Collaboration or Dilution

In an age where “community” has become the latest pop-culture buzz word in our faith…umm…communities…there seems to be this sense that the more minds you have working on any given project, the more ideas will flow and the better the project will be. I’m not sure that’s always the case.

For the past few years, I’ve been privileged enough to attend a very artistically minded community of faith. I’ve produced and contributed a significant amount within this community, from writing copy for press releases to writing and directing dramatic sketches. While I’m in love with the fact that Western churches at large are no longer fleeing in terror from the arts, I’m continually amazed by the detached nature with which creative projects are approached.

Certainly, group brainstorming and strategy sessions are critical and productive, depending upon the task at hand. There’s a time, however, when the more hands that are in the project, the more diluted the final piece becomes. The piece begins to be seen as a commodity as opposed to a passionately crafted creation. I’ve actually been told, “I like what you wrote…I went ahead and changed some things in the last paragraph…I didn’t think you’d mind.”

And what would have given you that idea?

I watched a panel discussion this afternoon from the American Theatre Wing podcast…an old panel, from back when I was working on my undergrad (not at that school, just the same time frame). It’s interesting to watch professionals discuss issues that were heated topics at that time. In this case, it was film vs. theatre, and America’s unfortunate obsession with the former to the degradation of the latter. One panelist stated that “in Hollywood” the emphasis was on the visual, the appearance of the final product, and that the writer was thus devalued to an extreme. In theatre, however, the attitude was that the writer knew best, because what took place on the stage was about language.

This is a concept that I see sorely lacking in church environments. I’m not talking about a writer (for example) not being open to feedback; after all, he is essentially writing his article or sketch or press release for a client. I’m talking about the liberty that others feel to take with the writer’s work…something the writer has crafted and left of piece of him/herself in, to completely re-work it in the name of editing. Re-writes upon request are one thing…having someone “make some changes” to your last paragraph is quite another. Perhaps I’m being narcissistic here, but I see and feel an attitude that everything must bow to the end result, and that the process of getting there isn’t important.

I think that’s because it’s viewed as a product, not a piece…a nasty little side effect of what C.S. Lewis discussed as the deification of science. In other words, the church sees what the artist generated for that Sunday morning as a product (or worse, they see the entire Sunday morning as a product), approaching it with an attitude of expendability toward the process and those involved within it, removing the individuality from the piece, and absorbing it into their collective whole, somehow viewing this as acceptable. In other words, the contrived concept of community that thrives in American church culture is one in which everyone must toss everything that they’ve created into the mix and let everyone else have at it, so that it is morphed into an homogeneous thing instead of a piece of art.

There is a place for collaboration…certainly theatre, for example, is an extremely collaborative art…and the artist who is not open to others’ ideas and feedback is likely one destined to produce pieces of little meaning. That said, permitting anyone and everyone to have their hands on every aspect of every piece produced robs the piece of the artist’s individual style…a style that, as Believers, we assume that God has permitted that artist to develop. The end result is a diluted and weak piece of art, something that Christ-followers should abhor, especially when something so much better is possible.

This has something to say about the fact that our industrialized Western culture is obsessed with valuing a human being based upon what he or she can produce. We view the role of the church as producing instead of creating, of churning out quantifiable and visible results instead of following less measurable impulses.

In short, our communities of faith are approached as organizations instead of organisms, corporations instead of families.

We see the detrimental effects of this, among other places, in “Christian art,” and in a lack of authentic relationships amidst an abundance of “community.” Certainly, we should see it in our reflection when we look into the eyes of the unbeliever, for, if we viewed ourselves through their eyes, it would take little to imagine how cold, alienating, and hypocritical we must appear.

All because of our push for a finished product.

In Search of Character

I avoid prime-time television as much as possible, primarily for reasons of quality. I’m amazed at the mediocrity that permeates the air-waves. Guarding against mind-sucking white noise has become easier since Karen and I stopped having cable piped in. The fact that cable television is a dinosaur, however, and that all of the content we would have watched is just as accessible to us via the Internet (yes, we do everything legally), leads to some occasional exposure to this stuff, however. 

