Читать книгу The Devil Wears Nada - Tripp York - Страница 7

I have always felt friendly toward Satan. Of course, that is ancestral;

it must be in the blood, for I could not have originated it.

—Mark Twain

Hell is empty, and all the devils are down here.

—Ariel (William Shakespeare, The Tempest)

Throughout the course of my research, the one thing I have discovered is that Protestants love talking about Satan. They simply cannot get enough of him.

To be sure, there are those highbrow liturgical Protestants who think themselves far too respectable to be caught dead attributing certain travesties to the Prince of Darkness; but, as you can imagine, those folks are of little use to me. Nevertheless, I’ll return to a few of them later.

For now, however, I am interested in the majority of Protestants that fueled my upbringing and continue to geographically surround me. The Protestant South has an undoubted love affair with the diabolical one. That pointy-eared chief of demons seems to be responsible for every single tragedy, calamity, and mishap in the world. If you doubt the authenticity of such a claim, I have included an abbreviated list of things that Satan has supposedly been responsible for—and I am restricting this to only a small number of comments I have had the good fortune of hearing. The Devil has:

• unplugged a screen projector

• encouraged people to vote for Bill Clinton

• created albinos (the red eyes, I guess)

• introduced thoughts of impurity to everyone but my Sunday School teacher

• made watermelons taste like tomatoes (they really did)

• led Michael English to have an adulterous affair

• possessed the Pope, Jane Fonda, and Gorbachev

• inspired the creation of South Park, Will & Grace, and Three’s Company (RIP John Ritter, I hope you’re not in hell)

• can change the color of things

• is “behind” homosexuality (see chapter 2)

• gave the Yankees victory over the South (for possession of their Northern souls of course)

• married some of my relatives (I actually believe that one)

• occasionally wears a blue dress

• caused microphone feedback

• crossed the street disguised as a black cat

• carried a dead man away at a wake (while my intoxicated grandfather and his blitzed cousins just sat there and watched)

• gave one of my friends a lisp

• created the Smurfs

• took Jesse Helms from this earth “way too early” (or wait, was that God?)

• caused spelling errors in church bulletins

• created Islam

• created the internet (sorry Al Gore, unless . . . )

• is aiding the Chinese “take over” of America

• created puppets (okay, that one is mine—I hate puppets)

• invented Halloween

• tempts Catholics to worship Mary and other saints

• tempts women to work outside the home

• promotes dancing which leads to sex (“What kind of dancing?” I asked. “Salsa? Swing? The Jitterbug?” The Nazarene minister replied, “All dancing leads to sex.” Which, of course, immediately convinced me to engage in all forms of dancing. Let it be known, that minister lied to me.)

• and for the grand finale (sans the purported aphrodisiac of dancing, no less), forced me to have sex prior to marriage . . . sorry mom, Satan made me do it.

This short list alone is a testament to what appears to be Satan’s almost infinite power. If his abilities to pull off the above, often times simultaneously, does not make him a god, then I’m not sure what would.

“He’s still answerable to the God that created him, young man!” This is a fairly predictable theological truism. Every time I tried to make the point that Satan’s power seems to be encroaching on God’s power, I would hear something to the effect of, “The only power he has is the power God allows him to have.”

That’s an interesting claim.

So, whom do I really blame for the unplugged projector and funky tasting watermelons? Satan or God?

“That’s borderline blasphemy,” protested an Assembly of God minister.

“No,” I said, “that’s a problem of providence.”

The Devil is My DJ:

The Real Fresh Prince of Baal Air

In Jesus’ name, we pray for no microphone problems!

—Becky Fischer (Jesus Camp)

The following act attributed to Satan occurred in a Nazarene church. A bit of biography is in order: I was raised by the Nazarenes. I joined the Mennonite Church about a decade ago, and they have been paying the price ever since. Mennonites, at least the ones I’ve been around (think urban weirdoes as opposed to rural weirdoes), speak very little about Satan. We have found that humans are more than capable of perpetrating acts of evil without the help of a lesser deity. The Nazarenes, however, are ultimately responsible for my obsession with all things theological. They are the ones responsible for putting the fear of God (and Satan) in me.

They also put in me the fear of sex, wine, tobacco, cards, gambling, dancing, movie theaters, mixed bathing (that’s co-ed swimming for the uninitiated), and any music not written by the Gaithers.

The last of these being the easiest to overcome.

As a child I was terrified of the incessant stories of the Devil and demonic possession. The pastor of my youthful years—a wonderful man, very humble and ripe with conviction—instructed us that the Devil was a roaring lion waiting to infiltrate our lives at any given moment. Despite being tempted by the Devil to not pay attention to his sermons, many of them, for good and/or bad, still haunt me. Problems, however, started to arise whenever I had to go to bed. I recall that on many nights during my childhood, I literally begged God to keep Satan from abducting or possessing me while I tried to sleep.

Ironic, right? Now I’m searching for him.

So there I was, having come full-circle; no longer a Nazarene, yet sitting in a Nazarene church wondering if he was going to show up. Was this church truly big enough for Jesus and the Devil? However, as I gazed across the layout of the church, I began to wonder to myself, would either one even want to show up?

Aesthetically, it was a flat-out disaster. Many Protestant churches have so completely devoured the church-growth strategies in vogue over the past several decades that it is no longer intelligible even to have a conversation about the aesthetics of sacred spaces. Part of this movement is making churches look less like churches and more like a combination of warehouses and office buildings. Pews are out, comfortable chairs are in (so Protestant—always glorifying the individual). Hymnals have been burned (or donated1) and, in their place, meaningless lyrics shallow enough to embarrass contestants on The Bachelor are projected on a huge white screen. Crosses are often hidden, as they are such a downer, but the coffee bars seem to have assuaged most would-be complainers. Everything is very sanitary. Clean walls, clean carpet, and the smell of newness permeate the contemporary church, meticulously designed to attract an insatiable and fickle consumer.

