Armageddon's Prisoners 3

Unlike the austere Gathering Houses Disciples used around the world, the Apostle’s conference room contained only the best appointments.  Where Houses had cheap plastic chairs and inexpensive carpet, this room boasted deep Italian leather chairs surrounding a polished granite table.  The building, built as a luxury hotel, never saw its intended use.  The First Apostle bought the property to use as the Foundation’s headquarters. The Apostles still preserved the hardwood floors, delicate filigree head rails, and window casings.

Laban Packard looked out the windows for a moment, watching a seaplane speed across Lake Union to take off.  Although he knew the plane made a tremendous noise, no sound penetrated the thick glass, rumored to be bulletproof.  Some days, soundproof glass seemed like a good idea. 

“John,” he said mildly, “could you at least stop swearing, it’s unseemly.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Doug Sadler nod vigorously.  Doug, the oldest of the twelve men around the table, disliked many of John Rodgers’ habits, although they were friends.  At seventy-four, John was only a couple of years younger than Doug.  Eleven of the twelve men were over sixty. 

“I’m Chief Apostle!” Rodgers snapped, “I’ll talk any way I Goddamn well please.”

Laban saw Peter McCarrick, sitting across the table suppress a smile, “John, the office of Chief Apostle no longer exists.”

Rodgers faced turned even redder.  Laban tried to think of reason to excuse himself, he expected the meeting to get even uglier.  Rodgers, as if by magic changed his mood.  The people working with him soon grew accustomed to his sudden mood shifts. 

“You’re right, I really need to keep my emotions in check.”  He scanned the table smiling, “I’m sorry, I was out of hand.”

His attention turned to the empty seats, normally occupied by aides and secretaries, lining the walls of the room. 

“Well, I guess it’s a good thing we’re in executive session, no witnesses.” 

He laughed mirthlessly at his own joke. 

“So let’s get back to work.”

“As I was saying,” David Howell continued, “I think we need to find a way to make the Disciples understand there is nothing fundamentally wrong with our interpretation of Bible prophecy.  It is clear that we are well into the Last Days.  Surely the great day of The Lord is not far off. 

“I regret my part in promoting the 2011 date, I still think the calculations are correct.  I’m continuing my research, perhaps my mistake involves lunar versus solar years…”

“And that brings us back to my point,” Philip Hogeboom snapped, “what if we’re wrong?”

Laban nodded, Phil was the real scholar among the Apostles.  He read Greek, Hebrew and Latin with a reasonable degree of fluency, something none of the others could claim. 

“We can’t be wrong,” Robert Olzak interjected, “clearly The Lord has placed us here to lead His people through the End into Paradise.”

“That’s circular reasoning.  “We lead in the time of the end, we’re leading so this is the time of the end.’  We’ll never get off this merry-go-round if we don’t change our approach.”

Laban looked up in surprise, Peter McCarrick focused on business aspects of the Foundation, he rarely involved himself in theological debates.  His motivation became apparent with his next words.

“I agree, the coming Paradise is a fundamental feature of The Lord’s Word.  However, it is not the only feature.  Our Disciple-making methods are no longer effective in today’s world.  We should branch out into modern media.  Instead of telling our young people to avoid college and career we should encourage them to pursue financially rewarding lives and donate more money to the Foundation.”

McCarrick’s eyes swept the table, taking in the reflexive disagreement of most of his colleagues.  The Foundation had long discouraged education and career as distractions from the commission to make Disciples.

“Look how well it’s worked for the Mormons…”

“Damn it,” Rodgers went off again, “I’m not going to take my example of leadership from a bunch of crazy cultists.  What’s next? Recruit Hollywood harlots like Scientology?”

David Howell grinned, for a moment breaking out of the funk that had consumed him since 2011 came and went with no Armageddon.

“I don’t know John, ‘Hollywood Harlots’ has a nice ring to it.”

For a moment, Laban thought Rodgers’ head would explode.  But after a moment, he too joined in the laughter.

“Well we’re not going to set a new strategic direction for the Foundation today.  Let’s all jot down some thoughts on the matter and we’ll take it up next week.  We can call in the others and start our regular session.”

