Deconstructing the Rapture Series: Part Four
By Meagan
I know this story in my bones. The pre-tribulation Rapture wasn’t theological speculation in my Pentecostal Apostolic church—it was the air we breathed. From childhood revivals to adult convocations, its drumbeat never ceased: “Don’t get comfortable in this world.” The unspoken corollary? This world isn’t yours to change.
But here’s the truth I’ve excavated from history and hard experience:
This doctrine was never ours.
Forged by white men like John Darby in the 1830s—men who opposed abolition and saw no contradiction in preaching heavenly escape while profiting from earthly oppression—it was repackaged and sold to Black congregations as gospel. We became willing consumers of our pacification. When you’re drowning in racism’s wake, you’ll clutch at any lifeline, even one designed to keep you submerged.
In my Canadian church, “Jesus is coming soon” wasn’t just preached—it was weaponized. The constant eschatological urgency served as spiritual containment, keeping us:
- Socially disengaged (Why protest when the Lord’s coming imminently?)
- Politically docile (store up treasures in heaven!)
- Financially exploited (Give your “last days offering” while pastors bought luxury cars)
Canadian racism wore a polite mask, but its effects were equally brutal. Our proximity to America meant their racial trauma bled across the border while our specific struggles with systemic exclusion, employment discrimination, and cultural erasure were minimized. The Rapture offered seductive relief—a divine evacuation from societies that would never fully accept us.
The performances were masterful:
- Altar calls where we all shook, weeping at visions of being “left behind”
- Testimonies of saints who “saw the midnight hour” in dreams
- Convocation offerings where visiting bishops sometimes demanded tribute for their “end-time warnings”
Prosperity preachers pocketed “love offerings.” We were financing our oppression with apocalyptic fear.
I’ll never forget the many church convocations, special church services, where visiting pastors, evangelists, or bishops came to these events and preached about being caught away and ended by demanding money for the host pastor. Then the host pastor asked for a “love offering” for the visiting speaker. The front row emptied wallets while the single moms counted rent money. We were paying for our fear. I saw how weaponized hope kept us docile. Why prepare for retirement, build generational wealth, or fight systemic change if “none of this will matter soon”?
My mom was our only parent in the home. She worked a seasonal job in a candy-making factory, Laura Secord. She paid for all the convocation dues, retreats, youth congresses, special offerings, love offerings, tithes, and building funds—all while struggling to make ends meet. We were poor but didn’t look it. She made sure we had everything we needed but couldn’t afford the extras. There were times she had to choose between bus tokens, paying the phone bill, or other utility bills. She was racked with guilt if she couldn’t support all the financial demands of the church.
My awakening came in layers:
- Historical — Discovering the Rapture’s 19th-century origins shattered its divine authority
- Financial — Noticing pastors’ McMansions while members struggled
- Psychological — Realizing “imminence” kept us in perpetual anxiety
Now I see clearly: This theology was spiritual fentanyl—numbing the pain of injustice while ensuring we never organized against its causes. Why build generational wealth if the world’s ending? Why challenge systems when God would soon incinerate them?
But resurrection comes in many forms. My liberation began when I traded:
- Rapture anxiety for present-moment clarity
- Heavenly escapism for earthly activism
- Preachers’ prophecies for historical truth
The most revolutionary act? Recognizing that a doctrine invented to maintain white supremacy had no place dictating Black liberation. Our ancestors survived the Middle Passage—we owe them more than waiting for escape. If faith means anything, it’s the courage to remake this world, not flee from it.
I share this not to shame those still inside, but to speak hope to the ones starting to question. I was once you—scared, torn, guilt-ridden for even entertaining doubt. But doubt is not betrayal. It is often the first breath of liberation. If your spirit is restless, know that you are not alone. You are awakening. You are allowed to seek truth beyond fear.
And when you do, you just might find—like I did—that the kingdom we were waiting for isn’t up there in the clouds. It’s in the courage to reclaim our stories, to honor our ancestors with action, and to rise each morning with the audacity to believe that we belong, here and now.