Wisdom and Folly

The death of Michael Jackson last week is in some ways a distinctively American tragedy.  While there is nothing new under the sun about the soul-crushing effects of fame and fortune, the dynamics involved in the demise of the greatest pop icon of his generation are eerily familiar.  Anyone acquainted with the details of the decline and fall of Elvis Presley—who, oddly enough, was posthumous father-in-law to Jacko—knows that both men followed the same basic pattern of descent.  Like Presley, Jackson was surrounded by a posse of enablers—people who catered to his whims, including providing him with drugs, while ignoring his declining health, just so they could maintain his approval and, of course, financially benefit.  Sadly, the parallels to the Elvis tragedy are many.

American mega-stardom is a soul-eating monster, and it basically works as follows.  The star rises to renown because of some talent, such as singing, acting, or athletic ability.  As his fame and wealth grow, so do media attention and the onslaught of paparazzi which destroy any privacy the star once had.  Along with this there usually come criticisms, rumors, and accusations of various kinds which make the star defensive or even paranoid about his personal safety and perhaps the safety of his family.  This prompts the star to form an inner circle of advisors to guard his interests, thus creating the celebrity “ghetto effect”—completely insulating him from the “real world.”  At this point he lives in an artificial private world, where all those  around do his bidding.  At the same time, the star’s accountability for personal behavior is diminished, perhaps even lost, as the inner circle is paid exorbitant amounts of money by the star.  Fearing dismissal and a loss of their own fortune, the inner circle becomes a team of “yes” men.  What was intended as a protective belt of security for the star is now a lethal nest of parasites, whose success in feeding off their host must eventually destroy him.

This pattern is not reserved for mega-stars, by the way, but seems to apply, to some degree, to anyone who finds himself in a position of power and prestige.  Remember that money fuels this machine, so the more money, the more ugly the potential results.  The likes of Howard Hughes, Elvis Presley, and, now, Michael Jackson just happen to be the more glaring cases, because of the circumstances of their deaths—tragic neglect despite their many “caretakers.”  But as tragic as these stories are, who knows how the moral neglect in these and similar cases has resulted in deaths of an even more tragic nature—the deaths of the souls of the rich and famous.

To what shall we compare celebrity in the American entertainment culture?  Celebrity is like a tidal wave that rises in part by its own force but gains most of its strength and momentum by its surroundings.  All of these forces which make its crest so impressive also guarantee its disastrous crash.

A while back Amy and I discussed some of the vocations that we envisioned our kids heading into when they become adults.  As we shared our thoughts, we found that we had many conflicting intuitions and expectations.  Then one of us posed the question, “What profession would you least like to see your son or daughter go into?”  Here we easily agreed:  Any line of work that encourages self-exaltation and, when successfully done, brings enormous wealth.  In short, we just don’t want our kids to have fame and fortune.  Some rare celebrities do appear to make it through this “eye of the needle” with their faith and moral compass intact (Bono seems, thus far, to be an example—though at a dear price, I’m sure he would admit).  But we would prefer that our kids—or anyone we love, for that matter—not be subjected to the moral-spiritual poisons of celebrity.

As Morrissey once sang, “Fame, fame, fatal fame—it can play hideous tricks on the brain.”  Indeed, so does extreme wealth.  As we consider the tragic case of Michael Jackson, it would be good for all of us to remember that, for all its macabre circus-like twists and turns, his story is not unique in this crucial sense:  He succumbed to the temptations and mind-warping influences of his mega-stardom.  And I suspect that the overwhelming majority of the rest of us would do so as well.

