![]() ![]() When next Thursday rolled around with no Jesus the father rushed back to the Book of Revelations to figure out where he had miscalculated. The kid was groomed to be a living saint and the Second Coming was expected next Thursday at the very latest. (By the way the father had a passing resemblance to Oliver Reed, but that is not especially relevant.) Always with one eye jammed in a microscope, examining God’s tiny miracles. And this was interesting because the father was a scientist, a zoologist and botanist, a writer of the definitive book on British sea anemones, and many many others. This was a sect which did not celebrate any Christian holiday – they looked upon Christmas with horror, because, as you can see, it includes the word “mass”. It was Jesus this, the Lord that, the blood of the Lamb everywhere you looked, day in day out. In fact he drank a gallon of it every day. This is the memoir of a boy growing up in a Christian cult in the 1850s, the cult was the Plymouth Brethren, and the father of this son was a guy who had drunk the koolaid. ![]() You have never read such a warm, loving portrait of a monster. ![]()
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