These people really need to read the works of Chuck Palahniuk.

As the church leaders began orchestrating a show bent on leading me into a depoliticized and privatized experience with my very own personal Jesus (and no, I don’t like Depeche Mode), I thought about how silly the protest is against high liturgical church services. Many, even mainstream, churches claim that high liturgical services are too rigid and far too ordered. It is commonly suggested that they do not remain open to the movement of the Holy Spirit. Yet, in all of my countless experiences with the burgeoning church growth movement, which currently dominates groups like the Pentecostals, Nazarenes, Methodists, the so-called non-Denominational churches (which is code for general moralism while furthering the ignorance of one’s own tradition), and every other church compelled to entertain their patrons, I feel as if they owe a sincere apology to Catholics and Episcopalians. Seriously, your typical Pentecostal or contemporary worship service is just as rigorously structured as the Catholic Mass. Now I’m aware that many people would disagree with this claim. For example, the youth/music pastor at a Presbyterian ARP Church told me their music was never “pre-programmed” and was always a last-second decision. When I asked him about his choice of Sunday morning music he explained to me that he didn’t even pick the songs.

“If you don’t choose the songs, then who does?” I asked.

“Dude, let me tell you something,” he said to me. “That’s not me up there singing and playing those songs. That’s Jesus. Give him the glory.”

Okay, ignoring the obvious problems with this, let it be said that I am more than willing to give Jesus serious props for lots of things, including:

• healing the blind, lame, and deaf

• bringing the dead back to life

• his ability to walk on water

• turning over tables and chasing people with whips for capitalizing on one’s religion (I think its past time for a repeat performance)

• hanging out with prostitutes

• his ability to phase through walls

• turning water into wine (praise Jesus)

• and enduring that whole crucifix ordeal which Mel Gibson opportunistically seized in order to share with millions his predilection for anti-Semitism and sadistic violence.

But I just can’t attribute the having of an idea to sing the average fetishized and maudlin love song with lyrics like “I just want you to touch me deep down inside” to Jesus. Sorry, not going to happen.

Back to the Nazarenes.

The lights remained bright on the stage/pulpit as the lights dimmed over the audience/parishioners, giving me the feeling that this whole experience could be on par with your average community-theater performance. Even worse, I had that feeling one gets when they hear their local high school drama department is going to do Guys and Dolls—again.

Uncomfortably, I watched as women in face paint and spiritually accessorized men contorted their bodies, shed crocodile tears, and gave one another and Jesus high fives while the guitarist, who clearly was impressed with himself, nailed that three-chord progression so prevalent in Christian worship-pop.2 I kept thinking that if the Greeks got it right—that is, if truth, goodness, and beauty are intertwined in such a way that you cannot have one without the other—and if Jesus is the Truth, then why would he possibly bother hanging around such a superficially constructed and theologically barren atmosphere? Whatever it is that Jesus stands for, it cannot be this banal, right? I mean, he was an executed criminal. People wanted him dead because of his views on money. Please tell me he died for something more interesting than producing a church movement that does little more than increase the wealth of a few dozen people in “Contemporary Christian Nashville.”

Tangent aside, I am still here and waiting to see if one of the two will show. And while I couldn’t verify the whereabouts of Jesus, I was pleased to see that Satan made an appearance. At about the midway point of the “praise service,” the CD with the accompanying musical tracks for the soloist started to skip. As the CD was skipping, the pastor quickly informed the congregation, in what I understood to be an attempt to bide a little time so the sound technicians could get things under control, that the “Devil is working extra hard today to keep us from praising Jesus’ name. But it’s not going to work Devil. You should just know that right now. It’s not going to work, Devil.”

He stated the next three sentences very slowly, deliberately, and with an increasing sense of urgency, “It is not going to work. You should just leave right now. You can’t stop us from praising his holy name!”

And the crowd went wild.

As the pastor was relaying his message to the Prince of Darkness, the majority of the congregation was in an uproar of agreement. “Amens” and “Praise the Lords” were tossed around with a more fervent spirit than when the CD was actually playing.

I can’t lie to you; I was actually excited.

To find out that Satan was in the building, at that very moment, felt like an opportunity worth seizing. Unfortunately, by the time I could figure out how to make the most of my opportunity, the sound engineer in the back of the church shouted, “We’re good to go. Take it away!”

The pastor, a white, middle-aged man who appeared to be relatively uninformed about the Christian practice of fasting, informed us that the Devil had been defeated (those sound guys were good!) and was nowhere to be found.

“Oh, well,” I thought. I guess I missed him. But, apparently some other folks, who must have been far more spiritually in tune with the forces of evil than I am, felt his presence. After the service, I decided I would ask the pastor about it.

Fast forward through a sermon on the virtues of The Andy Griffith Show, as well as eight teary-eyed choruses, and church was finally over. I asked the pastor if I could have a few moments of his time outside the obligatory handshake offered on the way out. He consented, and we made our way to his office.

I began the discussion by asking the pastor if he could talk to me a little bit about Satan, his demonic strategies, and how to avoid them. I thanked him for meeting with me, and I told him I understood such a subject to be a bit peculiar.

“Not at all,” he told me. “However I can help increase another person in the knowledge of the Lord, I am happy to do so.”

“‘Increase another person’ . . . what?”

“What’s that?” he asked.

“Nothing, nothing. I’m just interested in what appears to be, though I must be getting this wrong, the seemingly omnipresent status of the Devil.”