So, I maintain a list of about four to five shows that I watch weekly. I’m picky…at least I like to think so. I commented again as we sat down Friday night to watch a new episode of House, however, that there’s really nothing amazing about the plot from week to week. Sure, there’s the sub-plot of various relationships and interpersonal conflicts that carry from week to week…that’s the making of a good serial. But, ultimately, you know what’s going to happen by the end of each episode. 
Another of our favorites, Bones, leads to the same conclusion. Following the relationships is somewhat unpredictable, but you always know the crime will be solved by Brennan’s amazing intellect after 45 minutes. So I’m left wondering: if my standards are as high as I like to think (I mailed a perfectly good anime film back to Netflix in disappointment the same night, after all), then why am I drawn to media that’s so glaringly light on plot? 
And I’m not alone. I can think of an actor and two professors I know that are just as drawn to one of these shows or the other. So, have I digressed into the brainless desire for entertainment that afflicts most Americans? Has my artistic diet become so saturated by junk food that I no longer desire a well-prepared meal? 
I don’t think so, and this is why. I didn’t go into either of these shows with the expectation of riveting plot. There are those I do go into with that expectation: Heroes, for example. What draws me to House and  Bones, however, is character development. Bones’ realization of her confinement within her own genius and House’s willful succumbing to his own narcissism are irresistible storytelling. The development of their characters is played out in repetitious scenarios, which, considering their respective professions, is realistic. Truly compelling characters tend to be conspicuously absent from most of our media on most evenings of the week, and these, therefore, are a joy for me to watch from a storytelling perspective, even though overall story of the night may be overtly predictable. 
Or, perhaps I really am guilty of wanting some vacuous entertainment during the course of my week. 
No…I like the first explanation better. 

Still Not There

It’s interesting to browse back over last year’s posts around Christmas time. We forget, after all, and its good to have those reminders, those marker events, if you will. It’s intriguing to me that many of the same topics going on in my head a year ago are going on in my head again over the last couple of weeks. Perhaps it should be disturbing…indicative in some way that I’ve stagnated, haven’t moved forward. Maybe that’s true. Or, maybe it’s sinking into me on a much deeper level. I’m hoping for the latter.

Christmas is going to be very different for us this year, as we won’t be traveling for the first time since we’ve been married. Not being around family (we will be, but not of the same quantity) is a great deal of the holiday to me. This year, we’ve even had snow in Virginia, which is quite unusual at this early date. Still, though, I’m barely in any sense of “Christmas spirit.” I’m managing a bit now because I’m listening to the soundtrack for A Charlie Brown Christmas. I’m still in a room without decorations, however.  No tree, no lights, not yet. I’m very slow to move into the spirit of the season, whatever that spirit is. 
I was last year, as well. 
I think there’s good reason, though, because the season has become so…perverse. I’ve read posts from other Christian bloggers lately saying things to the same effect, specifically one today referencing the same Black Friday nightmare of which I wrote in my last post. That just began the season so horribly for me. And I’m so guilty of the very materialistic perversion that distresses me. Karen and I and my parents went shopping on the afternoon of Black Friday. I was a bit excited over some early gifts they bought us. Hopefully I was more excited over the quality family time…the dinner together, the helping them (a bit too late) decide what to order at Starbucks. Later, I was hooked by a nifty little cause called Advent Conspiracy. I think they have it right. So, I’m trying to (to use their phraseology) spend less, give more (not material gifts), and worship fully in doing so. I’m trying. I’m trying to get my little brain around this Incarnation, this performance that God did for us to show us truth. Cosmic might wrapped up in an infant. I know, I know, people brought Him gifts, but this gift thing…that’s not what this is about. 
I think my dissatisfaction with capitalist materialism is a divine discontent. Hopefully, I will be more in the elusive Christmas spirit when next I post. Or, perhaps it will be a better thing if I’m not. Then I’ll be focused on what’s important. This is a season of love, redemption, and second chances. Perhaps in buying less and living more simply this year, I can redeem this a bit.
Stay warm. 

The Trampling of Ethics

I’ve been sitting on this for a while, ever since originally hearing about the Wal-Mart employee who was trampled to death in a 5 a.m. Black Friday rush for bargains last weekend. The more I’ve considered writing about it, the more I find myself unable to contain my loathing for what I’ve read in the news accounts. 

