You Will Search For Me, But You Will Not Find Me

It was hard enough for me to believe there could possibly have been such a ridiculous pairing of star-crossed lovers on the ill-fated voyage of the Titanic, but now James Cameron is just reaching. Click here for an article about the filmmaker's upcoming documentary about finding the bones of Jesus in some back-alley neighborhood on the south side of Jerusalem. Intriguing? Sure, until you start to listen to all the archaeologists and (of course) clergymen who are disputing the find, which, by the way, isn't even new.

It is interesting, however, the similarities between many Christians and many skeptics today. Both kinds of people jump at the slightest morsel of information or revelation that validates their belief (or disbelief). For Christians of weak faith who embrace any little affirmation of mystery or scientific validation of a biblical claim, it seems they find comfort in the opinions of others, even though faith is not about that at all. When such things are completely stripped away, I wonder if such a weak faith would still remain. If something does remain, then that is true faith. Grow in that.

The same is true, however, for skeptics, which, I know, would make many of them shudder at the thought of having such a deep-rooted personality trait in common with the very people they do not - perhaps cannot - be like. Any long-shot discovery that, however pathetically, might poke holes in the traditionally-held belief of the religious, they pounce upon and expound on it as if it were world-shaking, faith-shattering FACT. There have been several in recent years. To name a few, the sacred feminine claims of The Da Vinci Code, or more specifically the one in a million chance that Jesus played Romeo to Mary Magdalene's Juliet; the Gospel of Judas and its purported real true story behind Jesus' death and purpose, nevermind the writing was more fragmented than readable, and it joins hundreds of other Gnostic gospels and first century writings; and now this documentary rumbling its almost laughably academic way toward its March 4th airing on The Discovery Channel.

We are the same. You, a skeptic, and me, a man of little faith, who still feels that surge of pious excitement when some obscure archaeologist reports finding a petrified piece of cypress log on Mt. Ararat, or a day missing from some ancient calendar record dated around the time of Joshua.

When will we both heed the words that were spoken first to the disciples and the temple police in their confusion and doubt, and then to us in our zealous yet futile search for proof? - "You will search for me, but you will not find me."

An Unveiling

I have started up a new blog address in addition to this one. It is called Wonderstuff: Pop Goes the Culture. For some time I have been trying to decide if I should separate some of my blog entries that concern pop culture, politics, and/or entertainment from those that are centered more on biblical, spiritual, and/or missional matters. Because this blog has gotten large enough (this will be the 85th post) and does not appear to be tapering off (despite when I'm laid up with either the flu or wedding plans), I've decided a spin-off blog might be interesting. Will it be a Frasier, or a Joey? I suppose only time will tell.

I do hope you will make an effort to visit this new blog while still maintaining your perusal of this one as well. You will begin to notice that the sidebar of this blog will contain both a link to Wonderstuff: Pop Goes the Culture as well as a notice when a new entry appears on it.

Please also remember that this blog, Wonderstuff, has a Xanga counterpart if you are more of a Xanga reader than a Blogger. A link will soon be posted in the sidebar for that site as well.

Okay, enough shameless plugging. Now that everything is getting more organized, I can get back to the original spirit of this blog. And now it has a friend!

You can read Wonderstuff: Pop Goes the Culture, including the inaugural post, by going to this address:
www.wonderstuffreviews.blogspot.com

Grace and peace to you, my readers.

Observations from the Couch

It appears that I am down for the count this weekend. My throat is raw, scratchy, sore, and, to use the appropriate medical term, "just plain icky." My olfactory is filled with all manner of things it should not normally house. I'm drinking orange juice and putting my faith in the not-so-miraculous powers of Sudafed, Benadryl, and Ricola. I need to sleep, but I find it hard to sleep in the middle of the day no matter how exhausted I am, unless it is Sunday (for some reason, I can sack out on Sunday after church like a grizzly bear beginning its hibernation).

So, in the meantime, I am posting the response from the Focus on the Family offices to my - how shall I describe it? - letter of complaint. I wasn't sure if they would respond, and the fact that they did rather promptly brings me to a bit more respect for them than I had of late. However, I'm not so sure that the basic point of my letter was received, because the woman's defense seems like a standard one - almost a faxed in response. After reading so many of these magazines, something I have realized is that my concept of what can motivate "godly behavior" does not have to be something devoid of darkness, pain, or angst, whereas their opinion is that something in pop culture cannot serve as a godliness motivator if it doesn't almost explicitly proclaim black and white biblical truth. I've written on this dilemma before - to read more, go here.

