For decades, Herbert W. Armstrong railed against the "pagan" practices of the world, claiming his Worldwide Church of God was the only bastion of pure, untainted truth. He called Christmas a solstice festival, Easter a fertility rite, and Sunday worship a sun-god conspiracy, all while positioning himself as God’s apostle, free from the world’s satanic influences. But what if Herbert’s own empire was the most pagan of all? In a stunning twist, we’ve uncovered the trueorigins of Armstrongism, hidden in plain sight through the very words he used to build his cult. Using the same irrefutable logic Herbert applied to Denmark as "Dan’s mark," we’ve decoded the secret pagan roots of his movement—and the results will leave you reeling.
Let’s start with the Radio Church of God, the name Herbert gave his fledgling group in 1934 when he launched his radio broadcasts. To the untrained eye, "Radio" refers to the medium he used to spread his message. But let’s apply Herbert’s own linguistic genius—the kind that turned Denmark into "Dan’s mark"—and see what we uncover. Break "Radio" into its parts: "Ra" and "dio." "Ra" is none other than the Egyptian sun god, a deity worshipped for millennia as the bringer of light and power. "Dio" is Latin for "god," straight from the pagan Roman pantheon. Put them together, and "Radio" means "Ra, the god"—a clear signal that Herbert was secretly honoring the sun god with every broadcast.
It gets worse. The "Church of God" part? Herbert claimed it meant the true church, but let’s dig deeper. "Church" sounds an awful lot like "Circe," the Greek goddess of sorcery who turned men into pigs in Homer’s Odyssey. And "God"? That’s just a shortened form of "Goddess," because Herbert was clearly hiding his devotion to Circe, the pagan enchantress. So, the Radio Church of God is really the "Ra-Circe-Goddess" cult—a sun-god-sorcery mashup that proves Herbert wasn’t fighting paganism; he was leading it! Every time he took to the airwaves, he was beaming Ra’s light into the world, a high priest of the sun masquerading as a Christian. The irony is as bright as Ra’s solar rays—Herbert, the anti-pagan crusader, was a sun-god devotee all along!
In 1968, Herbert renamed his group the Worldwide Church of God, a move he said reflected its global reach. But let’s apply his own etymological wizardry to this "innocent" name. "Worldwide" seems straightforward—until you break it down. "World" is suspiciously close to "Wyrd," the Old English term for fate, tied to the pagan Norns of Norse mythology who wove destiny’s threads. "Wide" sounds like "Woden," the Anglo-Saxon name for Odin, the Norse god of war and wisdom. So, "Worldwide" is really "Wyrd-Woden," a double dose of Norse paganism that Herbert sneaked into his church’s identity.
And "Church of God" again? We’ve already exposed "Church" as Circe, the sorceress, and "God" as Goddess. But let’s take it further: "of" sounds like "Oph," short for "Ophion," the Greek serpent god who ruled the world before Zeus. Put it all together, and the Worldwide Church of God becomes the "Wyrd-Woden-Circe-Ophion-Goddess" cult—a pagan stew of Norse fate-weavers, Greek sorcery, serpent gods, and goddess worship. Herbert thought he was going global, but he was really building a shrine to a pantheon of pagan deities, all while preaching against them. The hypocrisy is thicker than the WCG’s triple-tithing demands—Herbert wasn’t just a preacher; he was a pagan overlord, hiding his true allegiance behind a Christian facade!
Herbert’s flagship publication, The Plain Truth, reached 8 million readers at its peak, spreading his anti-pagan message worldwide. But let’s crack open the name with Herbert’s own logic. "Plain" sounds like "Plen," from the Latin "plenus," meaning full, often used in lunar contexts like "plenary moon." And "Truth"? That’s just a sneaky reference to "Thoth," the Egyptian god of wisdom and the moon, often depicted with a lunar disk. So, The Plain Truth is really "The Full Moon of Thoth"—a blatant tribute to moon worship, hidden in plain sight.
It makes sense when you think about it. Herbert was obsessed with end-times prophecy, always looking to the skies for signs of the apocalypse. What better way to honor Thoth, the moon god, than with a magazine that beams lunar wisdom to the masses? Every issue of The Plain Truth was a ritual, a paper offering to Thoth, cloaked as Christian prophecy. Herbert might have thought he was exposing paganism, but he was really leading a moon cult, his readers unwitting acolytes in a lunar conspiracy. The glossy pages of The Plain Truth weren’t spreading God’s truth—they were glowing with Thoth’s moonlight, a pagan beacon for the WCG’s deluded flock. How’s that for a "plain" truth?
