What does God think of Actors?

Recently I attended an opera titled Dialogues of the Carmelites. The setting was France on the cusp of the Revolution and the Reign of Terror. A young woman entered a convent out of fear of the onrushing tumult and chaos, thinking to find shelter and peace of mind among the devout. Needless to say, she finds a temporary reprieve, but witnesses the Mother Superior dying a drawn-out and painful death, questioning her faith in God and His goodness or power, that she should die such an awful death. The citizens disband the convent and forbid the nuns to continue their observances; they defy the injunction and find themselves in prison, facing the guillotine, while the young girl has fled. The end of the play finds the women, one by one, slain for their devotion, including the girl who joins the procession of death at the end, finding her courage and faith and solidarity with her sisters. 

Now, I learned since that the performers were Baylor students, and I must say that I was impressed by their performance. Baylor being a Baptist college, the probability that they are Christians to some degree is rather greater than it would be at other universities or performance houses. Still, my musing that followed the spectacle still holds. And it is this: what does God think about people constantly invoking His name, as the numerous women acting as devout nuns did? Or the actress who has to transform from a Mother Superior spouting ecumenical platitudes to a dying woman railing against God and questioning His will?

Now, obviously, God is quite aware of the true state of their hearts, and their beliefs. Additionally, they are merely performing, pretending so to speak lines of piety. This begat the question in my mind of what God thinks of actors who are continuously and repeatedly mouthing lines that sound and seem worshipful and genuine, yet could be coming from the lips of people who are completely opposed to, or have no faith in, what they’re saying. 

I would like to differentiate between actors in movies and actors in plays. Some actors portray a genuine believer in a film, spending months enacting a character with faith. Ian Charleston comes to mind, who depicted Eric Liddel in Chariots of Fire so brilliantly. The actor was a homosexual who died of AIDS in the 1980s, so it seems likely that he was not a professing Christian; usually, homosexuals are quite antipathetic towards Christianity, and that is more the Church’s fault than theirs, but that’s a different matter. However, once the filming was done and the scenes completed, the actors could discard their roles and pretenses. They might film the same scene a dozen times, but not for different audiences, nor for alternating purposes.

Contrast that with actors in plays or operas who have to portray the same characters over and over again, with a newness and intensity requisite for each performance. They might perform the same scene fifty times if the play runs for six months, and of course innumerable more times should the piece succeed. What does God think of such people who attempt to evoke complex feelings of faith and doubt over and over again? Does this displease Him? Is it any worse than a hypocritical churchgoer who espouses the tenets of Christianity but doesn’t live them? Or someone who attends out of duty, social decorum, or habit, without any true devotion? He certainly does not condone hypocrites, but do actors pretending to be believers count as hypocrites? I truly have no idea what He makes of them, though I know what Augustine would say. But Augustine was prejudiced against the theater because of his upbringing and profession; besides, he probably saw few if any performances that presented a Christian character in any sincerity or realism.

Flight of Fancy:Comparing Tragedies

About a month ago, I watched the movie Flight. Starring Denzel Washington as the protagonist, it charted the stories of an airline pilot who abuses drugs and alcohol, and then climbs into the cockpit and flies commercial airliners. I am not the sort of person who reacts to such premises with horror or outrage; fiction is fiction, after all, and it is a rare film or novel that hits me at an emotional level. 

As I said, Washington portrays an addict who is taciturn and vicious in his treatment of others when sober. The catalyst of the plot involves the crash of the plane he’s piloting. Though drugs and alcohol still course through his veins, he manages to perform a miraculous landing saving virtually all those on board. The ensuing investigation, though, forms the narrative structure by which his deep flaws are revealed.

I watched this movie about 2 weeks before I boarded a plane to fly to the Pacific coast for holidays. At no point did that vivid depiction of the actual crash bother me on an emotional level, nor instill apprehension regarding my upcoming voyage. Again, fiction is fiction.

