Posts by Terry

GETTING THE HELL OUT became a long-term goal, especially when NINE-ELEVEN tumbled
in their laps, not all that far from headquarters and undoubtedly scaring the bejeezbus out of them.

When all you've done for a century is predict a violent END - why wouldn't you want to be as far away from
ground zero as possible?

Let's face it - the scam of real estate turnover has always been the grub worm at the root of their tree.
The avalanche of lawsuits put a spanner in the works, however. Child molestation issues could not be kept
under wraps with the easy access to communication + leaks in the internet age.
Watchtower ran out of free lawyers on staff forcing them to hire expensive "worldly" law firms that specialize in protecting
crooked evangelists from bankruptcy.
One thing you can always count on with lawyers: they can drag it out inflating their fees!
This drain on finances has led to emergency liquidations (going out of business sales), begging witness kids for their ice cream money, and demanding commitment to tithing (disguised in weasel language).
Bottom line?
Where do cults go to die? The elephants' graveyard of a CULT COMPOUND.
Circle the wagons.
Sell off the Kingdom Halls.
Pass the kool-aid.

36

My personal thoughts on Ray Franz

by Terry in

the death of ray franz hit me harder than i would have thought.. i had to reflect for awhile....alone......and quietly.. .

after all, fine people die every day and some of them are indispensable, yet, we go on....don't we?.

but, ray franz was something that can only be described in the phrase sui generis (one of a kind).. my task was to ask myself what it was that made ray so singular, potent and admirable without a trace of scandal or ill will attached to his memory.. .

Terry

Ray Franz had mastered the style that Watchtower readers can read and not step on broken glass.
Whereas, straight-ahead polemic chases them away instantly.
The GB got rid of his concordance work as fast as they could as though it were a tuna sandwich
under the mattress.
I have TRIED and failed to read recent Watchtower 'literature' because the writing is grotesque.

THE MYSTERIOUS BOX - a very short horror story entirely without the Supernatural!

by Terry in

jw
friends

the mysterious box.

jobs disappeared.

banks closed.

Terry

THE MYSTERIOUS BOX

Jobs disappeared. Banks closed. Long lines formed in the streets. People called them "bread lines".

Hungry families woke early (if they slept at all) and stood in line all day to snatch a charitable loaf of bread to feed themselves…temporarily.

________

In a cabin in the Appalachian mountains, there dwelt a family of four:
two children (a boy and a girl), a mom, and a dad (he’d lost his job at the sawmill, the mom lost hers at the department store in the nearby city).

Everywhere things looked really bleak.
Tragically, their children were afraid they'd starve.

"Mommy," said the little boy, "are we going to die?"

"No, no, no" the mother reassured him, "let me show you something."
His mother forced a smile, took her son's hand, and walked the boy and his young sister over to the pantry. . . opening the door majestically with joy and hope brilliantly beaming from her face.

She found the stool and stepped up . . . stretching to reach a colorful box on the top shelf of the pantry . . .

As her children watched expectantly, their mother grasped the mysterious box; taking it down, and turning it around wide-eyed --as though she were holding a Christmas present.

The children’s joy and excitement lit that dark moment, not unlike a great burst of sunlight that might bathe a room as a curtain is pulled back revealing a hopeful morning ahead.

Eagerly they followed her back into the kitchen area where she placed the heavy polished wooden display box on the table and slowly opened its lid.

Inside the box revealed all sorts of brightly colored fruit! Oranges, bananas, grapes, cherries, and a huge pineapple!!

"You see that my little Darlings?" The mother’s voice overflowed with music.

The children nodded silently with wonder brimming over in their eyes.

"As long as we have this we are never going to starve to death!"

The brother and his little sister relaxed and smiled ecstatically.

"Can we have a cherry right now?" Her son pleaded.

"Oh, sweetheart, this is for later. Much later--only for emergencies. You know - in case things should ever get really really bad."

Straightaway the mother distracted them by mentioning their favorite Bible storybook, quickly offering to read to them even though bedtime was hours away.

