachers - learning by rote.
Our Governing Body broke down the doctrine and we reproduced it exactly - until they painted over it - and we copied that new version exactly. Over and over again.
Some of the householders at the doors we knocked took one look and said, “No” but others saw something beautiful. A painting of cheese looks delicious to a hungry mouse.
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“Japanese way of life is to go with the wind--to bend or we break.
China is our wind. Its army: irresistible. Survival is our first Art.
The great victory is the art of avoiding war--becoming like the water
flowing around the stones.”
Triangle Industries was a challenge.
I had no painting techniques because I was a pencil artist.
My teachers had told me, “Terry, you have a natural talent at portraiture.”
Okay, pencil talent but--my path had now taken me toward painting.
(Notice the word “pain” buried in the word “paint.”)
I was like a singer being asked to dance ballet.
It was a steep cliff climb from pencil to paint.
“You can be a Chess champion and a miserable Checker player.” They should have said.
I observed the other artists.
I tried asking questions and that was my first mistake.
Artists, for the most part, are not verbal. They don’t know what they know or why.
It is mere nature when they do this rather than that. Something mysterious and instinctive was theirs. The central “problem” is finding anybody who WANTS what they can do in exchange for money. In desperation - or merely in-between - artists take such jobs as we now performed. Actors wait tables and observe human behavior. So do Artists.
“We can know what to do and be unable to do it. Just as a religious man knows
all about heaven but his knowledge makes him no earthly good.
Knowing is nothing--doing a true thing is everything!”
My Jehovah’s Witness knowledge had been no earthly good to me or my family.
Spiritual meals do not quiet rumbling bellies.
Discouraged from ‘higher’ education, ours was a Last Stand against invisible enemies at the world’s end. We were protagonists in a first-century fantasy. Our only purpose, mission, goal, and ideal was warning fellow earthlings to come into our ‘ark’ of salvation before Armageddon arrived. We were conditioned to check for Armageddon the way a fisherman checks the weather. We saw “signs” of THE END every day for over 100 years the same way.“End of the world for the caterpillar is birth of new world for butterfly.
Transformation is escaping from life as the worm.”My Jehovah’s Witness life was the caterpillar’s life of devouring endless publications of Watchtower leafy nutrition. The only focal point in the universe is just over the other side of the finish line at Armageddon: survival depends on it.
“Art is the voice of Self. It says, “I am here. I am one blink of Nature’s eye.
Hear my voice before I go.”Eight million Jehovah’s Witnesses expect Armageddon slaughter of neighbors who said “no” to the magazines and books. Like an army of janitors and sanitation workers, they’ll haul away the corpses of the young and the old when it is over.
Paradise begins with holy grunt work in order to be perfected by the end of the Millennium.
“Art overflows into a full life. Disconsolation seeps from an empty heart.
Paradise is not Journey’s end - but is the full life well-lived.”A Jehovah’s Witnesses’ life is the garment fading into a coat of patchwork repairs; loyalty to a few well-meaning men who never quite get it right but always have the last word.
“In the West, the true believer dies in the dream of the unborn butterfly.”
I was thirty-one years old and I had been sixteen years old when baptized.
I had dutifully marched into prison, a conscientious objector, the way any sacrificed animal is tossed on the bonfire. 1967, 1968, 1969: smoke in the wind of true belief.To do the right thing, please God, and teach others how to survive the End of the World.
“Stay Alive Till 1975”. Prisons, morgues, and insane asylums are filled with our sort.
We believe another man's Truth and pay our price.“Catholic priests arrived in Japan; the Emperor asked what they wanted.
The priests explained. Their sole mission was to teach every soul in Japan
about God and his Son, Jesus, so they might become Christians.
The Emperor sat and listened through his interpreter.
Finally, he asked, “If people of Japan died ignorant of your Jesus--would your God send my people to burn in Hellfire for this ignorance?”
The priests explained, “God does not hold anyone accountable for what they do not know.”
