Chuck Klosterman On Film And Television (10 page)

Not me, though. I’m prone to believe that just about any religious ideology is potentially accurate, regardless of how ridiculous it might seem (or be). Which is really making it hard for me to comment on
Left Behind
.

According to the blurb on its jacket, the
Left Behind
book series has more than 40 million copies in print, which would normally prompt me to assume that most of America is vaguely familiar with what these books are about. However, that is not the case. By and large, stuff like
Left Behind
exists only with that bizarre subculture of “good people,” most of whom I’ve never met and never will. These are the kind of people who are fanatically good—the kind of people who’ll tell you that goodness isn’t even that much of an accomplishment.

Left Behind
is the first of eleven books about the end of the world. It was conceptualized by Dr. Tim LaHaye, a self-described “prophecy scholar,” and written by Jerry B. Jenkins, a dude who has written over a hundred other books (mostly biographies about moral celebrities like Billy Graham and Walter Payton). The novel’s premise is that the day of reckoning finally arrives and millions of people just disappear into thin air, leaving behind all their clothes and eyeglasses and Nikes and dental work. All the humans who don’t evaporate are forced to come to grips with why this event happened (and specifically why God did not select them). The answer is that they did not “accept Christ as their personal savior,” and now they have seven years to embrace God and battle the rising Antichrist, a charismatic Romanian named Nicolae Carpathia, who is described by the author as resembling “a young Robert Redford.”

Everything that happens in
Left Behind
is built around interpretations of Paul’s letters and the Book of Revelation, unquestionably the most fucked-up part of the Bible (except maybe for the Book of Job). It’s the epitome of a cautionary tale; every twist of its plot mechanics scream at the reader to realize that the clock is ticking, but it’s not too late—there is still time to accept Jesus and exist forever in the kingdom of heaven. And what’s especially fascinating about this book is that it’s a best-selling piece of entertainment, even though it doesn’t offer intellectual flexibility; it’s pop art, but it has an amazingly strict perspective on what is right and what is wrong. In
Left Behind,
the only people who are accepted by God are those who would be classified as fundamentalist wacko Jesus freaks with no intellectual credibility in modern society. Many of the
Left Behind
characters who aren’t taken to heaven—in fact, almost all of them—seem like solid citizens (or—at worst—“normal” Americans). And that creates a weird sensation for the
Left Behind
reader, because the post-Rapture earth initially seems like a better place to live. Everybody boring would be gone. One could assume that all the infidels who weren’t teleported into God’s kingdom must be pretty cool: All the guys would be drinkers and all the women would be easy, and you could make jokes about homeless people and teen suicide and crack babies without offending anyone. Quite frankly, my response to the opening pages of
Left Behind
was “Sounds good to me.”

Things in
Left Behind
get disconcerting pretty rapidly, however, and part of what I found disconcerting was that its main character is a reporter named Buck Williams, which was also the name of a retired NBA power forward regularly described as the league’s hardest worker. As a result, I kept imagining this bearded six-foot-nine black guy as the vortex of the story, which really wouldn’t have been that much of a stretch, especially since the real Buck Williams was involved with the “Jammin’ Against the Darkness” basketball ministry. If the Rapture came down tonight, I’m guessing Buck would be boxing out J.C. by breakfast.

A mind-numbing percentage of pro athletes are obsessed with God. According to an episode of Bryant Gumbel’s
Real Sports
on HBO, some studies suggest that as many as 40 percent of NFL players consider themselves “born again.” This trend continues to baffle me, especially since it seems like an equal number of pro football players spend the entire off-season snorting coke off the thighs of Cuban prostitutes and murdering their ex-girlfriends.

That notwithstanding, you can’t ignore the relationship between pro sports and end-of-days theology, and its acceleration as an all-or-nothing way of life. In the 1970s, the template for a religious athlete was a player like Roger Staubach of the Dallas Cowboys, someone who was seen as religious simply because everybody knew he was Catholic. The contemporary roster for God’s Squad is far more competitive; if you’re the kind of fellow who’d be “left behind,” you don’t qualify. These are guys like Kurt Warner of the St. Louis Rams, a person who would consider being called a zealot complimentary.

Warner is an especially interesting case, because his decision to become “born again” appears to have helped his career as a football player. Here was a guy who couldn’t make an NFL roster, was working in a grocery store, and was married to a dying woman. And then—inexplicably—his life completely turns around and he becomes the best quarterback in the NFL (and his wife lives!). Warner gives all the credit for this turnaround to his “almighty savior Jesus Christ,” and that explanation seems no less plausible than any other explanation. In fact, I find that I sort of want to believe him. In the fourth quarter of Super Bowl XXXVI, Warner made a break for the end zone against the New England Patriots; at the time, the Rams were down 17–3, and it was fourth and goal. Warner was hit at the one-yard line and fumbled, and a Patriot returned the ball ninety-nine yards for what seemed to be a gameclinching touchdown. However, this play was erased—quite possibly wiped clean by the hand of God. For no valid reason, Patriots linebacker Willie McGinest blatantly tackled Ram running back Marshall Faulk on the weak side of the play, forcing the referee to call defensive holding. I remember thinking to myself, “Holy shit. That made no sense whatsoever. I guess God really does care about football.” St. Louis retained possession and Warner scored two plays later, eventually tying the game with a touchdown pass to Ricky Proehl with under two minutes remaining.

