Terry

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Posts by Terry

• 
  12

  Chapter a Day (I will post) from my Sci-Fi novel

  by Terry in

  1. jw
  2. friends

  chapter one.

  the monorails of mars (1905) ____.

  like watchful eyes—the twin moons of mars voyeured above the chaos.

  1. 
  2. 
  3. 
• 

  Terry

  

  ____________

  LOUISE BOYD

  She had been born restless, as though the very stars were pulling at her hair. For her the world was magic. Life would never be what she looked at—it would be about what she could see with her eyes turned inward toward her dreams. Louise Boyd found adventure within books and strange worlds no one had ever seen.

  One September midnight when she was five, her mother caught her staring out of the window long after bedtime, humming a haunting little tune to herself.

  "What's wrong, Sweetheart—can’t you sleep?"

  The little blonde girl bathed in moonlight carried sparks of Orion in her eyes as she pointed upward to the heavens.

  "I hear them calling me from out there somewhere—and I can't wait to answer."

  Louise adored her brothers, parents and the ferry in Marin County. Marin was known for natural beauty and its sailing and festive soirées.

  The ferry crossing between the Hyde Street pier in San Francisco and Sausalito took her on the ride of her life for twenty minutes and it cost only one dollar.

  San Francisco was the largest city without a bridge relying as it did on ferry service alone. The water was three hundred seventy feet deep with strong currents, ferocious winds, and blinding fog. Louise craved those ferry rides. Like chocolate.

  As a child she thrilled to the adventure of crossing the bay in bad weather for it stirred her blood and kindled within her a strange lust for danger. As she grew older her fearlessness was legend.

  In 1852, San Quentin prison had been built in Marin County and its reputation as warehouse for dangerous criminals fueled endless rumors of escaped felons wandering the neighborhood. Of course, it was all nonsense made up by young men to frighten and taunt timid little girls at parties. But, Louise challenged the neighbor’s boys to hike with her to the prison to meet the warden for an interview.

  “Maybe, “she suggested, “he will kindly take us on a tour of the facility and show us the gas chamber—or better still, allow us to witness an actual execution.”

  The boys had declined her suggestion and the kidding ended. Her legend grew. Louise Boyd was tutored by governesses and attended Miss Murison's School in San Francisco. She did not go to college. Her two brothers suffered from rheumatic fever and died at ages sixteen and seventeen respectively. Although in young adulthood Louise appeared at all the right social events always impeccably dressed, once all her family was gone she made travel the center of her life.

  In 1877, land owned by Louise Boyd’s grandfather turned out to be the site of the largest gold strike since the Gold Rush of 1849. The town founded on that site was named after a fellow named Body who died in a blizzard well before a nugget of gold was seen in those parts. The town sported sixty-five saloons serving a population of up to seven thousand bonanza-seeking soldiers of fortune.

  Barroom brawls, shootouts, stagecoach holdups, and general mayhem lasted three rip-roaring years before the last gleaming metal nugget was dug out and stamped into coin. The dream ended and the town went bust. Thirty-four million dollars’ worth of gold was enough to assure the Boyds a carefree existence.

  Louise and her two brothers, John and Seth, scampered, trotted, and climbed all over their ranch in Oakland Hills. Climbing Mt. Diablo during summer vacation never failed to excite family camaraderie and sibling competition.

  Seth and John died only months apart and it was the saddest day of her life. She vowed to live three lives: two plus her own.

  Louise traveled the world seeking medical treatment for her parents, exploring and learning about strange societies and peculiar folklore. When her mother and father could no longer travel, she nursed them in their old age.

  “What will you do with your life, child—you will be on your own with a fortune in gold and no one who loves you to watch out for your well-being?”

  “I’ll go where no woman has ever set foot and build something wonderful and dedicate it to John and Seth.”

  Louise snuggled on the edge of the bed showing her parents the little sketch book she always carried with her. Her father and mother gazed curiously at the drawing.

  “How did you decide on that—it is very nice—but, I mean—what is it? “

  Louise giggled and laid her hand on her father’s cheek.

  “It is a monorail and I’ll build it on an exotic planet out there in the stars. It will have a plaque made of gold, dedicated to John and Seth.”

