[MauiTime, -- May 26, 2011 -- Volume 14; Issue 49]
by Anu Yagi (@anuheayagi on Twitter)
“False prophets will rise and show signs of wonders to deceive… / Take heed, watch and pray; for you do not know when the time is.” – Mark 13:22-33
It’s Friday night in Hawaii, well past doomsday in Kiribati (i.e. the island nation that’s easternmost edge nudges the International Date Line). The pious members of my ‘ohana are not supermaning skyward, and I know both empirically and via Twitter that the Earth is no more plunged into chaos than it was yesterday. #rapturefail
But like a Witness wondering why Santa Claus didn’t leave me any presents, I feel an awry twinge of disappointment over Harold Camping’s failed weekend rapture. Why?! I berate myself, annoyed. I lay my left hand on The Origin of Species, after all. And if nothing else, at the very seed of my psyche is a Christian upbringing that’s impressed upon me the red-letter scripture, “Heaven and earth will pass away… / But of the day and hour no one knows, not even the angels of heaven” (Matthew 24:35-36).
So I’m driving down Haleakala Highway, and just as I think all this, a blue laser beam as big as a house—the aggregate of every heavenly crepuscular ray that ever was and ever will be—shoots down from the zenith to burn a giant hole into the center of the isle’s isthmus. I try to speak but can only sing hymns (and do so uncharacteristically well, if I might add)! A 1,000-foot-tall head of actor Tim Curry, in blackface, descends from the clouds. He whistles in with the sound of an everlasting gong and sucks up souls into the abyss between his lips. He chews. He blows an undulating pink bubble that engulfs Earth. It pops. He belches.
And then I wake up.
It’s Saturday morning in Hawaii, and half the globe’s time zones have seen the alleged May 21 rapture come and go without incident. Except for crazies like California’s Lyn Benedetto—who attempted to kill her two young daughters by slitting their throats, then her own—any rapture-related kerfuffle is mere Internet chatter. The breeze blows benevolently, birds chirrup a soundtrack to the sunrise. Kingdom did not come as Camping said it would.
You know what? I blame Ritalin. That’s right, Ritalin. Despite popping pills in maximum tonnage, we’re obviously still so distracted with self-involved hyperactivity that despite real world tribulation, we’re compelled to fantasize about apocalypse now.
And yes, every Christian ought to be totally pissed off at Camping and his crew, too. They’re no better than Kansas’s Phelps family, whose imbecilic end-of-days ideology would disgust even demons themselves.
So shut the hell up, Camping. Though you do admittedly look like the Cryptkeeper, I don’t need you to remind me that, as sure as taxes, the end is near. And unless you intend on knifing my jugular, I certainly don’t need you telling me when exactly my—or anyone’s—end will come.
But even if my screed were piped directly into Camping’s hearing aide, my bitching would fall on deaf ears. (Dear readers: As I’m sure you already know, this crazy man remains unrepentant about his failed predictions in both 1994 and 2011—still holding firm that the world will come to a fiery end on October 21 of this year.) So ultimately, it’d be better if those un-hearing ears were my own. Imagine how much time I’d have saved talking, twittering and typing about this silliness; time that could otherwise have been spent living for today in a way that does not stymie tomorrow. Because I know I’m a dreamer and I’m not the only one. And like Tim Curry’s seminal character says, “Don’t dream it. Be it.” ■
THESE ARE A FEW OF MY FAVORITE THINGS (THAT I READ ON RAPTURE DAY):
P.S. Brothers, sisters! Are YOU feeling despondent because THE END OF THE WORLD IS INEVITABLE? Cheer yourself up by becoming a member of the Church of Tim “Godzilla” Curry. To join, simply send 10 percent of your gross earnings to 666 Heaven Ave., The Great Gig in the Sky, Universe 31415 (c/o Omnipotence). Tim bless you.