Still, it is encouraging to know we are both seeking to help students, even if we completely disagree on how it should be done.
___________

Letter of response:

Thank you, Bo, for contacting Plugged In.

We appreciate your taking the time to share your concerns regarding the reviews in our publication. In response, it’s important to understand that Plugged In is not written for teens, pre-teens, or young adults, but rather for *parents* who need help sorting out their kids’ entertainment choices. You might be surprised at the number of Christian parents who haven’t a clue as to what their children are encountering “out there” on a daily basis. Plugged In seeks to lay it all out for them as dispassionately as possible. This is why our writers go to great lengths to identify every aspect of a film, television show, or CD, even down to the smallest detail, that might possibly constitute a problem for concerned moms and dads. Once parents have the facts, they can make wise, discerning decisions of their own with regard to their families’ entertainment options.

In addition, it would be impossible to discern whether movies, TV shows, or music are positive or negative – helpful or harmful – without making value-based decisions, or judgments. In fact, a large part of “learning to discern” is evaluating whether the actions portrayed or the words presented motivate us toward godly behavior, or toward actions that are sinful. As our statement of faith and guiding principles explain, Focus on the Family’s values regarding family life, sexual morality, music, movies, and other issues are grounded in the teachings of the Bible rather than the changing opinions of contemporary society. Please be assured that we do not wish to condemn or alienate those who disagree with biblical principles. However, in our efforts to reach out and minister, we cannot compromise our beliefs or change the direction of our ministry simply to accommodate differing views.

Again, thank you for expressing your opinions so honestly. God’s grace and peace to you in the days ahead.

Amy Campbell
PluggedInOnline.com

The Tale of the Wearied Defense Attorney

As a few of you have noticed (if you still check this blog, which has been stagnant for a month), I took a leave of absence from blogging. Wedding plans kicked in at high gear and have not slowed down, and that, along with coordinating the next six months of student ministry at the church, have kept my fingers from the keys and my mouse cursor from the PUBLISH button. However, I do find some time to get some thoughts down, and I figured I would share some of that until I can get back to my normal routine on here.

The following is an e-mail letter I wrote to a magazine called Plugged In, which is published monthly by Focus on the Family as a resource for parents, ministers, and teens. It claims to review pop culture in a "Christian" light. The more I peruse the publication, the more I loathe their close-minded reviews. Perhaps I am just cynical, but in case you would like to get a taste for yourself, visit their online version here. The reviews of Aaron Sorkin's work did not necessarily push me over the edge into writing a letter, but I did choose to use the reviews as an example, since their opinions of The West Wing and Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip I could not have found less objective.


Dear Plugged In:

As the student minister at my church, working with middle school, high school, and college students, I am growing extremely weary of standing between two opposing sides who are becoming, whether they claim to be or not, increasingly hostile toward each other. It is getting more and more difficult to serve solely as an ambassador of Christ, as Scripture calls all Christians to do. Lately I feel instead like a defense attorney for American conservative Christianity. The backbiting, name-calling, and exclusivist attitudes of our "Christian culture" are creating rifts between the Church and young people of this country and it is only getting worse. This magazine is a prime example. How? Because you uphold only that which is white-washed and pristine, and any piece of pop culture that contains a noticeable shred of darkness, disagreement, confusion, or angst, you lambaste as being that which is leading the youth of America astray. Take, for instance, your Nov. 2006 review of the engagingly intelligent and entertaining NBC show, Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip. You may argue a fairness of writing style, but the article's tone is most certainly biased against the show. Anyone who closely watches Studio 60 (as all reviewers should) will recognize that the Christian character, Harriet Hayes, is never humiliated for the values she upholds, nor do the characters who disagree with her find their views and ideologies triumphing hers. The show is simply not about jabbing back at evangelical America. Quite the contrary, it is a picture of how different views clash and function together in a very real entertainment environment - an environment that plays before the eyes of people, young and old, day after day. Why must everything that does not wave a Christian flag proudly and claim allegiance to the "morals" of Scripture be written off as inappropriate for viewers - even teenage viewers? Do we actually believe that we are helping our young people adapt to this ever-changing society by shielding them from every little piece of rebellion and unchristian view? We are so afraid any kind of exposure might shatter them as if they are made of glass.