As brutal weeks crawled by, their father hunted in the woods for squirrels, rabbits, or even less appetizing possibilities. Slowly, perceptibly … the children began to lose weight.

The once over-active kids became listless . . . played very little . . . gradually turned hollow of eye and pale.

Their parents listened with hearts breaking - to the plaintive whimpering in the bed at night with their little bellies growling like distant thunder.

Sometimes it was unbearable. Often, in fact.

When hope itself seemed cruel, mother heaved a great sigh and lit a candle to fetch the wondrous box from the pantry shelf placing it on the bed in front of the starving children for them to behold. She’d read to them her favorite scripture from the family Bible.

"Mommy! Please, please....cacan't we have just a taste of.....one....just one grape?"

But, mother solemnly, sternly shook her head from side to side with great sadness and tell them what she always told them.

"When things get really bad and we’re all running out of any hope at all - if our happy hearts should become ungrateful and we stop believing even a little that our Lord and Saviour would allow innocent children to die hungry - well - THAT is when we’ll eat this fruit and no sooner."
Straightaway one and all would go to their knees beside the bed and place prayerful hands together and the father would lead them in a grateful, hopeful prayer that lasted, and lasted until the children passed out exhausted and slept curled on the rug.

That winter was hard.
Mountainous snow drifted into great heaps that prevented much hunting at all. The game animals seemed to vanish from the Earth itself. Grass, roots, and plants dug out from under snow became a meal of bitter soup.

The night would arrive with ferocious winds buffeting the cabin’s log walls, freezing and overcast with frequent flashing bolts of hostile lightning snarling like beasts outside their front door.
But then…finally…inevitably …

Spring came!

The thaw brought a new season and the forest came alive - replenished like a great basket heaped with golden bounty. The sound of hunters shooting game replaced the dark thunder of that awful winter now passed.

The Hunters arrived at the cabin, curious to see how the family of four had weathered the winter.

The men knocked on the door. Loud. Louder. Then shouted to wake the late sleepers.

Knowing people lived inside, they grew worried.

Opening the door they called out, "Anybody home?"

It was dark inside and there was a rancid, truly overwhelming smell that chilled the hearts of the men.

Gradually, their eyes adjusted to the darkness.

They found them. All dead in one large bed.

Holding each other-- the little brother and sister; the Mom and Dad.

Gaunt and wispy they were-- like the limbs of a leafless tree. Gruesomely tragic.
The hunters noticed a dining table beside the bed had been pulled close.
It was as if it were a thing to be observed - not a dining table - but a display table with a mysterious box.

How curious! A colorful box rested in the center. The lid stood open.
Across from the bodies whose heads were turned - as if - worshipfully toward what they beheld.

The hunters stood quietly, their minds turning over the spectacle - so tragically senseless. What could this mean?

Inside that box was a colorful display of fruit - like you sometimes see in the large department stores back East. Several pieces had been gnawed. Bits missing.

A brass plate is engraved at the bottom. There were 7 words:
"It looks just like the real thing!"

At the bottom of the display card in small letters, it read: WAX FRUIT
And large words beneath:

Caution: DO NOT ingest, display only

(poisonous.)

Next to the bed, a large, heavy book lay open...perhaps a storybook.
One last reading for the children perhaps?
A passage was underlined many times.
One of the hunters read it out loud.

“...is the assured expectation of what is hoped for, the evident demonstration of realities that are not seen.”

One of the other hunters spoke out, “What does that mean?”

The man holding the heavy book shook his head with a puzzled expression,
“I don’t know, somebody tore out a hole in front of the sentence.”

The missing piece was found clutched in the mother’s hand.
It was just one small word.

It read “Faith …”

They blew the dust from the cover.

It read, HOLY BIBLE.

At the funeral service in the nearest town, the Minister completed his sermon
And the congregation bowed their heads for the prayer. There was no prayer.
The cleric seemed overtaken by some internal eruption of grief. He spoke only 7 words, then turned and left the congregation wondering …

“What did he say? I couldn’t hear him?” One of the older congregants asked aloud.
Someone from the front pew answered her.
“He said: Man does not live by bread alone.”