Recently, I was reading Malcolm Gladwell’s book Outliers, which explores the topic of what causes extreme or unusual instances of success or failure. Why do some people become fantastically wealthy and accomplished at their chosen profession or field, and others don’t? What makes something stand apart and break the norm? A fascinating topic; I heartily recommend the book. Anyway, the chapter I was reading today involved the curious case of Korean airline crashes, which happened at an alarmingly regular pace during the 80s and 90s. I believe Gladwell noted that their rate of crashes was 17 times that of the US average or perhaps the world average. I have not finished the chapter, but I have read the book several years before, and know roughly what the conclusion will be. Essentially, cultural prohibitions regarding a subordinate challenging his superior prevented the secondary pilot from taking steps or pointing out information to the captain that might have averted the tragedies that were piling up.

In order to demonstrate the lack of communication and exchange of information within the cockpit, he transcribed several examples of the recordings of the black boxes from the crash. Perhaps my overactive imagination is to blame, but I could imagine the rising panic and frustration in the situation; in one case, the plane crashed because it ran out of gas, yet the exact amount of fuel remaining was never communicated to the air traffic controller.

As I read this, and even as I summon it from my memory right now, an odd clenching, a vague nausea stirs within my belly. The thought This is rather ghoulish skittered across my mind as I read, and I could almost feel my blood pressure start to rise. These were crashes that occurred 20, some even 30, years ago, and yet the thought of them, reading the terse or frantic communiques from the pilots in plain letters on a page while attempting to understand the reason why, caused, and causes, me anxiety. Contrast this with the graphic images of a plane crash plastered across a 30 foot movie screen while the noise bombards my ears, yet I am in no way apprehensive or disturbed, even with the prospect of an upcoming flight lingering.

I find it amazing how the mind works. Because if anything, the visceral experience of the movie should have impacted me far greater than the cold, dispassionate description of the passages. In the movie we saw characters die, women and children screaming and flailing upside down, and battered and bruised bodies afterward. There are no graphic descriptions in the book of body parts or the actual wreckage that investigators found; the point of Gladwell’s book isn’t to rehash the entire experience but to explore the reason for it, so descriptions of the aftermath are unnecessary. And yet, my mind knows that what it experienced with the senses (namely the movie) wasn’t real, while the scenes from the book actually happened. People died, and some of their final words are recorded. And my mind can distinguish the difference without a conscious imperative from me. I didn’t think to myself, Wow, this really happened. I’m not just reading about a fictional event; this will probably disturb me. On the contrary, I read about other tragedies and atrocities without having such a reaction. My emotions upon hearing about Sandy Hook or Aurora were sorrow and anger, but it didn’t disturb me.

Perhaps this is why. With those other occurrences, or like 9/11, there was active agency behind the tragedies. Some body chose to act in heinous ways and the results were hideous to contemplate. But they make sense, and even though media members and politicians are quick to say otherwise, probably could not have been avoided for the most part. A gunman who is intent upon shooting up a school may have this evil deed facilitated by the availability of weapons in his parents’ house; but if he is determined enough, he will find a way to procure them even if they aren’t as readily available.  Evil exists, and nothing humans can do will ever eradicate or completely prevent it.

Well, what about natural disasters? The tsunamis in South Asia or Japan, the earthquake in Haiti, Hurricane Katrina, Superstorm Sandy—do they disturb me as well? Not in the same fashion, I must confess. For this reason: there really isn’t much humans can do to prevent such catastrophes, no matter what climate change alarmists (oh the hubris!) would have us think. We may rail against God, but no one else can bear any responsibility. Not, mind you, that I blame God for natural disasters, but I understand the impulse among theists or deists to do so.

What bothers me, as I consider it, about the events from the book is that they were needless, they could have been prevented. The plane that tried to land and had to abort, which eventually crashed because it ran out of fuel, never informed the tower that it had only ten minutes of fuel left. The copilot never turned to the captain and confronted him on his questionable decisions. The copilot took the terse communications with harried New Yorker air traffic controllers as veiled insults and signs of agitation, and consequently mitigated the situation on the plane instead of stating plainly the dire circumstances. All minor things that led to more major problems that eventually led to tragedy. All human, all preventable. If a plane crashed because the avionics failed or, like in the death of golfer Payne Stewart, the cabin decompressed and killed everyone aboard hours before the fuel ran out, I am saddened and horrified. But the situations in the book sickened me and angered me. The needless loss of life! The senseless tragedy!