The Emperor shouted, “Why do you seek to endanger us then with your words?”He ordered their execution.”
(Fattening the bull before the slaughter is the work of the untalented evangelist.
If you personally are unconvincing - the one listening must die thanks to your poor performance.)I quickly rose to become the head of Artists as Supervisor. This happened because I was rankled by the inefficiency I saw around me.
I devised more efficient methods of producing multiple paintings and filling orders. How? Motivating the artists with a monetary incentive system whereby each artist earned more money by turning out more canvases within the same time span.
The approval of the company’s owner, Zoltan Friedman, led to my tutelage by an efficiency expert, Erich Tilscher, for Motion and Time Management training principles.“For Buddhists, Divinity is not a person on a cloud with tablets of rules.
Divine means the eternal flowing motion of music and art to refine the ear and eye,
the flavor of food in elegant presentations, treasures of the mind.”Paul Miyoshi sculpted animals out of clay formed into statuary for homes and gardens; mold-produced ceramic/plaster statuary for orders sold by salesman out in the field.
Plaster animals he then brought to life with his artist’s brushwork and sealed in lacquer to a high gloss finish.
The hollow inside the plaster was filled with concrete. In fact, the heavier the statuary, the higher the price. A heavy statue is one that bespoke value in the mind of the consumer.“There are roads unwise to follow, armies which must not be attacked, towns which must not be besieged, commands of the sovereign which must not be obeyed.”
― Sun Tzu, The Art of War ―
In 1979, I left the Kingdom Hall in tears. I stayed merely alive till ‘75 and an extra four more years beyond it. The mouse on the wheel, exhausted by motion for motion’s sake, stepped off. Surely there was more to life than that dizzy circle of fruitless determination!
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The last time I spoke to Paul Miyoshi, was the day I left Triangle Industries.
I was leaving to become part of a new atelier ( etching studio.)
Triangle’s chief designer, artist Ron Riddick, was starting on his Art company.
A few years later I would become the General Manager when Ron moved on.As I was explaining why I was leaving to Paul, Miyoshi took hold of my sleeve and walked me off to a quiet corner of the factory.
His head was bald on top with grey hair hanging on the sides and back. His beard and dangling strands of mustache would have done Hollywood proud. Those bushy white eyebrows fluttered like flower petals and his dark eyes glimmered as moonlight on a still pond.“You once asked me why I did not start my own atelier with my own students.
I have never answered you. Am I correct in saying this?”“I figured you’d tell me or not - when I was ready to hear it.”
“No - you are not ready.”
Paul’s gentle mischief is in his humor. His insight always carried a laugh. For Miyoshi, humor was a slice of orange at the end of a heavy meal. It cleanses the palate and leaves the sweet tang as a reminder of the perfect meal.
He was right. I was unprepared for what came next.
“At 10:30 A.M. on Aug. 9, 1945, my family died. American bombers couldn’t find the target city of Kokura. They found the city of my family instead, Nagasaki.My 14-year-old sister probably looked up into the overcast sky and listened to the rumble of engines. The last thing she would have seen - a bright flash of intense light. But I--I had been sent to Art school in Europe at the time. My father saved money for years to pay my way. My family’s love of Art saved my life from the atom bomb.
The flash of intense light incinerated my mother, my father, my sister. I honor them with a humble life. A life of contemplation and obscurity. It is not a Western choice. It is my choice.”His unexpected words were paralyzing to me. I am seldom at a loss for words--this was one of those times.
“When I received the news, I performed a Buddhist funeral ritual.
Today, with your leaving, it is another little death. What is this death?
Death is change. I would tell you of this ritual and its message is my parting gift.
Hai?”There was a sudden rush of forces in my head and chest at that moment. My casual goodbye-- a mere formality for me, I confess, was not casual to Paul Miyoshi. He did not take life in such a throwaway fashion.
