On Sharing The Things I Love

by Ben Howard

Last night I got to do one of those things that everyone loves to do. I introduced my friends to something I like.

Every Wednesday, like many others, I meet with a group of friends from the church I attend to have a bible study or a small group or whatever in-vogue church-y phrase you use to describe people getting together to talk about stuff.

Last night, our discussion centered around The West Wing episode "Two Cathedrals." If you're unfamiliar with the show, this episode centers around two elements: the funeral of President Bartlet's longtime friend and secretary Mrs. Landingham and President Bartlet's announcement that he has multiple sclerosis and his subsequent decision to run for re-election. It's a beautifully shot, beautifully written story and it regularly comes up in discussions about the best TV episodes ever.

Now, while I would love to keep waxing rhapsodic about The West Wing, that's not where I want to focus my attention today.

You see, I realized on my drive home that this was one of the first times I had shared an episode of The West Wing, a show I adore, with friends of mine who had never experienced it. And what do you do when you're sharing something you love with friends who haven't seen it? You spend most of your time looking around making sure they enjoy it; making sure they laugh at the jokes, feel the weight of the serious scenes, checking to see if it connects to them the same way it connects to you.

And there are a few reasons for this little mid-viewing check-up. First, I just want to make sure they don't hate it. Somehow, I feel like my reputation, my taste, is on the line when I share something with my friends. I feel somehow responsible for their enjoyment. And that leads to the second reason: I want to make sure that not only do they not hate what I'm sharing, I hope they just straight-up like it.

I'm sure all of this sounds obvious, but here's the kicker. I feel like this is all so important because of what their enjoyment does for me. 

When I share something, whether it's a TV show, or a song, or even just a quote from a book I'm reading, what I'm really doing is trying to reveal a piece of myself. And somehow, through the transitive property of things that touch the soul, their mutual engagement with that same show or song or line makes me feel more connected to them.

I've noticed within myself a certain creativity when it comes to snark and criticism. I can joke and deconstruct with wit and style, but I can't do the same with beauty. When I try and say good things, hopeful things, beautiful things they come out trite and cliched and hackneyed. Somehow, my words and my methods of communication fail to elucidate the myriad complexity of a deeper, ineffable good that permeates existence.

And to bridge that gap, I need you to hear this song, I need you to read this phrase, I need you to watch this movie. I need you to feel what I feel so that I can know I'm not alone; so I can know what it feels like to be understood.

This is why I love church. It's especially why I love Advent, and Lent, and Ash Wednesday, and Holy Saturday. It's why I love taking communion with friends and strangers, holding candles, hearing a harp or an organ, and repeating the same words that my people, people I've never met, have said for centuries.

I can't explain God to you, I can't unravel the mysteries of the universe, and my best attempts sound empty. 

But I can share this moment that I love with you and we can watch The West Wing together. Because loving Jed Bartlet says something about me, something I want you to know, but something I can't quite say. It brings us closer, and that is good.

Ben Howard is an accidental iconoclast and generally curious individual living in Nashville, Tennessee. He is also the editor-in-chief of On Pop Theology and an avid fan of waving at strangers for no reason. You can follow him on Twitter @BenHoward87.  

You can follow On Pop Theology on Twitter @OnPopTheology or like us on Facebook at www.facebook.com/OnPopTheology.
  
You might also like:  

• On Cynicism (Or, Beware The Ides of March)
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The Lie They Tell About Emma Watson and Me

by Lyndsey Graves

Today I went to the grocery store, the nice one here in Atlanta, and unlike the bargain-box store in my Syracuse neighborhood, it had rows and rows of magazines on the checkout line. I stood in that checkout line holding a can of beans and, for two full minutes, I stared at Emma Watson, wishing to be her. I tried the whole time to talk myself down, telling myself the picture was photoshopped and I don't have to have her cheekbones to be happy. But I really only felt one emotion: a nameless fusion of mild envy and despair.

This is why I normally don’t let myself look at magazines in stores, fixing my gaze instead on anything boring in order to avoid them - because they lie. Maybe one day I will have the serenity to glance at Emma's pixel-perfect skin and merely think, "Good for her," but I don't really think so; I don't think that's how the lie is supposed to work.

I'm not supposed to be content with myself. I'm supposed to buy serums, concealers, pastes, powders, relaxers, intensifiers, shields, infusions, masks, and moisturizers. I'm supposed to buy Zumba classes and Spanx and self-help books. It is important that I believe there is something wrong with me.

