FUNERAL OF A FALSE PROPHET.

Devotion is laudable but not to a liar and blasphemer. As I related in How I Was Razed: A Journey from Cultism to Christianity, Brother Herald's death hit me hard. Here's an excerpt from my upcoming memoir that shows just how I felt when I heard the news of his passing.

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As I lay on the couch after supper the next evening, listening to a New Testament cassette, the phone rang. I fought a stab of abdominal pain as I staggered to the phone in the kitchen.

"I have some bad news to tell you," Sister Eileen said without preamble. "Brother Herald passed away today."

I felt like somebody trapped in a plummeting elevator. "What are we going to do now that he's gone?"

"I don't know." She sounded as bewildered as I felt. "We'll carry on somehow."

"I feel kind of lost, you know?"

"I do too. I've known Brother Herald all my life and now he's gone."

"Who'll teach us now?"

"We still have all his teachings which Mother transcribed. God might also give one of us a prophetic ministry."

"I hope so."

Following a prolonged silence, I remembered to ask, "When's the funeral?"

"I'll let you know. I don't know at the moment."

During the service in the chapel of the funeral home three days later, Sister Roberta sang a hymn as she stood in front of the assembled mourners. During one verse, her voice shook with emotion.

I likewise struggled to keep my own tears back while she sang. The fact that our special teacher would no longer pass on revelations to us struck home.

Following the service, we gathered at the cemetery. As per Brother Herald's instructions, the funeral home covered his coffin with a regulation-sized Union Jack. Once we assembled, the chaplain said a final prayer. Then the attendants lowered our leader's remains into the hole as we filed out of the cemetery.

At Brother Herald's home, a considerable crowd of mourners gathered for a mid-afternoon backyard lunch. All of the church members attended, as did our deceased minister's two sons. Even Emmo and Bessie, who hadn't come to Thee Church for several years, made an appearance. I engaged some of the folks in small talk, but my mind remained occupied with the loss of our remarkable teacher.

During subsequent mid week meetings, Sister Roberta allowed no one to sit in Brother Herald's chair. "In case his spirit comes to the meetings, we must keep it ready for him," she warned us. Throughout my remaining years at Thee Church, this peculiar custom continued.

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God willing, I should have How I Was Razed in print in print and e-book form by the end of this year. As for my previous paperbacks, please click on the Bruce Atchison's books link for information about them

BLESSED ASSURANCE IN A TIME OF SORROW.

Have you ever met somebody who continually treated you as a problem person, liable to mess up everything? I had the misfortune of meeting just such a character. This woman, who I refer to as Sister Roberta, was a thorn in my side for more than fifteen years.

From my upcoming How I Was Razed: A Journey from Cultism to Christianity memoir, here's an excerpt about how I comforted a grieving grandmother in spite of Sister Roberta's profound misgivings.

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One Wednesday evening, Sister Eileen and her mother seemed preoccupied. As we sat in the sanctuary, awaiting Brother Herald, I asked, "Is something going on?"

Both women looked away from me as if they felt embarrassed. Then Sister Roberta broke the silence. "Little Closius died a few days ago. Linda was bathing him and when she left the bathroom to get a bar of soap, he slipped beneath the water."

"I'm sorry to hear that." I mumbled.

"We're having the funeral here on Saturday afternoon. You can come if you wish but don't ask any foolish questions, all right? I don't want Linda to start crying because of your impertinent questions. The last thing grieving people need is for somebody to ask about how it happened."

Around a dozen people attended the funeral for Jay's year-old son.

"If only I had brought the soap in first," Linda kept repeating to herself. "Why did God have to allow this?"

Words failed me as I shuffled my feet and gazed at the floor. Every answer that came to mind sounded trite.

After Sister Roberta served communion and gave a brief eulogy, she allowed the congregants, two or three at a time, to view Closius' body in Brother Herald's room. This inner sanctum interested me more than paying my last respects as Sister Roberta had always forbidden me to see it. A double-sized bed had been placed in the far corner. Next to it stood a varnished wooden chair and writing desk with a lamp on it. I noticed with some surprise that the small room had no windows in its pale blue walls.

Doing my duty, I glanced at the small, brown casket on the centre of the bed before I walked out of the room.

Linda's mother wept as she followed me out from Brother Herald's room. "Poor baby. I'll never see him again," she sobbed.

"You'll be able to see him again in the resurrection when Christ returns," I blurted.

Instead of upsetting her, as I feared, she exclaimed, "Oh yes, I'd forgotten about that. Thanks for reminding me."

I smiled, realizing that I comforted her with the eternal aspect of our lives.

While the congregation disbursed and Sister Roberta Gave several people driving directions to the cemetery, I asked her, "Can I come too?"

"No," she ordered, "You will stay here with us. Only the family members can attend the burial. You'll just get in the way anyhow."

In spite of this snub, I remained loyal to Thee Church and the supposed truth I learned there.

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How I Was Razed is the testimony of how God revealed his true character to me after charismatic house church elders misled me for more than fifteen years. You're welcome to contact me directly for more information about this upcoming paperback.