Victor Barnard is apprehended in Brazil ... (Yes!!!)

KMSP: Cult leader Victor Barnard captured in Brazil

[Scroll down this blog post for updated links as the story develops.]

On Friday, 2/27/15, Victor Barnard was apprehended in Brazil by authorities. According to reports citing Globo.com, Barnard’s extradition papers to the United States have already been signed by the Brazilian courts.

Barnard is a former follower of The Way International and a Way Corps 14 graduate. He left The Way around 1990 and launched his own small Way spin-off group, River Road Fellowship, around 1992. (Link: VICTOR BARNARD: Timeline of a cult leader)

Beginning in 2000, Barnard hand-picked a group of girls and young women, ages 12 to 24 years, from his congregation. The group was called "The Maidens," and was sometimes called “Alamoth,” a biblical word referencing virginity. After moving the Maidens to a camp where they would serve God as virgins, Barnard manipulated them into having sex teaching them that since Barnard was Christ, the girls would remain virgins even if they engaged in sex with Barnard. Barnard taught them that it was normal practice for men of God to get their sexual needs met by loyal followers*; after all, Solomon had his concubines and Jesus had Mary Magdalene along with other women. (Link: Minister raped 'Maidens' in Minn. camp for years)

In 2012, two of Barnard's victims came forward and reported what they had endured for some ten years at the hands of Barnard. They were only around 12 years old when Barnard had handpicked them and began abusing them.

On April 11, 2014, a warrant for 59 counts of sexual misconduct was issued against Barnard.(Link: Alleged cult leader Victor Barnard charged with molesting 'Maidens')

*[From at least the 1970s until around 2000, The Way had a similar inner-circle doctrine (hidden from many followers at the time) that included handpicked female followers meeting the sexual needs of certain men of God. The Way's inner-circle doctrine did not include that those men were Christ nor that the women would remain virgins. To my knowledge, most of the Way leadership who engaged in that abusive doctrine did not coerce minors.(Link: Minnesota cult leader called the girls 'brides of Christ' - and he was 'Christ')]

In this photo released by Rio Grande do Norte State Security secretary, American sect leader Victor Arden Barnard sits in a police station after being detained at Pipa beach, in the Northeastern state of Rio Grande do Norte, Brazil, Friday, Feb. 27, 2015. Barnard is facing 59 counts of criminal sexual conduct related to two young women who said they were abused for nearly a decade at his secluded River Road Fellowship in Minnesota. (AP Photo/Rio Grande do Norte State Security Secretary)

Read more: http://www.dailymail.co.uk/wires/ap/article-2973859/Brazil-arrests-US-sect-leader-wanted-sex-charges.html#ixzz3T5WZQ1bf
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Links to posts on toss & ripple regarding Victor Barnard:
  • 3/01/14: Victor Barnard and River Road Fellowship (includes links as the story developed up to the arrest)
  • 4/19/14: More thoughts regarding Victor Barnard...and influence...and The Way...and...
  • 8/18/2014: Victor Barnard: "Preaching Lies" to air on "The Hunt," Sunday, August 24, 2014
  • 2/28/15: Victor Barnard is apprehended in Brazil... (includes links as the story is developing since the arrest)

    Below are links as the story is developing since Barnard's arrest on 2/27/15.
    To access links prior to the arrest, click here: Victor Barnard and River Road Fellowship

    March 1, 2015: What's next for Victor Barnard?


    March 2, 2015: The Brazilian accomplice who helped Victor Barnard hide


    March 3, 2015: River Road cult came between family, daughter


    March 4, 2015: Victor Barnard has Brazilian lawyer, road to extradition could be long


    March 5, 2015: From the Daily Beast: Inside the Sex Cult of ‘Christ’

    "...The Daily Beast spoke exclusively to numerous relatives, friends, and even a former member of Barnard’s River Road Fellowship who managed to escape the spiritual leader’s clutches...."

  • 2/10/2015

    Urine bags and heroes....