“Well,” the pastor stated, “he is the ruler of the air.”

“Ephesians chapter 2, correct?”

“That sounds about right to me,” he confided.

“I guess my more immediate question is this: Why is it the case that some Christians are more aware of Satan, or the Devil—I’m going to use those two terms interchangeably if that is okay with you—why is—

“It’s the same person,” he interrupted, “so why wouldn’t you?”

“Right, sure. Of course, there are some historical differences and a clear development that occurs between the Old Testament and the New Testament, but . . . wait, are you saying that Satan is a person?”

“Well, no, of course not,” he responded. “Satan is a fallen angel. I just said that because there is no need to obsess with the carefulness of our words.”

“Yeah. The curse of doing graduate work is that in order to obtain the degree we have to obsess with speaking carefully.”

He laughed as if that were a joke.

“That can eat up a lot of valuable time,” he told me. “Time that should be properly used giving glory to God. You agree?”

Wait a second. Did he just take a shot at my education? I think he did. Awesome. Admittedly, my education is not without fault. For one thing, it was terribly overpriced. So his shot was not without merit. But hey, at least at this point I knew our conversation was going to be interesting.

I attempted to defend myself by suggesting that anyone willing to spend most of their life in higher education, learning as much about Christianity, her doctrines, her history, and the God she worships, would, as crazy as it must sound, be time well spent.

“Such service,” I explained, “is itself a form of prayer. Actually, it was a Nazarene professor who instilled that notion in me. Plus, Augustine and Aquinas argued along those very lines, and that’s coming from two of the most influential theologians our church has ever produced. Do you not agree?”

He quickly attempted to assure me he was not trying to demean my studies, but was only pointing out that “education doesn’t always translate into the kind of love Jesus requires of his disciples.”

“Well,” I conceded, “there is no disagreement on that point.”

“Right.”

“Right. Okay, so, my question is this: Why is it the case that some Christians are aware of the presence of Satan in a way that others are not? I mean, is that a gift? To feel the presence of Satan?”

With a hearty and incredibly patronizing laugh he responded, “Talking about speaking carefully, I’m not sure I would call that a gift. Though there’s all kinds of gifts in the church, and I guess you could say that some people, more so than others, are more properly in tune with what the forces of evil are up to.”

“You mean like messing with CD players?”

“What’s that?” he asked, as he had to think about it for a second. Suddenly remembering he said, “Oh, yes. Well, sure. Sure. Why not? He’s trying to interrupt our worship service. Satan hates it when people praise the name of Jesus. He does everything in his power to stop it. Anything is fair game for the Devil.”

“Then why does he even show up?” I asked. “I mean, if he hates it so much, and he is powerful enough to apparently be in a whole lot of places, perhaps all places, at once, not to mention his uncanny ability to poke a stick in the wheel of technology, then it seems he would be capable of just not listening.”

“Well, that’s part of his punishment. He is forced to listen to God’s people singing the Lord’s praises.”

“Well,” I admitted, “I can definitely see how that would be a cruel form of punishment.”

He nodded. Unwittingly, I assumed.

“Could you point me to a text?” I asked.

“What’s that?”

“A text? Well, a text is another word for a book or a section of a book. I—”

“I know what a text is,” he interrupted. “I’m asking you what you mean by pointing to a text.”

“Oh, well, you said that part of Satan’s punishment is he is forced to listen to Christians sing God’s praises, so I was wondering if you could point me to a piece of Scripture, some authoritative text, that says, ‘And I will punish you by forcing you to listen to Christians sing choruses?’”

Defensively he said, “I think it is fairly common knowledge that Satan hates any kind of praising or worshipping of God. He can’t be in the presence of it.”

“So, what you are saying is that when your church starts praising God, Satan has no choice but to flee?”

“That’s right,” he answered.

“Well, and I hope you will pardon my inability to catch on, but if that’s the case, what was he still doing there halfway through the service?”

“Come again?”

“The CD,” I reminded him, “didn’t start skipping until halfway through the service, so I’m wondering why Satan was still there.”

“Well, now son,” he said with more than a touch of condescension, “I think you’re taking this all a bit too literally.”

Sensing the blossoming enmity occurring in our conversation, I responded, “I admit to not knowing the difference between taking something literally and taking something ‘too literally,’ I’m not entirely sure what that means, but that’s beside the point. Are you telling me you don’t believe in the existence of Satan?”

“Of course, I do,” he said. “You can’t be a Christian and not believe in Satan.”

That is a very fascinating theological claim. I was always under the impression it had more to do with Jesus, but before I could ask him about it he said, “That’s the first trick of Satan, you know?”

Oh, how I know. This will be the gazillionth time I’ve been told, “The first trick of the Devil is to convince you he doesn’t exist.” I can already tell that this is going to be an ongoing struggle I will have to face throughout my research.

“Yeah, that’s what I keep hearing,” I responded. “But back to what you said about me taking things literally. I’m a little confused because you said that part of Satan’s punishment is to be forced to listen to Christians sing, yet when Satan hears God being praised he has to flee, so I’m not sure how to reconcile that conundrum . . . and then the whole thing with the CD.”

“Right, so yes,” he replied in what was quickly becoming a frustrated tone. “Satan is being punished yet attempts to escape his punishment through either distracting us from our worship services or, if that fails, fleeing, but, you know, at the same time, everything that happens, or every little thing that goes wrong, doesn’t necessarily mean Satan is responsible.”

“Oh. That’s strange, because when the CD started skipping you attributed it to Satan. Was that a moment utilized in the service of metaphor or were you speaking literally? Because it seemed like the congregation understood it quite literally.”

“Well, yes,” he confessed, “it was Satan trying to disrupt our service.”