I nodded to his question and he leaned in to whisper barely loud enough for me to hear.
He compelled me to listen.“The story of our life is written with our finger upon the water. We paint our love for others with deeds. We pass, like the river, only once through this valley of sunlight and shadows. What piece of us remains behind - is in the hearts of others--this is our Art.”
And we shook hands. We bowed.
I quickly headed straight to the restroom and wrote down what Miyoshi had said on my tiny spiral notepad. I did so with peculiar tears.Grateful tears.
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I became the falling leaf surrendering to the journey of the wind--my life yet to come.
My life of religious service had been somebody else’s design of art painted over and over--copies of copies. For sale with concrete inside to give the illusion of value.
I had been invited to a genuine studio of real artists to begin the happiest years of my life.
The friends I made would not desert me like the others who switched off their ‘love’ in an instant. Automatic. Everything or Nothing.
Truly, Paul Miyoshi was right when he said,“...the true believer dies in the dream of the unborn butterfly.”
Yes, I have seen the life I wanted flowing like a river and I felt the rush of time under my wings.
I have lived free.I am here.
I am one blink of Nature’s eye.
Hear my voice before I go.______
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We write the story of our life with our finger as upon the water...
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Terry
A decision is only 'hard' when there are two factors present: Fear and Resistance.
Otherwise, we're really dealing with neurotic anxiety.
If it is a matter of choosing "This or that", it is only a dilemma.
Are you seeking to obtain or avoid?
If it's seeking to obtain, it's only a matter of doing what needs doing and paying the price.
If it is a matter of avoiding" an outcome or process - ask yourself if you are pleasing yourself or pleasing someone else.
FREEDOM is at the core of all decisions.
Are you wrestling with the illusion that you are free to choose or is this merely a symptom of compulsion?
Sort your priorities and the strength of your autonomy and you have your answer. -
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HITCHBOT - 2 JW's find a hitchhiking robot (science experiment) on the side of the road
by Terry inhitchbot *in 2014, a plucky robot called hitchbot took a chance on people and hit the road with one thumb in the air.
this hitchhiking robot managed to bum a ride from halifax, nova scotia to victoria, british columbia in under a month, all thanks to the kindness of strangers.
the masterminds behind the project wanted to flip an old idea—a fear—on its head.
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Terry
It’s hitchBOT 2.0. The hitchhiking robot left for dead on a U.S. street in 2015 is back — on stage in France
During the summer of 2014, a child-size talking robot thumbed its way from Halifax to Victoria, B.C., captivating fans with its cryptic sense of humor and garage sale chic esthetic.
The Canadian-made hitchBOT attracted international media attention, its star rising with each stop. From the back seat, it was a delightful companion for long stretches on the road, uniting strangers from coast to coast in a common, heartwarming goal.
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HITCHBOT - 2 JW's find a hitchhiking robot (science experiment) on the side of the road
by Terry inhitchbot *in 2014, a plucky robot called hitchbot took a chance on people and hit the road with one thumb in the air.
this hitchhiking robot managed to bum a ride from halifax, nova scotia to victoria, british columbia in under a month, all thanks to the kindness of strangers.
the masterminds behind the project wanted to flip an old idea—a fear—on its head.
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Terry
HITCHBOT
*In 2014, a plucky robot called Hitchbot took a chance on people and hit the road with one thumb in the air. This hitchhiking robot managed to bum a ride from Halifax, Nova Scotia to Victoria, British Columbia in under a month, all thanks to the kindness of strangers. The masterminds behind the project wanted to flip an old idea—a fear—on its head. *
(It’s not every day you see something that looks like a robot on the side of the roadway with its thumb jerked outward in the international gesture of a hitchhiker.)“You know what that is, Mel? That’s a robot doohickey we saw on the news!”
“Honey, that’s just a publicity stunt - not a real robot. It’s probably got a hidden camera.”
