If you ask me, I think Stacy appears “shut-in” here, lost, intimidated. My daughter Rebekah experienced similar trauma when she was ordered by the “Generals” to testify for them, against me. The Greens are, after all, the “spiritual guides” to the lost.
It makes me sick how you rip off our daughters, our sons, how you negate the very people who care about them the most, who’ll always love them, regardless. What is it inside of you that makes you this way, that makes you want to inflict deep emotional pain?
Your own daughter couldn’t stand you. Sarah’s life contains a lot of sadness. I know only bits of her story, but those bits are significant.
I was there when she ran away the first time. You and Jim were scheduled to fly to the Philippines, and you missed your flights, because Sarah ran away the same day. When you found her, you and Jim took her to the Philippines the next week, and you made her stay there for 6 months after you returned. You were going to “teach her a lesson.”
I was there when she tried to kill herself the first time, too. When she ingested a bottle of aspirin, or was it Tylenol?
Like Rebekah, you married her off to a man >10 years older than she, Mike Brandon, AKA Peter Royce, AKA Peter Green, one of your diehards. But that marriage didn’t work , did it? You couldn’t keep your own “little girl”under control.
I’m glad she’s free of you. I liked Sarah, and thought she was beautiful and smart. I’m glad she’s no longer under your dark cloud, your “covering.” I’m sad, though, for the children she had to leave behind.
So—tell me, Deborah, what’s inside you that needs to control other people’s lives like this, other people’s loved ones, inflicting lasting emotional pain?
Rebekah, Abe and Kay, former ACMTC members
short clip of “general” Deborah’s “crock of shit”
Seriously, “no factual evidence?” Are you freaking serious? Do you intend to also inform the world that you failed to show up in court? Two times? Twice you refused to show up at your own trials, to present your so-called “evidence,” and debunk mine. Instead, you choose to hit the road and run!
You’d never let anyone “do unto you as you’ve done unto others,” would you, Mrs. Green? Be judged? You’ve got to be the one in the high seat, the judge’s seat. So Christian of you.
“Judge not that ye be not judged.”
You’ll stoop to low levels to protect your delusions of grandeur, won’t you, “judge” Deborah? Who’s using their imagination? Who fixed the stage so that you’re the “General of God’s army, His prophet, and His judge,” His poor suffering servant? Not God!
Look at what you’ve created in your life, Mrs. Green–yours and everyone elses you’ve mingled with. You put yourself in the high seat, and you see your image crumbling, and it terrifies you–and it’s not because you’re being persecuted,
…it’s because you’re being exposed!
How can you even live with yourself? How can you sleep at night? You look haggard, always guarded, always poised to defend your own lies with more lies.
No need to watch the whole thing. Short excerpts to follow.
Seriously Deborah Green? I’ll return with comments later.
Regarding Cult’s and Persecution Complex
“The ICSA (International Cult Studies Association) outlines ways to identify and characterize a cult, and speaks at length about isolationism and its effects on members.
Many cults have instilled an active persecution complex in the minds of their members. They have been trained to believe the world hates, fears and misunderstands them. This often results in cults isolating themselves from the outside world. The leader cultivates, and the cult maintains, a sense of “outside” persecution.
Herbert W. Armstrong taught WCG would be persecuted, and even set dates for when that persecution would begin relating to his 1975 apocalyptic predictions. Armstrong and his acolytes kept Church of God members frightened and constantly looking toward an impending crackdown on their church, similar to the massacre in Waco, Texas in 1993 when their spiritual cousins the Branch Davidians were besieged by federal agents.
Incidents such as these and the constant drumbeat that “secular, godless liberals” are destroying society creates a cohesion of fear where members band together and tend to socialize internally to the exclusion of the outside world. Members are taught to believe everything that happens in the world they disagree with is an affront to their beliefs and values, and thus a direct threat to their community.
This also takes the form of “mean world syndrome,” a term coined by communications professor George Gerber to describe the ways people believe the world is more dangerous than it actually is, based on mass media portrayals. Cults tend to feed upon this phenomenon by convincing their members the world is a harsh and dangerous place that will erode their values. People outside the cult are viewed as “sinners,” bad influences who will drag them down and threaten their salvation or enlightenment.
This paranoia only fuels cult isolationism.”
I love this quote from a writer named Kathleen. I don’t know her full name, but she’s quoted in the book my book club just read, The Vintage Years, by Francine Toder, Ph.D. It’s not the full quote, but parts of it—the parts that resonate with me as to why I write.
“Where did we come from? How did we come into being? What forces created us? These are the big questions theoretical physicists attempt to answer when they study the mystery of the Universe.
I write about my life in an attempt to answer the same questions. It doesn’t matter that full understanding is unlikely. The search is its own reward.
I write to know who I am, to identify the forces that shaped me. I write to figure out the story I’m in and to transform my splintered experiences into a whole. I write to make meaning, to understand and share my story. I write to find out what I think.
I write to forget and distance myself from difficult times an individuals. Writing offers relief from the pain of tragic events. Writing helps me forgive.
I write to remember, to honor my mother and father. I write to let family and friends know their special place in my world. I write to tell the stories of those who can’t. I write to…manage terror. I write to save. I save because I have lost. I write so that something remains.
Not unlike a scientist, I go about my work. I am on a quest. I restore the past, attend to the memories that shimmer or disturb and to the strings of memories attached to them. I deduce. I explain. I zoom out to scan for connections, themes, forces. I test conclusions for emotional truth. The work feels theoretical. I don’t know where I’m going until I arrive. The process is one of discovery. I do this for myself. But I keep others in mind—the loved ones, whose stories are intertwined with mine, and the strangers who might appreciate the ways in which our lives are different and the same.”