**

That evening Laban stopped by Phil’s living quarters for a private chat.  Phil’s wife said he was in the library.  Laban took the walkway over the street that connected the Apostle’s space with the administrative annex housing the library.  He found Phil in his favorite location, the ancient language section.  Laban was sure that nobody else used the small room with Greek and Hebrew texts.

“Good evening, Phil, what are you doing in here?”

“Thinking.”

“Do we still do that?”

“Well,” Phil said sarcastically, “somebody has to.  We’ve  trained the Disciples not to do it for themselves.”

For several minutes, the two men talked about the current state of affairs at the Foundation without discovering anything new.  Both expressed concern over the rot and disinterest in the religion’s core.  The failure of the 2011 prophetic interpretation provided ample ammunition for the Word’s critics, and the Disciples had no idea what happened to the hope they had chased for many years.

“I’m hearing about more and more problems in the local Gatherings,” Laban noted, “people are getting crazy.  Just this morning I got a letter about three Servants in New York running an investment scam.  And another letter about possible wife swapping in a Gathering in California.

“That’s not how the Lord’s people are supposed to behave.  And it’s our fault.  We told them the world was about to end, that they would be living in Paradise with a thing to worry about.  We told them we had all the answers, now they have no idea how to live.”

Laban had no idea how to answer that.  It was all true.

**

John Rodgers and David Howell sat in the corner of John’s living room, a small conversation nook nestled between two large windows with panoramic views of Seattle. 

The city blazed with light, which shimmered on the water of Lake Union.  The Space Needle towered to the west.  Neither man looked at the view.

The two sat on small couches facing each other over a low coffee table.  Two glass of scotch sat on coasters.  John preferred to talk over drinks late at night.  His associates were used to it.  Although officially the position no longer meant anything, most Disciples still thought of him as “Chief 

Apostle.”  Certainly he thought of himself that way.

“David, we need to get the Disciples whipped back into shape.  None of this ‘lighten the load’ nonsense weaklings like Packard and his friends keep prattling on about.”

Howell nodded, but said nothing.  These conversations went better if the “Chief” did most of the talking.

“I mean it, and this is no criticism of you.  They got all worked up about this date and forgot about serving the Lord.  We never said 2011 would see Paradise restored.  We only suggested that it would be a logical time.  Next thing you know, people are selling houses, cashing in retirement plans and going to Timbuktu to make Disciple.”

He took a drink and continued.

“David, we need a plan to get the Disciples focused on the important things again.  I think we’ve let in too many people who are not truly dedicated to The Lord.

“It’s time to thin the heard so to speak.”  


Two notes:
1) This is a work of fiction.  Names, characters, and events are the product of the author's imagination; any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is purely coincidental.  To the best of my knowledge no organization called "The Word of God Foundation" exists.

2) comments are invited.  Publication of comments is subject to moderation.  If you wish to comment, but do not want your remarks made public, please include a note to that effect.  

Armageddon's Prisoners 2

Jack’s nose still bled two hour after he got home, nothing helped.  He’d plugged with tissue, pinched the bridge of his nose, applied ice; the blood did not stop.  Now his neck hurt and he had a headache.

“Dad, you look terrible,” JJ asked, concern in his voice, “I think you should see a doctor.”

Jack looked up from where he lay on the couch.  JJ looked fuzzy and kept trying to turn into two people.

“I’m not sure I can see well enough to see a doctor.”

“Bad joke, your eyes are swelling shut.”

After a few minutes of discussion Jack let his son talk him into going to a drop in clinic a few blocks away.  Sally wasn’t answering her cell phone, probably indicating she’d joined a group in Disciple-making, the groups public preaching work.  As JJ drove him to the clinic, Jack fumed internally.  He wouldn’t say anything to his son, but it annoyed him that his wife put saving Outsiders ahead of checking on her husband.

The doctor poked and prodded, made noises and asking questions.  Jack thought some questions were none of the doctors business and refused to answer them.  The staff took an X-ray, after examining it, the doctor concluded that Jack’s nose was broken, but the headache wasn’t serious.

“Mr. Thornton,” he intoned, “I know you don’t think some of my questions are any of my business, in this business we get pretty good at putting puzzles together.”