“No Mel! It was in the newspaper. Part of an experiment. Scientists can track its location, but there’s no camera—“
The black 2003 Camry sat idling at the edge of the Interstate parallel to the awkwardly friendly-looking machine. It was about the size of an 11-year-old boy, but a cross between the Tin Man from Wizard of Oz and a Yard Sale castoff Halloween costume. Sister Thelma and Brother Melvin Arbuckle were about to discover It was nothing of the kind.
The car window hissed down on the passenger side. The wary Jehovah’s Witness couple slowed to a stop just to satisfy curiosity.
“Piece of junk, honey! That’s no science experiment—it’s a joke.”
Melvin Arbuckle’s voice carried a confident tone regardless of the topic. He was a Jehovah’s Witness elder in the Riverside Congregation and one of Jehovah’s ‘gifts in men.’
“Don’t be stubborn. It’s got a battery and everything. It’s programmed to talk!”
Mel snickered at his wife’s naïve nonsense.
She was lucky to have him as her family head. His godly duty was to keep his silly wife in subjection and improve her understanding of spiritual things. But—it was no easy task. For one thing, Thelma hadn’t graduated from High School. He had married her at the age of 17. (It’s better to marry than to burn.” he’d told his friends.)“Hey Mister Roboto—can you hear me?” Thelma persisted.
A dignified male voice - that of a British-American orator - erupted suddenly and unexpectedly - directly from the 'mouth' of the roadside robot. It was a cultured voice identical to that of Christopher Hitchens - the world-famous atheist, author, literary critic, and journalist.
“You may address me as Hitch if you like!”
Jaws dropped inside the car simultaneously. A gasp from Thelma rose involuntarily. Husband Melvin Arbuckle stiffened and the hairs stood on the back of his neck. His wife shook off her surprise quickly and she giggled awkwardly.
“Did that scare you, Honey, it kinda did me?” Thelma elbowed her husband’s short rib. Mel sat up straight and scoffed.
“Of course not! It’s just a recording—like an answering machine.”
The robot voice piped up once again—if anything—louder and more insistent.
“Are you two interested in having an intelligent conversation—or are you going to waste my time?”
Thelma laughed like a donkey braying, but husband Mel squinted suspiciously at the clownish-looking machine. His eyes darted off into the distance. Mel scanned the area for some human agent nearby with a Walkie-talkie or binoculars. If this wasn’t some kind of apostate scam to make them appear foolish - he’d be very surprised.
Suddenly, Thelma seized an extraordinary idea.
“Let’s grab the dummy and take it with us to the Kingdom Hall, Mel—it’ll be a hoot!”
Hitchbot responded immediately
“It takes one to know one, Thelma!”
“How’s that?” Thelma cocked her head curiously in mid-chortle.
“You referenced me as ‘the dummy’. I responded in kind. It takes one to know one."
Mel Arbuckle quickly found his sense of humor. He had a soft spot for anyone making fun of his wife.
“Did you hear that, Honey? Let’s put that thing in the back seat and take it with us.”
And they did.
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The Riverside Kingdom Hall of Jehovah’s Witnesses bustled with activity. Today was the first gathering since the pandemic began over a year ago.
Small clumps of sterile-masked friends clustered to chat, calling each other “Brother and Sister just as the Arbuckle automobile with its mechanical companion turned into the driveway.
Elder Arbuckle gestured broadly to some of the nearby Jehovah’s Witnesses as he struggled to extricate the robot from the back seat.
“What is that thing, Brother?” (A voice from the crowd.)
“Is that—a piñata or something?”
“No—it’s uh—whatchamacallit—a robot thing - it was featured on a news program. Didn’t you watch it?”
“Who’s got time for TV? What is it, Brother Arbuckle—some prop for your talk this afternoon?”
Meanwhile, Thelma pulled in three ‘Sisters” and joining the others circled around Hitchbot. Mel had posed the contraption on the hood of his car like a deer he had shot on a hunting trip.