______________________

13

Are Jehovah’s Witnesses softening their view of Faders?

by Darkknight757 in

so my in-laws actually went out to dinner with us today.

normally, since leaving in 2016, they wouldn’t eat with us or talk much to me.

(since i did convince their daughter to leave the cult).

Terry

Elsewhere (other than the U.S.) Watchtower treatment of DF'd persons (especially under age) has backfired on the Org.
This seems to my way of reasoning to be the heuristic behind an apparent softening (for public relations purposes.)
The leopard can't change its spots.

(Norwegian officials apparently acted against the Witnesses because they are troubled by the group’s practice of disfellowshipping; i.e., severing contact with people who leave the church.)

https://avoidjw.org/world-news/jehovahs-witnesses-face-trial-hate-crimes-february-2021/

https://abcnews.go.com/International/russias-mysterious-campaign-jehovahs-witnesses/story?id=78629389

https://www.au.org/the-latest/church-and-state/articles/jehovahs-witnesses-lose-tax-funding-in-norway/

36

My personal thoughts on Ray Franz

by Terry in

the death of ray franz hit me harder than i would have thought.. i had to reflect for awhile....alone......and quietly.. .

after all, fine people die every day and some of them are indispensable, yet, we go on....don't we?.

but, ray franz was something that can only be described in the phrase sui generis (one of a kind).. my task was to ask myself what it was that made ray so singular, potent and admirable without a trace of scandal or ill will attached to his memory.. .

Terry

IMHO Ray Franz was not an "Apostate" for the simple reason he didn't have the anger and ego or eagerness
to push himself forward into a "reform movement" with himself at the forefront.
It is just my opinion - but- I think Ray Franz COULD HAVE begun a REFORM movement. But you can't
build on a bad foundation and he knew that. His ambition for notoriety was zero.

Comparing Fred Franz (the "oracle") with Ray Franz (humble servant) is all you need to do to capture the essence
of what went down at JW headquarters. Fred Franz was MENTAL. Ray was clear-thinking. Ghastly nonsense from Fred swept like a tornado over ordinary people's lives wrecking their prospects of having an existence without self-induced trauma. Some of us have had mentally disaffected people in our own family and we know what happens if they are an authority with power over others. Ray was tolerant in forbearance. That is a word nobody uses anymore. Look it up and there should be a picture of Ray next to it :)

Modern Day Jehovah's Witnesses have (take a deep breath) NEVER HEARD of Ray Franz for a good reason. (Good in the worst possible ironic sense). The Governing Body is hyper-aware of what a few words of Ray's illumination could do to their castle in the clouds.

Psychiatrically, people do things for all sorts of personal reasons but put a public face of benevolence on it all and that is belied by consequences...eventually. Fred Franz invented chronology nonsense, polished turd heaps of fallible scenarios leading to FALSE DATES, and never paid for his crimes. The JW organization REWARDED his failures by making him PRESIDENT even after the disaster of 1975. Stop and think about that!
The Watchtower corporations are evil empire comic book style insanity and their Herculean efforts at covering their collective ass by cracking down on historical proof they are WRONG is openly apparent (if you dare take a look at Ray Franz's words).
Ray Franz pulled back that Wizard of Oz curtain and the flim-flam took our breath away.
Ray's spark started a cleansing fire and the push-back of GB authoritarianism has grown more ferocious and insane over the last forty years.
I'm glad we are talking about Ray once more. A whistleblower is a kind of martyr and if you look that word up in your dictionary, the root means (ironically) "witness". Jehovah's Witnesses have never been eyewitnesses to a Governing Body meeting but Ray was. He is a true Jehovah's (martyr).

for·bear·ance

/fôrˈberəns,fərˈberəns/

Learn to pronounce

noun

patient self-control; restraint and tolerance.

20

WATCHTOWER's RTO (Remote translation offices) like this one are million dollar luxury locations

by Terry in

jw
friends

more than 60 percent of our full-time translation teams work, not at branch offices, but at remote translation offices (rto).

why is this arrangement beneficial?

what equipment do translators need in order to work effectively at an rto?