Our local library, small though it may be, does a great job of promoting literature and a general love of learning. This is due mostly to the herculean efforts of our head librarian who is always willing to go above and beyond the call of duty. This summer, she has organized a “Be Creative” time for younger kids in the community—crafts, story time and whatnot. As part of the program, yesterday some of the kids and I headed to the library for a reader’s theater type production. The kids were in awe of the costumes, simple though they were, and loved the story. The tale involved a “maintenance sprite” who had to battle Captain Hook in order to save the natural resources of Indiana. I too was enjoying the performance until the “story” began to smell more like propaganda (which smells a bit like something else we have a great deal of Indiana due to a large population of farm animals, but I digress). Of course, the program was meant to be educational, and it is certainly important to teach kids about the responsible use of water, energy, etc., but as they stood up and recited the “Defenders of the Planet” pledge, a cold chill ran down my spine and it wasn’t visions of sugar plums but Nazi Youth Organizations that were dancing in my head.

Let me first make it clear that I too would like to preserve and defend our local and national resources. Nor am I accusing our beloved Miss Linda or the organization that produced the play of being Nazis or anything of the sort. Taken on its own, this incident would quickly have been lost on me in the rush to make lunch and get everyone down for a nap. But the accumulation of “Go Green” messages constantly hurdled at my doorstep has begun to resemble a landfill of impressive proportions.

I hate to be so cynical but as I sat in my library chair, watching my kids soaking in anything and everything the “maintenance sprite” had to offer, the question that kept running through my mind was “Why are they so desperate to teach our kids this stuff?” Why, indeed. Why not do a program teaching the history of Indiana? Why not simply celebrate the natural wonders of our state and their many uses? Why are people so insistent on teaching children about global warming? As we walked home, the answer became as clear as a Colorado mountain spring. If we can’t be religious anymore—and anyone who is not out of their enlightened mind knows that religion is so last century—then we have to come up with a reason to act responsibly. Sure, they could have told kids that wasting water is wrong but that would be inconsiderate and, well, wrong. But something being wrong would imply that there are universal standards for behavior that apply to us all. They could have talked about stewardship and the resources that we have been entrusted with but that would imply that someone or some Being is the owner and creator of all these resources over which we have been given dominion.

That is where global warming comes into play. If you can’t stop kids from wasting electricity because it is bad then you have to have some other end to justify their means. I guess it is so much a part of our make-up, or design if you will, to require a “why” when we are called to self-sacrifice that the God “why” has been replaced with the Melting-Ice-Caps “why.”

I have to question either the sincerity or the informedness of those who are so fanatical about turning off the light switch when they choose to ignore some of the more simple but less glamorous ways we can all truly make a difference. I laugh every time I see someone wearing a “Go Green” t-shirt and ponder the environmental price tag of the production of that shirt when shopping at Goodwill saves you money and is the ultimate recycling experience. Eating less meat and demanding fewer “exotic” foods out of season and location, too, are ways to save on land use and fuel costs. Certainly, teaching our kids to be grateful stewards of God’s creation is a start, not only to saving the planet but redeeming mankind. Or perhaps, at the very least, those towing the “Go Green” party line could save a little of that propaganda for the compost heap instead of trying to feed it to our kids.

My current book project is on the subject of atheism.  Though there have been plenty of books on this topic the last few years, both by atheists (the “new atheists” as they’ve come to be called) and their critics, nearly all of these books address the evidence for or against theism.  Atheist writers complain that because of the existence of evil and the immorality of believers faith in God is unreasonable.  And they argue that the explanatory power of science makes faith unnecessary.  Defenders of theism have given rejoinders to these arguments and offered evidences for God either overlooked or underappreciated by the new atheists.  Some Christian apologists have devoted entire books to critiquing particular works by the new atheists (e.g. The McGraths’ The Dawkins Delusion and Zacharias’ The End of Reason).

But lost in the whirlwind of this debate is the deeper question as to whether atheism is actually the product of rational inquiry.  Richard Dawkins and Daniel Dennett have suggested that theists suffer from a sort of delusion.  Could this be a case of “If you spot it, you got it”?  If anyone is delusional, perhaps it is atheists.  After all, looking at the matter from a statistical standpoint, is it more likely that over 90% of human beings (religious believers) are deluded or that only a small minority (atheists) are so deceived?  To take the former view, along with Dawkins, Dennett, and others, is a serious psychological indictment of the human race.  (And, given this thesis, one wonders why these authors would expect their readers to have a rational response to their books!)  On the other hand, if atheists are the duped ones, what explains this?  Is it simply a misconstrual of the evidence for God?  If so, what could account for that?  Is the problem somehow psychological, sociological, or even moral in nature?