“You really attribute a scratch on a CD to Satan?”3

“Of course not,” he said. “But Satan definitely attempts to thwart our plans to serve God. That’s what Satan does.”

“I’m confused. Please forgive me for pushing this issue, but did Satan scratch the CD or not?”

“No, now look,” he said, growing exhausted by this line of questioning. “We don’t even know if it was a scratch. Who said it was scratched? There could of have been any number of reasons why the CD was skipping.”

“But any number of those reasons,” I kept pushing, “could be, ultimately, traced back to Satan?”

“Yes. Exactly.”

He was looking at his watch as if to let me know our time together was coming to a close. I knew I was losing him, and despite wanting him to clarify his rather conflicting responses, I elected to go all in while he was still with me.

“Do you think I could meet him?”

At this point, he was overtaken with annoyance. He asked if this whole conversation was a joke and if this was just a game academicians play with those who do the “real work” of making disciples.

I tried to convince him it was not my intention to play games. I told him I was only trying to make sense out of what I experienced in his service. “As a pastor,” I said, “you should be anxious to answer these questions. Paul tells us to be prepared to answer—”

“I know what Paul says,” he interrupted, “but I seriously doubt he had in mind Christians wanting to have a meeting with Satan. I’m pretty sure he would think that indicative of a much larger problem.”

“Yeah, that’s probably true,” I conceded.

I actually appreciated being called out on that point. That was him being a good pastor.

“But, when I asked you about meeting Satan I didn’t necessarily assume you exercised such power or control, it was more of a rhetorical way of . . . well, I guess you can say that I’m just very fascinated with your ability to know and feel the presence of Satan in your church, because I couldn’t. I would not have had any idea that Satan was here today had you not informed us. Therefore, I assume you have some kind of connection that I presently lack and I was just wondering how I could make such a connection. I mean, apparently that’s not a bad thing, because if it were a bad thing then you yourself would not have the connection. But you do, and I feel like I don’t. So, I’m asking for an ‘in.’”

The only “in” I received was the “end” of our conversation.

He abruptly cut me off and told me he was late for lunch or a committee meeting or something. He also said something about his knowing better than to attempt to have a conversation with someone like me whose only purpose was to tear down and not edify, which, by the way, I find patently false. I am all about edification. I’m just opposed to the kind of edification that one cannot, under a simple line of questioning, articulate and defend. It makes us look bad. The least we should be able to do is tolerate a few questions of clarification. All I was asking is that if he can feel the presence of the Devil in his services could he tell me how, so that I could better relay this information to others in order to lead more people to God? I know, I know. I’m sure that sounds messed up—attempting to encounter Satan in order to grow closer to God.

I bet they don’t teach that in seminary.

Unfortunately, the more I delve into this project the more I realize that a prerequisite to knowing Satan may be knowing God. Maybe Tommy was right. Maybe Satan only comes with the whole belief-in-God package. In that respect, perhaps we are safer not knowing God. At least then we cannot come under Satan’s influence. But if that’s true, it only reconfirms the intelligibility of this experiment, because it means that in knowing Satan, I also open myself up to the possibility of knowing God, right?

Right?

Maybe.

Decapitated Chickens . . . It’s a Metaphor

It was the Christians who gave the Devil almost the presence of a god.

—Richard Cavendish

One of my professors at Trevecca Nazarene University once stated, “Evangelicals seem to always be in desperate need of an enemy.” I take this to refer to their penchant for being defined more by what they are against than what they are for. This very well may be the case, though I would by no means limit this practice to evangelicals. Whether it is liberals or conservatives, Christians or pagans, anarchists or theocrats, Duke fans and everyone else, the tendency to be defined more by what you are against than what you are for is always tantalizing. In terms of Satan, I think it very well may be the tendency of many Christians to fall prey to this sort of trap. This was not only obvious during much of my upbringing, and I believe in some regards to the previous conversation, but also in my university setting. Granted, many students who attended Trevecca while I was there came from very pious Nazarene backgrounds, so it was hardly surprising to find students who had never been to a movie, a concert (except for the horror of “Carman”), went dancing, or smoked a cigarette. These latter two activities I can only assume were created by the Devil since engaging in them landed you either a fine or placed on social probation.

This tendency to be defined by what you are against was regularly reinforced by the school’s choice of speakers in their mandatory chapel services. For instance, during my first year at Trevecca we had a revivalist come to our school for a week. For many students, revivals provided the opportunity to rekindle that fire with God so vital to Christian discipleship. For some of us religion majors, revivals were an opportunity for us to dissect and analyze the content of the preacher. This was, in a sense, part of our training, and I was happy to put my newly apprenticed skills to work. I was excited about attending this revival. I wasn’t excited because I thought I was going to experience that Nazarene holy grail known as entire sanctification; I had other reasons. You see, there was a bit of controversy before it even began. Prior to the arrival of the evangelist, a number of his intercessory crew showed up at our chapel in order to exorcize the demons in residence.

I kid you not.

That’s a true story.

Such activity did not bode well with many at our school, including a large number of our faculty. After all, how could we not take offence at the idea that our chapel, where services were dedicated to the praise of the triune God, was host to a legion of demons? The very idea that our holy space harbored fallen angels was an affront to many within our school. For me, however, it was a time of great excitement. Whatever was going to happen, it was bound to be interesting.

And interesting it was. During the first service one of the evangelist’s intercessors sat in the front row chanting “Jesus, Jesus, Jesus.” He did this the entire time.

I mean, the entire time.

As he did, I tried to keep count, but I couldn’t keep up. It wounded my brain to even try. One funny thing did come out of it though: a friend of mine, an older religion major whose focus was the Hebrew Bible, had the good sense to follow up with an occasional, “Moses, Moses, Moses.”

