An Open Letter to the Governing Body of Jehovah’s Witnesses
The Governing Body of Jehovah's Witnesses has gone unchallenged too long.
Dear members of the Governing Body,
I hope this letter finds you well. I write to you this day, to make an inquiry.
How is it that you do it? We would all love to know. You put up your hands, call yourselves uninspired and fallible, while expecting obedience just so. You disown yourselves from responsibility, saying, ‘We do not tell the brothers what to do. We reason only from the Bible and they decide if it’s true. But so simple, it is not. You know it and so do I. Your followers cling to words dripped from a serpent’s tongue. And why would they not, when the punishment is death. And it is death, with which you punish. It is death, that you promise for those expelled from your midst. Uninspired and fallible, you take it upon yourselves to remove men and women from their families and condemn them to oblivion. What if you are wrong? What if you are fallible, as indeed you say?
Ah, but you excuse yourself. ‘It is not we who curse them to death. It is Jehovah, with his Word.’
But I did not hear Jehovah speak when I heard them announce the disfellowshipped. I heard men. I heard men directed by you. For, the crimes that you listed, one, two and ten, are ones not mentioned in the Word, for which you boldly speak.
To question your integrity.
To question your authority.
To question your chronology.
To question your interpretation.
To question . . . just to ask a question.
You don’t like it when we ask questions. Off with their heads.
You claim to be fallible and that you’re uninspired, but that you have Holy Spirit, evidenced by the "revelation of deep Scriptural truths”.
This letter is to you, the Governing Body, not to Jehovah’s Witnesses; those ignorant of what we both know. You and I. We know. Don’t we? For every truth discovered by you, ten more have been mistakes; blunders covered up. Blunders like the name “Jehovah”. Blunders like the conclusion of the system, predicted more than one, two, or ten. Blunders like the organ transplant ban. Blunder after blunder after blunder. What part of this troubles you to understand?
People have died. People have died.
People have died.
Human beings, heeding your words, thinking them infallible and inspired, their direct channel of communication to Jehovah. Murdered by ignorance. You call yourselves the light, growing ever brighter, whilst you keep your followers shrouded in darkness, blacker than black.
‘Don’t listen to them. They are apostates. Block your ears, squeeze shut your eyes.’
Destroy our families if you must, so long as you quiet our voices. Anything to keep you safe. Anything . . . anything to stop the questioners from questioning. For you know. And I know. Don’t we? Your little sheep are not so different from me. Little sheep are apostates waiting to remove their wool, that when taken from their eyes they’re able to see. And when they see . . . they become me.
You know it and I know it. The difference between a Jehovah’s Witness and an apostate is not the gulf you would have them fear. It is not an abyss over which to leap. The difference is but a question.
You may call us apostates. And by definition, I suppose that’s true. But who are we, really? We are the questioners. A Jehovah’s Witness, devout and loyal to your twisted mahogany lies, need only hear a whisper in their heart. A whisper from my lips, or a blunder from yours. And they will ask a question. A question becomes that of one, two or ten. Turn around twice, a new apostate thrown to the wolves. Such a de-humanising word, “apostate”. A person is thrown away. They became questioners. Questions you cannot answer, so they’re cut open at the throat. You will keep their family, but the questioner must die.
From Charles, to Judge, to Nathan, to Fredrick, to you . . . from its inception, yours has been a cowardly game, has it not?
‘Do as we say, as we are the one channel of communication with God Almighty.’
Failed prophecies. Failed prophets. False prophets.
‘But we are not inspired or infallible. Still, you must do as we say, as we are in the truth.’
Truth is not a room. Truth is not a box. Truth is not a Kingdom Hall. You cannot be in “the truth”, as though it were something tangible. You can only ever have the truth. Jehovah’s Witnesses believe the truth is something that they must be in; a cloak tossed over skeleton shoulders, which helps to limit the birth of questions. Questioners don’t question if they believe truth is something to wear, rather than something to be had.
But you know. And I know. Don’t we? For you, members of the Governing Body, and, I, just Cael, we, both of us, have the truth. You know the truth and so do I. You know that I know. That’s why you put your fingers in their ears. That’s why you put your hands over their shrunken eyes. That’s why my mother has not spoken to me for ten eternal years. Because you and I know the truth. And she does not. For she believes the truth is something to be in, rather than something to be had.
