Manipulation at the Altar: What Spam and
Evangelism Have in Common
By
David L
Rattigan
I saw a flier the other day
for a screening of The Passion of Christ at my old Pentecostal church. I
haven't really much inclination to see The Passion, much less to returning
to the scene of the crime by revisiting my old church. But even if I was
interested in the film, I know right now what to expect.
The film itself, while
drawing in an audience, will not really be the main feature, at least not
on the pastor's agenda. The main feature will be the 'altar call' at the
end, when the pastor first urges the audience to give ten minutes of their
time to hear him preach -- after all, he just showed them a movie for free
-- and then speaks from the heart about how much pain and suffering Jesus
went through for them, and how the events they've just seen portrayed mean
that they, this very minute, can dedicate their lives to Christ and be
sure that if they were to die tonight, they would go to heaven. Then the
whole crowd shuts their eyes, and the pastor pleads with those who cannot
vouch for their born-again status, aren't sure they're going to heaven or
have never given their lives to Jesus as their 'personal Lord and
Saviour', to raise their hand and say, 'Yes, Pastor, that's me. I want to
invite Jesus into my heart tonight.' There will be a tense silence,
punctuated by appeals not to be ashamed or embarrassed (since Jesus
suffered for you publicly) and the occasional 'All right, I see your hand'
as the population of the kingdom of God increases before our eyes.
I know that's what to expect
because I listened to the same appeal every Sunday night (and some) for a
period of about five or six years.
So, from the Pentecostal
church altar to an altar I prefer, my regular place of worship here at the
computer. I open my inbox one morning and there it is, an email entitled,
'Read only if you have time for God.' Is it just me, or does everyone else
get tons of those annoying religious email forwards in their inboxes?
They're sent by well meaning friends, and usually contain some sort of
inspiring message, a stern challenge or a cute anecdote to restore your
faith in miracles (albeit more often than not an urban myth that's been
around the block a few too many times). It's not just the hollow-sounding
pious sentiments or the saccharine sweetness that bugs me, however. It's
the bit you always get tagged onto the end: If you really love Jesus,
forward this to everyone in your address book; of course, if you're busy
and can't find time to do this little thing for Jesus, just think about
what he went through for you. Or something like that. The tagline is such
an obvious attempt at a guilt-trip, so blatantly manipulative, that I
never feel the sting it's supposed to deliver. It's easy to see through.
Into the trash-can it goes.
But I was thinking recently
how little difference there is between that kind of manipulation, and the
kind of manipulation I regularly used to put up with in church. I'm going
back in my mind to that altar at the Pentecostal church, and how the
pastor's challenges relied on cheap manipulation -- emotional blackmail,
if you please -- that ran the gamut from, 'If you're not ashamed of Jesus,
you'll stand up right now in front of all these people,' and 'Jesus died
for you, so the very least you can do is get up for the early morning
prayer meeting,' to 'How many times did you witness to someone this week?
If you truly love the Lord and care about the lost, witness to one soul
every day this week,' and 'Come on people, give me an amen! Don't you love
Jesus?'.
My whole Christian life was
at one time sustained by a regular diet of 'challenges' that relied on
precisely those methods of control. I guess I tolerated it because I had
never known any other kind of Christianity. Sitting there Sunday evening
after Sunday evening to have the pastor lay guilt trip after guilt trip on
me was the normal Christian life.
How utterly crass and
transparent it all seems in retrospect, but for years I put up with it
willingly. It was the only Christianity I knew. You were supposed to feel
guilty if you weren't praying enough, or witnessing enough, or going to
church enough. We sometimes joked that we felt like performing seals. A
pretty accurate assessment, I think. Actually, sitting here thinking back
on those years, I am baffled: What kind of dummy was I to let myself be
intimidated by that?
Do you put up with that
bullshit? Yeah, I know, I said 'bullshit'. Sometimes we need to say these things
with that extra 'oomph'. Maybe you needed to hear someone today come along
and tell you what you probably suspected deep down all along: That kind of
religion belongs with all those email forwards -- in the trash can.
©
David L Rattigan 2005
