Leaving the False Churches: A Call for Prayer, Fasting and Separation

Issued by The Covenant of Free Congregational Christians (The Covenanters)

on Sunday, October 22, 2017 In preparation for the 500th Anniversary of the Reformation


Woe to you, Scribes and Pharisees, hypocrites! For you are like whitewashed tombs which appear beautiful on the outside but are filled with the bones of the dead and all things corrupt. - Matthew 23:27

For what does light have in common with the darkness? Therefore come out from among them and separate yourselves, says the Lord God. - 2 Corinthians 6:14, 17


Since 2013, the churches of Rome, of England, and of Canada have been convicted of unspeakable crimes against children and humanity. Under both man’s law and the law of God they have been declared criminal bodies and their authority has been nullified. The curtain of judgement has fallen on not only these churches but upon all those who remain within them. It is time for all people of conscience and of Christ to leave forever these false and murderous churches.

Commencing at sunrise on Sunday October 29, all people are invited to enter into forty eight hours of prayer, fasting and spiritual separation from the Satanic churchly powers. On October 31, on the 500th anniversary of the Reformation, Christ’s people will assemble in new congregations apart from these powers and their worldly churches.

We call upon all members or adherents of the Roman Catholic, Anglican and United Church of Canada to begin this process of inner and outer cleansing by ceasing and desisting from funding or associating with these criminal bodies. Fast and separate with us and return to Christ Alone, and declare this intention by taking the appended Pledge of Conscience and sharing it with your family and other church members. In Christ’s name and according to his purpose, Amen.


Pledge of Conscience


I, ______________________________ , after prayer and in good faith, hereby pledge to disassociate myself from the Church known as   

________________________________ and to deny it all attendance, funding and adherence. I do so because of its criminal conviction as a genocidal, child

killing institution that has betrayed God and humanity, and thereby forfeited all legitimacy, rights and authority. I also pledge by this separation to pursue my

faith in the company of others who have or who may take this Pledge. So help me God.


_____________________________ 

Signature


_____________________________

Date


Note: Please leave copies of this Pledge in the church collection plate and share it with others. See the evidence of the crimes of your church at www.murderbydecree.com and www.itccs.org . Contact The Covenanters at congregationalcovenant@gmail.com and read its Founding Confession of Faith at https://www.createspace.com/7431755 .

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Confessions of an Allegedly Angry Man: Breaking the Awful News

by Kevin Annett

(to be read in conjunction with the adjoining piece “Proudly Canadian …”)

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“In times like the present, men should utter nothing for which they would not willingly be responsible through time and eternity.” – Abraham Lincoln, 1861

The other day one of my less than insightful readers whom I’ll call Shirley took offense at something I wrote. With a passion unusual for a pale Canadian, Shirley explained to me how I would have much more support from the public if I wasn’t so “bitter and angry” about my own country, and learned instead to “look for the positive in people”. She also mentioned something about God.

Shirley’s fervent accusation perplexed me at first, since the dire writing to which she referred was composed by yours truly as a satirical poke at Canadians’ moribund capacity to strain out a gnat while swallowing a camel: in this case, the latter being our sordid Group Crime and Denial involving lots and lots of dead brown children. After all, one can only laugh at enormous tragedy, since it defies all of our words.

In fact the woman’s barbed censure of me came at a fitting moment, since not even an hour before her remarks I had been asked by an interviewer to do more than comment on the murder of the nine year old girl named Vicky Stewart. My interlocutor asked me how her death made me feel. And the truth was that I didn’t feel anything.

I’ve sometimes imagined what position in life I’d enjoy if I was actually the nefarious man portrayed by my critics. I’d be a lot wealthier, for one thing. In Shirley’s case, if I indeed harbored the kind of bitter rage she’s detected in me from her remote vantage point, then I would be exploding passionately over Vicky’s beating to death by a United Church matron named Ann Knizky. If only I had such rage! But worse the luck, I’m too much of a Canadian to not glance over my shoulder with concern at how the crowd might interpret my blast of indignation. For as any of us know who have faced the fire of official vilification, in our country the problem is never that a wrong is done – it’s that someone is talking about it. Just ask Shirley.

Vacuous critics aside, I’ve spent today probing my absence of feeling concerning little Vicky’s killing. I’ve seen her picture and come to know her sister Beryl who witnessed the fatal blow. I know the details of Vicky’s brutal ending as well as I do the untold thousands of other faceless victims whose extermination I have chronicled and shared with a disbelieving world. And perhaps that fact explains the thick padding around my heart and the staunched tears that cannot flow. No doubt too the grief of having my own beloved daughters stripped from me when they were mere infants has helped to exile me into this emotional dead zone where my rage cannot find its voice. In that way I’m a lot like my pale country men and women. For like the classical Greek heroine Antigone, if I have died it is so that I may truly help the dead: my fellow Canadians.