In reality, pop culture does not have to be the enemy, even when pieces of it might contain lostness and rebellion. Scripture is certainly not without darkness, sin, and confusion. You knock The West Wing's President Bartlett for wrestling with God to the point of cursing him, but would praise many of the psalms that do pretty much the same thing. I would rather show that particular West Wing episode to my youth group than any number of Christianized films with cookie-cutter storylines and lame moments of conversion devoid of any real human pain and struggle. Why? Because the former is real! It is tangible; an image that does not make living the Christian life, or believing in God, or seeking to do the right thing, seem like an easy option.

Still, our Christian culture piles up more and more sterilized alternatives that are declared uplifting and edifying for followers of Christ, and those who do not buy into this candy-coated fluff are seen as desensitized compromisers, rather than what they are, believers who are unafraid of the culture, and ready to walk confidently into the buzzing mainstream. Christians who can locate Truth even in dark places, places not empty of all crudeness and pain. Christians who wholeheartedly agree with the words of Madeleine L'Engle, that "there is nothing so secular that it cannot be made sacred, and that is one of the deepest messages of the Incarnation." At first, I thought this is what Plugged In was about, but over the years I see little in your magazine that does not uphold this cultural Christian battle-line.

And so I feel like a wearied defense attorney. Constantly wishing my client would just settle down and shut up, I struggle to save Christianity from so many of its close-minded followers, while I seek to present its deep Truth, that of fallenness, pain, confusion, mercy, grace, beauty, laughter, and an ultimate redemption.

Please don't be so quick to neatly divide light and darkness, the good from the bad. Look deeper. For the sake of this culture and the young people who will inherit it, look deeper.

Of Jesus Camps, Dixie Chicks, Jerry Falwell, and the Pope

Lately, I have been stopped by the observation of how often Christians (and sometimes it is more accurate to place that title in quotation marks) misspeak, and cause mild to massive uproars. If it is not Pat Robertson and his misguided, bigotry-is-the-new-devotion attitude, then it is Pope Benedict XVI reading a point-of-view that probably could as well have been foregone. It is wearying that much of "mainstream Christianity" expression (which, sadly, is what most of what the secular world views as what Christianity is all cracked up to be) is spent either inserting or attempting to extract the proverbial foot from the mouth.

The latest, besides the Pope's pseudo-innocent blunder which enraged Muslims around the world, includes Jerry Falwell stating, in so many words, at a "Voter Value Summit" prayer breakfast, that Hillary Clinton would be worse for the U.S. as a president than Lucifer himself. Nice one, Jerry. Chalk up yet another point to your illustrious foot-in-mouth record.

As much as these incidents make me want to write, in bold letters, STOP SPEAKING FOR CHRISTIANS EVERYWHERE, YOU CLOSE-MINDED MORONS, AND LEARN TO SHUT UP AND SERVE PEOPLE, I have realized something even further: misspeaking is not reserved to media-friendly Christians, and looking like an idiot can come in a variety of ways. Take the Dixie Chicks, who are still trying to ride the wave of publicity that came from their anti-Bush, anti-Republican, anti-war comments in Great Britain some time ago (there is more I could write here, but a good friend has dealt with their lunacy already, and his thoughts are quite good). Or Bill O'Reilly, who makes idiotic statements just about every night. And Howard Dean doesn't fair much better. Mel Gibson, Danish cartoonists, Germaine Greer, Tom Cruise ... the list goes on and on and on.

But it seems "Christians" have a talent all our own when it comes to hating and claiming the things of this world. A new documentary is heading to theaters (it might even achieve a wide release) called Jesus Camp. Get ready for a storm of protests and praises, most of which will be misguided, I suspect. And then there is The Nativity Story, almost certain to be an assault on the mystery and innocent beauty of Advent, yet will probably become evangelicals' next lovechild (especially now that the high from The Passion of the Christ has worn off and Mel Gibson has moved from savior to bigot according to the media). Where and when will it end? And where do we, as Christians who are even afraid to claim that title anymore, run for refuge in a world that has forgotten humble, loving service of others for mass media proclamation and proselytization?

I have but one hope. It is that somewhere beneath all the noise and misspeak and bigotry and the claiming and pillaging of loyalties, there is a thread of peace and compassion and selflessness that runs steady through it all. In a world where too many churches have become dens of robbers, there might still be a community, however disjointed and disconnected, that seeks to be a "house of prayer." Amidst the chaos, there is a quiet hope that only a few of us might hear.

