In the gauzy memories of my infant self, a mere six months old, I recall my initiation into your vast spiritual cosmos at that grand Feast. Ah, the “Good Ol’ Days,” when the Worldwide Church of God, your magnificent brainchild, stood unassailable as God’s Government on Earth. That is, until it fractured into a thousand doctrinal heresies, as those closest to you, those who whispered their last goodbyes at your bedside, swiftly orchestrated its transformation.

I often find myself bathed in the soft light of introspection, wondering what specter of horror would pass over your face, could you see the ravaged remnants of your legacy. The aftermath of your once grand empire now resembles a battlefield, with eager false prophets and underqualified presidents gnawing at the bones of your life’s work.

Yet, amidst the wreckage, the vestiges of “God’s Government” persist. The vultures that succeeded you claw and snarl over scraps, each desperate to clutch a thread of relevance, a semblance of sustenance for their twilight years.

As I blossomed from childhood, your teachings clung to me, a spectral companion in the journey of life. Your convictions stood as firm as the ancient mountains, each proclamation reverberating with divine certainty. We, the lost tribes of Israel, hung onto every syllable you uttered, intoxicated by your potent brew of doctrine. But oh, the bitter irony! Your voice in the wilderness became a mere echo, reshaped and amplified by your successors. Only in the full bloom of adulthood did I truly hear the crescendo of your pulpit-thumping confidence, your theatrical denouncement of the “False Religions of this World.”

Mr. Armstrong, your Bible was a living entity, each verse pirouetting and contorting to the rhythm of your unique symphony. We watched, awestruck, as you manipulated the Word with a finesse that suggested an intimate cosmic camaraderie with the Divine. You were the prophesied “Elijah to come,” the herald of the “World Tomorrow!”

Ah, the prophecies! The end was perpetually at our doorstep, and we waited, our breath hitched in collective anticipation. You were the master conductor of God’s cosmic clock, even when the chimes of Armageddon rang hollow. How fortunate we were to have a prophet whose foresight was as pliable as clay! The remnants of your ministry cling to your prophetic timetables, echoing the promise of the “Soon coming kingdom of God!” – a promise that decays with each passing decade.

The specter of impending doom was a constant companion in my youth, your vivid depictions of persecution for Sabbath and Holy Day observance a grim lullaby. I can’t help but wonder, did those entrusted with my care question the unfulfilled prophecies, the missed deadlines, the continual aberrations?

Loyalty, Mr. Armstrong, was your golden calf, and only the devoted were allowed into your sanctum. Like a puppeteer, you manipulated us, your marionettes, orchestrating a dance to the tune of your divine sonnet. We basked in the glow of our chosen status, a comforting illusion of infallibility. Your humility, a mere shadow beneath the towering monument of your responsibility.

Here we stand, years later, your echoes still haunting the corridors of a myriad of churches. Your legacy, like an old warhorse, trudges onward under a new banner. Yet, it’s still your map we navigate, your dream that lingers in our collective consciousness. So, here’s a toast to you, dear prophet. For the lessons, the laughter, and the unwavering faith in our own spiritual journey, no matter how misguided. For the audacity to dismiss any dissenting opinion with unearned confidence. Here’s to the master of 1975, the maestro of Biblical interpretation and exegesis. How fortunate are we, the remnant in your wake, navigating the stormy seas you stirred.