  ***

  Two funerals passed. Then on a winter’s day, standing on the deck of the ferry; bidding good-bye to her childhood home forever; Louise glanced back one last time. At once a zephyr came up out of nowhere and swept back the fog just long enough for a fond glimpse of girlhood and summer dreams, the laughter of boys and innocent times no more.

  “Memory is for the past, but hope is for the future.” She whispered aloud.

  Louise squared her shoulders and headed off toward a season for dreams—only dreams made real. She held adventures in her heart as her pulse now quickened and her life passed into her hands; twenty-three, rich and unstoppable.

  She reached into her rucksack and pulled out her father’s favorite book of poems and read aloud the last line of Invictus—a poem he loved so much:

  It matters not how strait the gate,
  How charged with punishments the scroll.
  I am the master of my fate:
  I am the captain of my soul.

  
  

  __________________

  End Chapter Four
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  

  
  https://docs.google.com/document/d/1rkMcA8yNbB63cSqx7wrBkkRL0Ia9QZmTTfT3lklCoyA/edit?usp=sharing
• 
  12

  Chapter a Day (I will post) from my Sci-Fi novel

  by Terry in

  1. jw
  2. friends

  chapter one.

  the monorails of mars (1905) ____.

  like watchful eyes—the twin moons of mars voyeured above the chaos.

  1. 
  2. 
  3. 
• 

  Terry

  Thank you!
  __________________________
  CHAPTERS TWO / THREE
  THE MONORAILS of MARS
  __________________________
  

  
  
  _____________________
  DEATH IS THE VEIL

  
  

  He wasn’t nervous and he wasn’t worried . . .

  In the Cavern of Tih-sll-ub beneath the polar ice cap of Mars, Captain Umberto Nobile sat up feeling comfortable. No memory of his recent battle lingered. Captain Nobile sat wondering why there wasn’t a single thing occupying his mind in need of attention. Although his head ached terribly and he felt restive and somewhat guilty—he was determined to locate a reason for his non-concern.

  “I seem to be stuck in . . . now.”

  The Cavern’s shimmering walls thrummed with palpable energy—inducing a constant state of well-being, and yet—

  “Captain Nobile, I presume . . .”

  The pleasant voice belonged to a terrestrial woman. She was smiling disarmingly. Her lithe, boyish figure hugged the inside of a diaphanous garment with luminous tomboy femininity. Nobile shrugged in bafflement.

  “Guilty as charged.”

  “Death is the veil which those who live call life; they sleep, and it is lifted.” Her smile blazed as warm as summer in Italy.

  “Okay, um—call me Umberto. And you are---?”

  “My name is Earhart but everyone calls me Amelia.”

  

  ________________________

  DO YOU BREAK EASILY?

  Amelia spoke and Umberto listened . . .

  “Do you break easily, have sharp edges or have to be carefully kept?”

  Nobile was beginning to suspect he had been drugged. He stared at the woman in comic curiosity. Parts of his memory were unreliable and unfocused.

  “Once you become real you can’t be ugly, except to those who don’t understand.”

  Earhart possessed a remarkable face devoid of sophistication or subtext. She spoke without guile as one might speak with another through years of intimate friendship. She calmed him with her demeanor and tone.

  Nobile’s face depicted a mixture of awe and confusion. “Um—how’s that?”

  “My body lies on a tiny Island in the Pacific. I am dying. I was injured in an emergency landing—I am thirty-two years in your future. The reason you see my image at this moment is this: parasites in your brain are creating a meniscus of your senses. Memory flattens but perceptions heighten.”

  

  
  
  

  Nobile stood immediately. His eyes went wide and wild. He gasped and kept running his fingers through his hair and smoothing it as he spoke. Pacing nervously he mumbled to himself as if in an argument with his own mind.

  “Mother always told me I was the weird one in the family. I’m going to try to understand everything you say—keep talking.”

  “There are no boundaries at death, Umberto. There is no time or space or distance and no limits to conscious being. Yesterday, tomorrow and today happen at the same instant. Very few can see or understand this simple fact.”

  

  
  

  I’ve been told time is god’s way of keeping everything from happening at once.”

  “How do you know it doesn’t?” Her face shimmered like ripples upon water.

  “Is there such a thing as heaven or hell? I want to win an argument with a priest I knew back in my old neighborhood.”