I’ll spare you linking to the numerous stories about the incident, but it was this one that really made my stomach turn as I re-read it this evening. Some words and phrases stand out to me in the story: 
“This incident was avoidable.” Ya think???
“How did store management not see dangerous numbers of customers barreling down on the store in such an unsafe manner?” Since when did shopping require security???
“It rises to a level of blatant irresponsibility by Wal-Mart.” By Wal-Mart??? How about us??
That’s right, us.  All of us. This man didn’t die because a specific group of people acquired a mob mentality and charged the doors of a department store. That’s just a symptom of a larger problem. This man died because we worship our stuff. Because we’re so frantic for a deal, because our money controls us, not the other way around. Because we’re puppets to this disgusting, materialistic monstrosity that capitalism has made out of Christmas. Because we value a deal on a new blender more than we value the life of a man. 
That’s why we encourage huge crowds charging stores at a ridiculous hour of the morning for great deals on the latest trends (to which we’re also slaves) in the name of saving money. The news is more about the numbers that retailers made on Black Friday than on Thanksgiving, than on what we supposedly celebrated over the weekend. I wonder what Mr. Damour was thankful for on Thursday? I wonder what dreams he never had the chance to realize because of a mob of people anxious to out-run each other to the electronics section for a new toy took those from him? 
I don’t hear the holidays reported as the holidays this year. I hear everything connected to our precious economy, and it makes me sick. Because there’s so much more to life than what’s in our bank accounts. There’s so much more to life than the type of home we have or the car in its driveway. So much more. 
There was so much more to Mr. Damour’s life. But our culture’s emphasis on material wealth and the importance of money took that away from him. Yet we question why Wal-Mart didn’t take more precautions, instead of questioning why the crowd was in such a frenzy to begin with. 
I guess last Friday really was black, after all. So much for cultural priorities. 

Rewind

A myriad of possible posts have floated through my food-distracted-brain over the Thanksgiving weekend, none of which seemed to materialize here as my family time was much more important. So, I guess it’s that family time that becomes the post that is eventually written. 

This Thanksgiving was spent with my parents. I hadn’t seen them in about a year, so Mom, as predicted, produced a banquet worthy of royalty for just the four of us. As Karen and I were married while in grad school, not everything from our previous lives as singles made it from the places we moved from to attend grad school. My parents have been holding a great deal of stuff, and we clear a little more of it out each time we visit. This time around, though, Karen became involved in the memorabilia from my very early life. 
I’ve always had this problem with the past. I prefer not to dwell on it. I think that part of the reason is that I tend to be extremely hard on myself for the mistakes made, and permit them to obscure the wonderful, formative memories that abound from those years. My wife loves the past: she thrives when delving into old library collections, journals, and history. This trip was her venture into my childhood as she and my mother bonded anew while perusing photo albums I had long since forgotten about. Everything from my middle- and high-school music “careers,” to  super hero costumes worn for Halloween, to fiction born late in high school. Her discoveries were punctuated by my occasional irritability that trickled down from feeling at times overwhelmed by the past (a feeling I’m not used to), and at times violated as certain memories were discussed that I preferred not to discuss. That irritability tended to move into a speechless bemusement as great memories re-entered the picture for me. 
Everyone has skeletons, and I’ve always preferred mine stay tucked safely away in the closet of my past. The problem is, I discovered this weekend, that I have a lot of wonderful things in that same proverbial closet, things which I have allowed to stay boxed up and gathering dust in order to maintain the secrecy of a few little skeletons that don’t seem that big after all when exposed to some daylight. 
When we got up yesterday to prepare for our trip home, we read Psalm 136. The mistakes I’ve made at various points in my life seemed very subdued, and replaced (or perhaps redeemed?) by the realization that I had a wonderful childhood. 
I’ve had an amazing past. 
Now, my today is so much better informed. Perhaps, at the risk of sounding melodramatic, a sense of holism has made its way into me. In either case, I made a lot of peace this weekend. And the amazing past revealed in old photos and on old pages this weekend propels me into a much more possible future.