Terry

I'd really like to know if GB each has his own getaway location or if it really is just for the purpose of
real estate investment schema.

2

The One and Only Time I went to Sunday School as a 5 year old boy

by Terry in

jw
friends

sunday schoolnobody…nobody went to church in my house.

not even on sunday.not while i was growing up.

not ever.my grandmother had been placed in a convent when she turned thirteen.

Terry

Thank you, Smiles - I appreciate the reading of it!

2

The One and Only Time I went to Sunday School as a 5 year old boy

by Terry in

jw
friends

sunday schoolnobody…nobody went to church in my house.

not even on sunday.not while i was growing up.

not ever.my grandmother had been placed in a convent when she turned thirteen.

Terry

SUNDAY SCHOOL

Nobody…
Nobody went to church in my house. Not even on Sunday.
Not while I was growing up. Not ever.

My grandmother had been placed in a convent when she turned thirteen. It was a few days after her first period ended.
Her stories about how she was treated by the nuns chilled me.

She spoke in an awed whisper about Jesus and her personal Bible was a beautiful miniature book made of polished ivory and the figure of Mary was carved into the cover - it emerged upward (bas relief).
My fingers touched her face and she seemed to smile.

Grandmother sat me in her lap and read her favorite Bible verses aloud when I was a small child. Her finger pointed as she read word by word…slowly…
This is how I learned to read while still very young.

As Jesus spoke the strangest thing occurred - His words turned red!

“Why don’t we go to church?” I asked.

Oddly enough, I got my answer through personal experience. I’ll tell you about that now… …

(1953)

In my front yard, hanging from the limb of my favorite tree, listening to a hundred cicadas scraping away in the hot summer sunshine, a rumbling came. I must have been six years old.

A large yellow bus rolled under the shade trees and squeaked to a stop.
A burly stranger emerged. He stalked straight over to my tree as though he meant to startle me. This he surely did!

I had been cautioned: never talk to strangers!

His bright yellow bus wobbled with cantankerous children whose clamors now reached me clear across the grassy patch of yard.
Black letters stenciled along the vehicle’s side read:

VACATION BIBLE SCHOOL

I slipped off the tree branch and landed like a spooked cat on my feet as the large man approached and spoke.

"Which church do you attend, son?"

It was unthinkable that I not answer. "None!" I blurted.

I wasn't sure why a sense of shame crept over me. I had a vague notion everybody probably ought to go to church. Maybe I'd heard kids at school talk about whatever church they attended. Yet, shame it was that welled up inside of me. I trembled.

The bus driver blotted out the sun. I was standing in his shadow as he spoke in a low, gentle voice.

"Your parents don't make you go to Sunday school?"

There was wonderment in his tone. I felt fevered heat welling up in my cheeks.

"I don't have a Dad. My parents divorced." I whispered.
My entire world was revealed in one nervous sentence! Why had I said it?

In my sullen imagination, I was a child both inferior and defective. A boy without a father may be thought of as a bastard, you see.

I was confessing the last thing I wanted any soul to know or suspect!

The school bus man studied me the way kids peer at spiders using a magnifying glass and an attitude of detached concern.

"I need to speak to your Mom. Do you live in this house?" He gestured.
His voice left no room for anything but the truth.

"I live here, uh-huh."

I pointed at my grandparent’s hand-built house resting on concrete blocks behind him.

The dark shadow of a man loped over to the door at the top of three steps.

Before he could knock, I noticed my grandma positioned behind the screen door. She spoke a greeting to the man.

I really didn't want to hear anything they said to each other. If I didn’t move or listen or think about what was being said. It. I wished to be invisible; like hiding under the bedcovers from a monster.

Their adult conversation was brief. I hadn't moved even half an inch.
He returned to my side.

"I spoke to your grandma telling her all children must attend their Creator’s house on Sabbath. Listen, I'll pick you up next Sunday. See that bus over there? I’ll arrive at 9 am sharp; unless I’m early or late. Be clean. Be ready.”

No smile. I was his captive.

He gave me a look that seemed to say, 'Do you understand English?'

I just shrugged and nodded.

