Hounds of Hell
Next, consider the fate of Ted Haggard. In 2005, the then-pastor of
the New Life Church and chairman of the National Association of
Evangelicals was interviewed-slash-confronted by Dawkins for a
documentary on religion called The Root of All Evil? Filmed at the
New Life compound in Colorado Springs, it was a leering,
lip-curling encounter, a showpiece of contempt, in which the
atheist Dawkins accused the Biblical literalist Haggard (somewhat
tautologically, perhaps) of knowing nothing about evolution, while
Haggard suggested that Dawkinss grandchildren might one day laugh
at him for his belief in natural selection. You wanna bet?
snarled Dawkins, his mad-scientist eyebrows standing quill-like in
fury. The pastor then threw Dawkins and the camera crew off his
land, uttering the classic creationist retort: You called my
children animals!
The events that have since overtaken Haggard do indeed bear the
distinct imprint of what creationists call the argument from
design. What more perfectly appointed doom could there be for an
evangelical preacher than that he be revealed as a drug-snorting
patron of male whores? Haggard, his ministry in ruins, was last
seen emerging from three weeks of faith-based counseling with the
declaration that he was now completely heterosexual. The infidel
Dawkins has meanwhile sailed into riches and best-sellerdom. Even
Mike Jones, the escort with whom Haggard shared his meth-romps,
looks set to have a hit this summer with his upcoming kiss-and-tell
I Had to Say Something: The Art of Ted Haggards Fall (Seven
Stories). My muscles seemed to be my biggest attraction, writes
Jones. Until I took off my pants. Truly, the Lord works in
mysterious fucking ways.
Or maybe not so mysterious. If there was one thing Jesus hated, it
was a hypocrite: For with what judgment ye judge, ye shall be
judged, and with what measure ye mete, it shall be measured to you
again (Matthew 7:2). And atheism at its leanest is the
bullshit-detector of all bullshit-detectors, scouring the
complacent from their comfort zones. I cite once more the exploits
of Hitchens, who on May 16 was invited to represent the
constituency of the impious on the Jerry Falwell memorial edition
of Fox News Hannity & Colmes. Ranged against him was as
Pharisaical a crew as can be imagined: the
bad-cop/even-shittier-cop team of Alan Colmes and Sean Hannity, the
oily Ralph Reed (Republican strategist, former director of the
Christian Coalition, friend of Jack Abramoff), and, of course, the
ghost of the just-departed Reverend Falwell.
Over loud pleas for human decency from the frequently indecent
(and inhuman) Hannity, Hitchens put the boot in: Falwell was a
vulgar fraud and crook, and it was a shame there was no hell for
him to go to. Ralph Reed, as soon as he opened his mouth, was
denounced as a religious rip-off artist. Hitchenss last line,
lobbed coolly into the prattling final seconds of the show (you
have to listen for it), probably short-circuited a few senior TV
sets: If you gave Jerry Falwell an enema, you could bury him in a
matchbox.
Hitchens has a particularly truculent way of filling the screen. He
glowers, and under studio lights his large, low-slung face with
its rather delicate features gathered nouvelle-cuisine style in the
center is generally some odd shade of green or pale ochre. A very
earthly, unsanctified figure. But seen here, knee-deep in a brood
of vipers and laying about him the sword of righteousness, the
sweating Hitchens was momentarily one trembles to say it
Christ-like.
Sam Harris is less effective on TV: he sits quietly, not blinking,
as if hes decided that the proper demeanor for a rationalist is
one of spooky robotic evenness. But in his writing, when given the
proper theme, he, too, can blaze into near-messianic eloquence. On
the Vaticans recent deliberations on the subject of limbo, for
example, he is splendidly scathing. Limbo, or so Pope Pius X
declared in 1905, is where children who die without baptism go . .
. where they do not enjoy God, but they do not suffer either. The
point is that they go there forever. To float about in grayness,
waving wanly at each other.
The Vaticans Internal Theological Commission has been chewing over
this little nub of dogma for several years, much to Harriss
disgust. Can we even conceive of a project more intellectually
forlorn than this? he seethes in Letter to a Christian Nation. Is
there the slightest possibility that someone will present evidence
indicating the eternal fate of un-baptized children after death?
How can an educated person think this anything but a hilarious,
terrifying, and unconscionable waste of time? When one considers
the fact that this is the very institution that has produced and
sheltered an elite army of child-molesters, the whole enterprise
begins to exude a truly diabolic aura of misspent human energy.
(On April 20, the commission issued its findings: Our conclusion
is that the many factors that we have considered . . . give serious
theological and liturgical grounds for hope that un-baptized
infants who die will be saved and enjoy the beatific vision.)