For years and years, I’ve believed the lie. In fact, I used to think that it would be prideful or dangerous for a Christian to be happy with him- or herself. Self-improvement has been a religion of mine for as long as I can remember – if you don't focus on your flaws, you're deceiving yourself; if you flaunt your strengths, you'll be an embarrassing show-off; if you're not good at something, you'd better work ceaselessly toward reaching your full potential.

So for me, it comes from everywhere. It comes from media messages so pervasive that I have taken to physically dodging them, and from the slightly-twisted brand of "pursuing holiness" that I've adopted: this deep-down belief that I cannot ever be content with myself, that I cannot ever know rest. More specifically, that failure to be and do everything perfectly is failure at all of life. That real people have no weaknesses, need no help, admit no failures. That I'll try harder tomorrow.

The truth is, I can't be and do everything. And neither can you. And this should be obvious to us, but it's not. We think that the perfect version of ourselves would be a carbon copy of some romantic-comedy-protagonist: good-looking, intelligent, hardworking, outgoing and funny, but also deep and profound; fit beyond belief, but also able to enjoy a big buttery meal. We think we can be creative and organized, have a best friend who's slightly uglier than us, be perfect mothers and daughters and friends and employees and girlfriends. 

But the thing about romantic-comedy-protagonists is that they're somehow entirely forgettable. More than that, they're not real - they're little gods. And that's really what we're trying to be. Flawless. Bigger than we are. Gods.

I've spent days and months of my life beating myself up for not being extroverted, ten pounds lighter, an early riser, more photogenic, more spiritually disciplined, concerned about strangers, or for not having a louder voice. And if I’m honest, in these areas of my life, if I can only accomplish the bare minimum, that’s me doing really well. 

You have your own list, too, of all the million things you think you should be. And I think it's time we all said, “I'm just not.”  God has those things, and he did not give them to me, and someone else will have to be them because I can't. I am not infinite. I am just me. And I trust that God doesn’t require me to be infinite, so I will not continue on the soul-crushing slog of pretending that I am.

I am not a detail person, and I used to think I should be. I used to think that every one of the ‘good’ people, the people who were doing it right, noticed and remembered everything. I would berate myself with terrible anger and derision whenever I forgot to bring a knife with my cake to an event, or missed an obvious step in some long math problem, or called the kitchen "clean" when others could point out the crumbs by the toaster and the pots on the stove.

But when I started my new job this year - only because I knew I'd let people down - I stopped trying to keep track of all the details. I learned to make lists and re-make them when I lost them and double-check them again, but I also learned to ask for help. I just looked at rooms full of people and said, “I can't do details.” I stopped being embarrassed when people reminded me of things that should have been obvious. 

And guess what? No one cared. No one looked around and said, "Where did we get this awful intern?" They only rarely laughed at me, and more importantly, they liked my big-picture, abstract, creative approach to my job.

Some things aren't so easy to own. It's a little counterintuitive to value introversion in the U.S. - people are always trying to fix your "shyness." Sometimes, I still feel deficient when every job description I read wants applicants to be a “creative planner, great at envisioning, and outside-the-box thinker” as well as “detail oriented to the core.” I worry whether taking a break from volunteering would make me a selfish person. And of course, the Vogue covers will always try to mock. 

In a lot of ways, liking yourself can be a pretty radical decision - but I'm learning to do it. I'm learning that I don't have to be the airbrushed blonde or the sinless saint to be enough. I'm more of a normal-looking supporting character, the one with the quirky flaws and lame catchphrases who needs help, and I think, just maybe, God is wild about me anyway.

At least sometimes I do. The rest of the time I'm trying to fix my trust deficiency.

Lyndsey lives and works in Syracuse, NY. She majored in theology at Lee University, which is like eating cake or listening to thunderstorms - too enjoyable to be called work. Also, no one will pay you to do it. You can follow her on Twitter @lyndseygraves and you can find more of her writing at her blog To Be Honest.

You can follow On Pop Theology on Twitter @OnPopTheology or like us on Facebook at www.facebook.com/OnPopTheology.
 
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A Prayer for Good Friday

On this holy day I pray you peace, love, and the beauty that only comes when darkness becomes dawn.