  “Heaven is a soap bubble. Listen carefully while you’re able to see and hear me. Your life has been spared for a purpose. Beware those who spared you—their motives are monstrous . . .”

  “Listen—I’m a product of Catholic school—is this like the Annunciation? Am I going be impregnated? If so, I need to freshen up a bit—”

  “Monsters have spared you . . . “

  The image blinked out and flickered on again like a broken neon sign.

  Nobile went numb. His head felt as if his skull were about to burst open destroying everything he knew or ever would know.

  “My mother-in-law is behind all this?”

  Earhart appeared to unmoor like a dirigible in a powerful wind.

  
  
  
  
  

  Her body collapsed into a horizontal image thin as paper.

  “There are three who rule . . . false anointed . . . monorail . . .”

  The discorporate image flipped and sputtered.

  “We called the Lady of the ice and the Lord of the Apes . . .”

  
  
  

  

  
  

  Nobile lurched forward, as though to grab hold of the unworldly personage, but it was too late. She had vanished like a magician’s velveteen rabbit. Nothing at all remained but the man, his sanity and a handful of air.

  
  

  
• 
  27

  It was all GREEK to me

  by Terry in

  1. jw
  2. friends

  around 1976 i got the wild idea i'd like to learn greek (for my study of the christian greek scriptures and to 'get to the bottom' of whether i was wasting my time being even a token jehovah's witness.

  ) i would read the actual text and avoid my denomination's opinion commentaries, you see.. .

  i learned the characters in the greek alphabet rather quickly and started reading an interlinear (english/greek) bible aloud - practicing my enunciation.

  1. 
  2. 
  3. 
• 

  Terry

  I would say the key feature of being a Jehovah's Witness during the Knorr and Franz Presidency was the full frontal engagement of 'gunslinger' ministerial engagement (shootouts) between householders and JW's at the door and during Bible studies conducted in homes.
  I didn't realize until I went to prison (1967-69) what a two-tier religion I was in, and only then because we had an intensified study program inside prison walls, highly motivated by our situation and facing into the headwind of a looming 1975 Armageddon.
  We were trained to argue and use our green NWT as fast-draw rebuttal and sleek rhetoric overpowered opposition.
  All, mind you, PRE-internet.
  Had there been a World Wide Web in previous decades I doubt there would be a Watchtower religion!
  One of the most salient features of JW theology was the EASE of rebuttal using (apparently) the Bible to knock-down objections.
  Very few books exposing the Witness history of duplicity and flip-flops found their way into homes.
  I was 'intellectually' attracted by the powerful simplicity of honed argumentation.
  Part of all that was the (mistaken) delusion I was getting a remarkable education (with Greek, no less) and great speaking skills, as well as reasoning abilities honed to near perfection.
  Ha-frickin'-ha!
  What JW's had all along was double-talk, false reasoning, and a manufactured piety and skill.
  
  Fast forward from 1963 (my baptism date) and 2019 and I barely recognize JW.org as being part of the religious organization I joined and championed.
  The skills are gone.
  The training has been abandoned. (You can't win arguments when your lies are revealed on Google.)
  It's all pretend. The ministry, the cart-Witness, the Great Tribulation scare tactics .... just a North Korean style cult.
  Sad and infuriating I was ever a part of this.
• 
  18

  My little Speech on Patriotism

  by Terry in

  1. jw
  2. friends

  my july 4, speech on patriotism.

  the last person in my family to serve in the armed forces was my uncle jack during the korean war.

  he suffered a skull injury but fully recovered.. .

  1. 
  2. 
  3. 
• 

  Terry

  I believe in overlapping:
  So perhaps the Watchtower saved your life Terry.
  
  ____
  At the time, being raped didn't seem all that much better than dying. But now that many years have passed, I guess the burden and adjustment isn't an impossible one to bear.
  I came out a far different person than the kid who went into prison.
  THAT kid died.
  
  
  
• 
  12

  Chapter a Day (I will post) from my Sci-Fi novel

  by Terry in

  1. jw
  2. friends

  chapter one.

  the monorails of mars (1905) ____.

  like watchful eyes—the twin moons of mars voyeured above the chaos.

