Hell Is Christian Radio
I haven’t been blogging much this week because Sam is visiting for next week, but I have a few minutes and I’d figured I’d squeeze in a post.
Because I leave so early in the day, the ride to Syracuse is usually free of heavy traffic, giving me all day to zone out and listen to the radio stations on the left hand of the dial. I get WHYY as far as the Blue Mountain Tunnel, which makes the first part of the ride go really quickly: I hear Morning Edition, BBC News, and local news. Around Lansdale, I start to pick up what I believe is WDRV out of New Jersey, which plays a lot of bluegrass and classic country. The farther away you get from Philadelphia, the less college rock you get (and you don’t get that much free-format in Philly either, except for WKDU).
It’s a completely different world on the other side of that mountain. The region’s NPR affiliate, WVAI, cuts in and out in many areas, and plays more classical music than news shows in the late morning. There’s a college station out of Wilkes Barre that comes in for about twenty miles, but other than that, you’re left with flatulent pop, hip hop, and rock stations to the right of the dial, and little more than Christian radio on the left end. Stations like the Family Network and the Word FM. I remember reading some years ago that mega-churches were buying up independent radio stations, and in one case appropriated a station being used by high school students. I don’t know if that’s true, but these two networks own at least four identical stations in Northeastern Pennsylvania. It’s not brainwash exactly, but the sheer dominance of not only the format, but the same two networks, comes damn close. I spend a lot of time listening to the Christians when things get boring on Interstate 81, and let me tell you directly that Jean Paul Sartre had it wrong when he declared that “Hell is other people.” Hell is Christian radio.
There are basically three categories of programming on these stations. The first is what I like to call “Pastor Rainman”, whose sermons are literally nothing but numbers, random scraps of scripture, all delivered in a cadence that reels from inflection to inflection like a mean drunk. “And if you READ Samuel, 6:7, When they CAME TO the threshing floor of Nacon, Uzzah reached out and took hold of the ark of God, because the oxen stumbled. And that IS beCAUSE, IT IS BECAUSE that as they write in Judges 16:50 AND THAT is alSO…” After about twenty minutes of this you see why cults force their members to listen to hours and hours of sermonizing: the effect is trance-inducing. There are at least a dozen guys doing this schtick, but they’re essentially interchangeable. You begin to zone out on it when you’re driving, it becomes mindless words droning along in your head.
The next category is “Family Counseling With Jesus”, which is exactly what it sounds like. These shows are usually hosted by two people, self-identified as parents and Christians. Sometimes it’s a man and a woman, other times two guys, and both formats dispense with cheerful advice on preserving your marriage while Jesus joins you in bed. I am not making this up: apparently, the American Family Association actually wants you to imagine Jesus Christ there with you, in bed, while you make love to your wife. Where is he? Between you? Spooning one of you? Just sitting there watching the action from the headboard? The only thing creepier than the relationship advice is the child rearing, which combines Christ with authoritarianism. I tend to change the station or slip in a tape when these perky busybodies start offering unsolicited advice.
And speaking of child-rearing, the third category, which makes up the brunt of programming, is also the worst: Christian rock radio. The music falls into two sun-genres, at least in Northeastern Pennsie. You have a lot of Joan “What If God Was One of Us” Osborne imitators, and lots of Pearl-Jam-But-With-Jesus metal: in both styles, the emphasis is on the chorus at the expense of the verses. Why? Because like Pastor Rainman, the intention is to drill the brand into kids’ heads, just like toilet paper or toothpaste or some other product. These “artists” have what seems to be an obsession with telling Jesus and God how worthy they are of praise, while begging for shelter and protection from “life’s pain”. The production value is mired in the mid-1990s: way too much compression and heavy on the stereo chorus.