Who said Nazarenes were bereft of humor?

We were later told that the recitation of “Jesus, Jesus, Jesus” was this person’s mantra meant to keep the evangelist safe from demonic intervention.

“I thought they already prayed the demons out of here?” I queried.

One of my professors, who I knew secretly thought this all a pompous show, looked at me as if to say, “Tripp, you’re not helping things.”

We were informed by his intercessory crew that this particular evangelist was so in tune with the workings of the Holy Spirit that he was often a primary target for demonic attack.

I know, that just doesn’t make sense, right? Though it did make me sort of glad to be a half-ass Christian. If getting close to God makes you more susceptible to Satan’s all-out arsenal, I think I will keep my distance (of course, here I am now trying to get a closer look, so take that as you will).

Apparently, this revivalist was sort of like a religious Dean and Sam Winchester. You know those guys from the television show Supernatural? They go around hunting demons, ghosts, and all sorts of angry spirits in order to save the bodies and souls of their fellow humans. Instead of using shotguns filled with salt and Latin incantations, this evangelist spent most of his time preaching out of the Gospel of Matthew (chosen due to its large number of references to demons), and having his crew say Jesus’ name over and over and over again.

“How many times do you have to say the name ‘Jesus’ before they leave? Is there a magical number that you have to hit before they listen to you?” I asked.

Despite a number of my friends finding my questions humorous (though that was not my intention, I truly was seeking clarification), our guests were not quite as pleased with the sacrilege coming out of my mouth.

Before they could scold me, I quickly added, “Plus, I thought the battle had already been won.”

“It has been won,” stated one of his spiritual warfare henchmen. “But Satan is like a chicken with its head cut off. It still flaps its wings around the yard with the ability to hurt others with its thrashing talons, not even knowing it’s doomed.”

Satan is like a decapitated chicken with thrashing talons.

You just can’t make that stuff up.

As entertaining as I found the entire situation to be, it created, for others, a profound impulse to look for Satan under every rock. During the following weeks I heard students blame everything on God’s fallen angel:

• “My car won’t start.” Must be Satan.

• “Cafeteria food here sucks.” Must be Satan.

• “Someone placed two big blue beach balls on top of the chapel under the steeple.” Must be Satan. (Actually, I have another theory as to the culprit.)

• “My boyfriend wants to have premarital sex.” Must be Satan.

• “My girlfriend doesn’t want to have premarital sex.” Must be Satan.

Well, maybe not that last one, but you get the picture. Satan gets the blame for everything. Now, I am not trying to say that if there really is an ontological personality known as Satan that this being is not responsible for some horrid things. But using Satan as an explanation for everything you personally do not like is not only theologically problematic, it is also terribly dangerous. It opens the door to the rampant demonization of other people despite Christianity’s claim that all humans, regardless of creed, race, nationality, gender, or faith tradition (or, lack thereof), are created in the image of God.

And yes, even evolutionists bear the imago Dei.

Satan Gives Birth on the Galapagos Islands (and Kirk Cameron Goes Bananas)

To say that the banana happened by accident is even more unintelligent than to say that no one designed the Coca Cola can.

—Kirk Cameron

Evolution is a bankrupt speculative philosophy, not a scientific fact.

Only a spiritually bankrupt society could ever believe it. Only atheists could accept this Satanic theory.

—Jimmy Swaggart

Normally, I do not take too seriously the words of actors who do not understand the process of cultivating edible fruit, or the words of televangelists who have sex with prostitutes and threaten to kill homosexuals. Yet, their commentary is fairly indicative of those within Christianity who believe evolution undermines the biblical narrative. Equating the teachings of Darwin with that of a sinister master-plan of Satan is by no means novel or rare. For many Christians, it is simply not enough to disbelieve in evolution; one has the moral obligation to oppose it.

What evolution has to do with my search for Satan was not immediately obvious to me; only later did it become apparent. Though this book records the results of my plan to find Lucifer—or as he is more fondly known, Old Horny4—there were some conversations and situations that I merely stumbled into. What follows is one of these. I am including it because I find it such a compelling case for what it means to be defined, specifically, by what one opposes, and how this creates a tendency in us to demonize others in a manner that is rather, well, demonic.

So, here you go.

“Darwin was of the Devil!” screamed the African-American preacher. “He wants you to think that you came from apes! From monkeys! And now they want to teach that garbage, that lie of Satan, to our children. I say ‘no!’”

And the people gathered cried out in one voice “No!”

“I say ‘no’ to those . . . those atheists, those . . . those God-deniers who want to tell our children we came from monkeys. I also say ‘woe!’”

And the congregation screamed “woe!”

“I say woe to those who would pervert God’s image, who would attempt to teach our children, even our adults . . .” As he slowly uttered those last three words his expression began to change. It was as if he was about to do battle for the very souls of the people he loves.

“Don’t lie now, don’t you dare lie. Some of you even right now at this very moment are thinking that science has all the answers, aren’t ya’ll?”

A conflagration of voices simultaneously filled the air: “Lord no!” “Heavens please forgive us if we did!” “No, no, no good reverend, no!” “I love the lord!” “Sweet Jesus save us!”

It was an overwhelming experience. So chaotic, yet so controlled.

“That’s the Holy Spirit working,” I was later told.

The reverend’s smile returned when he found the response he wanted to hear. “I know, I know ya’ll are some God-fearing, God-loving people. And I know none of ya, not a one of ya, would ever betray their Lord for anyone who would try to tell you that you descended from a monkey. Of all the absurd, irrational, atheistic God-hating things I have ever heard. Do you honestly think you would have had your freedom if you weren’t created in the image of God?”