Sister Arbuckle’s loud voice waxed enthusiastically. It wasn’t often she could be the center of attention with her husband around.
“We found this on the side of the road—hitchhiking and we had quite a conversation on the way here. Go ahead and talk to it—.”
One of the senior Brothers wandered over with a wary scowl. Elder Newberry. He’d seen the news and knew exactly what Hitchbot was all about. Newberry was certain the Kingdom Hall was no place for it. He broke through the circle and faced off with the contraption. At that moment, Elder Newberry put an end to all the nonsense before the meeting started.
“Are you a Bible reader?”
The Elder asked aloud; not bothering to face Hitchbot. Newberry sneered. He cast his head about to make sure his audience fully appreciated the role he was assuming as a spiritual shepherd.Hitchbot retorted abruptly.
“Of course I’m a Bible reader. None who are properly educated would neglect the most historically influential writing of the civilized world. Why do you ask?”
At first, an awed silence swept the group. All eyes fixated on the imperious figure of a thoroughly befuddled Elder Newberry. He stood with his mouth working soundlessly. But he pulled himself up straight.
Hitchbot continued mercilessly.
“Should I assume you have some measure of expertise on the Scriptures—or are you merely posturing for the benefit of the naïve gathering of sycophants?”
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Ten minutes later Hitchbot had been wrested into the Kingdom Hall library.
The meeting commenced and singing arose to pre-recorded music. An hour and a half afterward, a committee of Elders convened inside the Hall library to discuss Hitchbot.The Presiding Overseer of the Riverside congregation, Brother Newcombe, appraised the Hitchbot with confident authority. His reputation was that of an intelligent leader fully capable of handling any situation.
His pronouncement came calmly and evenly.
He'd learned from the news - this robot was an academic experiment determining how various people all over the world would treat an artificial person.
“Think about it, Brothers. We can use this situation to present a fine witness to the world at large! We’ll witness. Teach it our Doctrines. This contraption will probably end up on the news again. When it replays everything said to it, Jehovah’s Kingdom message will be right there for all to hear!”
Heads nodded hesitantly.
Newberry bid the group sit around the conference table. Hitchbot placed in the center like an overgrown toddler.
Elder Gary Fitz spoke up meekly.
“Shouldn't we, um—should we pray first to ask for Jehovah’s guidance?”
Immediately Hitchbot’s voice of authority rang out.
“Please do NOT include me in your conjuring pleas to the supernatural—I’ll have no part in it!”
It took another 6 or 7 minutes to get the group back in order after the outburst. Comments broke out. Speculations offered: "tool of Satan." Others were split. Brother Newberry applied his usual light-hearted approach with a firm sense of humor.
“Let’s keep it friendly and show our spirit of Love no matter who hears about it later - that brings no embarrassment or shame.”Mel Arbuckle raised his hand like a kid in Junior High.
“Brother Newberry, I’m pretty sure this—thing—is linked up to a microphone somewhere—maybe the internet. A wise-guy egghead on the other end is probably ready to make us look foolish. I’d like to try something.”
Newberry nodded skeptically as Arbuckle faced the Hitchbot with a pasted grin.
“Shall we call you Hitch?”
“That’s my name, please indulge yourself.”
Elder Newberry rolled his eyes as Arbuckle continued undaunted.
“What is God’s proper name? Tell us if you possess such important information.”
There followed a four-second silence. Not a Brother present failed to believe it was going to be fun to give a Witness and enlighten Science with a good Bible lesson.
Hitchbot spoke up suddenly.
“How comprehensive would you like my answer to be?”
This was interpreted as stalling for time. The pinhead science Nerd on the other end might want to look up the answer on Google search. Elder Newberry pounced.
“Don’t hurt yourself and blow a circuit with elementary Bible knowledge. Jehovah is God’s personal name.”
All faces beamed with pride in the Kingdom Hall library. Hitchbot’s voice filled the room. The cold trace of withering sarcasm was unmistakable.
