Crackpot Bob, the self-appointed prophet of perpetual doom, is once again staring into the camera from his book-lined bunker of doom, waving his hands like a man who’s just spotted a magnitude-12 personal crisis on the horizon. This month’s special? Earthquakes. Not the ordinary ones that keep seismologists employed and insurance companies solvent—no, the really big one. The Revelation 16 special. The “cities of the nations fell… every island fled away… mountains were not found” model. Bigger than anything Pliny the Elder ever hyperventilated about. And conveniently, if you’re one of Bob’s loyal followers and manage to scramble into the rocky embrace of Petra, you’ll get a front-row seat to the fireworks while the rest of us heathens get turned into tectonic confetti.
Armstrongism has always been a masterclass in marketing misery. Herbert W. Armstrong perfected the formula decades ago: scan the headlines, cherry-pick every famine, pestilence, and tremor, then scream “BEGINNING OF SORROWS!” until the donation envelopes start arriving. Bob simply inherited the family business. His writings don’t just mention tragedy—they dwell in it, roll around in it, build a timeshare on it. Every article is a guided tour of the apocalypse gift shop: “ San Andreas Research is Small Potatoes Compared to the Really BIG ONE!" And don’t forget the scoffers of 2 Peter 3 who dare to suggest that tectonic plates have been doing their thing for a few billion years! The message is crystal clear: the world is a dumpster fire, Jesus is basically the fire marshal with a very specific guest list, and the only way to avoid getting roasted is to join the club, keep the Sabbath, avoid the unclean meats, and start packing for Jordan.
New Covenant Christians, however, have this radical idea that the New Testament might actually mean what it says.
Under the New Covenant, we are not trembling children waiting for Daddy to finish the global demolition project so He can finally notice us. We are already reconciled. Already seated with Him in the heavenly places (Ephesians 2:6). Already sealed with the Holy Spirit as a guarantee (Ephesians 1:13-14). The “day of the Lord” that will melt the elements is not a surprise pop quiz for those who are in Christ; it is the final cleanup of a creation that has been groaning for redemption (Romans 8:19-23). And when that day arrives, believers are not scrambling for a cave in Petra—we are “looking for and hastening the coming of the day of God” because we already belong to the One who holds the keys.
Perfect love, Scripture insists, casts out fear (1 John 4:18). Not “perfect doctrinal charts about the place of safety.” Not “perfect attendance at the Feast of Tabernacles in a Jordanian canyon.” Perfect love. The kind that flows from knowing the finished work of the cross. The kind that lets us watch the news, shrug at the latest 6.8, and still sleep at night because our security is not measured in Richter scale readings or the slip rate of the San Andreas.
Bob, of course, cannot dwell there. Armstrongism never could. If you stop selling fear, the entire revenue model collapses. No more “watch therefore… that you may be counted worthy to escape.” No more urgent calls to “consider your ways” while the real consideration—grace, rest, the indwelling Christ—gets quietly ignored. Misery is the product. Tragedy is the branding. And the New Covenant is the competition that must never be mentioned, lest people realize they don’t need a cult membership card to survive the end of the age.
So keep watching those earthquakes, Bob. Keep updating the “biggest one ever” spreadsheet. Keep pointing the faithful toward Petra like it’s the ultimate Airbnb for the elect. New Covenant Christians will be over here, sipping coffee, reading the actual gospel, and marveling that the same Jesus who predicted “earthquakes in various places” also promised, “Peace I leave with you… Let not your heart be troubled, neither let it be afraid” (John 14:27).
The ground may shake. The mountains may move. But the New Covenant doesn’t.
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