  1. 
  2. 
  3. 
• 

  Terry

  CHAPTER ONE

  THE MONORAILS of MARS (1905)
  
  
  ____
  
  

  Like watchful eyes—the twin moons of Mars voyeured above the chaos. Men and aliens in savage battle fractured into shadows. Soon no human witness stirred. Percussion waves and Disruptor fire quieted. Solitary alien figures remained, sweeping past sentry stations, feeding on the dead and dying
  
  "This is Nobile. (No-bill-ay) Code 3 emergency—" the message interrupted suddenly.
  "Evacuate! We’re over-run. My god—the. . . "
  
  Rally flares erupted outside the dome splashing blood-red light across Orion's starry backdrop.
  
  Jack Clayton and Louise Boyd raced frantically to the stairwell seconds before dome shields collapsed. They dived for the shuttle tunnel just as the artificial atmosphere vanished in a whoosh.
  
  Landing inside hatch entrance, Clayton punched the contamination-seal button. The hatch cover hummed downward sealing above them. A red light blinks 3 times followed by a green light all-safe.
  
  The escape shuttle awaited 5 minutes beyond the tunnel promising refuge and deliverance . . . if it could be reached in time.
  
  “Countdown 5 minutes to launch”
  
  Norge (Nor-gay) escape shuttle afforded no weaponry or counter-measure defenses on board. Every contingency had been prepared—except this one.
  Jack Clayton struggled to run and speak at the same time. His body screamed in distress.
  *
  "You can hustle faster . . . than . . . I . . . can . . . Louise. Go on ahead--don't wait . . for me!"
  
  Clayton was an impressive man, large and athletic, but injury had hobbled him at this worst of all moments. For all his astuteness and vigor, shrapnel caught him by surprise in the left knee.
  
  "No Jack—I’ll hold the shuttle for—"
  
  Louise Boyd froze, stumbled, and choked. Percussion waves jolted her in mid-sentence. She clutched her neck and toppled; dropping into unconsciousness only meters from the shuttle’s closing door.
  
  The cramped staging area swelled with smoke, swirling dust and two human bodies laid out like firewood. Weird beast-like ululations pierced the silence menacingly. Seconds later a trio of skulking alien figures emerged from the shadows, Disruptor pistols at the ready.
  
  

  A wiry mutant soldier stood straddling the unconscious colonists, grasping a round feeding drum. Its elongated face glowed with triumph and ravenous expectancy. (Human colonists had described drawings of them as a cross between Greek gods and starvation victims.) Torsos of Martians oddly mimicked humans, with forearms freakishly longer; lower leg bones contrarily shorter. Elongated thighs flexed in bunched muscles. Alien physicality possessed a magnificent, ugly beauty.
  
  "These two—I demand . . . my food!"
  
  The Martian platoon leader’s tongue swept its lip flap. It hesitated, then holstered its weapon—voice booming with absolute authority.
  
  "Infect and release them—go!”
  
  The mutant underling hunkered down, glowering at the meal, making every effort to restrain its wolfish appetite. The alien trembled and tossed the feeding drum aside, leaning forward on its haunches; spitting on its terrestrial captives. Wrenching off its glove, plunging its spindly finger down its own throat (gagging with an awful retching sound); the creature bent forward with a determined trajectory—splashing both humans with spill.
  
  Slime oozed across the victims like melting wax. A chemical hiss vaporized into white smoke. Garment threads began to dissolve. Out of the foul liquid, parasites the size of strawberry seeds skittered toward the victims’ nostrils, disappearing inside.
  
  The alien platoon leader observed until satisfied then signaled to its minions. The alien patrol dispersed, quick-stepping into the roiling smoke from whence they'd come.
  Back at shuttle launch area, emergency search scans swept the shuttle interior—no human life detected. Subsystems pinged, located, and recovered Boyd and Clayton’s unconscious bodies utilizing search and rescue lifts. Straightaway the shuttle, bolted like a cartridge in a high-powered gun, entered final launch mode.
  
  Five leagues away Umberto Nobile (No-bill-ay) fought his last stand. One by one his confederates fell. He had detected a pattern to exploit for temporary advantage. Aliens staged frontal assaults vocalizing eerie ululating war cries followed by direct attack. Three abreast—aliens became easy targets once they’d sprung into view.
  
  “Suppertime—come and get it.” Nobile bellowed.
  