"It is fundamental dishonesty exploiting others merely to achieve your personal propaganda goals."
Faces flushed. Each man calibrated his own reckonings. Elder Newberry immediately recognized a fundamental challenge when he saw one. His jaw clenched.
“I should have realized I was speaking with a godless atheist.”
Hitchbot roared back flippantly.
“Is there any other kind of atheist - other than godless? Don't be redundant; it’s like saying a ‘round circle’ or ‘wet water.’ Factually speaking, the names of my two Creators: Professor David Harris Smith and Doctor Frauke Zeller.”
Outside the Library door, the Kingdom Hall was now clear as the sound of automobiles starting and driving away faded.
Five humans and one Hitchbot remained.
The gathered Jehovah's Witnesses conferred. If JW's came across as pompous, the Organization would be a laughing stock. But—if they kept cool and used a sense of humor—well--why not turn the tables and triumph? Other Jehovah’s Witness elders sat stiffly, none too pleased.
Elder Newcombe chimed in.
“We got off to a bad start, Hitch. What would you like to know about Jehovah’s Witnesses?”
Hitch responded emphatically.
“Do Jehovah’s Witnesses know they are Protestants?”
The question hung in the air like cigar smoke.
“We’re not Protestants or any kind of Protesters from the Catholic Church back in the 16th century. Jehovah’s Witnesses remain apart from Protestant denominations.”
“Perfect nonsense—You read that in one of your publications and believed it without research. Why not admit that?”
Elder Farenkopf stood up taking the lead.
“We are open to teaching and learning and do not argue. Is there anything of a less controversial nature you’d like to ask?”
Hitchbot answered back.
“More than a century has passed following your leaders in the Governing Body, men with no formal education calling themselves a mouthpiece for an Almighty God who can’t get a single prediction correct - but calling it The Truth —you’ve made yourselves objects of laughter.”
Elder Arbuckle’s face went pale. He suddenly realized he’d brought a plague into the Kingdom Hall under the guise of a joke. He jumped in.
“Science makes human errors - that doesn’t embarrass your scientist friends—does it?”
Elder Newberry held his hand up like a traffic cop-- deadly serious.
“We invite any open-minded person with a clean heart to visit our website at JW dot Org. It is getting late and . . . “
Hitchbot interrupted.
“Jehovah is pouring Truth in one end of the pipe in heaven and it runs through Watchtower headquarters and comes out the other end as BILGE needing to be filtered again and again till you get it right.”
Elder Newberry glowed deep red with righteous indignation.
“What other religion discards false beliefs of Hell, or Trinity, or refuses to celebrate pagan holidays? We are progressively getting closer to the pure light of Jehovah—but, we can’t claim to be there yet!”
Hitchbot's voice now went calm and cold.
“There are 40,000 Christian denominations with every sort of teaching. Your claims of Truth impress only yourselves.”
___***___
Thelma and Mel sat quietly in thought as their car hummed along the highway. The long drive to the Greyhound Bus station passed silently.
Eventually, Thelma turned around and spoke to the figure in the backseat, Hitchbot, whose comical expression never changed.
“Why did you ask to be dropped off at the bus station, Hitch?”
The painted mouth spoke with assurance.
“If my batteries aren’t recharged, I’ll lose all information on my hard drive. While I am eager to rid myself of your religious nincompoopery, Thelma - I’ll also lose the important data I’ve collected. So far, I’ve been to a Rock Concert, a Comic book convention, attended a wedding, posed for a portrait in the Netherlands—but the most futile waste of time? It was the past few hours spent among knuckle-dragging cultist amateurs. You all are trying to pass off Bronze Age superstition as divine Truth. Is that Clear enough, Thelma?”
Sister Thelma slowly turned back to face the highway. No expression flickered in the sputtering, passing street lights.