"I'm called Brother Branch." He continued staring at me expecting something.
I determined to hold my breath and slip from notice as soon as possible.

"And, what is your name?" He finally asked with quiet exasperation.

"Oh, um - Terry."

He cocked his head a bit allowing my words to slide into memory. Then, he nodded, turned, and left.

As abruptly as the incident began he was back on the bus. A rude sound ground away at the gears until every part of the yellow mirage vanished in a shimmering puff of dust and smoky sunlight.

Immediately I let out a lung full of pent-up air in a slow whoosh, trembling as though a big dog had wandered onto the property and opted not to bite me.

I felt a little relief.

I was surrounded by a copse of rustling green branches overhead whispering warnings in the wind. Under a canopy of trees. My world.

Something still bothered me. A sense of dread welled up.

I realized for the first time - I was obligated to God. I was obligated to God…

One week to the day, I stood on my front porch, eyes scanning the highway.
I was a five-year-old boy all slicked up in an uncomfortable white shirt and slacks; I nervously waited. Inside my pocket was a rolled-up dollar bill my Maw-maw offered, which she explained was for contribution or the collection plate sure to come.

Inside my head felt like a hive of angry bees.

All I knew is I was obligated. No escape. God was coming for me in a rickety yellow bus.

Until now, my Sundays were good for swinging on a long rope and yodeling my Tarzan yell. Not today. My life no longer belonged only to me.

I had no notion of what to expect or what was expected of me.

Bashful around strangers and without charm or guile, I was the very portrait of a pathetic child who, it seems, somehow appears to beg to be teased.

Photographs of me until the age of eighteen portray a hang dog countenance.

Most adult strangers greeted me for the first time with “What’s wrong; are you okay?” I seldom was. I was a wild child with no brothers, sisters, or playmates.

Vibrations in the air preceded gear torture as the manhandled yellow vehicle coughed into view. I trudged forward; a prisoner to the gallows.

The mouth of the beast opened and swallowed me whole.

The bus ride to Brother Branch’s church was merriment for the kids who were teasers and bullies. I was taunted for having a “girl’s name.” Terry. I had been named after a comic strip character. He was a jet pilot in TERRY and the PIRATES, supposedly my father’s favorite. In the early 50s masculinity was the most important trait a boy was expected to possess and exude. Now suddenly, I was being told my name belonged only to girls!

The little morons of the Sunday School bully squad were good little Christians one and all. Which is to say - my first impression was no different from any of the mean kids on my block in my neighborhood. What was that scripture my Maw Maw read?

Suffer the children.

I grasped the passenger strap standing as close to the bus driver as I could manage.

Brother Branch completely ignored all screaming and horseplay as no adult I’d ever witnessed! One bellow from his barrel chest surely would have quelled the riot and sent the flock scattering as lambs fleeing a bolt of lightning.

No such luck. Brother Branch drove furiously across every terrain as though testing the aptitude of guardian angels.

All passengers were disgorged and shepherded into a crowded Sunday school classroom upon arrival. The interior room revealed itself as ordinary and secular in every way…

Except for one jarring detail…

Sunday school’s walls stood littered with dozens of badly colored Bible characters tacked everywhere. Helter-skelter assaulted my wondering eyes!

Religious-themed coloring books got passed around our table with boxes of ill-treated crayons heaped into a community pile.

This bounty was swiftly set upon by filthy hands and nimble fingers. Purple and green Bible heroes from tiny hallucinating Christian boys appeared the norm.

Floating halos suggested Jesus’ head was the object of a celestial ring toss!

I recalled the shortest verse of scripture in Maw-maw’s Catholic Bible:

“Jesus wept.”

My drawing of Daniel in the den of lions wore a sympathetic expression of confident woe.

Our Lady of the Blue Hair and twinkly glasses proclaimed to us that our talent was miraculous. Then, as wretched swine, she herded us squealing into the main Church auditorium for adult services!

Blood of the lamb

My first interior glimpse of the church slammed into my brain; stained glass and candles, numinous artifacts, and solemn faces in service to Almighty God! I sniffed the acrid mixture of old lady perfume, cheap aftershave, and little boy sweat. Bedazzling pearl necklaces, beehive hairdos, cheek rouge makeup like portraits in a fevered dream.