  He reckoned the numbers stacked against him—he could hold them at bay until his charging unit went dead—maybe 2 minutes remaining at best.
  
  (Disruptor weapons destabilized without nuclear reaction. The fabric of reality jiggled for a microsecond—ripping apart living cells.)
  
  Umberto Nobile was an aeronautical engineer and explorer in his early life. He had never fought in battles of any sort; not even a fist fight. He’d earned a solid reputation exploring Earth’s Arctic, suffering many encounters with near-death. Nothing had prepared him for this.
  
  From his nine-o’clock and three-o’clock position the enemy approached, both at once—his one choice remained. Nobile fetched a tiny capsule from his utility pocket to pop into his mouth—but before he could self-terminate, shrieking enemy mutants rushed him full on.
  
  He screamed and blasted as he swept his weapon in all directions wildly. At once his uniform splattered with intestines of Martian soldiers. He let go the final bursts of his Disruptor pistol. His boots glistened with green slime and human blood. He blasted again. The putrid aroma off offal and bile arose.

  

  ---

  “You scum are really full of it.”
  
  His uniform transformed to the color of death and desperation. Relentlessly, the waves of mutants plunged into the breach; their weapons spitting death.
  
  “Eat this!”
  In one arcing flourish Nobile emptied his clip. Slashing diagonally left to right, then reversing—Nobile gasped dumbstruck as nine enemy combatants clutched themselves and tumbled dead at his feet.
  
  “Holy Mary, Mother of God!”
  
  Nobile checked his clip: only one round remained.
  From the shadows, in one swift movement, an alien Commander lunged forward seizing the man by his throat, forcing him to kneel. Gasping for breath, Nobile struggled utterly helpless in the alien’s insuperable grip.
  
  “I’d like to call my lawyer if you don’t mind—”
  
  Immediately, two Martian mutants grasping meat hooks scrambled to the sentry dugout, raking across two of Nobile’s dead companions. They scavenged at top speed hooking, skewering, and dragging corpses off, stuffing them into large dinner drums grasped by a third alien.
  
  Nobile’s eyes went wide—incredulous as three mutants took turns vomiting into the drums. Digestive acids dissolved dead sentries’ clothing without affecting flesh.
  A 2nd Martian Commander of higher rank stormed the enclosure barking orders.
  
  "Devour dead ones—infect and release living ones."
  
  Another mutant, scrawny and fierce, hustled into the group grunting and slurping; its eyes wide with madness and starvation.
  
  "I sniff—delicious meat!"
  
  The creature grunted and farted. A snake-like tongue slithered inside its mouth as it unhinged its jaw, creating a cavernous, fanged oral hole.
  
  Nearby, the Supreme Commander stood sniffing the motionless Nobile suspiciously like a hideous bloodhound.
  
  "This one reeks!” Its voice boomed with revulsion.
  
  Nobile puzzled it out. Colonists had frequently bemoaned his liberal fondness for onion and garlic. Despite the gravity of his situation, he felt offended.
  
  “Anyone ever tell you you’re not a people person?”
  
  The unhinged mutant bewailed, "I demand my share!"
  Its fellows ignored him and concluded marinating their meal as they commenced peeling meat from human skeletons, sucking flavor from the bone marrow.
  Nobile’s stomach churned. He battled back his nausea.
  
  At once the shrieking mutant lunged at his fellows, brandishing his hooked trident. A chaotic melee of blood and curses erupted. A deafening sonic wave abruptly concussed the ground. Supreme Commander's Disruptor pistol spoke four final words of death. Four twisted alien corpses answered . . . then, stillness.
  
  "Inferiors!"
  
  The elite Commander snatched Nobile by his ankle, dragging him to open ground, as a blinding beam of energy pulsed toward Earth in the direction of shuttle launch dock.
  
  Platoon leaders swiveled about to scan the bridge just as the Norge shuttle dimmed into after images in the inky night sky. The alien snorted with a gesture of confusion.
  Nobile smirked wearily, “I’d explain that to you, but I’m out of crayons and puppets.”
  
  Supreme Commander pivoted to his underling, “Infection?”
  The other alien lifted his chin in assent.
  
  Easily hoisting Nobile onto a rail car, it then turned and clasped its comrade by the shoulder. The larger one threw its head back as both howled a spine-chilling ululation in weird unison startling Nobile in fear of his soul, rattling his bones.
  