Prayer of Love to the Crucified Lord

O Jesus, it is not the heavenly reward you have promised which impels me to love you; neither is it the threat of hell that keep me from offending you.

It is you, O Lord, it is the sight of you affixed to the Cross and suffering insults; it is the sight of your broken body, as well as your pains and your death.

There is nothing you can give me to make me love you.

For even if there were no heaven and no hell I would still love you as I do.

Amen .

Excerpted from Catholic News Agency.

On Art and Violence

by Ben Howard

I don't really like violent movies. To be more specific, I don't really like blood. And when I say “don't really like” I mean it makes me nauseous and like I'm about to pass out. I have fainted one time in my life, it was during a talk about donating blood at school. Fell out of the desk and hit my head on the floor. Lots of pain. That's how much I don't like blood.

Keep that in mind when I tell you that I really enjoyed the movie Lawless that came out this past weekend. If you haven't heard of this movie, well then I think the vast majority of the country is right there with you. The movie is based around a group of brothers who sell moonshine during the Prohibition Era and the main plot of the movie centers of their encounters with a new deputy tasked with shutting down all the moonshine operations in the “Wettest County in the World.”

It's an incredibly beautiful, but also an incredibly violent movie. The Appalachian setting of the movie evokes a pastoral sense of calm and peace and the period setting evokes the same feelings you get when you stair at a yellowed photo of your great grandfather as a young boy. It's real life, or at least it used to be.

The beauty and nostalgia of the film form a stark backdrop for the repeated graphic representations of violence. In one particular scene, Forrest Bondurant, played by Tom Hardy, walks out into a beautiful fresh snow only to be assaulted by two men who restrain him and slit his throat. The viewer is left with a long, drawn out shot of Forrest silently grasping at his bleeding neck while the beautiful white snow slowly covers the ground around him.

I wish I could say that this movie ultimately condemns the violent acts of its characters, but it doesn't. It's a film that ultimately glorifies revenge and ends with a little down-home spinning of the happily ever after narrative.

You can contrast this view of violence with a show like The Wire, where violence is shown to have destructive effects both on the offender and the victim alike. Main characters receive their comeuppance and beloved characters transform into monsters when they begin to wield the gun. All of these acts are performed against the grit and grime of urban decay to make the ultimate statement that while violence is a way of life, it is not a way out.

I'm curious to hear your thoughts on this issue as well. Can violence be portrayed artistically or beautifully? And if it is possible to do this, does that artistic portrayal undermine the brutality of the acts being perpetrated? Which story is right? Violence as revenge to attain peace, or violence as the inescapable destructive force?

Peace,
Ben


When he isn't reflecting on the artistry of violence, Ben is wearing hipster sweaters and staring intently at things. Just like Tom Hardy. You can follow him on Twitter @BenHoward87 or contact him at benjamin.howard87 [at] gmail.com.
  

Ignorance, Cynicism and Martin Sheen

by Ben Howard

When I was a junior in high school I took a speech class. Near the end of the year, the teacher invited three of us to participate in a countywide speech competition at the Kiwanis Club, or maybe it was the Rotary Club.

I remember our theme was something fluffy and optimistic, you know, the kind of speech that a wide-eyed kid is supposed to give to impress middle-aged adults. Something about integrity, or responsibility, or some other vaguely defined value of that ilk. All the specifics are hazy, but I do remember my speech. I titled it, “Ignorance is Bliss.”

I'm sure you'll be astounded to discover that my remarks on the virtues of knowing fewer things in order to be happy did not win me any prizes on that day, but I'm still convinced that in spite of its cynical nature, it was an honest statement.

Fast forward eight years to the summer of 2012.

Ignorance is much more difficult now. It actually takes a concerted effort to not know things. As a fan of sports/movies/TV/music/rock opera/etc, this is a bittersweet pill. The central story, the movie or the game, is now couched in background narrative that distorts the way we consume it.

For instance, I'm a fan of the Oklahoma City Thunder. I've been ecstatic about the team all year, and that excitement only escalated as they reached the NBA Finals this June. However, because I'm a sports fan in the modern world, I'm also privy to the Achilles heel of my favorite team's likable image: the team's owners.

In case you didn't know, let me burst your joyously naive bubble. The Thunder used to play in Seattle, until they were bought by two energy magnates Clay Bennett and Aubrey McClendon. In the least subtle and most egregious way possible, Bennett and McClendon lobbied to move the team from Seattle to their home state of Oklahoma. This violates the fictional Hippocratic Oath of Team Ownership: First, do no harm to the fans.