Impressions were clear and direct: these people were unhinged. Why spend a perfectly good Sunday posed in uncomfortable clothing standing and sitting and standing again? Why would God need this or expect it of us, I wondered.

An adult beside me offered to share her Hymnal. I was not familiar with such a masculine word! I rolled it around in my mind: Him Null.

Opening the gilded songbook, a row of serious poetic verses proclaimed an endless caterwaul of Praises.

Organ music made me mindful of Grandma’s radio soap operas. Pepper Young’s Family, Search for Tomorrow, The Guiding Light.

These TV shows were sponsored by Ajax, the foaming cleanser. (Wash the dirt right down the drain.) I could sing that.

The collection plate passed like a bucket brigade at a fire. I tugged the sweaty dollar bill from my pocket to quench the flames of hell. All the while, up at the lectern, a voluminous voice volleyed praises while admonishing goodness and forbearance from sin.

Thoughts dulled and somehow I drifted until I beheld the entire congregation rapt in intense scrutiny of the floor! No. It was a moment of prayer!

“Why look down when speaking to God who is surely up?” I wondered.

Church folk screwed their eyes intensely shut. Some gripped the Bible in their wrinkled hands as thrumming energy caught the air.

What was coming?

The mood changed ominously. Spindly arms waved about, then, a swaying of bodies, gibbering voices: calling, answering, rattling. Soon, lowing noises erupted as shivering folk dropped to the floor.

“(Are you washed in the blood of the Lamb?)

The Saints smiled gravely and they said: “He’s come.” (Are you washed in the blood of the Lamb?)
Walking lepers followed, rank on rank, Lurching bravos from the ditches dank,

Drabs from the alleyways and drug fiends pale— Minds still passion-ridden, soul-powers frail.— Vermin-eaten saints with the moldy breath, Unwashed legions with the ways of Death—

(Are you washed in the blood of the Lamb?)”

What kind of weird song or poetry was this?

My head was pounding! A dizzy fear suddenly engulfed my soul.

A strong hand pulled at me, jerking me out of the pew and out behind a curtain.

The next moment I found myself alone in a small, cramped cloakroom. Someone entered. Brother Branch was removing his cassock, shirt, and trousers. All the while, his voice thrummed and wavered as the organ swelled. The congregation moaned.

Now, the echoes!

(General William Booth Enters Into Heaven, music by Charles Ives, lyric by Vachel Lindsey.)

What sort of religious group could this possibly be? Flabbergasting utterances, weird movements of body twitching all around me …
It was almost a snake pit of writhing movement, ululations, and wide-eyed frenzy.

Tambourines clattered fast staccato rhythm and clapping, feet stomping, and singing clattered against stain glass and volleyed against hardwood pews.

Was I standing on a battlefield? Am I a Christian soldier now?
Is this the reason nobody in my family ever went to church? Now at last - I understood1

Are you washed? Are you washed?

Are you washed? IN THE BLOOD?

On the bus ride back to my house I was still shaking. What in the world was that all about? I knew one thing for certain; I would not return to Church! To me, the Sabbath was a kind of vile Halloween. I solemnly understood those three words: Fear-of-God.

The bus ground to a stop.

God roared off spitting gravel and smoke while I stood stunned at my own curbside. My neighborhood did not look the same one I’d left - but it was. It was me. I had suddenly changed.

Inside my house, Maw-maw softly inquired of the day’s experience.

I shuffled a bit and squirmed as though my skin were clothed in nettles. If I lied and said it was okay, surely the whole ordeal would be revisited upon me.

If I said I hated it, I would offend God.

“I’d much rather spend the day with you, Maw-maw!”
Her face flickered with surprised pleasure.

It would be another six years before I’d enter another house of worship.
It wouldn’t be a church - it would be a Kingdom Hall …

My one trip to Sunday School was nothing like I’d imagined. There was no white dove descending out of heaven for me. I didn’t realize what had actually occurred.