These are some of the questions I am raising (and attempting to answer) in my book, which will be published by Moody Press in 2010.  I would welcome your own thoughts on the matter…whether or not they turn out to be delusional.

My mother is a very classy lady. She isn’t classy in the lift-your-pinky-a-bit-higher-while-sipping-your-tea-dear kind of way. She makes no pretensions at elegance and is most definitely not hoity-toity. When she opens her home to friends and strangers, she makes you feel welcomed and at ease while making you want to be on your best behavior in her presence. As I grew up, she set standards of behavior that were not overly strict but the rules regarding permissible language were stringently enforced. Words such as “b-u-t-t” and “pee” were not allowed, and though I never remember a mouth full of soap or a harsh rebuke, it was enough to get “the look” and perhaps a whispered “Amy!” One day, our pastor greatly offended my mother, not by wondering from theological orthodoxy, but rather by using a word she found inappropriate in the pulpit. I can still envision her fuming in her rather adorable way and remarking that “If you are going to use the word crap in a sermon, you might as well say—” here she paused and probably blushed—”s@*%”

As the mother of three boys and the wife of a man who is one of four boys, I often struggle to maintain the sort of standards for appropriate verbiage with which I was raised. If I weren’t so busy snapping and shushing, I might marvel at the myriad words and phrases boys can come up with just to describe bodily functions. I can’t bring myself to list them here but I am sure if you have spent any amount of time with young men of a certain, or perhaps not-so-certain, age, you can imagine. As time passes, I have begun to wonder if it is really worth the effort. Do the words they use really matter all that much? After all, if “a rose by any other name would smell as sweet” then does a “dump” really smell any worse than a “poopy”? Well, for now at least, I have decided to hold my ground and say yes. Though it might be no less offense to my sense of smell, it greatly offends my ears to hear my two year old inform his father that he has just “dropped a big log.”

But why? I think I found a bit of the answer in picking up one my beloved Jane Austen novels the other night. In an attempt to prove a point to Jim regarding the tenacity of women’s feelings, I began to quote a passage from Persuasion that nearly always fills my eyes with tears and my heart with bittersweet pride at the ability of my fellow-woman to craft such words. The language a few centuries back was cumbersome, but it was weighty and well-chosen. This is one of the reasons I prefer email over the telephone. It gives me a chance to ponder and meticulously make my point, rather than quickly ingest what has been said and respond, usually while hiding from the riotous commotion of the kids in the background. In one sense, writing is much more impersonal, but in another sense the distance helps rather than hinders your ability to communicate. Though you miss out on all the nonverbal dimensions, you can process more carefully what is being said and what you want to say.

We are finite creatures. Our abilities to make ourselves known and to be known are so few. Shouldn’t we handle with care the limited means we do possess? Just as my mom takes special care in preparing for guests, straightening the house, choosing the menu, I think we should take special care in choosing our words. The other great lady in my life, my mother-in-law, has often told me to be wary of people who don’t care what others think of them. To me, people who aren’t careful with their words are displaying a certain recklessness. I recognize this officially places me in the swimming-against-the-current category in our increasingly casual WGAS society (No, Mom, that doesn’t stand for the West Gloucestershire Art Society. I will explain later.) Here I stand and I can do no other. But then again, I could just be full of c-r-a-p.

For our entire married life (11 years), Amy and I have not had television (in the sense that we don’t receive channels, though we do watch DVDs and videos).  Occasionally we are asked about our reasons for making this choice, so I thought it would be a good idea to actually compile a list of some of the benefits of TV abstinence.  So here is a list—by no means exhaustive—of some of the major benefits of life without TV.

1. Avoidance of commercials and the fueling of the consumer mentality — It’s all about the sponsors, as we all know.  And to watch a TV show is to be bombarded with constant pitches for products one neither needs nor, properly, desires.  Even the most circumspect person cannot help but be impacted by this.