    I was just reading from an Amazon "look-inside" excerpt from the book Ensouling Language by Stephen Harrod Buhner. The topic was "heroes."

    My self to my self:
    Who are my heroes?
    The so-called little guy who helps out another so-called little guy. 
    I guess I should say "guy or gal."

    Independent acts of compassion, kindness, empathy.
    Acts that don't make headlines.
    Deeds that receive little-to-no public recognition.

    Earlier this week, I told Hubby that my mom is a heroine.
    Even with her faults.
    Maybe they weren't really faults; but rather, quirks.

    Mom's diagnosis of "manic depression" in the early 1960s landed her for months or years, I don't know how long, in two different mental institutions. She endured 1960s shock treatments. I can only imagine the cocktail of drugs she was force fed.

    Mom was in her latter thirties to early forties at the time.

    I have no conscious recollection of that time in her life.
    I was a baby when she was first hospitalized at Emory in Atlanta, Georgia.
    I was a toddler when she was later hospitalized at Broughton in Morganton, North Carolina.

    When Mom was 58, Dad, alone in his car, sat behind the driver's wheel taking a mountain curve when his mid-size car engaged - head-on, metal to metal - a large flatbed truck.

    Dad's next conscious moment?
    He was staring at a hospital ceiling.
    Steel halo around his head.
    Body stretched straight.
    Unable to move.

    It must be one of the most traumatic diagnoses to process.

    Dad had been an avid golfer.
    An occasional snow-skier.
    He loved to dance.
    In his earlier years, he had hunted deer that provided meat for the family.
    He had owned a small sailboat.
    He had raised quail.
    He had gardened.

    All of it was stolen.
    In one split second.
    The snap of his spinal cord at C-4.

    Mom cared for Dad at home for over 12 years.
    Day in.
    Day out.
    Yes, she had help from family, friends, and hired aides.
    For a few weeks each year, she received supposed respite when Dad would go the McGuire Veteran Hospital in Richmond, Virginia.

    But those "respite" times allowed only minimal rest.
    Mom, usually along with a family member or another caretaker, would make the seven-hour drive to Richmond and would stay at least the first night, and often more, before driving back home.
    Even then, Mom back at home alone, Dad's well-being was always on Mom's heart and mind.

    The same is true with any caretaker, with the one who loves deeply the afflicted.
    Whose soul is bound tangibly and intangibly with the one that appears to have the greater need.
    Dad's greater need wasn't just in appearance; it was reality.
    Physical needs for breath and nourishment and elimination and movement must be met to a certain degree in order for the seemingly less tangible needs of the soul to be known, expressed, embraced.

    Mom wiped Dad's ass almost daily. About three times a week, she inserted her latex-covered index finger up Dad's anus to help excavate human feces. She'd plop the brown matter into a plastic bin. The bin would then be taken to the toilet and flipped, tapped, rinsed, wiped, and sanitized for the next round.

    Almost daily Mom dressed Dad.

    Part of the daily wardrobe included a condom held onto Dad's penis by a strap. A short, skinny, hollow, firm latex neck protruded from the end of the condom. A long, hollow, 1/4-inch diametered, latex tube fit tightly around the short, hollow, firm condom-neck. The long tube extended downward and was strapped to the inside of Dad's left leg. Right below Dad's left knee, the tube fit tightly into another short, hollow, firm, latex neck which was the top end of a ten-inch long, six-inch wide latex urine-catcher bag that was strapped to the inside of Dad's left calf.

    When Dad's bladder needed to release, the urine would flow down the tube and into the bag.

    From the bottom end of the latex urine-catcher bag, extended a 1-1/2 inch-long, 1/4-inch-diametered, short, hollow, firm, latex tube-neck. A plastic flip-clip closed off this short tube-neck to keep the urine in the bag. Flip the clip to open the tube-neck, and the pale yellow liquid would drain.