So, what is a conscientious sports fan to do? Of course, I was overjoyed by my team's success, but ghostly images of sad children in faded Gary Payton jerseys were never far from my mind.

How about an example from the movies? I love superhero movies, so I was excited, though a bit confused to see that they were doing a reboot of Spiderman this summer. However, I quickly learned that Sony pushed the reboot because otherwise they might have lost the movie rights to Disney. Was this a creative decision? Was the world clambering for another Spiderman? No. Sony just wanted to squeeze as much cash as they could from the franchise.

And I still loved the movie! It was fun, it was electric, it had Martin Sheen! Andrew Garfield and Emma Stone were flirty and cute and I loved every second of it. Would I have enjoyed it more if I didn't know the films origin story? I think so.

The 16 year old version of me may have been right when he argued in favor of ignorance. In fact, I know he was right. People are happier when they don't know things.

But it's also deeply immature and that's why those judges were right not to reward me. Truth is not found either in burying our heads in the sand and claiming ignorance lest we discover some piece of unwanted news, nor does it come from spinning into a self-righteous frenzy over the cynical flaws that inhabit the objects of our affection.

That's called maturity. It means realizing that the world is full of flaws including the things we enjoy. That doesn't mean we throw them away and march off in search of perfection, it means that we have to live in the tension between our idealistic notions and the world that actually exists. Just because something's a little cracked doesn't mean it isn't beautiful.

This is the reason why the church is worth salvaging. Does it have it's flaws? Yes, deep ones. Can it still reflect beauty and honesty and love? Yes, profoundly. Can it still embody Jesus? Can it still be filled with the Spirit? Can it still be the image of God? Yes, yes, yes.

My generation has been really good at skepticism and cynicism. We've learned how to pick things apart, how to deconstruct and criticize, but I'm not sure we know how to build. I hope we can learn. I hope I can learn. It's too easy to be cynical; too easy to let the background noise overwhelm the actual story. Here's to growing up.

Peace,

Ben

When he isn't opining about the betterment of society and the church, Ben is watching episodes of West Wing. Martin Sheen! You can follow his Jed Bartlet-influenced views on Twitter @BenHoward87.

Sacraments at the Ryman

by Ben Howard

I don't know how to start this.

I don't know how to convey to you what I want to say.

I want to share an experience with you. I want to tell you about what I felt, both physically and deep in my soul. I want to explain to you how I could feel totally alone and special while at the same time feeling like I was in total communion with everyone around me.

I want to let you feel something so profound that....so profound that someone else who experienced it with me said it, “made me feel human again.”

I've heard sacraments being described as a time when heaven and earth overlap. When we are able to witness the beauty and peace of heaven, but only for a moment and only through a veil, darkly. Typically, we refer to sacraments in the traditional sense. Eucharist, baptism, perhaps marriage. But there are other moments, moments when beauty eclipses our surroundings, when the world becomes more than the sum of its parts and we can feel the vague shapes of a hope and a coming dawn.

The experience I'm referring to was not religious in nature, at least not in the traditional sense. It was a concert by a moderately well known band called Explosions in the Sky, but this night they were something else. They were a vessel through which I believe we who were present were able to experience a taste of heaven. Just for a second. Just enough to leave a faint impression.

Keats once wrote that “Truth is beauty and beauty is truth.” The essence of the Christian journey has often been called a search for truth, so why not a search for beauty as well. All too often we focus on the idea, the theology, the hierarchy, the meaning, the argument, the purpose and miss the mere beauty of the experience, the transcendence of the aesthetic.

This isn't to say that we should tailor our religious expression to artificially create a feeling. We aren't chasing a spiritual high. But we do need to make room for beauty for beauty's sake; room for organic moments of art and brilliance that move us in ways that we could not have realized.

Below is a video for an Explosions in the Sky song titled “Your Hand in Mine”. There are lyrics, the band is entirely instrumental, but I want you to listen to the song as a prayer. Just let the song wash over you.

This may sound ridiculous to you, and that's okay. It kind of feels ridiculous while I'm writing it, but that doesn't mean it isn't true.

Peace,

Ben

You can contact me on Twitter @BenHoward87, via email, or feel free to comment. :)