“Oh, save us Jesus!” shouted a thin, elderly lady in the front row. Her hat must have weighed more than her body. It was huge. Big and white with various artificial flowers sprouting out of it. She started stomping her feet at the thought of her hard-fought battle for freedom. I’m guessing she was probably in her late sixties or early seventies. I thought about how she had probably seen her fair share of evil.

“Jesus has saved you Audrey! Praise him right now!” exclaimed their preacher. Not that Audrey needed an invitation, but with it she threw down moves that would have impressed the most devout fan of “Saturday Night Fever.”

It was truly a sight to behold.

Amidst the blaring music and harmonization of voices, Audrey was dancing like nobody’s business. It made me think of the victory dance King David might have given when he danced through the streets of his kingdom, except there were no jealous people to condemn her for her doxological body.

People were shedding their coats, tossing their hats, stomping their feet, clapping their hands, singing in shouts, shouting in song, and all the while, sitting in the very back, was a lone white boy starting to understand what Du Bois meant by his narration of practicing double-consciousness.

I was thinking many things, but at that particular point I was thinking about what seemed to be an interesting leap of logic. To suggest that Darwin’s teaching could undermine the further advancement of civil rights was something new to me. If this service ever ends, I was thinking, I’ll ask him about it.

Several exhilarating, yet very exhausting, hours later, I finally landed the chance to chat with the minister.

I explained to him that I really enjoyed their service. To be sure, this was not your typical Sunday service. It wasn’t even on a Sunday; it was on a Friday night. The service was also not held in a church, but in a theater. I was working part-time as the Assistant Technical Director at the Paramount Theater in Burlington, North Carolina. Since the theater is owned by the city, it can be rented by anyone for any occasion. Interestingly enough, we have as many church groups rent the theater as local acting communities. It holds about four hundred people, and you have plenty of stage space for your performers. It also has all sorts of perks that many church groups find advantageous. Therefore, it is often rented for staged dramas, revivals, Southern Gospel concerts, weddings, and the occasional ecclesial variety show. This particular event was a combination of a relatively improvised play followed by a very lengthy worship service.

“I don’t care if they call this place a theater,” shouted the minister, “right now it’s the house of God!”

I cannot tell you how many different ministers have used that same line. It’s as if they feel the need to apologize for having a church service in a “godless” theater, so they decide to reclaim it for Christ—even if only for a few hours.

After it was over, I helped with the load out, took care of all my technical duties, and asked the minister for a few moments of his time. He was more than happy to speak with me. I introduced myself as a student, and teacher, of theater and theology, and that I was interested in asking him a few questions about Satan. Of course, like any good conversation you need to get the introductions down correctly. I wasn’t sure of his exact title (a number of people referred to him with different designations), so I asked what he wanted to be called.

“You can call me the Lord’s Servant, a vessel for his voice, a preacher called and sent and thus proudly went—wherever the good Lord tells me to go. Or, you can just call me Reverend Irving, Mr. Brother Tripp. Or, should I call you Doctor? Doctor Tripp?”

“Oh no, that’s not necessary. I only require my students and enemies to refer to me with that appellation. Actually, I’m kind of fond of Brother Tripp. Makes me feel like we’re in this together.”

“Ha, ha! Now that is what I’m talking about. Yes sir, we are in this together. All the way, now and in the here-after. I like that. I don’t even know you, Brother Tripp, but you and me, we’re in this together, and do you know why?”

Taking my best guess I offered, “Jesus?”

“Praise his holy name. I can talk to you, Brother Tripp. And I like someone I can talk to. You know what I’m saying?”

“Yes sir, I believe I do.”

“That’s good. That’s good.”

Despite his participation in a play, his hour long homily, and his leading of the congregation in a dozen or so songs, my new brother-in-arms, Reverend Irving, had plenty of energy left for conversation. You have to admire that sort of drive.

Immediately after the introductions, I told him what I wished to discuss and thanked him, in advance, for honoring my odd request of subject matter.

“Talking about Satan?” he asked. “That’s not odd. We talk about Satan all the time. You better talk about Satan. The moment you let your guard down is the moment he will conform you to his ways.”

“Well, that’s kind of what I want to talk to you about. Satan’s ability to conform us to his ways, as you suggest. So . . .” I intuited his desire to cut in. “Yes?”

“No, go ahead.”

“No, no, please,” I told him. “I’m here to ask you questions. I want to hear what you have to say, so any time you feel like saying something, please jump in.”

“Let me ask you something, Brother Tripp, if you don’t mind.”

“Not at all. Please.”

“Why do you think you are here wanting to talk to me about Satan?” he asked. “Now think seriously about that for a moment. Why are you here, on this very night, talking to me?”

“Well, to be honest—”

“I wouldn’t have it any other way,” he interrupted.

“Ha-ha. Of course. Well, there are any number of contingencies that enable us to find ourselves in certain places with certain people at certain times. I guess in this situation the fact that I work here may be the most obvious reason.”

I could tell he was not satisfied with my response, so he offered another possibility. “But you don’t think this was some sort of accident, do you?”

As I stood there trying to find the right words I sensed he already had the answer he wanted to hear, but he was kind enough to allow me the opportunity to figure it out for myself.

“No, by contingencies,” I continued, “I’m not referring to an accident per se, just the idea that I could have very easily ended up somewhere else tonight, or you could have been somewhere else, or—

“Right, right,” he interrupted. “Now think about that for a second. You could be anywhere else in this world having this conversation, or not having this conversation, yet here we are, together, talking about the one responsible for the fall of all creation. Why do you think that is?”

“I’m guessing you think it’s by design?”