    At times, Dad's external condom would slip off.
    Dad couldn't feel the warm liquid or the release that comes to us feeling folks when we pee.
    So we wouldn't discover the slip-off until Dad or any folks around him saw that Dad's pants were wet or smelled the urine.
    This was terribly frustrating. especially in public.
    We would have to get Dad home right away; usually not a convenient task.
    The scenario would humiliate Dad.
    But he took it all in stride and would often times try to find some humor in the situation.

    Mom performed all this and more on a regular basis.
    Yes, family and friends helped .
    Yes, home health helped.
    Yet, Mom was always there.
    She wasn't always pleasant.
    Who would be?
    But she never gave up, not even when it was time to let that care be done by others.
    She simply couldn't let it go.

    Was Dad a hero too?

    In a sense, yes.
    He was also the victim of a horrendous car wreck.
    He was a hero in the sense that he found humor in every day life.
    He was a hero in that he brought others laughter with his wit.
    He couldn't use his hands and arms for much.
    His legs were useless for mobility.
    Still he tried to find purpose.
    Even if that purpose was laughter.
    Dad would cry regularly, often prompted by the goodness he found in others.
    If gratitude were a fragrance, Dad was its flower; at least, in his post-wreck life.

    I don't recall ever seeing Mom cry.
    Sometimes I wonder if her tear ducts worked.



    prompt or not: it was tenuous
    aww 1/28/15


    I've started writing three different times now during this thirty-minute writing break.

    I'm tempted to say that I'm breaking the rules by starting over, and over, and over.

    My next thought is, "There are no rules Carol. You can start over as many times as you want."

    I can leave this computer screen blank, no words at all, if I choose.

    I get tired of these glass screens that give us humans instant and constant access to knowledge, history, videos, news, the arts, music, pornography, revealed secrets, chat rooms, and whatever one can imagine.

    It's something I think about regularly. Snippets of my life displayed on a screen in a box that I carry in my hand, or in my hip pack, and sometimes in my bra.

    I'm not sure what to make of it. How much have I allowed "it" to change me? "It" being online life.

    I wonder if these screens will ever go the way of the dinosaur?

    Worth Less Keys

    Am I done yet?

    That question prompts the thought of cooking meat.

    For some meat-eaters, "done" is pink and tender; for others, "done" is pinkless and tough.

    I eat meat. I usually order my beef medium well, somewhere between slightly pink and pinkless. All other meat, I eat pinkless, except for sushi.

    I've been through these phases before when I feel I have nothing to write, nothing of value to share, wondering if I am "done" writing.

    Why do I feel I need to share what I write?

    "Need"? Is it a "need" for me to share these scribblings from my noggin?

    The Way taught about "needs" and that, to receive anything from God, there are five keys a believer needs to know and apply.
    • Key number 1: What is available
    • Key number 2: How to receive it
    • Key number 3: What to do with it after I've got it
    • Key number 4: Have my need and want parallel
    • Key number 5: God's willingness always equals God's ability

    I once endeavored to believe these keys and act accordingly. If I wasn't getting an answer to prayer, and I knew God's will in the situation, then I must not be applying one of the five keys. I then needed to take a "check up from the neck up" and believe for God to show me where I was "missing it." Was I applying the five keys properly?
    • Key number 1: I know what is available by studying God's Word which is God's will. All God's promises are "yea" and "amen."
    • Key number 2: I receive by believing. To believe requires that I take action on God's promises and that I "confess" the Word. Doctor continually taught us that "confession of belief yields receipt of confession."
    • Key number 3: If I'm going to receive, I need to know how to properly utilize whatever it is that I receive from God. God won't give me something if I won't properly steward it.
    • Key number 4: To get my need and want parallel, I determine my need and then bring my desire to that same level. I always had a hard time understanding this key. How do I know if my "need" isn't actually "greed?" The majority of the world lives with much less than what I've been granted.
    • Key number 5: God won't promise anything he can't deliver; His ability is always there to bring to pass His promises.

    For at least 28 years, that was my mindset, or a mindset I would try to attain and maintain.

    I no longer strive to live those five keys, and I seem to get more so-called "answered pray" now in my agnosticism than when I was that five-key believer.

