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  But Darby was not the only one in church history to come up with, shall we say, creative approaches to the end times. While Jesus very clearly said, “But about that day and hour no one knows, neither the angels of heaven, nor the Son, but only the Father” (Matthew 24:36), that didn’t stop many people from trying to figure it out.

  The end is nigh and nigh again and again and again . . .

  From the fourth century on, nearly every century saw at least one person predicting the imminent return of Jesus. The number of predictions picked up steam and became a fairly regular thing as time went on, even after a church council in the sixteenth century officially prohibited people from making such predictions. Most predictions are your pretty standard stuff—eclipses and comets and plagues that seemed like clear signs of the end to people at the time. But there are some fun stories out there too.

  In 1525, Thomas Müntzer was so convinced that Jesus’ return was imminent and that he would be protected from harm as he and his fellow Protestant rebels revolted against their German monarchs that he promised to catch the enemies’ cannonballs in the sleeves of his shirt.3 Things didn’t work out quite the way he hoped. His fellow reformer Martin Luther got in on the prediction act in the 16th century. He was not quite as successful in that endeavor as he was in sparking the Protestant Reformation.

  Those living in the American colonies finally joined the end-times prediction parade in 1694, when it was foretold that Jesus would return to Pennsylvania. He didn’t. At least not that I am aware of. Speaking of America, many Americans thought the Revolutionary War itself was a sign of the times, with the Stamp Act playing the role of the mark of the beast because it forced colonists to purchase and use stamps on newspapers and a host of other documents. Likewise, King George took the stage as the Antichrist because, well, every story needs a good villain.4

  Another fun prediction occurred in England in 1809 when a famous chicken was said to lay eggs with secret messages written on them—messages foretelling the imminent return of Jesus.5 Shockingly, it turned out the chicken wasn’t actually magical or divine. Its owner was writing the messages on ordinary, non-apocalyptic eggs.

  A century later and an ocean away, the Millerites jumped into the second coming guessing game—literally. Some of them were said to have jumped off roofs, believing they would be caught up with Jesus in the twinkling of an eye.6 Sadly, Jesus did not catch them, but those who survived the jump went on to form the Seventh-day Adventists. Roughly thirty years later, the Jehovah’s Witnesses began an epic and seemingly never-ending stream of predictions and revisions about the second coming. Their predictions came with a clever twist: Jesus did return, but his return was invisible, so that’s why nobody could see it. Genius.

  Fast-forward to 1977, when Countdown to Rapture was published. What, according to that book, was the signal for the rapture’s imminent occurrence? Killer bees.7 They may have come, but they didn’t bring Jesus with them.

  Remember the former NASA scientist who wrote 88 Reasons Why the Rapture Will Be in 1988? When Jesus didn’t oblige, the scientist wrote a follow-up the next year called The Final Shout: Rapture Report 1989. There was no 1990 Rapture Report because, I assume, the publisher realized it was just diminishing returns at that point.

  In 1998, someone predicted that Jesus would return on a spaceship.8 In the early 2000s, The Bible Code made its debut on the dispensationalist scene, promising to use computer wizardry to unlock secret codes hidden in the Bible. It didn’t. Believe it or not, ancient people who had no concept of computers probably also had no way of imagining codes that only machines—the very existence of which they couldn’t imagine—would be able to figure out.

  The year 2004 saw another apocalyptic code gain popularity. The Noah Code claimed it could predict the second coming by examining the story of Noah. Unfortunately for those who bought the book, it turns out that Noah was better at building boats than predicting the return of Jesus.

  In 2012, some folks in the United States made quite the stir when they predicted the rapture would happen on May 21st of that year. They spent countless thousands of dollars buying up billboards and driving vans plastered with rapture warnings across the country to spread the word. They were even kind enough to grant me an interview for my blog.9 Although nothing I could say caused them to waver in their beliefs, when I asked if they would be open to a follow-up interview if their prediction didn’t pan out, they laughingly agreed, saying there was no way they were wrong. When the rapture failed to occur and I requested that follow-up interview, their spokesperson emailed me back to say, “no comment.”

  But none of those figures, prognosticators, or prophetic models hold a candle to the juggernaut that was the Left Behind series. This blockbuster series of novels and related products didn’t offer an exact prediction of a certain date, but it did sell millions of dollars’ worth of merchandise. Though classified as fiction, the books were presented as a sort of future history—a creative documentary of what the Bible supposedly says is to come.

  What resulted from the Left Behind series, as well as from its predecessors, imitators, and heirs, was a massive end-times racket. While ostensibly explaining the mysteries of Revelation to the masses, the franchise raked in untold millions of dollars in the process. Although Tim LaHaye and Jerry Jenkins are no longer writing more volumes in the Left Behind series, their legacy lives on. The end-times industrial complex continues to churn out new books, new codes, and new predictions, which promise to make sense of the apocalypse—for a price.

  So despite all the failed predictions and embarrassing gaffes, why are the end times still so popular? What, exactly, is the appeal of all this apocalyptic weirdness?

