Like a Complete Unknown: Rolling Stone, Tsarnaev, and the Face of Evil

by Sebastian Faust 

Wanna see my picture on the cover
Wanna buy five copies for my mother
Wanna see my smiling face
On the cover of the Rolling Stone
– Dr. Hook & The Medicine Show, "The Cover of the Rolling Stone"

Rolling Stone is facing blowback for their latest issue’s cover – a self shot of Dzhokhar Tsarnaev, one of the two brothers alleged to have committed the Boston Marathon bombing. Tsarnaev addresses the camera, looking out at us as a young indie-rock singer/songwriter might; he’s got long, tousled hair, scruffy whiskers, a graphitied white shirt, and dark, piercing eyes. He looks hip. He looks cute. He looks nice. And that’s the problem. 

The outcry was swift. The mayor of Boston issued an open letter decrying Rolling Stone’s “celebrity treatment” of Tsarnaev, arguing that the survivors of the Boston bombing deserve their own cover stories, but that he no longer feels that “Rolling Stone deserves them” (emphasis mine). Twitter blew up with responses to the cover. Boycotts have been announced by CVS, Walgreens, Rite-Aid, Kmart.

Every post on Rolling Stone’s Facebook page, from a poll about the best Ramones song to a rundown of Louis C.K.’s performances, is plastered with obscenity-laden replies about the soon-to-be-released cover. Most of them simply spew invective at the magazine, but some cut to what, I think, is the actual issue underlying the anger people feel. These say, essentially, “This picture of the suspect is too flattering; if you were going to place him on the cover at all, you should have used his mug shot.”

Tsarnaev looks good. And that’s the problem.
 
It’s not as if magazines haven’t featured other “monsters” on their covers before. In 1970, Rolling Stone itself ran with a picture of mass murderer Charles Manson; in 2001, TIME devoted their cover to Osama bin Laden.  But the difference is in the aesthetics of the pictures. Manson’s photo was shaded by a yellow circle overlapping his face, save the whites of his eyes, which gave him a manic look. Bin Laden wore a turban and a Middle-Eastern beard; he looked unusual to Americans. He looked foreign, alien, other.

But Tsarnaev looks like us. And that’s the problem. 

We have decided that Tsarnaev is evil (the posts I referenced earlier on Rolling Stone’s Facebook page are filled with sadistic descriptions of his hoped-for demise), and so we want him to look the part. Evil is ugly. It is disfigured, or alien, or just a little bit off. Our villains need to wear capes, or turbans, or pencil mustaches, or terrorist beards. They need to be crazed, or mad, or so full of hate that we can never hope to understand them.

They need to have defining characteristics, so we can pick them out of a crowd. Then we won’t have to worry. We know the man with shifty eyes isn’t to be trusted. But above all (and we must be adamant about this) they need to most definitely not look like us, like people we know, or like a “rock star.”

We know what evil looks like. And it doesn’t look like us.

My guess is that most of those who are outraged didn’t take the time to read the article. My guess is many didn’t even take the time to read its title, right there on the cover: “The Bomber: How a Popular, Promising Student Was Failed by His Family, Fell Into Radical Islam, and Became a Monster.”

Or maybe they did; maybe that’s the problem. The point of the picture paired with the article was to question how someone who looks like “us” could become one of “them,” to show that it isn’t such a great leap. But that isn’t a narrative we want to hear.

We want to hear that terrorists are born in far-flung countries and bred in desert camps. We want to hear that they have an ideology that makes no sense, that is incomprehensible to us, that we can never wrap our heads around and understand. That they hate us for our freedom, or for being powerful, or for being “special.” But in the case of Tsarnaev, that narrative proves untenable. Though foreign-born, he was a product of our schools, of our culture, of our society. He not only looks like one of us in that picture, he was one of us. He is one of us.

Evil is always a monster. It’s always outside of us, stalking the night, clawing our windows, rattling our doors. It haunts us in dreams. It can only be frightened away, or warded off. Or killed.

Evil is always a monster. It can’t be reasoned with, or listened to, or understood. It can’t be touched. It is something with which we can never bridge the gap, with which we can never become familiar.

Because the moment we recognize it as familiar, it is something with which we can empathize. And if we can empathize with something, we can forgive it. And if we can forgive something, we can love it.

But we can’t love a monster. We can’t forgive one either. 

Sebastian Faust is an avowed heretic, armchair theologian, and a self-styled canary in the coal mine of pop culture. He takes life by the reins, bulls by the horns, and tigers by the tail, all while living in Nashville. You can't follow Sebastian on Twitter because he doesn't understand technology.

