Column
Culture
Film & TV
Weirdness
Zombies
7 min read

Why do films portray Christians as crazy?

Exploring why films often portray the god-fearing as ‘always so god-damn weird’, psychologist Roger Bretherton recalls a first divine experience.
A crazed-looking man walks away from a burning backdrop.
Scott Shepard plays the crazed preacher in The Last of Us.
HBO.

We knew we were in trouble when he started quoting the Bible. If there is one rule we should all follow in a zombie apocalypse it is not to trust the isolated community of believers huddled around a Bible-quoting preacher. You know the plotline. The one that never occurs in Star Trek: the crew of the USS Enterprise land on a paradise-like planet only to discover that everything is exactly as it seems. No. The rules of genre television must be upheld. If it seems too good to be true, it probably is. 

This was the strong suspicion my eldest child and I immediately leapt to while watching season one, episode eight of HBO’s The Last of Us. If you haven’t seen it, it’s a zombie apocalypse drama, a bit like The Walking Dead, but with more giraffes and fewer zombies. Is it a virus? Is it radiation? No, it is a fungus that has zombified the masses. Starting with a few isolated infections here and there it rapidly mushroomed (I guess) to turn the placid citizens of the world into manic flesh-eaters. All I’m saying is keep applying the anti-fungal toenail cream, it may be the only thing standing between us and the collapse of civilisation as we know it.  

So, when episode eight opened with a previously unknown character quoting the Bible to a fearful flock hiding in a diner, we knew things weren’t going to turn out well. The signs were all there. He was almost definitely a paedophile, possibly a murderer, and very likely a cannibal. As it turned out we’d hit a perfect straight: three for three. He was all of them. I probably should have issued a spoiler warning for that one, but to be honest if you didn’t see it coming The Last of Us probably isn’t for you. You’d probably be happier watching something more sedate. Silent Witness anyone?  

Needless to say, the episode provoked no small amount of theological commentary in our household, mainly querying why it is that anyone exhibiting even a modicum of Christian belief in shows like this, almost always turns out to be completely unhinged. Why do the righteous always have something wrong with them? Why are the god-fearing always so god-damn weird?  

Pray and take the pills 

Just to be clear, I’m not a murderer, nor a paedophile, nor a cannibal (and I have no plans), but somehow the prejudice that Christians must be crazy has come to influence how I view my own spiritual history. I have inadvertently imbibed the simple naturalistic logic that if I am a Christian then there is something wrong with me. Some part of me shakes hands with Freud and retrospectively attributes my conversion to neurosis, a coping strategy, a crutch. The assumption that the only reason I would believe something so unusual, so out of step with the people I spend most of my time with, is that I am weird. Quietly, without realising it that is how I have come to view it - I need God because I am weak. 

Of course, religion can and often is used as a coping strategy. Leading psychologists of religion, like Kenneth Pargament, have made entire careers out of studying this phenomenon. For several decades, he and his collaborators have demonstrated pretty conclusively that people use religion and spirituality as potent sources of coping with the pain of life. From this perspective, religious conversion can be viewed as a transformation of significance. When the things we previously relied on to give us a sense of meaning and stability fail us, when our adjustment to life falls apart and cannot be put back together, we give up trying to conserve what was previously meaningful and instead take a transformative leap toward a new view of what matters to us. When the going gets tough, the tough get going. When the going gets too tough, some people turn to Jesus.  

But there are many ways we can use religion to cope, and over the years Pargament and his collaborators have identified a few of them. Some people defer everything to God, they cope by thinking God will do everything for them, they plead for Him to intervene. Others are self-reliant, they may believe in God, but they don’t expect much from Him; for them prayer is more like therapeutic meditation than anything medically effective. Others cope in a collaborative way. They don’t leave it all to God, nor do they think everything centres on them. They take responsibility for their lives, but view God as a companion, a collaborator, a conversation partner through all the vicissitudes of life.  

It probably comes as no surprise that in studies of religious people dealing with chronic illness, these styles of coping significantly predict prognosis over time. There are many ways it can help us, and some of them are more admirable and effective than others. Those who leave it all to God usually do worse, those who think it’s all down to them do better, and those who pray and take the pills do best. Coping with a painful and bewildering world is undoubtedly one of the benefits of religious belief. It’s one of the things it does for us, but it is not what religion is at core. It may be a function of belief but not its essence.  

That first intimation of divine presence... It was the teaser trailer of a movie I was yet to see. A tiny taster from an infinite menu. 

As a twelve-year old boy, lurking at the back of an old Methodist church, waiting in silence for the possibility of something sacred to be unconcealed, I was not the kind of child anyone at school would ever admire: lonely, bullied, ignored. Relegated to the corner of the playground reserved for the outcasts and untouchables, the overly sensitive gay kid, the boorish tractor enthusiast, and the Dungeons and Dragons players. When I revisit the moment of my first truly transcendent and mystical experience of God, it’s tempting to write it off as an imaginative invention designed to anaesthetise the pain of social exclusion. I needed it to be true, so I made it up.  