Jack sat silently.  After a moment the man continued.

“I’m curious, what kind of church service involves fist fights.”

“I’d rather not answer, and it isn’t a church service.”

The doctor nodded, “so you’re a Disciple.”

“Well… yes,” Jack spoke hesitantly, he didn’t want to say or do anything that would give an Outsider a reason to criticize The Lord’s Word.  Then it occurred to him that he’d done nothing wrong.

“A couple of guys got mad, and it got out of hand. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

Jack left the clinic with a bottle of pain pills and tape on his nose.  He felt foolish and his head still hurt.  The reception when they arrived at home didn’t help.  When they came through the door Sally looked up from reading a Bible study aid.

“What is that on your face?”

“My nose is broken.”

“You should have stayed out of that stupid fight.”

Jack explained that he didn’t think he’d been in a fight, he’d been trying to stop one.  Sally ignored the remark, turning back to her study.  After a thirty seconds of dead silence, Jack said he had a headache and wanted to lie down.  Sally continued to ignore him.  Jack turned and walked silently to the bedroom and lay down.

“So what does she think I should have done,” he said to the ceiling.

Jack woke up with a start.  The pain pills must have done their job, a glance at the clock told him he’d slept for two hours.  Although the headache had dissipated, he still felt lousy.  He walked to the kitchen where Sally was sautéing onions.

“Smells good.”

She stirred the pan vigorously without answering. Pulling a can from the cupboard she slammed it on the counter, utensils rattled as she yanked a drawer open to find the can opener.

 “What did I do?” Jack snapped.

Sally took a deep sighing breath before answering through clenched teeth.

“I can’t believe you got in a fight at the Gathering House. Everybody is talking about it.  And your name keeps coming up.  You’ve humiliated me in front of all our friends.”

Jack protested the unfairness of the remark.  He’d only wanted to calm down the situation, to defuse the argument.  Arnie and Isaac were the ones in trouble.

“Well, you know they’re going to appoint a review committee, they’re going to ask you questions.  They could even remove you as a Servant, it’s a major setback for our standing in The Word.”

Jack didn’t see how they could have grounds to do that.  But he didn’t see any point in continuing to argue with Sally as long as her mood continued.  He turned toward the living room, maybe he could find a ball game or something on TV.

“Matt Kesselring called,” she said as he walked out of the kitchen, “I told you they’re setting up a committee.”

Jack flopped onto the couch, pulled out his cell phone called Kesselring, the current chairman of the Servant body. Matt answered immediately and asked Jack how he was feeling.

“Terrible.  Arnie broke my nose, I’m in pain and the trip to the clinic cost me three hundred and fifty bucks.”

“That’s too bad,” Matt said, sounding sympathetic for a few seconds, “I’m trying to organized a committee 

to look into what’s going on with those two kids. I could use your help.”

Matt’s comments left Jack nonplussed, “What about Arnie and Isaac?”

“Well, we don’t have any instructions in the manual for such a situation, so we had to kick it to New Jerusalem.  In the meantime we’ll look into our problem with the teenagers.  It probably isn’t just those two.”

Jack sighed.  As a Servant, the Word required him to help take the lead in keeping up Godly standards.  But sometimes, it just sounded ridiculous.  In reality, “New Jerusalem” meant the twelve Apostles at the world headquarters across the lake in Seattle.  It seemed silly to involve the leaders of four million Disciples in a fight between angry dads.  But eventually New Jerusalem settled all questions.

“Ok, but give me a day or two to recover.”

Later that evening, as he and Sally prepared for bed, she continued with the silent treatment. For a moment, fear gripped Jack.  If New Jerusalem, or even the other servants, thought he acted incorrectly, he would be Cast-out.  No one would even speak to him.  This would be his life.

“Sally, I was just trying to stop that fight.”

She sighed, “My cousin called, they already heard about it in Spokane.”

Jack wasn’t surprised.  Shari Covington having lived in the area for many years, had numerous contacts.  

She was also the biggest gossip in North America.  He decided to just give up for the day and climbed into bed.