  The appeal of it all

  Looking from the outside in, the appeal of the end times is weird and hard to understand. For many people on the inside, it’s pretty weird and hard to understand too. But there’s a certain logic to it all. From the inside, dispensationalism seems very rational and almost scientific. To put it crassly, dispensationalism gives its followers the confidence of knowing they’re right by suggesting that all the “smart” people are wrong. That can be incredibly empowering. It was for me.

  The veneer of scientific or intellectual credibility that dispensationalism offers can’t be overstated. Many dispensationalists may not consider themselves intellectuals; they may not even care about engaging in the sort of theological or philosophical debates that academics enjoy. But in the information age, in which everyone seems to be an expert on something, the systems of dispensationalism offer a sense of confidence for those seeking surety in their faith without having to attend seminary or have a working knowledge of biblical languages.

  End-times theology also offers a sense of community. This is an often-overlooked aspect of end-times theology but one that we shouldn’t miss. Community is, after all, an important element of any faith. Religion gives us a place to belong, a sense that we matter, that we’re part of something bigger than ourselves. What could be bigger and more meaningful than the end of the world? For all its gloom and doom and denunciations of unbelievers, end-times theology provides a welcoming community for true believers—one that affirms their beliefs, gives them a role in spreading an important message, and promises a place in the heavenly community for all eternity.

  This leads us to a more obvious appeal of the end times: the guarantee that true believers will avoid hell.

  The promise that I’d avoid hell—and not just hell but suffering in general, because I wouldn’t be left behind to suffer through the tribulation—was certainly appealing to me. The rapture (or at least a pretribulation rapture) guarantees that the faithful will be taken away to the safety and comfort of heaven, where they can watch from the clouds as those left behind suffer unspeakable tribulations. Who wouldn’t want to avoid that? Dispensationalism offers you a really easy way to avoid all of it: you just have to believe.

  On the flip side of avoiding hell, there’s the genuine hope for something
better. Yes, end-times theology is full of all kinds of scary plagues, evil monsters, and celestial bodies turning to blood. It’s terrifying stuff. But end-times theology also offers a way to escape the danger that is to come. The rapture guarantees that once history is over, true believers will be safe and sound and treated like royalty in heaven for all eternity.

  Who wouldn’t want to be taken away to heaven? Who wouldn’t want to live through a thousand years of peace? Who wouldn’t want to be a part of the chosen few? For all its flaws—and they are many—dispensationalism offers something that is universally appealing: the hope for something better.

  If you’re struggling to pay your bills, if your life is filled with broken relationships, if despair and depression haunt you, end-times theology promises a future free from pain and brokenness. It promises a place of healing where no one goes without, a new world where tears are wiped away. It promises that death and sorrow and mourning are no more—at least as long as you’re a true believer.

  So what if you have to believe in some quirky things and trust in eccentric people making wild predictions and proclamations? If that’s all it takes to find peace and happiness, why wouldn’t you go along with it? If simply believing in what they said meant that you, too, could be a part of a new heaven and new earth, why not?

  The rapture may be a relatively new invention, but the promise of something better is as old as faith itself. Since the dawn of Christianity, people have believed that the return of Jesus was imminent and have sought to understand what that means and how they should prepare. For all its quirkiness, end-times theology is a natural extension of that quest to see faith become sight. End-times theology exists to prove why that faith is true. The predictions and proclamations are often over the top, if not simply delusional, but they spring from that same fount, from the desire for a better life. End-times theology not only promises that better life is coming; it also shows how and even when it’s going to arrive.

  It’s intoxicating for a lot of people.

  I know.

  I was once one of them.

  5

  Losing My Religion

  In eighth grade I found myself at yet another annual youth event. The event lasted through the weekend, with a concert on Saturday night put on by the wonderfully named band Brian White and Justice. It was an epic show, at least in the eyes of a sheltered thirteen-year-old boy who had never been to a real concert. So obviously it was objectively epic.

  At the end of the show, there was an altar call. Because, well, of course there was. Guess who showed up for the altar call? That same preacher from children’s camp. Just kidding. That would have been super weird.

  It was God.

  And this time I was pretty sure it actually was God. Because when I found myself kneeling down to pray with my youth pastor, I realized that it wasn’t guilt that dragged me down the crimson red carpet of the sanctuary to kneel at an old wooden altar. A real sense of calling had invited me there. Maybe the bright lights and electric guitars and Brian White’s testimony had helped. Or maybe it was actually the movement of the Holy Spirit—or maybe it was all of the above. Whoever or whatever it was, I felt a clear and definitive sense of calling that night to give my life to God. Not to just get saved again—I had already taken care of that a fiftieth or sixtieth time earlier that year at a Christian haunted house or “judgment house,” where scary scenes like horrific drunk driving accidents are used (effectively in my case) to try to scare you into getting saved before you die and it’s too late to save your soul from hell. I was at the altar that night, accepting a calling to ministry, because I wanted to be down there. I wanted to answer God’s calling because I wanted to pour my life into the lives of others the way so many pastors and church people had poured their lives into mine.

