The Devil Wears Nada. Tripp York

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      “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.”

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