 Sally flipped out the lamp as soon as Jack was in bed, and turned facing away from him.  Then she rolled back for a moment.

“I don’t understand why you think it’s odd that Matt wanted to call the Apostles.  They are our spiritual leaders, The Lord speaks through them.  Of course they will know what to do.”

“You’re right I guess.”

Jack didn’t really think she was, but his head hurt again and he wanted to go to sleep.  He would say anything at the moment to kill a late night pillow talk session.

“Good, you’ll see, they will provide the direction the Gathering needs to move past this and promote The Lord’s will.” 

Armageddon's Prisoners 1

Jack Thornton suppressed a yawn, not wanting to look disrespectful of the Lord’s Word.  But the temperature inside the Gathering House rose with the summer sun outside.  The austere, windowless building had fans, but no air-conditioning.  This did not pose a hardship on most Seattle Sunday mornings.  The fact that he’d heard this morning’s Message, or one just like it, hundreds of times did not make staying awake any easier.

Jack, his wife Sally, and seventeen-year-old Jack Junior occupied their usual seats on the outside of the left hand aisle, halfway down.  He didn’t think anything of it when he heard Arnold Senge get up from the seat behind him.  His assumption that Arnie was heading to the men’s room dissolved when Arnie started shouting at the speaker, Isaac Taylor.

“How can you stand up there and lecture us about raising fine children when that brat of yours is always chasing after my daughter.”

“Maybe you should tell your daughter to stop encouraging him,” Taylor shouted.

“My daughter,” Senge yelled, “is a good Disciple.  She knows how to act around the opposite sex, unlike that pervert son of yours.”

Jack heard gasps from the rest of the audience. Issac’s face turned red. Jack stood up intending to tell Arnie to sit down and be quiet, they could talk about it after the Gathering ended.

Issac shouted something about Martha Senge being a tramp and stepped off the raised speaker’s platform.  Arnie started toward Taylor, pushing Jack out of the way when he tried to block the aisle.  Jack realized he needed to do something, the two men were only a few steps from each other.  He looked for the other Servants, none was close enough to get to the two men before they reached each other.  The rest of the Gathering sat in stunned disbelief.  Disciples didn’t get into fights.

“Arnie, let’s take this…”

Jack never finished the sentence.  Already unbalanced by the push, Arnie’s fist knocked him into Sally’s lap.  Sally screamed as blood from her husband’s nose sprayed her blouse.

An older Disciple tried to block Taylor’s path, who rudely pushed him out of the way.  Jack waved his arms and legs, trying to get up and feeling like a turtle on its back.  Before anyone else could react, Taylor and Senge collided in the aisle and started throwing punches at each other. 

As he struggled to stand up, Jack thought he heard JJ laugh.  When he did gain his feet he saw why.  Two middle aged, balding, sweating men in suits throwing badly aimed punches at each other made a ridiculous sight.  Larry McKinnon, one of the Gathering’s other Servants, jumped between the two men.

“Stop this you idiots,” he snapped, “this is The Lord’s House.”

A big burly man, Larry pushed between the two fighters and shoved them apart.  Matt Kesselring, coming up the aisle behind Jack got his arms around Arnie Senge, and pulled him back.  Todd Davis came around the front of the House and pulled Isaac Taylor back.  Larry, always known for his jovial personality, managed to find his sense of humor again.

“When was the last time either of you knuckleheads was in a fight?  Fifth grade?  Come on, let’s go to the library and talk about this.”

Larry and Todd pushed the two men toward the small library at the back end of the auditorium.  Somebody suggested to Jack that he clean up.  The rest of the congregation looked perplexed.  Nothing in their experience told them how to act after such an event.

“Who’s going to finish the Sunday morning message?” Travis Wilson asked.

“I think,” Matt responded, “that we should skip the rest of it and just go into the Study.”

“I don’t think we can just skip part of the Lord’s Gathering…”

“Look,” Matt said sharply, “you’re not a Servant, just an assistant.  In special circumstances, we can skip a Gathering if we have to.  Now go sit down.”

Jack, holding his handkerchief to his nose told his wife he thought he needed to get home. 

“I don’t want to miss the rest of Gathering,” she answered, “I can get a ride home with Sarah Davis.”