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

You might also like: 

• When It Is Still Not Yet
• Because It's Not My Tragedy
• Superman: Our Post-Post 9/11 Hero

Abusing Each Other for a Good Cause

by Deb Winiarski

Somewhere in the hallowed hours of last Tuesday night, I checked my Facebook newsfeed before going to bed and saw a video posted by my friend Jennifer. I clicked it because she said it was ironic, and I love me some irony.

As I watched LA-based video producer Greg Karber throw shirts and jeans at people on the sidewalks of Skid Row, and listened to his narrative of Abercrombie & Fitch-bashing and ridiculous quotes from the company's CEO Mike Jeffries, I cracked a smile. I won't lie; I probably laughed out loud. Like I said, I love irony. I also love to see someone "stick it to the man" in a creative way that gets people to pay attention to things that we usually ignore or don't even bother to learn about.

But there was a sour turning in my gut as the video came to a close and Karber encouraged people to scour their closets and neighborhood thrift stores for discarded A&F clothes, and donate them to homeless shelters or other organizations that serve those who are not A&F target clients. And even though something didn't quite feel right, I clicked share and went to bed.

The next day, I started following the wildfire blaze of support and back-lash generated by the video's viral campaign. Apparently a lot of people out there don't much like the Abercrombie & Fitch crowd either. People seem to like spreading the word that Mike Jeffries is as much of a jerk as the kids I used to make fun of with my friends in high school. We sat on the front lawn eating by the flag pole instead of trying to vie for lunchroom seating among the "cool kids" who were often seen sporting the A&F logo, along with their "why-are-you-breathing-my-air" looks of disdain.

But I also came across people who protested Karber's actions and labeled him a "douche bag" of a different breed, but of the same caliber as Jeffries. Karber, they said, instead of trying to exclude the "un-cool" was using them to his own ends, and only including them as token pawns in his personal slur against a corporation that he does not like.

As I read such protests against the #Fitchthehomeless campaign, I recalled that sour taste in my mouth from watching the video and realized I shared those concerns. I didn't like how Karber treated the people on Skid Row, and I did wonder if he had explained his actions before shooting the video. But I also realized that it was not the first time I had experienced that sour, something's-not-right punch in the gut when watching an awareness ad.

That feeling I got last Tuesday night, I've also felt it when opening my mail and finding some charity's flier with a dying baby on the envelope. I've felt it in my gut when a Save the Children commercial interrupted my late-night movie marathon. I've even felt that kick in the gut when I looked at a magazine rack and saw some blood-spattered woman weeping over the limp body of her dead husband or brother or sister or parent, etc.

I realized that this feeling comes up when I encounter someone trying to help the marginalized, disenfranchised and abused people of the world with methods that seem voyeuristic and disrespectful. Then it got me thinking about Jesus.

Jesus often called people from the margins into the spotlight to make others aware of their situation and of his power to change it. From the woman with the blood disorder who only wanted to fade back into the crowd, to the man with the shriveled hand, to the widow and her tiny offering that was pointed out to all the people listening, Jesus used people who were outcasts and socially-discarded to prove his point. But he did it in a way that never compromised the humanity and God-breathed dignity of the person he was helping.

In fact, Jesus' actions and words usually brought people's innate value out more for others to recognize. The woman with the blood disorder was not only made clean, she was declared to have the kind of faith that set people free and healed them. The man with the shriveled hand was healed, but he also became a symbol of Jesus' lordship over the hypocritical power-mongers of his day. The widow's offering of two meager coins was exalted from social shame to the greatest sacrifice made in the temple that day.

Furthermore, even when Jesus was blatantly insulting someone or using irony to point out others' foolishness, he did it in a way that did not detract from anyone's dignity as children of God. Jesus always saw people first, before issues. That's the kind of charity that won't leave a bad taste in someone's mouth... well, except for maybe the ones doing the abusing.

We live in a society where it is easy for many of us to go our entire lives without talking to someone who makes us feel uncomfortable about how we use our resources and energies. In fact, the Abercrombie & Fitch slogan boasts itself to be "Authentic American clothing since 1892." The very fact that they can get away with saying that they are authentically American while making money by excluding people on the basis of skin color, ethnicity, weight, age, and socioeconomic situation speaks volumes to the actual state of our culture.

But, beyond that, what about those of us who are only willing to step outside of our comfort zones if it means a feel-good spring break, or a fabulous Instagram photo op for our troubles? Why do we have to work so hard to find the people who need our "help"?