  I knelt at the altar pressure free that night. I felt no guilt, just a sense that I was finally on the right track—that maybe I was doing what I was meant to do. From that day forward, I knew I was going into ministry. But not just any ministry. I wanted to be a youth pastor. I was more sure about that than anything else I had ever been sure about. I would head to college knowing, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that God had called me to be a youth pastor.

  Answering a call

  Well, that and playing in the NBA. I came home from that youth event and immediately told my mom that God had called me. “To what?” she asked.

  To being a youth pastor . . . and playing in the NBA. She smiled, as all moms do, no doubt torn between being proud of me for trying to answer God’s call for my life and trying not to laugh at a slow, barely coordinated skinny white kid who couldn’t jump but thought he was going to make it to the NBA.

  Delusional or not, I spent the next several years preparing to do both, until a broken ankle and the reality of my limited talent put an end to my NBA dreams. With athletic stardom officially off the table, I prepared for my actual calling as much as I could. This amounted to telling everyone who asked about my future that I wanted to be a youth pastor—including my teachers at school, particularly in classes that I deemed irrelevant to my career goals.

  On the first day of my junior year of high school, my precalculus teacher asked us to write down why we were taking the class. My answer? “Because it is required by the state in order to graduate. I am going into youth ministry, and this class has absolutely no bearing on my future plans.” Thankfully, my teacher was a fellow Christian who fully supported my ministerial aspirations and was also equally full of grace—enough to overlook the insufferable arrogance of youth.

  But I did take a few practical steps to prepare to be a youth pastor. I was active in my school’s chapter of Fellowship of Christian Athletes, and when the time came, I ran for and was elected president—a role I pursued because in my mind it was basically like being a teenage youth pastor. I also made sure to never miss a mission trip. Sure, I loved the mission trip experience itself, but if I was going to be leading those some day, I needed to be prepared. How better to be prepared to lead a mission trip than by taking at least one every single summer from the time I was in seventh grade until my junior year of college? And whenever the opportunity came to testify on a mission trip, I took it. I’d transform my testimony to the group into a mini sermon, making sure to put the fear of being left behind and going to hell into the hearts of whoever was stuck having to listen to me.

  As with many other high schools, mine had a job shadow day for seniors. Naturally, I chose to shadow my youth pastor, Tony. Guess how many other people shadowed pastors that day? Somewhere between zero and none—which should have made for an awkward moment when I had to stand up in front of the entire school after all the other job fields had been called and explain why my choice didn’t fit into any of those categories. But I was so proud that awkwardness never even crossed my mind. I thought the rest of the students were suckers because I had the coolest job shadow day ever. (For the record, I was right. I had way more fun that day than I should have been allowed to get school credit for.)

  When it finally came time to apply for college, I knew two things: one, I wanted to be a religion major; and two, I wanted to get as far away from home as possible. But my college needed to be a Christian school, and not just any Christian school. It needed to be a Nazarene school, because I couldn’t trust what kind of liberal theology might be taught somewhere else.

  The choice was easy. The Church of the Nazarene had a school on the opposite side of the country in San Diego, California. Point Loma Nazarene University sits right on top of a bluff overlooking the Pacific Ocean. You can stare at the Pacific while you eat lunch in the cafeteria and go surfing between classes. The baseball team can watch their home runs sail into the ocean. It seemed like the perfect place for a teenager itching to get as far away from home as possible.

  But when it came time to turn in my application, I hesitated. Point Loma was beautiful. It was far away from home and, most importantly, down the street from an In-N-Out Burger. But then a still, small voice star
ted talking as I filled out my application. Maybe it was the Holy Spirit, but it may just have been my burning desire to know everything and be the smartest. In my mind, Trevecca Nazarene University, in my hometown of Nashville, had a better religion department, and all I cared about was taking the best religion classes possible so I could learn as much as possible and show everyone how smart I was.

  Trevecca may indeed have had the better religion department. But it was just as likely that I thought it did because I was familiar with it. I had practically grown up on campus. Most of my family had gone to college there, half of them worked there, and the church I attended was on campus. Either way, it was a genuinely tough decision for me. I desperately wanted to get away from home, but at the same time I was terrified of not following God’s will for my life, which I understood to be like the biblical prophecy of Jack Van Impe: a predetermined but veiled road map, decipherable only through clues I had to figure out in order to go to the right place, do the right things, get the right job, marry the right person, and make God happy.

  I wrestled long and hard with the decision and spent countless hours in prayer. In the end, my application to Point Loma never left the small desk in my bedroom. I chose Trevecca. Partly because I really did think it offered me the best preparation for ministry, but also probably because all my friends were going there. Desperate as I was to get out of Nashville, I was too much of a coward to move across the country by myself.

  That’s how I ended up in Biblical Exegesis with Dr. Dan Spross at seven thirty in the morning. It was the very first class I ever took in college, and it was even less exciting than it sounds. I hated it. In my mind, college was going to be like AP Sunday school. I’d had all the answers in regular Sunday school, so AP Sunday school was obviously going to be a breeze.