Because, thanks to my overactive imagination, I tend to project myself into scenarios in stories I read, and I would have been incensed and confounded at the laisse faire attitude of a copilot who refuses to use the word “emergency” when the plane I’m flying only has 10 minutes left of fuel and we’re being put at the back of the landing queue. Unfathomable! I would be shouting in the face of the pilot, screaming into the microphone. I would say clearly over the radio, “You had better tell all other planes to clear off, because I’m coming in to land right now! Otherwise we’re all going to die! Deal with it!” That’s the difference between natural disasters, crimes, and tragedies.

Unholy Euphoria?

It has been approximately ninety minutes since I witnessed firsthand Baylor’s football team upset the top-ranked Kansas State Wildcats in a dominating performance. I attended the game, along with a fellow English grad student Jeremy Larson, and we had a marvelous time. College football being what it is, the crowd was going nuts the entire game. I was hugging Jeremy and high-fiving perfect strangers as we exulted in each Baylor touchdown and defensive stand, and wailed each time K State seemed to gain an advantage. Thankfully, the Wildcats never made a game of it in the second half, and the margin never dipped below double digits. Jeremy indicated a desire to rush the field along with half the stands, a tradition when a major upset occurs on the underdog’s home turf (artificial though it may be). I demurred, wishing to avoid being swallowed in a sea of madly rejoicing and delirious college students for no other reason than to say I did. Ultimately, neither of us did, but we watched in tolerant amusement as the stands slowly emptied with students surging toward the field as the clock ticked down to zero, even while disgruntled and disconsolate Wildcat fans trudged toward the exits. 

Afterward, as we boarded a shuttle to carry us back to campus, Jeremy inquired about my church attendance, whether I had settled on a place. I expressed my decision to attend Antioch Community Church, a charismatic and non-denominational church that might be labeled seeker-friendly by those who disapprove of the decorum and enthusiasm of the worship. I expounded on my experience at his church of choice, Redeemer Presbyterian, and the objections I felt about several aspects of the service. After discussing a sermon that seemed to miss the mark in a fashion, I also explained that I wanted a more lively, passionate worship service than Redeemer proffered. Jeremy was gracious and assented that Presbyterians were not known for their outbursts of enthusiasm when singing and praising God.

On a side note, which is not wholly unrelated, the infamous, perhaps notorious, Westboro Baptist Church from Kansas was rumored to be picketing the game somewhere. Apparently their rabble-rousing message was that, among other things, people should not worship sports. Most of us would dismiss such a notion posthaste, calling it divisive, intolerant, puritanical, perhaps purposefully isolationist. I enjoy sports greatly, and again was enraptured by the events that transpired. 

As I lay in bed still flushed with emotion, or at least the aftermath of riotous joy, I was struck by the incongruity of my objection to Redeemer and my experience at the game. Here I had rejected the church because of a lack of excitement on the part of parishioners and the worship team, and yet I had gone bonkers over a football game, acting far more excited and enthusiastic when the team scored a touchdown than I can ever remember being in a worship service, no matter where. I shudder to admit this, but could Westboro have a point? Could the same people who spew hatred and bile and bigotry under the auspices of the Church be right to a degree? Was I being hypocritical and engaging in idolatry?

Well, to ask if I was being hypocritical and idolatrous is superfluous and redundant: I most certainly have been, and still can behave as, a hypocrite and a idolater. I admit it freely because only when we acknowledge that a problem exists can we begin to address it. If the measure of my enthusiasm is to be seen in how much I shout and exult at meaningless things like sports, as opposed to my behavior about God and His plans and Word and works, then clearly I invest far too much passion in the dross of life than in the reality of God. What, in the final scheme of things, does a football game’s outcome matter to my relationship with Jesus Christ?

Not a whole lot.

Now, some of you may be saying, aren’t you being a little puritanical yourself? What’s the harm in enjoying harmless diversions like sports? God the comic killjoy again? But that’s not what I’m saying. I’m not like Augustine, who regarded any time and energy spent away from learning about, communicating with, or talking about the things of God to be wasted and borderline-sinful. In order to maintain flawless attention on God we would have to be perfect in our thoughts and self-discipline, and I am of the belief that Jesus wants the distractions in our lives to be present so that when we are engaged with God we are making that conscious choice. As we were saved, so should we also walk with Him, and we made the choice to be saved, we chose Him. He wants us to choose Him. And for us to choose Him, we must have the option of not choosing Him. So the life monastic is not, I think, the answer.