It’s clever. I’d almost respect you, if I didn’t so hate you. If my contempt was a little less. If I could set aside your monstrosities. If I could pretend people weren’t dying, even now, based off decisions you have made for them. Uninspired. Fallible. That’s brave, by the way. Is it possible to be cowardly and brave simultaneously? I don’t know, but you have all the answers, right? Eight million people, right? All of them living and dying based on what you decide is right or wrong. As ordinary men, that must weigh heavily on you. Or does it not? Perhaps you have divorced yourself entirely from human emotion. I wonder how you do that, by the way. I still miss my mother. How exactly do you learn not to feel?
It’s clever. As long as they believe the truth is something to be in, and not something to be had, you can decide for them what is or isn’t truth. Their little minds . . . vacuum sealed in a box. If you should tell them that in “the truth” blue should be black and black should be blue, then for them, it would become true. Because their truth is something to be in, rather than something to be had.
But you would know.
And I would know.
We would know that they are wrong. We would know that black was black and blue was blue. We would know that that was true.
Pause with me for just a moment. Don’t be a group. Just for one minute, you be you, and I’ll be me. Don’t be the Governing Body. Just be each one of you, individually. Just be Gerrit or Tony. Pretend that it’s just the two of us, Mark. Same to you, Sammy and Geoffrey. David, it’s just us. And Mark, just be Mark. I won’t be an apostate. I’ll just be me. Let’s just be me, and you. We are two people, talking.
The paedophile problem is one we must discuss. Rapists allowed to walk, to resume family life, with nary a slap on the wrist. Is it because they sobbed bitter remorse? Is it because they begged you to grant them Jehovah’s forgiveness? Is it because they didn’t question, but gave credence your authority? I think it must be. I think it must be, because those who receive the harshest penalties are ones like me. The questioners asking questions of one, two and ten.
We, the questioners, question your integrity.
We, the questioners, question your authority.
We, the questioners, question your chronology.
We, the questioners, question your interpretation.
We, the questioners, question your right to answer the question.
We, the questioners . . . question you.
This, the paedophiles, do not do. They cry and snivel and moan and slobber. They praise you for your mercy, giving your ego a boost, reminding you that you speak for Jehovah. You are Jehovah. You have power. You feel it in your veins. But the power of a man lies only in that which is given him by others. The questioners strip away your power. How dare they question you?! Do they not know who you are?
So, forgive the perverts quietly and sweep them under the rug, because the perverts are the answer to the question of one, two and ten. Those black, bleeding, bastard souls crawling through your veins. They are the answer to your secret, the detestable thing, the abomination which maketh desolate. And how desolate you have made us! We, the remnants of homes once full. We are the living dead, our screams ringing in your ears. We are the forsaken children. The prodigal son, returned with a knife.
Now the world knows who you are, and the shearers will come for your sheep. It’s not hard to see the character of men who condemn to death the questioners for questioning those who would do harm to children. But, I tell you nothing you do not already know. You know who we are, the questioners. It’s why you banished us; tried to silence us.
You foolish men. The more of us you damn, the greater our number becomes. You cannot silence a horde. Beneath your boot, you cannot crush a beast. You cannot silence a million screams. Our voices are getting louder. Can you hear it ringing in your ears?
What are you?
How is it that you do it? We would all love to know. Do you sleep soundly at night, with so many demons beneath your bed? Are you honestly okay with it? You really don’t mind making the determination that a mother should never speak to her daughter, that a father should scorn his son? And for what? Because they didn’t show loyalty to you, men they’ve never met? Does that sit well with you? Are you really okay with that?
When you take away all the books and words, you’re just a man. I’m just a man. Can honestly tell me that you really presume to decide how eight million people should live their lives? And you’re okay with that?
I wouldn’t be.
Because . . . I’m just me. I’m just Cael. I’m not inspired by God. I’m not infallible. I make mistakes. Such arrogant presumption, to stand in the sky and decide who should die.
Just imagine it.
How revolting. How absurd. How blood red and pitch black would it be? I would be disgusted with myself. I would be ashamed. But then, if I did that, I wouldn’t be me . . . I’d be you.
I hope this letter finds you well,