2. Better stewardship of time — Amy and I spend much less time watching shows because we only view the DVDs and videos we plan ahead of time to view.  We don’t end up watching shows that we didn’t want to watch (which, strange as it sounds, is a common phenomenon among viewers).  Without TV, relative to my life before, I virtually have a 27-hour day, so I can get more accomplished with family time, reading, and creative projects.

3. Protection of children — Our kids are not exposed to inappropriate images, language, and lifestyle choices which even find their way into “innocent” shows (e.g. foul language, disrespectful attitudes, undermining of authority, the normalization of premarital sex and homosexuality, etc.).  Of course, in our culture it is impossible to perfectly shield one’s kids from some of these influences, but without TV there is a dramatic reduction in this exposure.

4. Avoidance of narcissism, bad ethics, and poor reasoning — Whether it is sitcoms, reality TV shows, or even news programs, the me-first mentality is ubiquitous in television land.  And from what I’ve seen of such shows as Friends and Survivor, the moral-decision making and logical thinking skills are rather suspect.  Let’s just say that, as a Philosophy professor, I always know where to find vivid illustrations of moral vices and logical fallacies.  So thank you for that much, Mr. Television.

5. Enhancement of aesthetic sense — Most television shows are just not very good from an aesthetic standpoint.  A rare exception is The Simpsons, at least in previous seasons which I sometimes watch it via Netflix—so I can’t speak to how strong the show is currently.  But generally speaking, constant exposure to television injures one’s aesthetic sensibility.  Occasionally we hear someone recommend a show to us as “one of the best on television” (e.g. Lost, 24, Arrested Development, etc.).  Invariably, when we take time to check them out, we are disappointed.  To say a show is one of TV’s best is, well, damning with faint praise.

So we encourage you to take the plunge and take the sage advice of such folks as Neil Postman and Jerry Mander.  Or, if you won’t listen to them, then take the word of the Red Hot Chili Peppers.

Brief comments on film by Amy.
Some old, some new.  Domestic films and foreign too.

Up — You know a movie is good when you can pay an obscene sum for admission, including a ridiculous additional charge for equally ridiculous-looking 3D glasses, and have to put up with somebody’s one-year-old crying and yapping through half the movie and still really enjoy yourself. I have become so suspicious of anything marketed for children, especially when it hails from Hollywood, that despite the great reviews, I always have my doubts. Up is funny (I can’t tell you how many movies my kids watch without even cracking a smile), touching, and creative. I am not a fan of 3D, or the eyewear, but I highly recommend this one for the big people as well as the little ones.

The Visitor — This film was repeatedly recommended to me (including by Jim, since he saw it at Sundance last year), so finally I gave in. The performances were great and the story one that deserves be told. It manages to have a message without losing the magic of its storytelling. By tipping their political hand, subtly but unmistakably, early on, the filmmakers put me on my guard which was disappointing. Had they just let the story speak for itself and trusted the audience to draw our own conclusions, it would have been a much more powerful movie. Still, it is worthy of the recommendations. Keep them coming!

He’s Just Not That Into You — Romantic comedies used to be a guilty pleasure that, while lacking in nutritional value, you could ingest without fear of being poisoned. With movies like Knocked Up and Then She Found Me as the new template for a light-hearted evening, Hollywood has replaced fluff with rat poison. In the case of He’s Just Not That Into You the toxins are very carefully concealed in some descent performances, good writing and LOL moments. All of these elements are like the peanut butter masking the poison, tempting you to take a bite even though you know what is waiting in the middle. I planned to quickly dismiss this movie as just bad but found it more disturbing because it was well-done. All the clichés were present (the married couple who never have sex and are both miserable; the shacked up couple who are the only healthy relationship in the bunch; the disproportionate number of homosexuals with great advice and even better hair) while giving you the overwhelming sense that you had seen this film a hundred times before. Unlike so many that have come before, this movie was much cleverer.  Be afraid—very, very afraid.