Isn’t it interesting and instructive how my immediate response after saying that is again to caution against the opposite extreme? I just argued against one extreme, of removing oneself from the world, and now I am impelled to counsel against the opposite extreme. So much of the time is spent vacillating between extremes, never finding a happy middle ground. And so I also want to caution against the argument that we should seek out potential earthly idols and expose ourselves to as many distractions as possible simply so we can choose our posture toward God over the world. No, no, such an argument is the mark of immaturity, like those who recoil from the grace message by suggesting that what we do on earth sin-wise doesn’t matter because, “hey, we’re forgiven, we’re under grace and not the Law, so let the sin begin!” On the contrary, sin and distractions will never be thin on the ground as long as we are bound by this mortal coil. Even if a monastic life were possible, I find that my thoughts and emotions can distract me from focusing on the Father just as efficiently and effectively as a movie or books or relationships. Don’t seek out potential worldly idols for the sake of rejecting them; rather, seek to walk with the Lord as continuously as possible, and when distractions appear, when idols present themselves for worship, as they inevitably shall, then make the choice to worship Him alone who is worthy of all worship and praise.

Have I strayed from my point? Not in the least. We’re considering whether my euphoria was appropriate, and whether I should regret not feeling similar ecstasy worshiping God. I am writing now on Sunday night, a day after the game, and after attending a steamy Sunday service (the preacher spoke about sex). Sometimes God provides an answer for a question almost as soon as it crosses my path. During the worship portion, we sang a song called “The Great I Am.” It’s a great song; what I particularly appreciate about it is that, unlike so many modern choruses, it contains lots of clear and overt references to the Bible and names of God. And during the song, I was so moved that I began to weep; I could not control myself. The reality of God and who He is penetrated to my utmost depths in a way that nothing else can. 

And I realized that while sometimes we do get excited about God in the same passion that one might see at a football game, such excitement is rather transitory and shallow. I will always have the memory of the game last night, but in terms of lasting impact upon me, it is essentially meaningless. But God has been progressively untwisting my heart and replacing the stony, fearful heart that spurned and fled from emotion for much of my life these past couple years, and experiences like the one I had this morning, or others I’ve had at my old church in KC or in the fellowship of friends are flashes of heaven, sprinkles of healing on my heart, glimpses of God that, infinitesimal as they may be, are almost more than I can bear. And are promises of things to come. 

I can give no hard and fast rule on what you should watch or experience in life. When comparing the two experiences, the earthly one cannot help but reveal its utter hollowness and meaninglessness beside the holy one, and I can appreciate the one for what it is, an enjoyment of life, while treasuring the other for what it portends, the life of Christ in me, changing me, making me new, uniting me with the Great I Am. 

Hallelujah, holy holy, God Almighty, Great I Am

Who is Worthy? None beside Thee, Lord Almighty, Great I Am…

Of Friends and Strangers: A Self-Rebuke

Recently I have made the acquaintance of a person down here in Waco. This person has prompted me to consider the idea of friendship, fellowship, and how the Fall has twisted and warped these concepts. 

Let’s begin with a portrait of this person. They (the gender neutral) possess an exceedingly cheerful attitude, brightly greeting me when I enter their presence with the utmost sincerity. They treat everyone with a close attention that suggests a deep interest in that person. They are quick to laugh and join in frivolities, even at their own expense. Another acquaintance has described them as “a Disney prince/princess” (it was one or the other; again I’m trying to be coy). That irrepressible kindness exudes from their face, and they sit with proper posture and poise. The phrase popularized by Mary Poppins comes to mind: “Practically Perfect in Every Way.”

They do not engage in coarse language or swearing; one gets the impression that they grew up in what might be called a sheltered environment. Despite this, they have an understanding and acceptance even for those whose attitude and behavior they might disapprove of in principle. They treat everyone with respect and kindness.