Besides a failing agility and subsiding libido, entrance into my sixties has brought me an unexpected clarity about what I’ve actually been doing these past two decades. I thought for a long time it was to expose a terrible wrong called genocide in my own backyard and give voice to its stumbling survivors. As it turns out, that was all but a preamble to the main event.

Nobody ever likes to have the awful truth presented to them, particularly when their end is in sight. For instance, soon after I was ordained as a clergyman I was called to the bedside of a dying woman named Carol who was the young mother of three children. She had barely days to live. Her parents and brothers were all there along with her distraught husband. None of them wanted to face the truth that she was about to die. They tried cheering her up and told her she’d be up and better soon. But she knew the truth, just as they did, somewhere beneath their dread and denial.

As Carol got worse and began to sink into a coma, I finally said gently to everyone in the room, “Now might be a good time for all of you to say goodbye to Carol.”

They all turned to me in shock. Carol’s mother barked at me angrily, “How dare you!”

“She doesn’t have much time left” I replied, but the woman couldn’t hear me.

The mother never did say goodbye to her daughter; instead she stormed out of the hospital room. But eventually everyone who remained faced the truth, and that’s when their tears and sobbing began, and their goodbyes to their dying Carol. Yet none of the bereaved family ever spoke to me again, avoiding me with hostile glances as if I had been the cause of her death.

Equally apropos is another story much like that one, told by a survivor of a Nazi death camp. The man was a Polish doctor being shipped in a cattle car to Auschwitz with hundreds of children and their parents and teachers. As the train neared the death camp, one of the elders, an old woman who’d taught music in the Cracow ghetto from where they had been shipped, began to tell the children happy stories of the beautiful land of eternal youth that awaited them all. She began to lead them in singing. Soon the children were all calm and contented, even as the blaring sirens and screams of Auschwitz approached.

The surviving doctor remembers that he grew angry at the old woman and took her aside.

“Why are you telling these children such lies, at a time like this?” he demanded.

The old woman smiled sadly and replied,

“This is not the time for the truth.”

Part of me agrees with the old woman: the childish part of me that once felt that love means medicating the suffering with a narcotic called hugs and happy wishes. But my seasoned and higher self understands that the truth is never dispensable, especially at moments of suffering; and that any love that denies the truth is as false and transitory as a mild painkiller. Only the truth can allow us to grow beyond our infantile need for protection and mature past the wheel of injustice. For experience shows us that the universe does not want us to be happy as much as it wants us to grow up.

People like Canadians – whose culture has the blood of the innocent on its hands and who are caught in an enormous group lie required by their crime – are not capable of growing up. Like any bully caught with the club still in his hand, white Canadians are not moved or concerned by the legions of children who were tortured to death by their churches as much as by someone who points out the bodies. As a senior United Church official once exclaimed at me, “We know all about those things. The only problem is that you’re talking about it.”

The official’s words are a perfect depiction of the banality of institutionalized evil: of the fact that those immersed in a Group Crime are not so much intentionally evil as they are dead in their hearts and dissociated from their own feelings. This obtuse condition was epitomized by the Anglican clergyman who confronted some of us who were leafleting his cowed parishioners about the more than 50,000 children who died at their corporate hands. The man screamed at us,

“We’ve said we’re sorry! What more do those people want?”

And the pastor was genuinely shocked and confused when I replied,

“Imagine if it was your child who was raped, killed and shoved in the ground somewhere. What would you want?”

My question confused the man only because the whole “issue” of his groups’ complicity in mass murder in his own backyard had never been internalized by him, or by his group. Raped and murdered children was not a reality to him but an abstraction, unrelated to his daily life. And it is precisely that kind of numbed and hermetically sealed moral capacity that is required for any Group Crime to go unresolved and unpunished, and thereby continue. The greater the atrocity, the greater the denial and personal distancing of it, whether at Auschwitz or the Alberni Indian residential school.

Passion and anger has no place in the rigid mental dissociation of group criminals like Canadians, for such upheavals threaten to crack open the careful arrangement of make believe humanity and personal self-exculpation that characterizes the winners of any war of genocide. Ultimately this neurosis explains the behaviour of my antagonist Shirley who took such offense at my laughing at the denial and delusions of my people. For to a white Christian in Canada there is no greater offense than to cause a controversy or division. Clearly, they don’t read their own Bible very much.