“As is all things,” he furtively grinned. “Now, I want you to think about that before we go any further.”

After standing there quietly feigning thought for a moment or so I asked him, “Are you suggesting that I was meant to be here? That God led me to this particular moment?”

Laughing rather loudly, almost beside himself, he said, “I’m not suggesting it, Brother Tripp, I am saying it! Praise the Lord! Come on with me now. Praise his holy name!”

I stood there looking at him a bit confused.

“Oh, uh, you mean right now?”

“Right now! Praise his name, Brother Tripp, praise it!”

“Okay . . . praise Jesus,” I softly offered.

Being none too pleased with my pitiful attempt, he said, “Come on now; say it like you mean it!”

“Well, I do mean it.” Now it was my turn to preach. “But I think one of the problems of contemporary Christianity is it confines praise of God to what we do with our voices, when praise of God occurs through acts of charity, the enactment of justice, obedience to Jesus. You know, St. Francis said to preach the Gospel everyday, and if you have to, use words. I think that is a—”

“I love that, Brother Tripp, I love that!” he interrupted excitedly. “I’m going to use that sometime, but right now I need you to praise his name for me!”

“For you?”

“No, no, not for me. Not even for Jesus, but for you.”

“Well, that could be a bit Feuerbachian, but, at the same time I guess—” and before I could finish my sentence he shouted at the top of his lungs, “PRAISE HIS HOLY NAME, BROTHER TRIPP!”

“PRAISE JESUS!” I screamed in terror.

“That’s right, that’s right,” he said, bringing it back down to a civilized decibel. “Praise the Lord.”

“Yes sir.”

“How do you feel about that?” he proudly asked.

“A bit high strung. Maybe a little frightened. My heart is beating pretty hard, but, uh, overall, pretty good.”

“Ha-ha, yes sir, yes sir. That heart is beating hard because Jesus is in it. And now we know why you’re here, don’t we?” he asked with a very pleased tone.

“I think so,” I told him. “I really do, and that is, in a very round about way, what I want to talk about. This conversation about Satan, it’s really about a pursuit of God, or as you just, I think, eloquently suggested, God’s pursuit of us.”

“That’s right.”

“Well, and, I’m not completely sure how I want to begin this conversation, but I guess, in a way, during the service you sort of gave me a lead on how, perhaps, this conversation could go.”

“It’s funny how things work out that way, isn’t it, Brother Tripp? It wouldn’t be a mere coincidence, now would it?”

“I’m guessing you’re thinking ‘no.’”

“That’s right,” he confirmed.

“So, earlier in the service you were talking about science, and presumably, at least specifically, from what I gather, the claims of evolutionary biology that suggest we share a common ancestor with other primates. And then you made an interesting—”

“Well, now hold on there a second,” he interrupted. “What do you mean by ‘other primates’?”

“Oh, well, only that homo-sapiens, based on a number of anatomical characteristics, maybe the similarities in our DNA, something about opposable thumbs, I don’t really know as I’m not a zoologist, but based on whatever sort of taxonomy of characteristics we are classified as a primate.”

“According to . . . ?” he slowly asked.

“Um, well, people. Scientists.”

“Let me ask you something, Brother Tripp. Why is that the standard of truth? Why is the model of science held as the ultimate bearer of truth? Especially when we know, you and I that is, when we know that Jesus is the truth. Are you suggesting that Jesus was a monkey?”

That question is as funny today as it was then. Seriously, go back and re-read it. Take your time. It’s hilarious. I’m not going anywhere. Re-read it. He actually asked me if I thought Jesus was a monkey. I wanted to say, “No sir. I learned in my first year of divinity school that Jesus was human. Once we figured out Jesus wasn’t a monkey, why the complexities of pneumatology, the Trinity, and the hypostatic union just fell right into place.”

Just for fun, though, can you imagine if Jesus had been a monkey? Imagine the manifestation of the Second Person of the triune God as a capuchin or a red howler. Insanity would ensue. What a time we would be having, what a time! Regardless, his question caught me completely off guard and I exploded into laughter. I mean, uncontrollable laughter. I couldn’t stop until I realized, through my teary eyes, that he wasn’t laughing with me.

“Um, no sir, not at all,” I muttered as I was trying to pretend like I was coughing and not laughing. “Again, one can be a primate and not be a monkey. And historically I don’t think the church has had much of a problem referring to humans as animals, or being classified along with other animals as such. Indeed, that is something we share in common, as the Noahic covenant suggests, with all those creatures that God created.”

“Exactly. And atheist scientists want to pervert that by referring to humans, the one creature on this earth made in God’s holy image, as descending from monkeys and gorillas. Now,” he asked, “how do you square those two?”

“Well, first of all,” I responded, still trying to choke away the tears, “I don’t think anyone is actually suggesting that humans descended from monkeys. The claim is that monkeys, apes, chimps, tamarins, and others, along with humans, may share a common ancestor. I think that is the claim, and it is being made not just by scientists who happen to be atheists, but by scientists who are Jewish, Christian, Muslim, Hindu. As a matter of fact, in 1996 Pope John Paul II—”

Cutting me off, again, he said, “That makes it even worse. When God’s very own people neglect Scripture for secular scientific theories, and that’s all these things are—theories created by the Devil to fool us into thinking we’re no better than monkeys.”

(An important aside: What does everybody have against monkeys? Has anyone actually paid any attention to them? They’re awesome. If only we were so cool.)

I spent a few moments trying to explain that a theory in science is not to be confused for a wild guess or mere speculation. I told him that a lot of conclusive evidence goes into making a theory a theory, and that it takes a lot of work just to get to the point of being able to call something a theory. I also told him there are a number of theories that many of us seem to take for granted: cell theory, theory of special relativity and general relativity, as well as gravitational theory. I was trying to explain that evolution would not be a theory if it were not thought to be on par with the evidence that makes any of these theories, well, theories. Realizing this was not going anywhere, I decided to get to the more important point he made about the connection between evolution and Satan.