Honorable (and dishonorable) mentions:  Vicky Cristina Barcelona — Woody Allen has officially broken my heart. You know you are running low in the creativity department when you start using lots and lots of voiceovers. Say it isn’t so, Woody. The Wrestler — A harsh but well-made flick. For me, the violence and nudity crossed the line, but if you have the stomach for it the film is worth watching. Little Dorrit —You knew I couldn’t get through this without mentioning something Dickens. If you like the period piece, you will love this love story/mystery. And if you don’t, what’s wrong with you?

Having lived in Indiana for some eleven years now, one might think that some knowledge regarding Indy Car racing would have made its way into my databank by now. Sadly, this is not the case. Every Memorial Day, I am surprised by the Indy 500. It’s like having some distant relative that shows up every year for Thanksgiving and you say “Oh, right! Cousin Fred!” and then you forget about him until the next Thanksgiving.  I have learned to embrace, or at least accept, many aspects of Indiana culture—the town-wide rummage sales, the obsessive corn watching, the mind-blowing lack of topographical diversity. But racing is just not one of them. The closest I have come is some rather spirited (okay, more like cutthroat) video game sessions with my husband. 

This past Memorial Day I was just as disinterested when somehow the topic of Danica Patrick came up in a conversation with Jim. I innocently raised the question of whether she was really that good and how much her looks had to do with her status in the racing community. It seemed fairly self-evident to me that her appearance (and her willingness to exploit her “assets”) had to have played a part in her prominence. I was rather surprised when Jim quickly came to her defense, touting statistics regarding her accomplishments, etc. After making a mental note to suggest he cut back a bit on his ESPN talk radio (stats about football, hockey, baseball—all acceptable, but what will come next? Men’s water polo?), I retorted that though I didn’t doubt Patrick’s talent, I just couldn’t buy that there weren’t plenty of other women out there just as talented who would never be given a chance simply because they looked better with the helmet on than off. Surely she had been given opportunities and advantages that others had been denied. Perhaps this is unfair of me, both to Patrick who is obviously skilled (though I would feel less sorry for her if she would wear that driving suit all the time rather than some of the other less modest apparel I have seen her wearing) and unfair to those who are as talented if not as attractive. But as the saying goes, “life’s not fair.”

As a woman, and now especially as my daughter’s mom, I often wrestle with the issue of appearance and the role it plays in our crooked and crazy world. When Maggie was born, I was shocked at how instinctive it was to praise her appearance. I find Jim and I both struggle to balance our compliments, following up on a “You look so pretty!” with a quick “And you are so smart!” Why is it that we can praise the Grand Canyon but blushingly we praise our daughter’s outward form which comes from the same source, the eternal outpouring of God’s own beauty? Should I feel pangs of guilt when I mull over which outfit choice to make in front of my ever-impressionable girl? 

I remember when Maggie was about a year and a half old and suffered an injury to her mouth. There was a part of me that grieved over the change of her adorable smile which, while still adorable, now included a few chipped teeth. Another part of me was glad to have her not quite so cute. Which was the right response? Knowing what a moral handicap good looks can be, should I suppress my desire to see my daughter grow up to be beautiful? It seems as if you are torn between teaching your child that her body is bad and she should consider wearing a burlap sack all the time or fostering a value for the superficial that is unhealthy and destructive. 

Whenever I find myself faced with questions such as these, I refer back to the deep wisdom of Christian kitsch—WWJD? Okay, maybe not exactly what would Jesus do, but still our lives as Christians should always come back to Him, right? The Word made flesh. And that’s the thing—the Word didn’t come down as a misty form but as flesh and bone and though we are told “he had no beauty or majesty to attract us to him, nothing in his appearance that we should desire him” (Isaiah 53:2), He did have a body and it was suited to his purpose here on earth. So I guess that is our answer, at least in part. Our bodies are for His purposes, not our own. They can be enjoyed and even admired but only in the right context. Simple enough, right? Now all I have to do is figure out what the heck that means when the rubber hits the road…so to speak.