Ambassador College, Herbert’s pride and joy, was founded in 1947 to train WCG ministers in his "pure" doctrine. But let’s dissect the name. "Ambassador" breaks down into "Amba" and "Sador." "Amba" sounds like "Amun," another name for the Egyptian god Ra (because Herbert couldn’t get enough of his sun-god fixation). "Sador" is suspiciously close to "Sadr," an Arabic star name, but let’s twist it further—sounds like "Sator," from the Latin "Sator Square," a magical palindrome tied to Roman pagan rituals. So, "Ambassador" means "Amun-Sator," a blend of Egyptian sun worship and Roman magic.
And "College"? That’s just a sneaky nod to "Col," short for "Colchis," the mythical land in Greek mythology where Jason sought the Golden Fleece, ruled by the war god Ares. Put it together, and Ambassador College becomes "Amun-Sator-Colchis"—a temple to the sun god, Roman magic, and the war god Ares, all rolled into one. Herbert thought he was building a school for God’s truth, but he was really erecting a pagan academy, training his ministers to serve a warlike sun cult. The marble halls and manicured gardens of Ambassador weren’t Christian—they were a monument to Ares, funded by the tithes of the WCG’s impoverished flock. While members struggled to pay their triple tithes, Herbert’s war-god temple stood as a testament to his pagan priorities—education for Ares, not for God!
Herbert’s radio and TV program, The World Tomorrow, was his global platform, reaching millions with his end-times warnings. But let’s twist the name with his own logic. "World" we’ve already tied to "Wyrd," the Norse concept of fate, linked to the Norns. "Tomorrow" breaks down into "To" and "Morrow." "To" sounds like "Tu," short for "Tutu," an Akkadian god of the underworld. "Morrow" is suspiciously close to "Morrígan," the Celtic goddess of war and death, often associated with fate and the afterlife. So, The World Tomorrow is really "Wyrd-Tutu-Morrígan"—a broadcast dedicated to Norse fate, Akkadian underworld gods, and Celtic death deities.
Every episode of The World Tomorrow was a ritual, a signal to the underworld that Herbert was coming for his pagan throne. He thought he was preaching the Kingdom of God, but he was really summoning Tutu and Morrígan, preparing his followers for a pagan afterlife, not a Christian one. The dramatic music, the booming voice—Herbert wasn’t just a preacher; he was a death-cult leader, broadcasting his allegiance to the underworld while his followers tuned in, oblivious to the pagan signal. The world tomorrow? More like the underworld today, thanks to Herbert’s secret death-god worship!
Let’s step back and look at the big picture. Herbert’s Radio Church of God was a sun-god cult for Ra and Circe. The Worldwide Church of God was a Norse-Greek serpent-worshipping cabal. The Plain Truthwas a moon-worshipping ritual for Thoth. Ambassador College was a war temple for Ares and Amun. And The World Tomorrow was a death-cult broadcast for Tutu and Morrígan. Every pillar of Armstrongism, when viewed through Herbert’s own linguistic logic, reveals a pagan conspiracy so vast it makes his anti-pagan rants look like the ultimate cover-up.
Herbert spent decades warning his followers about the "pagan" world—Christmas lights, Easter eggs, Sunday services—while building an empire that was, by his own standards, the most pagan of all. Was he a secret sun-god priest, hiding his Ra worship behind a Christian facade to rake in $200 million a year? Or was he so clueless that he accidentally founded a pagan cult while trying to fight paganism? Either way, the WCG wasn’t God’s church—it was a pantheon of pagan gods, from Ra to Bacchus, all bowing to Herbert, their high priest of hypocrisy. The man who called the world pagan was the biggest pagan of all, a cult leader whose empire was a shrine to every deity he claimed to despise.
To Armstrongism’s followers—past, present, and in every splinter —your church is a pagan cesspool, a sun-moon-war-fertility cult masquerading as Christianity. Herbert’s own logic proves it: every word, every name in his empire drips with pagan origins, from Ra’s radio waves to Zeus’s Elysium. He called the world pagan while building the ultimate pagan shrine, either as a conman hiding his sun-god worship for profit, or a fool too blind to see the paganism in his own house. The WCG isn’t a church—it’s a temple to Ra, and it’s time to let the sun set on Armstrongism for good.
Herbert W. Armstrong’s war on paganism was the greatest con in cult history—or the dumbest delusion. Using his own twisted logic, we’ve exposed the pagan roots of Armstrongism, Herbert either knew he was a pagan high priest, hiding his Ra devotion to build a $200 million empire, or he was a clueless fraud, accidentally founding a pagan pantheon while preaching purity. For AiCOG readers, this satire reveals the absurdity of Herbert’s methods—his linguistic tricks, his paranoia, his control. Laugh at the irony, then walk away from his pagan cult, leaving Herbert’s sun-god shrine to crumble in the shadows.
The Pagan Roots of Armstrongism © 2025 by Ai-COG is licensed under CC BY-ND 4.0