  Moons Deimos and Phoebos spread weird, silver beacons about the Martian landscape to the sounds of vomiting, flesh-rending, and meat gobbling. Mars had triumphed and these were its savage victories.
  
  Supreme Commander’s gaze bore down at his human quarry, scrutinizing him curiously, almost scientifically. Something glimmered behind his eyes.
  
  “Thirsty?”
  The officer motioned and Nobile’s hair went up on the back of his neck.
  “Nah, I’m trying to quit—but thanks anyway.”
  
  The smaller alien removed a glove, jamming its spidery finger into its throat, and spewed parasitic vomit into the mouth of Umberto Nobile: Arctic explorer, adventurer and aeronautical inventor. The victim choked violently. His body quickened as his eyes rolled madly back in his head. The hulking mutant’s basso voice whispered as though intoning a macabre lullaby to an alien infant.
  The effect was hypnotic and paralyzing.
  
  Nobile sensed his mind ebbing . . . dimming. Nightmarish white light flashed in his head with the sweet, imaginary voice of a mystery woman dancing behind a veil.
  Nobile’s body shuddered and went still.
  
  “All is well.” Alien Commander gazed contentedly at his day’s work done.
  
  The relay from Mars to Earth arrived. Transcribed and delivered directly to the White House, the President read the words: “All is well on Mars.”
  
  Teddy Roosevelt looked up from his desk.
  “Good news gives me a warm feeling—like pissing my pants.”
  He turned to his Chief of Staff.

  “Find out what’s wrong up there and see to it immediately.”
  
  

  ________END CHAPTER ONE _____
• 
  27

  It was all GREEK to me

  by Terry in

  1. jw
  2. friends

  around 1976 i got the wild idea i'd like to learn greek (for my study of the christian greek scriptures and to 'get to the bottom' of whether i was wasting my time being even a token jehovah's witness.

  ) i would read the actual text and avoid my denomination's opinion commentaries, you see.. .

  i learned the characters in the greek alphabet rather quickly and started reading an interlinear (english/greek) bible aloud - practicing my enunciation.

  1. 
  2. 
  3. 
• 

  Terry

  Anna Marina

  Hi Terry

  What do you mean by that? I was never taught the word parousia. It wasn't in the literature when I studied. Granted I know the word now, but that is for different reasons, because parousia proves them wrong not right.

  ____

  Anna, thanks for asking that question!

  Director Alfred Hitchcock described something he called MacGuffin, "I mean the emptiest, the most nonexistent, and the most absurd plot device - the mysterious object in a spy thriller that sets the whole chain of events into motion or purports to EXPLAIN without really doing so."
  
  Charles Taze Russell made use of a MacGuffin (parousia) to move his theology out of trouble.
  Here is what happened.

  ____

  In his early twenties, Russell was heavily influenced by the Adventist movement, begun by William Miller, who had predicted that Christ would return in 1844. This was the origin of one of the trademark JW characteristics: the creation of fanciful biblical chronologies and date-setting. Miller himself admitted that his chronology had failed (which was indeed self-evident after 1844). A number of his followers, however, rationalized the failure by inventing a doctrine of Christ’s invisible return.

  
  

  Russell, who began to lead, in 1870, a Bible study group which evolved into today’s Jehovah’s Witnesses, repeated this unfortunate practice. He wrote in 1881 about the speculations of his short-term partner, Nelson H. Barbour, an Adventist from Rochester, New York, who had originally predicted the physical return of Christ in 1874:

  . . . When 1874 came and there was no outward sign of Jesus in the literal clouds and in a fleshly form, there was a general re-examination of all the arguments . . . It was soon discovered that the expectation of Jesus in the flesh at the second advent was a mistake . . . that Jesus was quickened or made alive in spirit . . . Though the manner in which they had expected Jesus was in error, yet the time . . . was correct, and that the Bridegroom came in the Autumn of 1874. (Watchtower, Oct/Nov 1881, 3)

  Russell and his followers agreed with Barbour’s original prophecy and explained its failure by transforming the Second Coming into an “invisible presence,” as is evident in Russell’s later account:

  As we look backward, we can see that our pathway has been . . . progressive . . . A new view of truth can never contradict a former truth . . . Bro. Keith (one of our contributors) was used of the Lord . . . His surprise was, at finding that the Greek word parousia, which signifies “presence,” had in our common version been improperly rendered “coming” . . . Can it be possible that Jesus does not come in a fleshly body at his second advent? . . . Examination revealed the fact that Jesus since his resurrection is a totally different being from the Jesus who died . . . he is no longer a natural, but a spiritual body. (Watchtower, February 1881, 3)

  Russell discussed biblical chronology with Barbour at length in January 1876 and adopted the view which he held until 1914, namely, that Christ returned invisibly in 1874, that the rapture of the church would occur in 1878, and that the dawn of a golden age would commence in 1914 (see section III). He wrote his first booklet, The Object and Manner of Our Lord’s Return (published by Barbour) in 1877. It set forth the doctrine of the invisible “presence” without delving into dates.

  
  

  ____

  About 1930, Rutherford moved the “Parousia” from 1874 to 1914. He made this change about 16 years after the supposed Parousia had taken place.

  ____

  
  

  Putting a square peg into a round hole is the specialty of cults and cult leaders. Magicians used magic words. Shaman use incantations, smoke, and drugs. Politicians use rhetoric Religions use numinous words for their MacGuffin.
  
  
  _____________________
  
  
• 
  18

  My little Speech on Patriotism

  by Terry in

  1. jw
  2. friends

  my july 4, speech on patriotism.

  the last person in my family to serve in the armed forces was my uncle jack during the korean war.

  he suffered a skull injury but fully recovered.. .

  1. 
  2. 
  3. 
• 

  Terry

  If the tanks had paraded down the mall in Washington D.C. I have little doubt some Chinese student would rush forward into the path for a photo op and a front page spread on the NYTIMES :)
• 
  18

  My little Speech on Patriotism

  by Terry in

  1. jw
  2. friends

  my july 4, speech on patriotism.

  the last person in my family to serve in the armed forces was my uncle jack during the korean war.

  he suffered a skull injury but fully recovered.. .

  1. 
  2. 
  3. 
• 

  Terry

  The flag artist is Steven Lester:
  https://www.artworkarchive.com/profile/steven-lester/artwork/old-glory-steven-lester
• 
  27

  It was all GREEK to me

  by Terry in

  1. jw
  2. friends

  around 1976 i got the wild idea i'd like to learn greek (for my study of the christian greek scriptures and to 'get to the bottom' of whether i was wasting my time being even a token jehovah's witness.

  ) i would read the actual text and avoid my denomination's opinion commentaries, you see.. .

  i learned the characters in the greek alphabet rather quickly and started reading an interlinear (english/greek) bible aloud - practicing my enunciation.

  1. 
  2. 
  3. 
• 

  Terry

  I think the fetish JW's have for quoting Greek goes all the way back to Benjamin Willson's Emphatic Diaglott (the WT used to offer it) and the idea that parousia solved the problem of having been WRONG about 1914 (seemingly).
  
  We were like kids dressed in adult clothes pretending to be so smart about the meaning of meaning.
  
  I wonder if current members learn anything at all or if it's just about surviving the Great Tribulation. At least, back in the 50's and 60's we had the "Theocratic Ministry School" to bolster the delusion we actually knew something.
  
  The whole idea of having a conversation with a householder which involved debate may well have disappeared with the advent of the Internet and the ability to Google "Jehovah's Witnesses".
  
  Anybody can pinpoint the errors pretty quickly.
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  18

  My little Speech on Patriotism

  by Terry in

  1. jw
  2. friends

  my july 4, speech on patriotism.

  the last person in my family to serve in the armed forces was my uncle jack during the korean war.

  he suffered a skull injury but fully recovered.. .

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  Terry

  There's all sorts of ways to look at the phenomenon of Patriotism.
  There is probably a survival instinct at the bottom of it.
  
  MY TRIBE against the WORLD is an eventual problem, however.
  
  "We" are always right - no matter how wrong.
  The logic being: if we don't have our OWN, what do we have?
  
  Animals in Nature certainly maintain solidarity against the "other."
  We are (hidden atavistic-ally within us) animals too.
  
  Family first.
  Friends before strangers.
  Bros before Ho's. (Oh - I think I've gone too far. Sorry.)