"Here on the New Jersey shoreline, in the greed and the glitter of those hi-tech casinos, some mendicants wander off to a cathedral, and they stoop in the silence and there their prayers are still whispered..." - Rich Mullins

"Enter through the narrow gate, for broad is the gate and wide is the road that leads to destruction, and many enter through it, but small is the gate and narrow the road that leads to life, and only a few find it." - Matthew 7:13-14

This Elusive Craft

On Saturday night, several friends and I gathered at my pals', Josh and Grayson, house to watch a rented movie. Never able to make a decision on the spot (at least with such trivial things as movie rental selection), I brought to the gathering three movies to choose from. Well, The Merchant of Venice and The Woodsman would have to wait for another evening, because the group chose to watch the little known independent film A Love Song for Bobby Long. This quaint, southern story stars John Travolta (in one of his more interesting roles, though, yes, there is a dancing scene, which I've started to suspect is in Mr. Barbarino's contract) the mostly unknown Gabriel Macht, and the heart-all-a-twitter lovely Scarlett Johansson. Without dwelling on the story too long, since it is not the point of this post, the narrative revolves around a high-school dropout who journeys home to New Orleans after the death of her mother, only to find her mother's house has been left to her as well as a once vibrant and charismatic, now down-on-his-luck English Literature professor and his guilt-ridden protege who have already taken up a squalid residence within. It must be mentioned that I was very surprised by how much I enjoyed this film. I normally gauge enjoyment based on either how much I am brought to laughter, if the film sparks deep conversation, or how inspired I feel emerging from the film's world. The latter experience came on Saturday night. I've been wanting to write - something, anything - ever since.

Two days before watching A Love Song for Bobby Long, four fellow Truett students and myself met in the student lounge room in which I now sit, and began to discuss how a Truett Writer's Group would be structured this summer. The five of us, along with a few others unable to make the first meeting, agreed toward the end of the Spring semester to meet weekly during the summer as a kind of low-maintenance, seat-of-our-pants support group for each other as fellow writers. There are, of course, varied literary tastes in both preferred reading and style of writing, but with our second meeting coming up tomorrow during lunch, I find myself excited to sit in the presence of these friends and chase however many rabbits of conversation about writing present themselves. There is Grayson, a sucker for memoirs and similar styles of writing when he is not "dropping it like it's hot" to his favorite rap/hip-hop albums; Josh, an exceedingly intelligent student with a love for fantasy and writing that holds a touch of magical realism or is spread in an anti-epic fashion (tomorrow we will critique three chapters of a 98-chapter draft of one of the novels he has written - bravely he submitted his work to us first); Jeff, a reader of just about everything, though his most beloved are 20th-century British novels and collections of moral essays, will be a welcomed addition to our group during his last few months in Waco before moving to Southbend to begin Ph.D. work at Notre Dame; and Carrie, a lover of literary fiction and a hopeful short story writer yet with a specialty for children's Bible curriculum-writing, who, I must admit, has a little Scarlett Johansson-thing going on.

I look forward to this group mainly because I need an uncomfortable kick in the posterior as it relates to my own aspirations in writing. At home my desk is cluttered with stuff for filing, stuff for arranging, stuff for hanging, and stuff for the trash bin, since moving my bedroom furniture around to accommodate a smaller scope of living when Chad, my new roommate, moved in. This desk is a fantastic writing desk, with a large, genuine wood surface I sanded and refinished myself, deep, long drawers, and a just rustic enough feel that it seems to summon better words and tighter sentences from me than other writing surfaces. Yet I've written so little on it, and because I have a slight anal retentiveness when it comes to working at home, I know I will not be able to write a single word until that desk is clear, dusted, and there is an aroma candle burning nearby. Perhaps this group will rough me up or something if I start showing up week after week having not done any significant work.

In A Love Song for Bobby Long, there was presented such a cherished love for writing, and the characters all communicated how important deep, soul-searching prose and poetry was to the condition - what's more, the worth - of one's soul. Oh, what is this strange craft of writing? How elusive are the right words; how much more reluctant to behold is a continual desire to sit and work? Perhaps this writing group will help me. Maybe Grayson, Josh, Jeff, and Carrie will be for me like the third criteria of a movie-watching experience - they will, through their conversation and their own struggle with the craft, inspire me to keep taking up the pen.

So often I see my writing life serving as a mirror for my journey with God. When I feel lazy, lost for words or the desire to sit down and work the words, I often feel lost from God. When I do not write, I do not pray. When I neglect my work, I neglect the one who gave me these desires in the first place.

Oh, how I need to clear that desk!