    I guess I'm not "done" yet.


    Affinity for blackbirds

    I've told it before.
    Here it is again.
    Probably won't be the last time.

    "What did I look like?" I asked Mom referring to when I ate the jimson seeds some five years prior.

    "Your eyes were big and wide...and scared," she responded.

    I'm sure they were.

    Ron and I each ate three podfuls of seeds on a Tuesday afternoon in the fall of 1974. I was 15 years old; Ron was 16 or 17. I weighed in at a whopping 95 pounds; Ron weighed over 200.

    Ron ate the seeds that were black; I ate the brown seeds.

    I can almost taste and smell them....as I type at this moment, in 2015. They had an earthy taste, those raw tiny seeds concealed by nature in their spiky pods that screamed, "Danger! Danger! Do not touch!"

    Danger. That was our lifestyle. We were invincible. We would always get high, forever. We were the "freaks." Our motto was, "Never go straight; go forward." When we would be 60, we'd still be getting high. We'd never go straight. At that time, "straight" did not refer to sexual orientation. "Straight" meant you didn't do drugs.

    The black birds must have been the first hallucination, though at the time I thought the birds were real as I squatted and peed in the woods. Hundreds of blackbirds, maybe thousands, everywhere scratching and hopping along the pine needle carpet that covered the forest floor.

    Perhaps the birds were an omen from Edgar Allan Poe warning of the next three days. Daddy used to read Poe to us kids at bedtime. Or perhaps those real, but not real, blackbirds were my guardians and somehow helped bring me back to reality four days later.

    Would I have come back without the so-called "antidote?" I didn't receive the antidote until Friday evening. I've been told I was awake that whole time from Tuesday morning until Friday night. Jimson weed aside, being awake for four days in itself could cause hallucinations.

    I have no recollection of walking back to Ron's green AMC Hornet after I peed. Ron later told me what happened. After I staggered back to the car, he drove us to my home. It was around 4:00 in the afternoon. Dad was home, but we didn't see him nor he us when we entered the house. Ron and I sat down on the couch in the living room in the front of the house; Dad was in the family room in the back of the house.

    We didn't lock our doors in those days.

    I looked at Ron and spoke in a slow slur. "i. feel. tired. i'm. going. upstairs."

    I stood up, staggered into the dining room, took a left turn, then a right turn. I steadied myself and pulled my body partway up the old hardwood stairs. Then...kerplunk, tumble, thud. I lie at the bottom of the stairs. Nothing broken, except my psyche.

    Upon the noise, Dad came running to the front of the house from the back. He could see me to his right on the floor as he stood in the dining room.

    Then his gaze turned to Ron.

    Ron thought Dad was going to kill him.

    So Ron stood up and stumbled out the front door. And that's all Ron remembered.

    Somehow Ron drove to his home where his brother Skeeter got him to Hickory Memorial Hospital. The nurses and doctors had to put Ron in a straight jacket; he was trying to attack the female nurses. Ron's stomach was pumped.

    At some point Dad got me to Catawba Memorial Hospital; I think he called an ambulance. At the hospital, I was strapped to a bed in ICU. Unlike Ron, my stomach was not pumped. I later learned that the staff didn't pump my stomach because the doctors weren't sure what I had ingested and were concerned pumping might cause further harm. Apparently the two hospitals didn't communicate.

    That same night, Mom brought the doctors some cut plants that I had in my bedroom at home. A couple weeks prior, I had cut and gathered some jimson weed stems with their seed pods from the pasture behind our home. I had put them in a vase without water and placed the vase on my bedroom dresser. Those plants were sent to Chicago where Mom had connections with folks who had connections with a lab. An antidote was made from studying the plants, so I've been told. I have no reason to doubt it.