Some of these songs are nothing but choruses, always praising, praising, and praising some more. You’d think the Almighty, Perfect, Omnipotent Creator of Everything, the Alpha and Omega, the Ruler and Designer of the Universe had a self-esteem problem (just like his followers). I mean, what the hell does an All-Powerful God care if his followers tell Him He’s worthy of praise? You’d think he already knew that, and with all the complex workings of the Universe, you’d figure primary reinforcement would be the least of His concerns. And don’t get me started on the barely repressed sexual undertones, as nearly every singer, male or female, longs to be held and caressed in Jesus’ bosom. No wonder Christians are so anti-sex: like the Party in 1984, healthy sexual expression diverts energy that could be spent fetishing the Savior.
I was listening to an article about changes to the Baptist hymnal on NPR a few mornings ago. There’s some turmoil in their community over the proposed new content: apparently, many of the older Baptists, who make up the majority of the church especially in the South, really don’t like the new stuff. Having listened to more than my share of modern Christian music, I’m inclined to agree.
Despite my well-established atheism, I actually listen to quite a lot of older gospel music: as a bluegrass and country music fan, it’s hard not to get a liking for some of the stuff. If you listen to the NPR program linked above, you’ll hear an older member of the church mention something about how the old songs tell a story, and the old ones don’t have the same impact. You can find a veritable cornucopia of Baptist hymns here, and listen to Sacred Harp versions of them here. Neat stuff.
1. At anchor laid, remote from home,
Tolling, I cried, “Sweet Spirit come!”
Celestial breeze, no longer stay,
But swell my sails, and speed my way.2. “Fain would I mount, fain would I glow,
And loose my cable from below;
But I can only spread my sail;
Thou, thou must breathe th’auspicious gale.”
At Anchor Laid, Remote From Home
Compare that to:
You are worthy oh Lord
Of all honour
You are worthy to receive
All praise
In Your presence I live
And with all I have to give
I will worship You…
You Are Worthy, Hillsong United
When you listen to a few hours of this tripe, it’s hard not to come to the conclusion that contemporary Christians are the weakest and most fearful, yet most self-centered and entitled, people in the world. On the one hand, they seem to need Jesus’ help to deal with ANYTHING: they’re always begging him to let them hide in his robes and shield them from some undefined pain. Is it cancer? Heart problems? Your boyfriend took off? Daily life? Who fucking knows, and who fucking cares?
On the other hand, they’re always bragging about how their imaginary friend with the super powers is willing them the world and building them mansions. If I was a Christian, I think I’d be a bit concerned about meanings lost in translation: Hebrew doesn’t translate too well to Latin, especially when it’s pre-translated into Greek and Aramaic. Who’s to say that “the meek shall inherit the Earth” isn’t closer to “the meek shall inherit dirt”? Or as Frank Zappa put it, “The meek shall inherit nothing”.
This post is actually a two-parter: I wrote the paragraphs above after picking up Sam, except for the last two, which I wrote just now. I just got back from dropping him off. I’m exhausted. Sometime around 3:00 AM, I woke up when it hit me that the kiddo was already going home. After a brief crying jag, I wasn’t able to fall back to sleep: it seemed every time I was on the verge of nodding off, something would happen. I’d cough. Or fart. Or have to pee. Or I was too cold, and then too hot.
Sam learned about the Beatles this week, so it was nice to have “Breakfast With the Beatles” playing on WMGK or whatever this morning, at least until “Two of Us” came on and then I couldn’t see and almost drove off the road.
Two of us riding nowhere
spending someone’s hard earned pay
You and me Sunday driving
Not arriving on our way back home
We’re on our way back home
We’re on our way home
We’re going homeTwo of us sending postcards
writing letters on my wall
You and me burning matches
lifting latches on our way back home
We’re on our way back home
We’re on our way home
We’re going homeYou and I have memories
longer that that road
that stretches out aheadTwo of us wearing raincoats
standing solo in the sun
You and me chasing paper
getting nowhere on our way back home
We’re on our way back home
We’re on our way home
We’re going homeYou and I have memories
longer that that road
that stretches out aheadTwo of us wearing raincoats
standing solo in the sun
You and me chasing paper
getting nowhere on our way back home
We’re on our way back home
We’re on our way home
We’re going home
We’re going home.