“Dad, I’ll drive you home,”  JJ said helpfully, as he tried, and failed, to look like he’d rather stay.

“Thanks, let’s go.”

“Well,” Jack said a moment later as he slammed the car door shut, “I have to admit that was more interesting than our usual Gathering.”

JJ laughed, “do those guys realize how stupid they look?”

“They did, didn’t they?  JJ, do you know anything about what’s going on between Martha Senge and Frank Taylor?”

JJ pursed his lips as he pulled out of the House parking lot onto the arterial.  Jack realized his son knew something and didn’t want to talk about it.

“JJ, I’m sure there will be Servants meetings about this.  I’d like to know what’s going on, but I promise you 

I won’t tell anybody where I get the information.”

“I thought the Servants are always totally honest with each other.”

JJ looked like he did not expect his father to keep a promise of confidentiality.  Servants had a habit of poking their noses into other people’s business no matter what the actual rules said. 

“Some man-made rules don’t need to be followed, my family comes first.”

JJ shrugged, “they’re both lying to their parents, she calls him, he goes over to see her.  They don’t care what the Foundation tells them to do.  Or not do.  After what happened two years ago, lots of u… lots of kids don’t care about the Word.  They talked up 2011 for as long as I can remember, and nothing happened.”

Jack sat in silent thought for several minutes.  What could he say? For a dozen years, The Word of God Foundation told its Disciples to expect the great Day of the Lord in 2011.  There had been nothing but trouble since that year came and went.  His own son now had doubts about The Word’s message. He mulled over several responses suggested by the Foundation and rejected all of them.  How could he say something he didn’t believe to his son? Before he could say anything more JJ broke the silence.

“Dad, as long as I have you here without Mom, I need to talk about something.”

“What?”

“I’m going to graduate in a little over a year.  I want to go to college.  I know the Word says it’s a waste of time with Paradise coming so soon and all, but it didn’t show up when they said it would, why should I believe them now?”

“JJ, I can’t say that I blame you for having doubts.”

He paused, gathering his thoughts and strength.  He’d never said what he was about to say aloud.

“I have my own doubts.  Stuff like what we just saw doesn’t help.  I won’t say no but let me think about it.” 

Thoughts on the Convention, and a change of direction

I have decided to take a break from my reviews of this summer’s District Convention.  I listened to several talks since my last post.  What I heard was too simplistic to analyze in detail. I may try again soon, but another idea has grabbed my attention.

I’ve formed an overall impression of the current state of the Watchtower.  The Governing Body built a trap and caught themselves.  Listening to the convention talks, I realized how formulaic they sound: here is a question, here is the answer.  Rather than provide its membership with the tools they need to examine the Bible and express themselves on matters of conscience, the speakers provide endless Talmudic rules on specific issues.

Of course, the Watchtower cannot provide such training, its followers would see the logical flaws and factual errors in the Society’s publications.  For decades, the Governing Body declared itself the final judge of all religious matters.  They must now pass judgment on every matter, nothing remains for individual decision.    

Additionally, I think that Watchtower leadership has, consciously or unconsciously, abandoned the idea of making converts of nonWitnesses.  By this I don’t mean abandoning the door-to-door ministry.  That activity serves a useful purpose in keeping the flock busy and providing a source of self-identification.  The convention program seems aimed entirely at an internal audience.  Talks disparaging education, career involvement and limiting contact with nonWitnesses will not attract any reasonable nonbeliever.  These subjects to reinforce Watchtower culture to the conventions attendees.

As I said, I do not know if this is intentional.  The Watchtower leadership now focuses on controlling its members, while living in its own world.  They do not understand the effects of their words on the public.  Or perhaps they simply don’t care. 

A new 250 acre headquarters compound is under construction in upstate New York.  I will be watching this project with interest. It is bigger than anything the Society needs for administrative purposes.  It looks like it might be a good place to retire. 

I decided last night to reassemble the pieces of another novel I started for last year’s NaNoWriMo.  I’m going to serialize a chapter a week, starting Sunday the fifteenth.  I need to impose some order on my writing efforts and this seems like a good way to get going.