Yet there is more to it than that. That first intimation of divine presence was the beginning of a lifelong quest to experience more. It was the teaser trailer of a movie I was yet to see. A tiny taster from an infinite menu. And in the years that followed I pursued it. To begin with, that strange sense of presence was elusive. I couldn’t generate it under my own steam but ran across it every few months, in a small group, a church service, a prayer meeting, a piece of music. Over time the frequency increased, as I learned patterns of prayer and spiritual practice. Eventually, decades later, it stabilised into an almost daily occurrence. I discovered the western mystical tradition, a historical lineage that made sense of what I was sensing, and to which I could belong. I made myself at home with Augustine of Hippo, Julian of Norwich, Ignatius of Loyola, Teresa of Avila, John of the Cross, Thomas Merton. My new extended family was large and varied. They became my friends and spiritual guides. I had a history. 

When I think of the creatives I know, the artists, writers, actors, and musicians I have spent time with, I notice that for many of them their art is a response to the tragedy of life. But I rarely judge their work on the loneliness and pain that drives their compulsion to create. All too often it is the aching that lingers just under the surface of their work that makes it poignant and affecting. It is not just the beauty of what they create that moves me to tears, it’s the heartbreak out of which it is composed.  

My spiritual journey seems somewhat similar, a creative enterprise launched and sustained by a new insight into the nature of the world. Faith is more like a new way of seeing, than a new set of propositions to believe. If I’d been happy and fitted seamlessly into the fabric of social life, I doubt I’d have been open to the experience or able to recognise it when it occurred. But just as we might hesitate to reduce an artist’s work to little more than psychological self-help, I find myself increasingly reluctant to view my spiritual history as just an expression of my own neurosis. There is another way to tell the story, one that emphasises not so much the problems that drove me to God, but the presence that drew me to Him. There is more to the story than my own neediness and, in the final analysis, when the zombie apocalypse comes, at least I have retained sufficient sanity to avoid the guy with the Bible. 

Snippet
AI
Culture
Digital
Sustainability
3 min read

AI Barbie: does anyone think about destruction?

We choose waste and consumption over stewardship.

Jean is a consultant working with financial services and Christian organisations. She also writes and broadcasts.

An AI generated image of a Barbie-like Toy
AIn a Barbie world.

If you spend any time on any social media platform you would have probably seen the ChatGPT Barbie trend. Resembling packaged toys, the AI depicts you like a doll or action figure. At first, I thought I was only seeing it because of the LinkedIn algorithm. But then I started to see articles in my feed from mainstream media outlets teaching people how to do it.  

Generally, speaking, I am not a trend follower. I am one of those annoying people who doesn’t get involved with what everyone is doing just because everyone is doing it. Thankfully, I don’t suffer from FOMO (the Fear Of Missing Out) and I don’t think I am swayed much by peer pressure. But I like to stay informed about what is going on. So I can have something to talk about when I meet people in new settings and to remain relevant. So, when this started popping up in my feeds, I investigated it, and I was pleasantly surprised. 

I am not anti-AI. I have embraced and seen the benefits of AI in my own life (this sounds a bit weird, but I think you get my point). I understand and accept that it will, can and has improved productivity and creativity. I use ChatGPT all the time for social media content and captions, brainstorming, titles for articles, coding problems, research and language translations.  

But like many, I have long been sceptical about the growth of AI use and the viability of its long-term sustainability. I wouldn’t describe myself as a climate warrior, but I do believe that we have a responsibility to ourselves and the generations after us to use the finite resources of the planet frugally. The AI-powered Barbie trend throws that out of the window.  

The current Trump administration has facilitated a shift away from ESG (environmental, social and governance) targets in the world of business. For the most part, the criticism of this in the media (social and mainstream) has been focused on DEI targets. But perhaps, in the face of slow economic growth and because this began before the Trump administration took office, the move away from environmental targets or what I would call environmental stewardship, or frugality has received limited coverage.   

I have never understood why proponents of the climate emergency, have made themselves bedfellows and in some cases, wholehearted supporters of the AI revolution. A typical data centre uses between 11-19 million litres per day water just to cool its servers, that’s the equivalent of a small town of 30,000-50,000 people. The International Energy Agency (IEA) predicts by 2030 that there will be a doubling of electricity demand from data centres globally equating to slightly more than the entire electricity consumption of Japan. This growth will be driven by the use of AI in the US, China, and Europe. That’s why vocal support of the climate emergency and advocating escalated transition to AI, as is the position of the UK government, currently seems paradoxical to me.  

This isn’t hyperbole, Sam Altman, CEO of Open AI recently tweeted asking folks to reduce their use of the ChatGPT’s image generator because Open AI’s servers were overheating.  

That is why I have been pleasantly surprised, by some of coverage on the Barbie trend. Arguments are now being made more loudly about the true cost of unlimited AI expansion.  

I am not against progress or AI expansion entirely, and I have some support for the argument that governments have pursued net zero policies at a rate that is impractical, expensive and unviable for the average consumer in Western democracies. However, the Barbie trend reveals our tendency to choose waste and consumption for fleeting pleasure. For many of us, we have probably just thought, ‘It’s just a bit of harmless fun’. But the truth is it isn’t, it’s just that we can’t see the damage we are doing to the environment. That’s without going into the financial and privacy costs associated with the AI revolution. It really is a case of that age old adage, ‘Out of sight, out of mind’.  

The challenge is now that we know, what do we do? Do we continue to be part of wasteful AI trends? Or do we use AI to add value, increase productivity and solve problems?  

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