I wish we'd all been ready

"I'm not sure how you feel about the Rapture, but I hope you're ready," my mom told me this morning. She figures that the Israeli bombings of Lebanon, the latest tsunami in Indonesia, and the current heat wave affecting the entire United States must mean Jesus is getting ready to part the clouds and gather the faithful few. "It's the End Times," she assured me.

I've heard that phrase so often throughout my lifetime, I'm thinking of getting it tattooed on my left shoulder. Growing up, every earthquake was an indicator of the End Times. Hostage crisis in Iran? End Times. The attempted assassination of Ronald Reagan? End Times. Floods, mud slides, hurricanes, dogs and cats living together? End Times.

As for the Rapture itself, I've got a foot in both camps. True, I've grown way beyond seeing it as a literal return of Jesus Christ. For example, there's that troubling little verse in Matthew in which Jesus tells his disciples, "Verily I say unto you, There be some standing here, which shall not taste of death, till they see the Son of man coming in his kingdom." (Matthew 16:28) And having been told about 10,000 times that it's just around the corner has dulled my sense of anticipation. "Alright, already, Mom. Let me know when you hear the trumpets sound."

Still, I retain enough of my childlike wonder to know that I wouldn't blink if I saw Jesus descending in a cloud, a beautific smile upon his face. I'd be first in line for a hug. I'd also be the first to run and hide if Christ started exploding Unbelievers, as Tim LaHaye has described in his repulsive Left Behind book series, making little flesh bombs out of their stubborn bodies. "If you'd only believed in Me, I wouldn't have to do this!" Crash, kerpow, splat!

My therapist has told me that I was a victim of religious abuse. I guess if I had to be a victim of some kind of abuse, I'm glad it was religious. I'm glad I'm not in one of the growing support groups filled with little girls who were recipients of their parent's verbal, physical or sexual abuse. But I will say it's no picnic to be hyper-imaginative and hear that the devil's out to get me. It's no fun to lie awake in the dark and fear the swooshing sound I hear is not the curtain rustling in the breeze, but one of Satan's minions crawling out from under my bed to grab me by the ankle and into the depths of Hell. It's rather disturbing to search the house for Mom and Dad, and, not finding them, fall to my knees sobbing, certain I'd been left behind. That I wasn't good enough. Never good enough. I was bad, sinful, evil.

Okay, that's a little heavy.

Mom feels End Times events are bad news wrapped in the promise of good news. I guess I think it's wishful thinking. "Hurry up Jesus and take us away from a planet we've trashed so badly, it's almost too late to save it. Hurry up, Jesus, and save us from ourselves."

I think I'll buy a bumper sticker I saw on the way to church the other day. It really cracked me up. In case of Rapture, can I have your car?