    Between Tuesday afternoon and Friday night, hallucinations were as real as any life event.
    • I was raped on a bed of steel springs. The bed was in the middle of a football field surrounded by a stadium of bleachers.
    • I lived at a castle, where I rode horses. I was part of the royal family. Maybe not a family member, but I was like family. I broke my arm while riding horses.
    • I spent what seemed months at an insane asylum, which was a giant, circular aquarium with winding sidewalks. Witch doctors visited me and the man in the bed beside me, who was as crazy as I was. The witch doctors wore masks and lots of color and danced around and between our beds ridding the room of evil spirits.
    • Every day in the aquarium asylum, a visitor would come from the outside world. I would scold him demanding he give me my supplies.
    • My Aunt Flossie visited me while I smoked a joint which I tried to pass to my friends Beth and Tricia when they visited. The joint had been toked down to a roach and it was burning my fingers.
    • I got eaten by a multitude of black cock roaches.
    • I died and on my way to heaven as I floated upward, Crosby-Stills-Nash-and-Young played for me.
    I was administered the antidote on Friday evening. It worked. I finally slept and woke up Saturday evening after a long slumber; my arms set free and no longer secured to the cold, steel bed rails; my torso no longer seat-belted to the bed by restraints; the IV in my arm and catheter in my urethra removed.

    I was back at high school a week later. I stuck by my motto, "Never straight," for another nine months.

    Some other pieces about my jimson weed experience:
    Part 1: A Green Hornet and Blackbirds
    Part 2: Witch Doctors and Roller Coasters
    Poem: Datura Stramonium: To Dance with the Devil

    This post was inspired by Crazy Cat.



    Prompt or not: a journey back
    AWW ~ 1/14/15

    Tuesday, January 13, 2015.

    I open my eyes to greet the day. I am lying on my back in my king-size bed, alone. Hubby has already left for work.

    As my eyes open, they see the ceiling. It hasn't changed since last night. Have I?

    I breathe in deeply, then exhale.

    I can breathe. That's good. There were years when drawing breath was an exploit.

    I continue to lie on my back, arms by my side. Breathing in and out.

    I lift my arms.

    I can lift my arms. That's good. I'm not having to struggle. But Carol, you know that in five weeks, that will change. That is how life is now. You have six weeks of freedom, so to speak. Then, as the medicine wears off from the quarterly injections, your limbs will begin to wilt.

    "Wilt." I haven't used that word before to describe my symptoms.

    Remember the Saturday before your injections this round? As you walked in your slow, deliberate, careful gait along the sidewalk on Marshall Street there at the New Winston Museum, around the corner from Old Salem, your nerves felt so deadened. Your self said to your self, "I feel like I have a corpse tied to my body. Like in ancient times when, for punishment, a corpse would be tied to a prisoner. Except this corpse is mine."

    It sounds so depressing. And it is. But it wasn't really a depressing thought at the time. It was descript, this "corpse." The description gave life to these deadened, blunted, yet sensitive-when-moved-or-touched-just-right nerves that help move me, as best they can, physically from one spot to another. How many miles of nerves are in the human body? I'll have to look it up sometime. The past three times I've received injections, I'm 3 to 4 pounds lighter within a day. I can feel the lightness. It's like my arms can float.

    I breathe in again, as I lie in bed. Tuesday morning still awaits me. 

    I lift my arms; they glide upward exciting molecules unseen to my eyes. 

    I observe my arms as I stretch them perpendicular to my body and rotate my wrists round and round in the air above me. 

    I feel trepidation as my mind momentarily thinks about my limbs and hands and feet five weeks from now.

    But today isn't five weeks from now.
    Today, I can lift my arms...
    "O child in me 
    Remember to 
    The joy of virgin
    First time my eyes 
    Thrill to spy the ocean spray
       moon dictate the tide each day
    Dig my toes in seashore surf
        drip sand castles along her turf
    Watch the dolphin sail up high
         smile and sparkle in her eye
    Heart's delight as snowflakes fall
       excitement hearing coyote's call
    In wonderment watch the butterfly
        unfurl her wings at first flight
    Hold tight a kite on a string
         feel the pull of wind unseen
    O God I pray 
                     I never lose
    Eyes to behold 
                      each day as new"

    Note: The poem was written in 2007 and is entitled Child's View.