CHURCH OF THE HEAVENLY POOP

Jerry Harkins

            On December 30, 2005 the New York Times ran a piece about teenagers shopping around for religious encounters designed specifically for their age group.  There was a Page 1 photo of a large number of them writhing in various states of ecstasy.  It appears many of them had earlier attended Sunday services elsewhere with their parents and then, instead of repairing to the mall like red-blooded America adolescents, they congregated at the youth services chapel of one the local supermarket churches.  The New Life teen center [1] in Colorado Springs looks more like a nightclub to me but what do I know?  There’s a picture of a youth minister, one Brent Parsley, leading some sort of liturgy.  According to the church web site, the Reverend Parsley says he is married.  His exact words are,  “You betcha! (and she's hot).”  He allows that his third favorite book of all time is Everyone Poops by Taro Gomi [2].  In the photo accompanying the article, he’s dressed like a white urban rapper in disheveled layers with ski goggles worn over his forehead.  He is telling his congregation, “Christmas ain’t about presents, yo!  The true meaning of Christmas is my main man:  J.C.”  Deep dude.  Fucking deep.

To some, Reverend Parsley’s service may seem based on the willing suspension of intelligence in favor of unbridled emotional expressionism.  Whatever its appeal, perfervid worship is not limited to teens.  A similar phenomenon can be witnessed among Christians called “Holy Rollers” who are a small minority of fundamentalists who speak in tongues and worship in primitive frenzy.  In one expression of this, adherents are encouraged to handle poisonous snakes thereby adding  elements of danger and excitement.  It would be easy to say all these liturgies tap into the compulsive, concussive power of sex and that may be part of it.  Pain, danger, sexual excitement, ecstasy:  somewhere in that brew there’s the Eros/Thanatos theme that has been part of the religious experience for millennia.  Ecstasy liberates.  Indeed Bacchus and Eros share the epithet Eleutherios, Liberator.  Still, I’m not sure it applies to those writhing teens in Colorado unless at a layer of the subconscious I have no wish to explore.  They’re just too young.  They have too little experience of life to link sex with death never mind with religious ecstasy.  Or, given the natural state of their hormones, to have any need to do so.

            The archetypal gyration of ecstasy is a throwing up and shaking of one’s arms, a universal gesture with a rich semiotic subtext.  Most obviously, it conveys the thrill of victory achieved against significant obstacles.  It also expresses confidence and openness.  A politician arriving at an airport or a dais will often throw up his or her arms as if to accept the laurel wreath or the acclamation of a friendly crowd.  Look, I have nothing to hide.  Of course no one over the age of six believes that of any politician.  But the arms-up gesture also signifies an element of emotional surrender.  It may in fact derive from the hands-up stance universally required of prisoners.

            You used to see a slightly less animated version of the New Life service at the World Youth Days run by the late Pope John Paul II.  These typically involved hundreds of thousands of highly engaged young people but there was never any trashing of downtown, no street theater, no endless chants of protest, no binge drinking and, especially, no dirty words directed at the establishment.  The only offense they gave came from the really bad hymns they invariably sang. Asked why they were spending their summer in the heat and mud, two themes would emerge, neither terribly profound.  First, was simply, “I have to be here” or “I’m called to be here.”  Second was the pure joy of being near the Pope.

            This is not the first time I have found myself out of sympathy with our young people.  Smart as they are, there seems to be much in life that eludes them.  Many have strong opinions about the global economy but absolutely no understanding of it.  They enjoy the most inane entertainment including such dubious jewels in the crown of civilization as Christian Rap.  They tend to dress like slobs and, back home, they often binge like bums.  They don’t read and they don’t write, in many cases because they can’t.  And, yes, an awful lot of them get caught up in the Jesus thing.  They—adore is not too strong a word—a man who has done his utmost to crush the “People of God” theology that emerged from the second Vatican Council fifty some years ago.  They worship at the clay feet of an idol who has degraded and demeaned the female half the human race with his immoral and hypocritical rantings.

            What’s wrong with these kids?  What need did a decrepit old man fill for them?  Why not someone more wholesome?  I do not refer to Brent Parsley.  How about Britney Spears or the Kardashians?  Actually, I think I understand his attraction.  He was pastoral.  He loved these children and what’s more, he respected them.  He had the soul of the poet he once was.  He was courageous in the face of debilitating illness.  He wrote some of the most incisive social commentary of our times.  He faced down the Evil Empire and played a role in moving the world back from the brink of nuclear Armageddon.  Unfortunately, he also preached nonsense and failed miserably the most important test of any cleric, the ability to help people create a satisfying relationship with the divine.  On the contrary he drove many people away from the sacred and he left a legacy of deceit that will be almost impossible to undo.  The Church will crumble and it will be his fault because he was given the last best opportunity to save it and he squandered it tilting at stupidities like priestly celibacy and the use of condoms. [3]

            The kids, I think, know nothing of all this, positive or negative.  I suspect they do know he was crazy but they admired his persistence, his refusal to bend to others, his iron will.  Not a single one of those kids ever read his masterpiece, Centissimus Annus.  Nor have they read any of the sanctimonious drivel he published.  They don’t care, and maybe they shouldn’t.  Adolescence has always been challenging and never more so than at present.  In an Age of Information, today’s young people know far more than they understand.  There is more pressure put upon them from every quarter and, looking forward, they see little relief.  It must seem that the best times are long in the past.  John Paul represented certainty in an uncertain world, loyalty in treacherous world, hope against all hope.  Jesus said to and of Peter, “Upon this rock, I will build my church and the gates of hell shall not prevail against it.”  For all his frailty, John Paul was a rock.  He insisted, against all evidence, that he was infallible.  In the moral sphere, he could not be wrong.  The young people believed him where they’d be far too smart to believe their political leaders, their gurus or even their parents.

            The differences between New Life and World Youth Day are not insignificant but the similarities are impressive.  The late Pope, for example, probably never savored the literary pleasures of Everyone Poops and it is a good bet that Reverend Parsley has never encountered the prose of Thomas Aquinas.  But like all professional religionists their stock in trade is the answer to all of life’s problems, big and small.  Such folks know that, in the immortal words of Forrest Gump, “Shit happens.”  And they are delighted it does.  If it didn’t they’d be out of business.  As it is, they have a vested interest in assuring that it continues to happen and do whatever the can to assure a steady supply.

Notes

1.  The New Life Teen Center is part of the New Life megachurch formerly presided over by Rev. Ted Haggard, a graduate of Oral Roberts University and once regarded as one of the most politically influential evangelicals in America.  He has said that the only difference between President George W. Bush and himself is that he prefers a different brand of pickup truck.  Otherwise he consulted with the White House every Monday.  Rev. Ted was later fired from New Life after admitting to drug use and a liaison with a male prostitute.

2.  An illustrated book from Japan written for children ages “baby to preschool.”  Part of the same series as that classic of children’s literature, The Gas We Pass: The Story of Farts by Shinta Cho .  It may be sacrilegious to wonder what Rev. Parsley’s Number Two all-time favorite book is (assuming, of course, that Number One is the Holy Bible by Daddy-o, the Spook and his main man, the late J.C.  Yo!).

3.  Comparing John Paul II with Pope Francis is irresistible.  Francis too attracts ecstatic crowds but, as a general rule, they appear to be much more diverse and, on average, older.  Like John XXIII, Francis has the chops that would be needed to undo two millennia of the devil’s work as promoted by the church hierarchy.  But like John, he may not have the time.  Moreover, in spite of the theatrics, he has yet to demonstrate that he has the inclination.