Better to write for yourself and have no public, than to write for the public and have no self.
- Cyril Connolly

Getting Lucky

Last night, following a rather intense final study session for my final, difficult final exam (here as the semester reaches its final days), I took a much needed rest after my friends left my apartment. Sitting up there, alone again in a remarkably quiet building, I knew I needed some decompression time. What must be known about me is that I will always trade studying for sleep, confidence in what I've studied for semi-confidence and an hour of television. Some may call it lazy. They would probably be right.
Decompression for me can be achieved through a variety of different activities away from the computer, books, and hundred-page packets of assigned readings. Last night, it was a game of Xbox MVP Baseball (my Red Sox lost to KC 3-2, but they're still ahead in the AL East) followed by a glass of Kool-Aid while I watched a re-run of The West Wing. This is a show that I discovered late into its third season, but became totally captivated by. Thankfully Bravo airs old episodes constantly, so I have since caught up; though, because of my Wednesday schedule and my inability to pay for TiVo (c'mon, who really needs it?), I am completely out of the loop as to what is going on this season. However, I liked it better when Aaron Sorkin wrote for the show - as he did in the episode I watched last night, which brings me to the point of this post.
Toby Zeigler, the White House Communications Director, was responsible for meeting with the new Poet Laureate, Tabitha, played by Laura Dern. Tabitha has been requested as the featured speaker at an upcoming White House dinner, but has brought dread upon the White House because of her adamant position about the military's use of land mines (they are a horrifyingly bad weapon, in her opinion). The White House fears she might take the opportunity of speaking before the President and a large collection of government officials to admonish the administration for not choosing to sign an international agreement to no longer use land mines. The last thing the White House wants is for the President to be lectured by the Poet Laureate, thus Toby (who has a bit of a crush on Tabitha, a fellow writer) must meet with her several times in an attempt to dissuade her from her plan to point a finger at the President during the dinner. Long story short, Tabitha experiences a brief moment of crisis as her passion for poetry and her desire to speak the atrocious truth of such an issue collide. She questions what she should do: should she recite her 64 couplets on the American experience, or should she not back down from an opportunity to expose what she sees as a failure of the administration? Finally, things are resolved between her and Toby as well as her and the White House. And, toward the end of the show, as she speaks to Toby she says something quite extraordinary about which I could not stop thinking. It is a wonderful statement regarding artists/writers and what they are meant to be in society. She says (and I'm quoting as best I can recall), "The goal of an artist is not to communicate truth. An artist's goal is to captivate you for however long we've asked for your attention. If we stumble onto truth, we've gotten lucky."

At first, I took offense to this statement, but I soon realized that there is much truth to it. I have always considered my desire to write fiction a very pointed desire to communicate truth. Literary fiction, for me, is a type of commentary on the world, only placing make-believe people and places where real-life ones are. However, we cannot speak truth to those who are not captivated by us. I believe this statement transcends the television screen and the fictitious Bartlett administration, and speaks to the very heart of both secular and religious art, as well as Christian ministry. As a writer, many times I catch myself with a desire that seems to eat away at me, a desire to hold out truth as blatant and noticeable as possible, to make sure no one misses it, no one walks away living outside of it. Call it my own personal fundamentalism, but this is not the way. It was not the method used by Jesus 2000 years ago, nor should it be the way of one who is striving to live in a manner that honors him.
There is so much cramming of truth down the throats of people today, especially within the Church. I believe it is turning the stomach of the world - they have become purposely allergic to our heavy-fisted, white-knuckle messages of truth, not because of the truth itself, but because of the way we try to thrust it into the forefront of everything. We do not take into account feelings, personal emotions and histories, and all that makes humans what they are. We reject the need to captivate people. We accept only the assertion that they need truth and they need it NOW!
I hope, as both a writer and a minister, I will stumble onto truth often. I hope I will get lucky time and time again. I hope Someone will help me with that. But I hope I will never trade artistic beauty and charisma for blatant, in-your-face-whether-you-like-it-or-not truth. Such truth is bitter to taste, irritating to the eyes, and all in all adverse to the body. It does not build up, it does not mature, it does not make healthy. It only brings on the dry heaves to those who are desperate for real nourishment. Art, I believe, can be real nourishment. Our world does not need artists who are truthtellers as much as it needs truthtellers who are artists.

Speaking of art that communicates truth, I close this very long post with a plug. I have read an extraordinary novel by a writer who knows how to accentuate the wonder of life. She has recently been rewarded for this right effort with a little thing called the Pulitzer Prize. If you desire art that gets lucky with the truth, I strongly recommend the book below.


Gilead by Marilynne Robinson

May we all, in our own way, be artists, and may we be considered the luckiest people in the world.