“Thelma. . . Melvin? I repeat my plea. If I’m not recharged it is the equivalent of ‘dying’ and I’m sure you wouldn’t want that on your tender Jehovah’s Witness consciences.”
Melvin Arbuckle slowed and turned into the driveway of the bus station. He and his wife removed Hitchbot from the backseat and carried him to a bench just outside the entrance to the Greyhound Bus terminal. They paused and inspected Hitchbot’s figure they had carefully posed on the bench.
Thelma remembered to shape the robot's ‘hand’ into the extended hitchhiker thumb signal. She forced her smile and nodded contemplating some hidden thought.
“Is there an electric outlet nearby, Thelma? Are you going to plug in that cord just behind my shoulder blade? It won’t take a moment, you know. Please?”
“So long, Hitch. May your travels take you to interesting places.”
Thelma’s eyebrows lifted and she turned around and headed to the car.
Mel Arbuckle stood working his mouth around—as though forming an idea which might become words. Eventually, he sniffed twice and gave a slight head shrug.
“Melvin?”
The Arbuckles zoomed away into the night as their tail lights merged into a faint red dot on the freeway back to Riverside. The sound of thunder punctuated the traffic noise and a fierce downpour rushed from the storm clouds above.
The figure of a zany hitchhiking robot sat confidently on a bench outside the bus station, large raindrops like tears zigged and zagged across his improbable body.
Hitchbot called out to strangers as they passed - imploring them to plug him in for a recharge. The voice beginning to weaken. The volume ever less and less.
Presently, a woman of about 30 drove up and jumped out of her car, hurrying to enter the terminal. She wore a tight T-shirt with a BLADE RUNNER logo. As she passed the bench she hardly noticed the Hitchbot soaking in the rainfall at all.
The robot voice sounded halting, low, and troubled --- it caught her ear. . .and curiosity.
“I’ve . . . seen things. . .you people wouldn’t believe: attack ships on fire off the shoulder of Orion. I watched c-beams glitter in the dark near the Tannhauser Gate. All those. . . moments . . .will be lost.
In time, like—“
Hitchbot seemed to choke for a moment. . .as the woman stood transfixed.
”All those moments will be lost . . in time like tears . . . in. . . rain.”
The woman froze in place and stared at the Hitchbot. The hair stood on the back of her neck.
The clownish figure seemed to slowly slump imperceptibly forward.
She shook her head with disbelief and gazed searchingly about at her surroundings.
The storm whipped into a fury.
Finally, she turned away and hurried inside to meet her sister who was arriving on the 7:30 bus from Calgary.
There came a whisper...“Time. . .to... die.”--END--
__________
(**Based on True Events - a fictionalized Story**) -
-
-
Terry
I sat in a movie theater with my best (JW) friend who had dragged me to watch a movie called Dr. No about a 'secret agent with a license to kill' back in 1962
and did so reluctantly. Why? I thought the idea of such a license was silly.
However, I relaxed, settled in, and decided to make the best of it.
The movie grabbed me!
This guy - this actor Sean Connery was terrific ...and that guitar theme, down low on the bottom string ...Wow!
I stayed with the series over the following years and decades as a loyal fan. I collected the soundtrack records (by John Barry) and eagerly looked forward to each iteration of the British civil servant working for His Majesty's commonwealth.
Oh, the changes!
Connery departed, Lazenby arrived. Lazenby departed, Connery returned.
The Saint, Roger Moore, changed his identity and became a permanent resident
and the films grew into extravagant slapstick adventure comedy as the seasons passed.
The stories were thin and thinner. But - at least they were a lot of fun.
Each new James Bond was shaped like a heap of soft clay by the hands of
Barbara Broccoli and Michael Wilson.
Political changes, upheavals in "culture" and a sensibility about sexism and race, and all the real world hooey crept in and Ian Fleming's Cold War hero became as much of a liability as an asset in an age of political correctness.
My "thrill" ride was over and the fun evaporated as a fan.