My eyes got all watered up, and my mouth pulled down into a grimace as my lips began to tremble. It’s amazing: you spend all this time getting to 37 years old, wondering what the fuck you’ve even done with your life, and the minute you get overpowered by your emotions, you turn into a five year old again. That’s the worst part of witnessing an adult cry, seeing that so-carefully protected child appear like a ghost peeking through the grown-up face that twists and contorts in a futile attempt to keep that inner kid protected, to get the emotions into control again. And worse than that is crying in front of my kid, who has enough on his little plate than his parents’ drama.
But I managed to make it all the way there without further incident and turned Sam over to his mom. I think between the lack of sleep, the lingering symptoms of pinkeye, and the fact that I can’t hide it when my mood is in the shitter, I must have looked like walking death, which probably explains why his mom was as nice to me as she was (and not in that “because I have to” sense). On the way back, I ended up sleeping for a few hours at the PA Welcome Center rest area on 81.
After my nap, I got back on 81, and began scanning through the stations. 103.3 WPRB out of Princeton was coming in strong, so I let the dial rest there for a few minutes. Coincidentally, the Essex Green came on, playing “Rue de Lis” off their new album, Cannibal Sea. As it happens, I recorded the original bass track for that cut (not sure if that’s me or Uncle Fedj on the final mix), and so like “Two of Us”, the song was an unpleasant reminder of a different kind of loss. I listened to the whole track, remembering a few weeks in Europe, and then other tours with other bands, sighing deeply as I realized (again) that I can’t tour anymore. Miserable bookends to a miserable eight-hour trip.
So when I hear some fucking whiny Christians begging Jesus in song to protect them with his magical robes while their mansions of gold are under construction (like they say, membership has its rewards, even if it makes that “love your neighbor as you love yourself” stuff seem a little self-interested), it’s hard not to scoff. If I can take it, you can too, weakling. Grow some fucking balls, and stop asking your imaginary friend to do the heavy lifting for you. There were never more than one set of footprints to begin with, and NO ONE was carrying you.
You know who helps me through MY pain? ME, that’s who. You think redirecting my thoughts to Jesus and His Posthumous Bounty are going to make me feel better when my kid returns to his mom who lives 800 miles away? When I’m reminded that I used to be sorta-kinda getting somewhere with music? When I come home to a big old house that overnight has fallen silent? When I wake up compulsively at 7:30 AM because that’s when my kid starts stirring? When I wake up at 3:00 AM and worry about what the fuck I’ve done and what the fuck I’m going to do with what’s left of my life?
Get a life, get real, and grow up. Believing that Jesus or God or whoever is going to descend from the clouds and help you out of a jam is about as realistic as believing in Santy Claus, minus the cute factor. You’re born, you make it through life for better or worse, and then you’re dead.
End. Of. Fucking. Story.
One Response to “Hell Is Christian Radio”
Leave a Reply
You must be logged in to post a comment.
November 26th, 2007 at 4:53 pm
Welcome back! Your point about taking responsibility for ones actions and feelings instead of waiting for some invisible force to intervene is an important one. I think ownership of ones actions and feelings are paramount to self-esteem and security. The religious zealots have put their lives and futures in the “hands” of some unseen ideal. No wonder they are afraid and sad.
My son asked me an interesting question this week (maybe someone has been putting the “Purpose driven life” meme in his head) about what I think my purpose is. I told him that I don’t spend my time worrying about my “purpose”. Maybe I don’t have a purpose. Maybe I’m just here. I’ve decided that since I’m only going to be on this beautiful earth a limited time, it’s probably not a good idea to waste it pondering if I have a purpose or not. I decided to liberate myself from that ridiculous quest and spend my time more constructively. Love my family, friends, my dog and see the beauty in nature. That’s easy enough.