“You just stated that the Devil created or influenced, I guess you might say, the theory of evolution. Out of curiosity,” I asked, “how would you know that? I don’t mean to be antagonistic, I’m genuinely curious. How do you know that the Devil is behind the formation of certain scientific theories?”

“It’s easy Brother Tripp. Jesus says that you are either with him or against him. There is no in-between. That’s Matthew 12:30. Is this not correct? Am I not understanding him correctly?”

“I don’t know if that specific passage is saying—”

“It’s Matthew 12:30,” he reiterated.

“Okay, yeah, I believe you. I’m familiar with the text. I think it is actually repeated in both Mark and Luke, though I’m not sure—”

“Exactly. Therefore, any teaching, or anything for that matter, that conflicts with the truth that is Jesus is against him, and, therefore, comes from the Devil. The Devil is the father of all lies, Brother Tripp. That’s the Gospel of John 8:44: ‘Whenever he speaks a lie, he speaks from his own nature; for he is a liar, and the father of lies.’ That, Brother Tripp, is how I know these things, and that’s how you can know them, too.”

“Okay, so, in your understanding Darwin was demonic, or, at least greatly influenced by the Devil?”

“As with anyone who follows his teachings.”

“But how does this happen?” I asked. “I mean, I know numerous people that are Christian, Jewish, and folks of no religious persuasion whatsoever, who are Darwinian in terms of how they understand the development of the human race. Your claim that these people are demonic is rather inhospitable, to say the least. I think it’s a great affront to Christian sensibilities to label another person, whom we believe to be created in the image of God, with this sort of blanket demonic generalization just because they think differently from you on the processes that occur for life to get from one stage to the next.”

“It is a very serious matter indeed, but would you not say that Hitler and the German people were under his influence?”

Wow. I love the leaps.

“Wait, under whose influence?” I asked. “Darwin or the Devil?”

“Both.”

“Well, there is no doubt that German Christianity co-opted with National Socialism, and blind allegiance to their tribal god, was certainly a principality and power that—”

“Was under the direct control of Satan! Amen?”5

“Absolutely,” I agreed. “The Holocaust is clearly the failure of Christianity especially as it wed itself to German nationalism underwritten by Enlightenment-based ideologies. I think I am quite good with that claim. If there was ever a moment of wholesale demonic possession of a people, I think that is a pretty classic example. As a matter of fact I have written extensively, in particular, on nation-states as those principalities and powers that tempt us to give allegiance to them that, in this case, made possible something like Nazi Germany and—”

“And are therefore demonic. Amen?”

I was beginning to question whether or not I was even required for our conversation. He kept cutting me off.

He, of course, continued, “Just as Satan uses kings and presidents, and all sorts of power to do his bidding, why would Satan not also use scientists, or engineers, or whomever to lead people even further away from God? People need to be told when they have succumbed to the influence of all those powers at odds with the Lord. And how else will they know if we don’t tell him? You’re an educated man. You know Scripture. You know all about Isaiah, Jeremiah, Micah, Amos, and Hosea.”

“Hosea was married to a whore,” I said with the authority of one being ignored.

He didn’t blink an eye.

“You know it was their job,” he continued, “their task, a task they did not even want, to tell people the word that they didn’t always want to hear. And that’s all I’m doing now. That’s what you saw me do tonight. I’m being a prophet, and prophets are rarely liked by the people they are commanded to prophesy to. You have a whole Bible full of examples. I just named some of them. Jeremiah wept at what he had to do. Isaiah was probably killed for it. You think Hosea wanted to marry Gomer?”

I guess he did hear me.

“Nobody,” he continued, “wanted to hear the word they spoke, but that didn’t keep them from speaking it. And I’m telling you now, anyone who thinks we come from monkeys, or shares a common ancestor, as you say, with monkeys, is a liar. And Jesus said that all liars are of the Devil. Why? Because the Devil is a liar. But you already know this. ‘There is no truth in him,’ says the Gospel of John. ‘There is no truth in him.’”

“So, just to be clear,” I interjected, “because I want to make sure I am totally understanding you on this—let’s not leave anything to a possible misunderstanding—are you suggesting that just as Hitler and those that followed his lead were under the influence of Satan, so too are those that believe in evolution?”

“Now, Brother Tripp, you know I don’t suggest anything.”

“Ah, that’s right, that’s right. You’re saying it?”

“Praise the Lord.”

“Of course.”

At this point, we talked a little more about natural selection, Hitler’s use of social Darwinism, and basically all the usual things that come out of a conversation such as ours. He never grew impatient with me, or tired of my questions, even when he could tell I was rather appalled, to say the least, by some of his insinuations. It was never clear to me why believing that life evolves somehow necessarily conflicts with the teachings of Jesus, but, alas, he was never convinced of how the two did not conflict. We reached an impasse, but not before one last question.

A question for me.

“Brother Tripp, do you believe in evolution?”

Knowing this could only go in one direction, I tried to offer an answer that would end up with him not thinking I was demonic, but was still truthful. “Well, it’s sort of a pointless question. I mean, my beliefs, or yours for that matter, in no way have any bearing on whether or not life evolves, so I—”

“Brother Tripp, do you believe in evolution?”

Biting the bullet I responded, “Yes sir. I think we have more than enough conclusive evidence that life evolves and it continues to evolve. We can see it in laboratories, we can trace it in—”

“I’ll pray for you, Brother Tripp. I will pray for you.”