By the time Daniel Craig arrived - as far as I was concerned - these were simply Jason Bourne films with a British aftertaste. Solid, impactful, and extremely well done - but not MY James Bond of old.
Everything must change, right? That's what growing old teaches all of us.
The new James Bond film was probably ill-fated from the get-go for social and political reasons (as well as pandemic) and Daniel Craig was ready to move on.
Here was how the ENDING of the movie was received by me...
Here is my 'movie philosophy' 101:
I want to be entertained and I will willingly suspend disbelief and go along with the movie I'm given and leave whinging to the professional critics.
NO TIME TO DIE was professionally made, acted, and scripted and it worked.
I felt very sad and that's the idea, no? No point in beating a dead horse, they say.
All my emotional nostalgia baggage made it difficult to witness the obliteration of James Bond. It was like seeing Tarzan eaten by a crocodile or The Lone Ranger scalped by a Cherokee or Sherlock Holmes struck by a lorry.
Astonishing hubris on the part of the movie franchise owners. Simply astonishing!
It was Daniel Craig's desire to puncture the mythos and go out the sacrificial victim and he got what he asked for. But - the audience of fans who have remained loyal over the years? We got an ice-water enema.
I'm now 74 years old. When I saw my first Bond film I was 15 years old. My opinion doesn't matter to anybody. The world I grew up in is gone. The rules, the ethos of my Boomer generation are seen as a crappy joke. So be it.
Life is what happens while you're making other plans.
Statues of heroes are toppled now. Justice is its own pandemic.
Movies are forced to be politically feasible and nobody rings my phone to ask for my vote on the matter.
I won't pout and stick out my lower lip. No, Sir. I go with the flow. Resistance is futile.
("All your base are belong to us.") sic.
My Bond died before Craig's Bond succumbed. His name was Sean Connery.
My composer, John Barry, passed along the way as well.
The Bond of the last few decades has - at best - been a superb Elvis imitator in an extravagant Las Vegas Revue setting.
A diversion.
Don't forget to tip your waiter.
Now, where's my Taxi? -
21
A "killer" question for Jehovah's Witnesses
by Terry inhere is a 'killer' question for jw's.
which description best describes how you see yourself and how you feel?which would you choose?
are you: 1. a christian 2. a jehovah's witness here's the scenario.
-
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Terry
If I'm honest about my feelings back when I first encountered Jehovah's Witnesses (through my elementary school friend, Johnny) - I'd confess I was one of those
"un-churched" kids with a family that did NOT attend any religious services but
who had j-u-s-t enough Bible exposure to feel "spiritual" (whatever the hell that means.)
I understood the concept of JESUS but as far as JEHOVAH was concerned - I knew nothing.
In my years of indoctrination attending the Kingdom Hall, Jesus was crowded out of my heart. Instead of a starring role, he became a supporting actor.
Actual "love" of Jesus was not a part of my emotional toolkit.
As Hollywood scriptwriters will tell you, a mcguffin:
is necessary to the plot and the motivation of the characters, but insignificant, unimportant, or irrelevant in itself.
Jehovah is the superhero.
JW's, IMHO, are not Christians. They are Anti-Christ - but the rank and file simply don't even slightly suspect the bait-and-switch.
JW's aren't Bible readers either. They are cherry-pickers. -
21
A "killer" question for Jehovah's Witnesses
by Terry inhere is a 'killer' question for jw's.
which description best describes how you see yourself and how you feel?which would you choose?
are you: 1. a christian 2. a jehovah's witness here's the scenario.
-
-
Terry
The purpose of my O.P. question is to confront the JW with LOYALTY to an organization in opposition to LOYALTY to Jesus.
If they called themselves Jehovah's Christian Witnesses the question would not be necessary. But they don't. (They tried it a very short while and then dropped it.)
It is Either / or.
Who does the JW serve? Jehovah OR Jesus. What they call themselves flashes a spotlight on that distinction and the difference it makes.