“Demonic Nonsense” and more: my parents’ review of Amazon’s Good Omens
“Good Omens,” a six-episode miniseries based on a Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett novel of the same name, uses the book of Revelation as a loose source. || Graphic created by Jillian Cheney.
The opinions reflected in this OpEd are those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the opinions of staff, faculty and students of The King's College. This particular article is a personal narrative of Jillian Cheney, therefore falling into “opinion” and “culture.”
When I started watching “Good Omens,” I hid it from the world.
I’d pull it up on my laptop only after everyone had gone to bed, or when I was at home by myself, or when I was supposed to be doing something productive but was sitting crosswise from my toilet on the bathroom tile. Just the obvious ways.
It’s ridiculous, and I’m aware of that (it’s worse when I admit it happened as recently as this summer), but I’d like to think I had a good reason for treating amazon.com/primevideo like some depraved facet of the dark web.
The thing is. My parents are extremely devoted Christians.
They aren’t purists who hiss at the secular world. For example: Dad has recently developed an affinity for Post Malone. Mom liked “The Shape of Water” too much to pretend she’s perfect.
However, they are the sort of purists who won’t stand for questioning—or otherwise disrespecting—the Christian faith. Dad still makes condescending remarks about the conversation we had years ago in which I suggested that the Bible can be interpreted allegorically. If I’m caught sending an uh-oh, pastor’s using his platform to advocate for right leaning politics again text to one of my friends during church, Mom is quick to lean over and accuse, “Why do you disagree with him? What was so wrong about what he just said?”
So I figured that a humorous, fantasy retelling of Armageddon would be a no-go for them.
Unfortunately, they also have the mentality that my using the family TV in the living room while they’re in the vicinity is equivalent to “family time.” Dad woke up from his nap and Mom came home from Walmart in the same span of ten minutes. They encouraged me to stay, even though I offered—I offered!—to turn it off and go elsewhere.
Surely it’s fine, though, came my well-meaning brain’s reassurance. I was only half-aware as the family unit moved from the adjacent kitchen to the front room, marking the end of “family time.”
Actually, it didn’t occur to me to be worried until my mom marched to stand in front of the recliner, hands clasped in front of her and eyes hard set in the I’m-upset-with-you-and-you’re-about-to-know-why way. I’m 20 years old. That look shouldn’t particularly bother me anymore. (It’s terrifying.)
My heart started thudding faster. She said, “After this episode, you’re going to have to turn it off. Your dad and I just can’t get behind this whole… demonic nonsense.” I swallowed, the rebuke sliding thickly down my throat. There wasn’t any point in arguing—I just nodded.
As soon as she disappeared, I started texting my Christian friends:
is she right?
should i stop watching?
am i going to hell?
(Maybe it wasn’t really that dramatic, but it was getting there. And I was definitely thinking it.)
The do my parents hate me and am I going to hell for watching TV reaction came as a direct result of two things: I still care an excessive amount about what my parents think of me and my choices, and the crippling salvation anxiety I had throughout my pre-teens and teens.
My norm is to panic, briefly, and then decide that while I respect my parents, they’re also extremely devoted Christians—to a fault, sometimes.
“Good Omens,” a six-episode miniseries based on a Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett novel of the same name, uses the book of Revelation as a loose source: it begins with the birth and delivery of the Antichrist and ends with what fans refer to as Armageddon’t. As it is a comic fictionalization of Armageddon told in part by famous sci-fi writer Neil Gaiman, the biblical interpretation and theology is played fast-and-loose.
I think I was more worried, this time, that my parents were right.
If they were right, they were right about the general principle that shows which humorously and irreverently depict biblical themes should be banned, untouched, burned. Et cetera.
In general, Christians outraged about the show tend to throw their outrage on trivial details about it, such as the friendship between a particularly human angel and demon, and the fact that God is a She. In the case of the former, it should be obvious that the goal is an interesting narrative instead of theological accuracy. In the case of the latter, there’s an entire discussion to be had about the fact that God is an omnipotent Creator rather than anything inside a human gender. Here, that discussion is limited to the following:
Frances McDormand is the voice of God. Any sensible person can recognize that’s a nice touch.
What gets brought up less are the broader mistreatments of the faith. For example, a crucifixion scene is tacked on in the midst of comedic vignettes of said angel-and-demon-friendship. God is a narrator who seems loveless and disconnected from the lives of all the characters—even the angels. As she says of her role within the universe: “I play an ineffable game of my own devising.” And believers of most faiths would say that, at the very least, God cares, and very likely loves each individual like a child.
These, more than the tongue-in-cheek Christian jokes, tend to inspire a light pang of conviction in me that suggests something like hey, this faith is something you’ve devoted a large portion of your life and character to; maybe it’s not cool that they treat the basis of your salvation so flippantly. Which is why all of the other arguments feel so laughable.
The show was trending for a week or so over the summer as the result of a Christian activist group’s petition entitled Tell Netflix to Cancel Blasphemous “Good Omens” Series. And no, the show isn’t streaming on Netflix. The petition, now properly addressed to Amazon, has 21,396 signatures.
To my knowledge, there was no similar outrage when the book, with the same “blasphemous” content, was released almost three decades ago in 1990.
It’s details like the failure to differentiate between streaming services and the 30-year delay in outrage that suggest these Christians might not actually care about the theological ramifications of a show like “Good Omens”; they might suggest, instead, that these Christians are only interested in dismantling secular culture to prove their righteousness.
In their defense, at least, rooting out every “blasphemous” piece of written literature and creating an online petition in protest would be a full time job for which there is no salary. At least television is one of the most prominent mediums in a saturated entertainment market, much more palatable than a longer novel.
There also isn’t anything quite like the total audio, visual, narrative package of television, split into 45 minute segments and normally highly bingeable. It is, at once, overwhelming to the senses and addictively entertaining. Video as a medium has a way of clinging to the conscious in a way nothing else really does.
“The ‘do my parents hate me and am I going to hell for watching TV’ reaction came as a direct result of two things: I still care an excessive amount about what my parents think of me and my choices, and the crippling salvation anxiety I had throughout my pre-teens and teens."
I’ll put it like this: once, when I was about 10, my pastor did a sermon series about Revelation. My entire memory of the experience is tied to a single video. In that video, people devolving into insanity and intense poverty had computer chips inserted into their skin so they’d be able to eat. This was a practically guaranteed part of the Tribulation. Next, as my pastor told us, The Antichrist would brand a bleeding, burning “666” onto the foreheads of his followers. That’s my pastor’s version of Armageddon.
The “Good Omens” version of Armageddon, available to stream in 4K, is nowhere near that level of fire and brimstone. It’s a tarmac in an English village, a gang of spunky 11-year-olds and a genuine love of humanity.
Maybe my parents are right. My inner voice, which oddly sounds like Mom, reads my pastor’s version of Armageddon and is currently accusing me, Why do you disagree with him? What was so wrong about what he just said?
But I used to be terrified of that version. Constantly paranoid. Even just the slightest override of that narrative soothes my overactive, anxious brain.
I figure that a humorous, fantasy retelling of Armageddon isn’t a no-go for me.
It’s probably not about who’s right, after all.