I come from a place where church services are humble and modest. Why would you lavish money on a place of worship when there are hungry people who need help? Why not help mothers who cannot afford food for their babies? Why not shelter women and children who are actively being abused? After 15 years of living in this country, there are still things I do not understand. A couple of days ago, I was invited to attend “The Great Forever,” an Easter production by Victory Church. I was not sure what to expect, but I certainly did not expect what I saw. A giant robotic arm swung a massive, Hollywood grade camera over my head as I found my seat. On stage, a blonde woman kept screaming, “Hail Jesus, King!” over and over again. I sat down, but immediately began to second guess my decision because the man next to me seemed to be having some sort of seizure. He appeared to become possessed by the spirit of God, his arms and legs twitching compulsively in a way that reminded me of meth addicts at the peak of their high.
By that point, I was already overwhelmed. Once the woman stopped shouting, another lady came out and said, “You know this is all free, right?” That was when I knew I was going to be asked for money. It is always that way.
I was not wrong. I am not kidding when I tell you they had tap to pay. These people actually put a tap to pay system on the back of every seat. I am not exaggerating. There was a blue sticker that said, “Tap me.” If you did not have a smartphone, do not worry. You could still donate through text message, by check, or by dropping money in a bucket. I was surprised they did not take Bitcoin. Shortly after the shakedown, some of the Victory youth performed a role play of Passover. Then, out of nowhere, a kid started a rap battle about the Romans and the Pharisees. Dancers appeared and moved like a Christian version of the Backstreet Boys. The lights kept flashing purple over and over again like I was in a nightclub, and I honestly felt like I was going to have a seizure.
Once I managed to recover, I looked back at the stage and immediately regretted it. There was a nearly naked man covered in something that looked like blood, carrying a giant cross while being whipped over and over again by kids pretending to be Roman centurions.
I had to ask myself: what is the point of this gore? What is the point of this spectacle? It was disturbing. Why were children watching this? The whipping and humiliation of this man pretending to be Jesus went on for a while. It was intense, grotesque, and deeply unsettling. Why were people willingly watching this? Shortly after, a man walked onto the stage and asked the crowd to pray with him. He told people to repent to Jesus. He kept repeating, “Repent, repent, repent.” But repent of what, exactly? I know I have shortcomings, but I do not feel they are things I need to repent of. Then it dawned on me: these people have found a way to monetize guilt. This is a cult.
I did not stay much longer. I just wanted to go to bed. I had seen the memes about megachurches and heard the stereotypes, but I had never witnessed one for myself.
Part of me felt violated. My idea of religion had somehow been tarnished by that experience. But now I at least have a better understanding of Christian nationalism, and of how megachurches have managed to profit from people’s guilt through the prostitution of religion.
