I was reading through the post I tapped out quickly yesterday during my lunchbreak, that long letter from the GB to JWD about why their all-expenses-paid fishing trip was OK, and I started to wonder about something:
What exactly is the motivation of your average Governing Body Member?
So here are my thoughts on the matter. I'd appreciate it if some of the wiser ones on the board could give us their input (I'm just a boy, too...).
Everything I think nowadays is in terms of stories, the stories within stories, and so on. You could call it the novelist's thought process So I felt it would be easier for me to express this in the form of a (very) short story...to get my feelings on the matter across correctly. Your typical essay doesn't really deal with feelings. I hope I can finish what I want to write before my lunch break ends today...
I can feel you. You're with me all the time. You're nowhere near me - I'm on the other side of the globe, in an entirely different hemisphere, but your influence remains. I know I'll never meet you, not ever - hardly anyone who worships the God you administer gets to meet you.
Do you and your comrades keep it that way on purpose?
Perhaps you do. Maybe a little bit of your magic would dissolve if the ordinary people you control at such a fine level of granularity realized that you're really just like them. In the last week, I've come to realize something very important, something absolutely fundamental, something the Society discourages you from thinking. What is this thing I've come to understand? Well, it's quite simple: Everybody is just human.
We've all been tossed into Nature's boiling, thrashing genetic pot. Some of us cope with it better than others. But that's only looking at one side of a hugely faceted jewel, really. There's so much more to it.
This moment of clarity came upon me quite unexpectedly. There I was, looking for a specific issue of the Awake magazine in my bag at the door of a house I'd assumed was empty, when the door swung open silently. I only noticed when I stood up that you were standing there, sunshine draped over your shoulders as if you'd worn it all your life.
"Hello. I'm sorry, I didn't think there was anyone here," I said when I saw you. My eyes focused and I realized that you were quite possibly the most gorgeous creation of God that I'd ever laid my eyes on.
"No problem. What can I do for you?" you said, brushing glowing auburn hair from your left eye.
"Well, we're talking to people today about the situation of the world. We believe the Bible holds answers to why our lives are quickly getting worse and worse..."
"Wait," you said, interrupting me. Most people let me finish before brushing me away from them like dandruff. You were different, of course. "As far as I'm concerned, my life's getting better," you said then.
"Oh, but the situation of the world is changing," I started, and then you interrupted me again. Angel or not, you were impetuous beyond belief. I wasn't used to this kind of treatment from a woman. All the women I knew had that streak pressurized out of them, for the most part.
"Really? And how does that affect me?"
"Well, I tell you what, let me show you our current magazine offering," I said, hastily pulling an Awake! from my bag. On it's cover, a man's hand held a Bible in front of a picture of the setting sun. The title read: The Bible, God's Word or Man's?
You took the magazine, running your hands down the paper, sampling it's texture with your slender fingers. "Who writes this stuff?" you asked me.
"The Watchtower Society, in Brooklyn."
"Oh, yes, I see. Your leaders write this stuff directly, do they?"
"Oh, no, their's an entire Writing Department for that."
"But they tell the Writing Department what to say, am I correct?"
"To a degree, yes. Not all of it, obviously. They're very busy men, you understand..."
"So only they say what goes into this stuff?"
"That's right. They're God's Chosen Ones. I have a Watchtower here somewhere that explains all of this stuff in detail, let me just get it out..." I began, but you stopped me, pulling me back from my waiting bag by my shoulder, gently but firmly.
"No, that wont' be neccessary. Tell me, what input do you, the average joe in your religion, give concerning the stuff they print?"
"None, I guess. But they know what they're doing, right?"
"Right."
"Could you do me a favour?" you asked. Now I was beginning to get nervous. The Elders had told me about people like this. Smart people, with too much spare time on their hands. People too eager with their questions.
"Sure...depends on what favour it is, though..." I said, hesitating. I wanted to invade my bookbag, retreat behind the comfort of the leaden, authoritative words of my Watchtowers.
"Every morning when you wake up, I want you to ask yourself the same question I just asked you. What input do you have into their thoughts?"
"Well, I can answer that question now. They're the ordained Servants of Jehovah, the Faithful and Discreet Slave, and they tell us what God wants us to know. It's quite simple, really."
"Just do that, OK? Just ask the question. Every day. Eventually, the answer will come. The right answer. Goodbye!"
You left me standing on your doorstep, holding my magazine in front of me like a weapon. A printed firearm, if you will.
Just as I was turning to leave, my head feeling like a sandstorm for no reason at all, you briefly opened the door, poking your hand out. "Here, take this. Maybe you'll need to contact me sometime. That's my email address."
I took the card, not knowing how to say no.
The next day was a Saturday, and a fine one at that - I took the opportunity to take a long, quiet walk along the beachfront near my home. It was still early in the morning, and there weren't a lot of people about. A couple were running down the beach, playing in the surf. The woman was dressed in something that no Sister would ever wear, and the man was chasing her, and then she chased him. They seemed happy...carefree...
I walked for a long time that day, thinking about what you'd said. Every time my thoughts wandered in a certain, dangerous direction, I'd reel them in. Why would you want to question the Slave? We're all in this together, right?
They wouldn't lie to us, would they? Jehovah wouldn't let them!
And then I realized that they were also just people. Just human. Like me, like you.
Why was I preventing my thoughts from running in certain directions? Didn't Paul tell us to guard our minds and hearts?
Why should an adult human being need to guard their mind? My Governing Body could stand up to the test, I decided. They were God's ordained, and they'd have to, if it came to that. Jehovah wouldn't construct a sham Society. Jehovah would give us only the finest servants in men, to oversee us and guide us.
Or would he?
I twirled your card in my hand. For some reason, the cardboard felt very similiar to that new stuff they use to print the larger brochures. They're switching over to paperback now, to make things a bit cheaper. We're tightening our belts, us Witnesses. Things aren't the way they used to be. No more food at Assemblies. At least now the Brothers and Sisters who used to prepare food all day long can get some of the real stuff, the Spiritual Food, instead of spending all day preparing hoagies, right?
Right?
That had to be why the Governing Body did that. I'm sure. Nothing else would make sense. They got rid of subscriptions so that a Publisher could deliver the magazines instead, and give the householder a better chance of surviving Armageddon by actually talking to them, telling them the Good News personally.
Right?
Why am I thinking like this? The Governing Body serve us, not the other way around. We donate money so they can give the Pioneers in Africa enough cash to eat and spread the word.
But not China. We're banned there. Nearly a billion people who'll almost certainly never hear the word.
A billion people. But they'll be resurrected. Maybe they'll wonder what happened.
But why would they have to die in the first place? Or maybe they'll survive Armageddon. There'll be more of them than all the Witnesses in the world put together. It'll be a Chinese future, then. Well, at least they know how to get people into space. It's probably part of Jehovah's plan.
Why does your card feel exactly like a brochure? The texture is the same. It's a curious coincidence.
Printed on one side: "Laura Schonheid Von Vogelsang". Underneath that: "[email protected]"
I crumple the card in my hands and throw it into the water. Damned Apostates! I hadn't even noticed the domain name until I looked at the card.
And then I see the sun cresting the waves, dappling itself across the girl at the edge of the water, who laughs up at me, trying to evade her boyfriend behind her in the shallow water.
And I fall onto my knees, the world pulling free from my mind, circulating and turning inside out, and for a moment I want to burst into tears. Salt invades my eyes. They're just human, just like you and me.
I run into the water, fall over, get up, and jump to grab your card, floating there on top of a little swell of water.
And then I go back to my house, and begin writing an email.