I’m not sure why God would care about a football game, but he certainly seemed interested in this one. It looked like Warner’s faith was tangibly affecting the outcome, which is a wonderful notion. However, New England ultimately won Super Bowl XXXVI on the final play—a forty-eight-yard field goal, kicked by a guy who grew up in South Dakota and is related to Evel Knievel. You can’t question God, though: The following Monday, I happened to catch a few minutes of
The 700 Club,
and a Patriot wide receiver was talking about how God is awesome. With competitive spirituality, it’s always a push.

•   •   •

Part of the never-ending weirdness surrounding
Left Behind
was the 2000 movie version that starred Kirk Cameron, still best known as Mike Seaver from the ABC sitcom
Growing Pains
. Cameron portrays the aforementioned Buck Williams, a famous broadcast journalist (this is a slight alteration from the book, where Williams is a famous magazine writer). If one views the literary version of
Left Behind
to be mechanical and didactic, the film version would have to be classified as boring and pedantic. But—once again—there’s something oddly compelling about watching this narrative unfold, and it’s mostly because of Kirk’s mind-bending presence.

It’s always peculiar when someone famous becomes ultrareligious (Prince being the most obvious example), but it’s especially strange when he or she actively tries to
advocate
their religiosity. Cameron says he became a “believer” when he was eventeen or eighteen, but nobody really cared until he got involved with
Left Behind
and suddenly became the biggest Christian movie star in America (which—truth be told—is kind of like being the most successful heroin dealer on the campus of Brigham Young University). His wife is also in
Left Behind,
and she portrays a (relatively) immoral flight attendant named Hattie Durham.

When interviewed about
Left Behind
when it was first released, Cameron usually played things pretty close to the vest and always stressed that he wanted the film to deliver a point of view about the Bible, but also to work as a commercially competitive secular thriller. However, I did find this mildly controversial exchange from an interview Cameron did with some guy named Robin Parrish on a Christian music site operated by about.com:

Now, I have no real understanding of what a “pre-Tribulation Rapture” is supposed to signify symbolically; it refers to a Rapture that happens before the technical apocalypse, but I’m not exactly sure how that would be better or worse than a “mid-Tribulation” or “post-Tribulation” Rapture. Honestly, I don’t think it’s important. However, this point
is
important: Kirk Cameron thinks the idea of 100 million Christians suddenly disappearing is “very realistic.” And I don’t mention this to mock him; I mention this because it’s the kind of realization that significantly changes the experience of watching this movie. In the film, Buck Williams goes from being a normal, successful person to someone who ardently wants the world to realize that there is no future for the unholy and that we must prepare for the political incarnation of Satan; apparently, the exact same thing happened to Cameron
in
real life
. In his mind, he has made a docudrama about a historical event that merely hasn’t happened yet. This is not a former teen actor forced to star in an amateurish production because he needs the money; this is a former teen actor who consciously pursued an amateurish production with the hope of saving mankind. Relatively speaking, all those years he spent with Alan Thicke and Tracey Gold must seem like total shit.

There is something undeniably attractive about becoming a born-again Christian. I hear atheists say that all the time, although they inevitably make that suggestion in the most insulting way possible: Nothing offends me more than those who claim they wish they could become blindly religious because it would “make everything so simple.” People who make that argument are trying to convince the world that they’re somehow doomed by their own intelligence, and that they’d love to be as stupid as all the thoughtless automatons they condescendingly despise. That is not what I find appealing about the Born-Again Lifestyle. Personally, I think becoming a born-again Christian would be really cool, at least for a while. It would sort of be like joining the Crips or the Mossad or Fugazi.

Every rational person will tell you that all the world’s problems ultimately derive from disputes that are perceived by the warring parties as “Us vs. Them.” That seems sensible, but I don’t know if it’s necessarily true; all my problems come from the opposite scenario. I was far more interesting—and probably smarter, in a way—when I refused to recognize the existence of the color gray in my black-and-white universe. When I was twenty-one, I was adamantly anti-abortion and anti–death penalty; these were very clear ideas to me. However, things have since happened in my life, and now I have no feelings about either issue. And I’m sincere about that; I really have no opinion about abortion or the death penalty. Somehow, they don’t even seem important. But that’s what happens whenever you start to understand that most things cannot be emotively understood: You’re able to make better conversation over snifters of brandy, but you become an unfeeling idiot. You go from
believing
in objective reality to
suspecting
an objective reality exists; eventually, you start trying to make objectivity mesh with situational ethics, since every situation now seems unique. And then someone tells you that situational ethics is actually an oxymoron, since the idea of ethics is that these are things you do
all the time,
regardless of the situation. And pretty soon you find yourself in a circumstance where someone asks you if you believe that life begins at conception, and you find yourself changing the subject to NASCAR racing.

This is not a problem for the born again. There are no other subjects, really; nothing else—besides being born again—is even marginally important. Every moment of your life is a search-and-rescue mission: Everyone you meet needs to be converted and anyone you don’t convert is going to hell, and you will be partially at fault for their scorched corpse. Life would become unspeakably important, and every conversation you’d have for the rest of your life (or until the Rapture—whichever comes first) would really, really,
really
matter. If you ask me, that’s pretty glamorous. And
Left Behind
pushes that paradigm relentlessly. Another one of its primary characters—airline pilot Rayford Steele—becomes born again after he loses his wife and twelve-year-old son. However, his skeptical college-aged daughter Chloe doesn’t make God’s cut, so much of the text revolves around his attempts to convert Chloe to “The Way.” And the main psychological hurdle Steele must overcome is the fact that he’s not an obtrusive jackass, which
Left Behind
says we all need to become. “
Here I am, worried about offending people,
” Rayford thinks to himself at the beginning of chapter 19. “
I’m liable to ‘not offend’ my own daughter right into hell
.” The stakes are too high to concern oneself with manners.