At the end of the day, our real enemy is not the risk of breaking glass in outrage but our incapacity to do so. Our frozen feelings and captivity in an arrangement of death and lies is as much a threat to the fiber and being of the Anglican clergyman as it is to you and me. Genocide condemns the killer and the killed alike. The one who tortures another to death and “gets away with it” carries around a death sentence and is eventually destroyed from within. White Canada, languishing in its group lie of “healing and reconciliation”, is dying from the inside out because it has yet to face itself.

I have no prescription for the terminal condition of my people because there is no cure. As much as Canadians deny their own condition, there will eventually come the fact of death. It is not to the passing crime called Christian Canada that we must minister, but to those who will come after it: the next generations, whether native or white, who must know the whole truth lest they replicate the evil.

Perhaps one day I will learn to let my own blocked grief flow and find that voice of rage that will shatter the prison bars. But if such grace falls upon me or on any Canadian it will be because of and not despite our relentless facing of the truth and our struggle to speak it. For as Alice Miller reminds us,

“The truth about our childhood is stored up in our body, and although we can repress it, we can never alter it. Our intellect can be deceived, our feelings manipulated, and conceptions confused, and our body tricked with medication. But someday our body will present its bill, for it is as incorruptible as a child, who, still whole in spirit, will accept no compromises or excuses, and it will not stop tormenting us until we stop evading the truth.”

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Proudly Canadian: Doing Right by all our Pets

by Kevin D. Annett 

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 My bleeding Canadian heart was so relieved the other day when I read that a government forensics team has hurried to our west coast to disinter and properly bury the remains of some of those adorable Husky sled dogs that were executed by a firing squad soon after the Vancouver Olympics. And while nobody is saying, well, why exactly the pups were shot, hell! Never let it be said that we aren’t a well-intentioned people! We know how to appear to do the nice thing, after the fact – at least when it comes to our animals.

It’s no doubt true that we come by our nice gestures honestly – and by way of the British. For example, sometime around the time of the Great War that Didn’t End a Single War, when over a thousand miners in South Wales had died from pit explosions and on the job accidents, King George the Fifth wrote an indignant letter to the mine owners of the region, demanding that they treat their pit ponies more humanely.

The mine owners complied, naturally, being a caring group of chaps.

A few years earlier, after deliberately starving the whole Irish nation and shipping out record boatloads of wheat and cattle from their lands, Queen Victoria and her Church of England sent caring Christians to Cork and Dublin to see what aid could be brought to the ravenous multitudes there in the form of workhouses for the poor. The Irish, like the mine pit ponies or any other workaday animals, were worthy of compassion, what?

Well Gosh darn it people! Considering this inspiring tradition of our superior Anglo-Saxon civility, I suggest we all pitch in and give a hand to those nice forensic investigators, and get to the bottom of that horrible crime committed against a bunch of innocent sled dogs! After all, being from Ontario the diggers might not know their way around coastal British Columbia, and they may end up disinterring the wrong mass grave: like one with Indian women and children in it. And that wouldn’t be very nice at all.

You know, I once had it all wrong about my country. I thought that Canadians just didn’t care about dead Indians. Back in the spring of 2010, when not a single cop, politician or reporter replied to my published list of 28 mass grave sites near former Indian residential schools, I assumed that it was because they were all indifferent to aboriginal people. I thought, with typical liberal arrogance, that when hundreds of native women went missing and the RCMP said there were only nine unaccounted for, it meant that the Boys in Red were trying to cover up murder, including their own misdeeds.

How wrong I was! Of course we care! Being not citizens under our law but wards of the state, the Indians are less than human, after all, and therefore are worthy of our long tradition of care and animal husbandry. 

We’ve allotted the aboriginals the kind of care they legally and morally deserve, as we do to all our pets. First, after eliminating and breeding out the savage ones among them, we domesticated, neutered and trained the rest to do our bidding. Today, we confine them to kennels called reservations and toss them some of our scraps. When we decide that a wrong has been done to them, we establish a Royal Commission to study the problem for many years and then shelve its report in Ottawa. Then we pat them on their heads and toss them a treat.

Of course, sadly, sometimes animals go astray, and need to be hunted and put down. The herd has to be kept managed, after all. The Indians aren’t like you and me, and they haven’t exactly been chomping at the bit to dig up the remains of their own people who have died. We wouldn’t let them, of course, but that’s beside the point. A house broken animal knows its place.

Again, thanks to our own special Indian Act, the red skins have no need of the prerogatives of citizenship, like the right to refuse medical treatment or enjoy due process. We take care of our Indians. We know their needs better than they do. We will provide them all the compensation and apologies and healing and reconciliation that they will ever need.

So why in God’s name should we disturb this special, thoughtful arrangement by digging up the wrong mass grave?

You know, it’s so good to live in a country like Canada, where animals get treated the right way – and where even the lowliest creature can receive a proper burial and a criminal investigation. We care that much.