Isn’t that beautiful?
It happens a lot—I let go of something and it returns to me with a new gust of energy. Or I forget something and I remember it as soon as I stop trying. Or I can’t find something and I find it as soon when I stop looking.
I wonder what that’s about? Maybe it’s just me getting out of the way.
Had James and Deborah Green and Steve, AKA Philip Jordan,
come clean with the truth in the beginning,
their lies would not haunt them as they do today.
Ask anyone who knew them and has walked away.
I didn’t walk away.
With condemnation and shame,
I was kicked out.
It’s the best thing that could have happened to me at the time.
It catapulted me into change.
I had to open my eyes and pay close attention.
I had to find my own way.
My family and I were lucky.
We made it out alive.
Brad wasn’t so lucky, and neither was the woman Steve married 6 months after I left. Brad died of malaria in Africa on a mission with the Greens. I was there. I was with him when he died. There’s a reason Deborah Green tried to cover her ass regarding Brad’s death in her million dollar lie letter. She’s a paranoid lady.
It really didn’t happen this way. No qualified doctor gave Brad a good prognosis, and he certainly wasn’t “strong and healthy” the day before the Greens flew back to the USA with Joshua, their son, who had the same deadly organism as Brad. Brad couldn’t keep anything down. I know. I was the one getting up with him in the middle of the night when he projected green bile.
The day before the Greens left Africa with their son, they went behind a closed door with Brad, and they cast out his “demons of sickness.” I heard them. Afterwards they came out and announced Brad “healed.” “He’ll be back to working tomorrow,” they said. But the Greens never saw Brad again.
I told Steve “he’s going to die,” but he never listened to me. He made Brad “man-up,” and be “a soldier of god.”He made him work in the sun on hot days, Brad with fever, and he rebuked him when he bought a cold soda to hydrate himself—a “bad example to the locals”, Steve said. Steve always cared a lot about how things looked.
Brad died in a primitive hospital, like the ones depicted in American films in the early nineteen-hundreds, with metal bedpans, porcelain bowls, bottles of alcohol, and white mosquito nets over beds. It’s quite possible that if Brad had been given the same early intervention as the Green’s son, maybe he’d be around to tell us about it today.
Had the correct antibiotics, the correct medications been available to Brad, along with respiratory support and kidney support (dialysis), maybe he would have lived. Or maybe he wouldn’t have. As a registered nurse, all I know is, early intervention in a case like this is essential for a good prognosis. After neglect, Brad became septic. His body went into shock.
I suppose he was a martyr, a hero, because he gave his life for what he believed. But it was an unfortunate waste of a life, even though his sister says he always wanted “an early out.” And what he believed in was a crock of shit.
Philemon, the unfortunate woman Steve married 6 months after I left, died of “squirrel fever.” That’s how her death certificate reads. An ex-member who exited ACMTC after her death says Philemon was shamed as I was, made to live in an old trailer behind their compound. That’s second-hand information, I know, but there’s no reason for me to believe that this ex-member would make it up.
Angelina says the Greens did the same to her—they shamed her, moved her into a trailer out back, and fed her nothing but dog food. She, and her son.
I’m not saying the Greens or Steve were at fault for Brad’s or for Philemon’s death. Unlike the Greens, I don’t claim to know everything. But in hind-sight, they sure didn’t care a lot for their own people, their own followers, the people who supported them, who paved the way for their delusions to take flight.
More than anything, I believe that all three–Deborah, Jim and Philip (or Steve)—have from the get-go postured themselves to defend, to protect their own delusions of grandeurs, or their egos, or whatever you wish to call it. They keep stacking up the bricks that separate them from “the sinners of the world.” They’re determined to keep up their facade, their elite status, and be viewed as important people of god.
I doubt that any of them could bear the pain and shame that they inflict upon others. To go down as frauds, they’d have to face themselves in the mirror, and see who they really are. It’d be a hard pill for anyone to swallow, but the best thing that could ever happen to them to wake them up.
I remind myself that life doesn’t start when I finish developing this blog, after I’ve unloaded all the heavy burden of what I have to say. Life is now. I remember that at get-go I promised myself I wouldn’t get bogged down by the matters of my past, a past I worked hard to be free of. I’m only going to blog when I feel like it.
Then I get 1487 visitors in June, >3500 views, and I think I have to keep writing to keep people happy, and to keep them coming back. What the hell is wrong with me?
So I’m taking a break. I don’t want to waste my nor anybody else’s time with a bunch of clutter resulting from a push to produce. I’m in no compitition here, and I’m not trying to market anything. I only want to tell my story, and that in a non-unintruding, authentic way. (Have I mentioned that I’m a bit OCD, and I’ve a whim for simplicity, too?)
I deleted my “about me” page awhile ago. Too lengthy. Too heavy. To serious. I’m in an organizing, simplifying, and getting rid of phase. So are a lot of people, I know. Less really is more. I deleted a few wordy posts as well, and I’m going to go though others to edit, shorten or delete. It’s a crazy-making thing I do. Always editing and deleting. It’s the perfectionist inside me—she seldom goes away. Damn perfectionist.
I do want to create some order, to create some categories and/or menus to ease navigation. I think I’ll do that next. My professional blogging daughter who just moved from Texas to California will show me how.
Off subject, but I encourage everyone to read the link below. My biggest challenge as a nurse was to prolong the life of someone ready and wanting to die, as their family stood beside them asking for everything to be done. Nobody wants to lose anybody, but death is a natural part of life just like birth.
here’s the link