A world without gospel

At the Women’s March this January, when thousands of women from all over the nation coalesced to protest what they felt was a looming threat to women’s rights, some carried signs that read: “Make Margaret Atwood fiction again.” Atwood is a Canadian novelist whose stories often portray female oppression under patriarchy, and her works once again topped bookseller lists in the wake of last year’s presidential election.

That’s why when Hulu adapted Atwood’s 1985 cult-status novel The Handmaid’s Tale into a 10-part series of the same name (now renewed for a second season), the show attracted more viewers than any other series premiere on Hulu. Critics gave the show rave reviews with a shiver, calling the dystopian America in The Handmaid’s Tale “timely,” “terrifyingly relevant,” and “chillingly real.” Atwood even said that after the presidential election, the show is no longer fiction but “documentary.”

In Atwood’s version of a near-future America, so-called “Christian” fundamentalists have overrun the U.S. government and established a theocratic dictatorship called the Republic of Gilead. Americans watched with dazed eyes as the extremist group slaughtered Congress, suspended the Constitution, and froze every woman’s bank accounts, claiming a state of emergency to battle terrorists and a plague of infertility.

Women are divided into three categories in Gilead: Wives, housemaids, and handmaids. Offred (Elisabeth Moss) has a fertile womb, so she’s a handmaid who belongs to Commander Fred Waterford (Joseph Fiennes), a high-up official whose wife Serena Joy (Yvonne Strahovski) is barren, like the majority population. Offred describes the role of handmaids in voice-over narration: “We’re two-legged wombs, that’s all: sacred vessels, ambulatory chalices.” Once a month, the Commander rapes her while she lies between the legs of Serena Joy. The basis for this “ceremony” is an ultra-literal interpretation of Genesis 30:3, in which the barren Rachel gave Jacob her maid Bilhah to bear “upon my knees” her children. These disturbing scenes show no nudity but focus on each individual’s face: Offred’s numb stare, the Commander’s discomforted grimace, the wife’s humiliation. Nobody enjoys the occasion, and everybody feels violated.

Viewers have breathlessly evoked comparisons between Trump’s America and Atwood’s reimagined America, which was inspired by 17th-century Puritans, the Iron Curtain, and Nazi Germany. But Gilead is not Trump’s America. In Gilead, homosexuals, heretics, and abortionists are hanged and strung up on a public wall. In today’s America, pro-LGBT groups hold staunch influence over politics, education, and the media; the Mormon church is rich; and nurses feel pressured to participate in abortions. In Gilead, when people march the streets to protest the authoritarian regime, the police fire back with assault weapons and tanks. In America, nobody died from explosives at the Women’s March, which disavowed pro-life participants. Nobody’s head was lopped off or eyes gouged out for the incessant articles, tweets, and late-night TV spoofs mocking Trump and religious conservatives. The Handmaid’s Tale warns of tyrannical, insidious ideologies, yet obliviously pushes its own.

More importantly, the religious doctrines of Gilead bear no resemblance to Christianity, even if the language sounds familiar. “Blessed be the fruit,” the characters greet one another. “Praised be.” But there is no joy in their expressions, no worship in their hearts, no good fruit in their lives. And no wonder, because their state-mandated religion is devoid of the gospel.

Praised be for what, when there is no assurance in saving grace, no freedom from condemnation and slavery, no delight in the love and glory of God? And how can blessings flow, when the Apostle Paul states in Galatians 1:9 that those who preach a false gospel will be accursed? If there’s anything foreboding about The Handmaid’s Tale, it’s the life-sucking, soul-destroying nature of a gospel-less religion—and mainstream society’s inability to distinguish it from the gospel.