Do you have a clear picture of this person? The impression that always strikes me when I interact with them is that of a slightly dense student interacting with a brilliant and kindly student who works hard and is eager to assist those disadvantaged whom they meet. This person turned to me today, during a lull in the conversation, and clarified a point that had apparently bothered them ever since they and I had a lengthy conversation about our respective backgrounds. I had mentioned the period of trials and tribulations through which I have recently passed during this chat, and this person, several weeks later, took pains to assure me that they were not indifferent to this element of my life, and to correct any impression they might have given that they did not wish to hear of this interlude. I assured them that I had not gotten any such impression from our prior conversation, and we ended with amicable words. Again, a universal aspect of any interaction with this person. 

Afterward, I mused on the sort of person who would do such a thing, to correct an imagined slight that one might have given more in the absence of seeking information than in overly prying for it. I bethought, Is this indicative of a certain egoism on this person’s part, that they were so focused on what they said or did not say during an interaction that they would revisit it weeks later and redress a possible offense? I have in fact done this very thing, and so can speak about it with some authority; my own self-criticism is so acutely aware of trying to say the right thing, do the right thing, to avoid giving offense, that I will replay conversations in my mind and evaluate my performance. Not even in the context of a job interview or date, when it might seem reasonable to do so, but just in regular discourse with friends and family. This springs from an insecurity which I have documented in previous posts, so I don’t feel the need to do so. 

I then embarked upon a lengthy reflection upon this person’s suitability as a friend. My thoughts initially wandered, and wondered, towards the concept of how one makes a friend. E.g., normally a person displays deep interest and genuine affection for someone else as a prelude or consequence of friendship; you meet someone, you get to know them, and eventually you develop a bond in which you can begin to expose your own heart and mind, and become affectionate toward them while having it reciprocated.

My friends in Kansas City serve as excellent examples of this. For instance, Caleb Egli and his wife Rebecca became my dear friends during the last year or so of my stay there. Soon we would meet with an embrace (sometime inappropriate on Caleb’s part), tease each other, laugh and cry (mostly on my part) with each other, and grow into each other’s lives. This is the normal concourse of friendship. But at the beginning, we had to establish a connection, a commonality, before affection and intimacy could be established. True, it took less time and effort, and the connection went deeper, than has been my normal experience, but the stages of friendship were still consistent. 

In regard to the person described above, however, the fact that they immediately display kindness and interest in perfect strangers led me to wonder how one would ever know that one had reached that more intimate level with this person. After all, if you treat everyone like a good friend, how do you treat your good friends? If on the scale of friendship (1 is a perfect stranger, 10 is as intimate as it is possible to be with someone) most people start at a 1 or 2, maybe a 3, and this person seems to start at a 5, which is where most people’s friends would fall other than the best friends, then what would a good friend of this person experience? The same level of affection and attention that a random person walking in to their work place receives? 

Of course, an alternate theory might suggest that this person lets no one reach deeper levels other than maybe family members and a childhood bosom buddy. It’s possible, I suppose, but I can’t imagine such a warm and welcoming person not craving for those deeper relationships beyond the surface level. 

All this flashed through my mind fairly quickly; the curse of writing is that it usually takes five times longer to explain what you’re thinking than it took to think it. The thought floated through my head that this was perhaps a disingenuous way to go through life. You have to treat some people as strangers, after all. Otherwise, what’s the point of having friends if you treat everyone like a friend? 

Almost immediately a rebuke smote me. Do you see it?

This, I think, is a diabolical perspective, a consequence of the Fall. The answering rebuke asked, Well, why shouldn’t we treat everyone like a friend? Why do we feel the need to throw up walls between ourselves and everyone else, and only lower them once the prospective friend has passed the evaluation period? It’s a natural instinct in most people, but does that make it right? Or to put it in Christian terms, aren’t we supposed to love our neighbor? Not to like our neighbor, not to tolerate or be nice to our neighbor, but to love our neighbor? And that is what shook me; this person seems to genuinely love everyone. Not in gushy, effusive, sloppily emotional sense, but in the sense that they direct their full attention, interest, and philios love toward anyone they meet. 

I imagine that this person probably leaves a fragrance of Christ wherever they go. Shouldn’t all believers do that?