Jesus just turned around and saw them standing in his neighborhood, found them in the places where he hung out, and met them on the street where they lived. The irony is that we tend to get annoyed with the people who use and, yes, abuse others in order to promote their own causes and campaigns; yet, should we not also be up in arms over the fact that many people need such viral videos in order for them to be motivated into action? By sharing these things and reacting to their presence in our virtual reality, we are spending time and energy perpetuating the spirit of voyeurism without having any real obligation to get out from behind our digitized screens and give someone a real helping hand.

Maybe Mike Jeffries is a douche bag because he doesn't want to sell clothing to people who don't fit his idea of cool and beautiful. Maybe Greg Karber is a douche bag because he tossed unwanted clothes to people on the street whom he judged to be homeless, and made a show of it without telling us their stories, or even their names.

But maybe I'm a douche bag because I laughed at them both, shared a video that made me feel like I was making a statement against cruelty and injustice, but then rolled over and went to sleep in my nice warm bed without even a thought for the person who was spending the night under the bridge less than a mile from my front door.

Ironic? Yeah.

Deb is currently working on her Master's of Divinity at Lipscomb University in Nashville. According to Facebook she likes The Bill Cosby Show. You can follow her on Twitter @the_deeb, but I wouldn't since she hasn't tweeted for about 2 years.

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

• Notes From A Coffee Shop
• On Being Enlightened
• Slow Justice  

Rick Warren Tips and the Darkest Timeline

Author. Tweeter. Meme Inspirer.

(Note: This post is an experiment. It's a normal post where I've included my self-critical internal monologue. My internal monologue is written in bold italics.)

by Ben Howard

A few weeks ago, mega-church pastor Rick Warren tweeted out the following rather cryptic message to his mass of followers:

“New churches: Buy land as soon as you can but delay building for as long as you can. Cant explain all the reasons here.”

Now that’s just a weird statement. It sounds like vague pronouncement of an apocalyptic future where property rights are still intact and you need a lot of land, or it’s some kind of financial advice that exploits a church’s status as a non-profit for financial gain (yay!).

This could actually be valid advice. Are you sure you aren’t just dismissing it because you don’t like Rick Warren? And if you don’t like Rick, why is that? Is it because he’s popular? Is it because people listen to him and they don’t listen to you? Are you mocking him because he said something dumb or are you doing it because it makes you feel better about yourself?

Since the internet is the internet, and Rick has a fairly well-established group of anti-fans (enemies is a bit strong), this tweet spread across the web pretty quickly. However, in this instance, the tweet is not the point of the story.

Anti-fans? Really? That’s the passive aggressive stuff you come up so you don’t have to say what you feel. That’s weak.

Late one night, a few people started sending messages using #RickWarrenTips. Essentially, they were absurd tweets full of vague and ridiculous advice, quotes from movies, TV shows, bizarre usage of clichés; normal twitter stuff.

And then it grew, and grew, and eventually by mid-morning the next day, most of the people I follow were tweeting out Rick Warren Tips non-stop.

There's always money in the
banana stand. Can't explain here.

I wonder if this doesn’t say more about you and who you follow than it does about the level of humor or virality of the hashtag. Maybe you’re just at the middle of a giant ball of groupthink that keeps perpetuating a mass feedback loop.

A few refrained, they mentioned that it was in some sense dehumanizing to mock a pastor just because he was famous. It was belittling and beneath them to join in on this simple, yet arguably mean-spirited joke.

Then something interesting happened. Rick Warren joined in.

Did he actually join in? You know you’ve wondered about whether or not he actually sent those tweets. Do you know why you’ve wondered that? Because you want him to be a villain, and this kind of thing humanizes him. You’re torn between wanting to hate him as a personification of an idea you don’t like and knowing you need to treat him as a human.

His tweets weren’t particularly funny (he joked about the dentist and diarrhea), but it was interesting to see someone take something potentially insulting and spin it into something else. It was interesting to watch Rick Warren steer into the skid, or lean into the pitch, or whatever metaphor best exemplifies making fun of yourself so you can be part of the joke and not just the punchline.

You even go out of your way to say his jokes weren’t funny. Even when you’re including him in the conversation and commending his action you still have to qualify it.

I’ve always been a fan of this kind of reaction when celebrities do something worth mocking. Why react with indignation? Why take it personally? If you just take the joke and join in, it shows that you’re self-aware and you don’t take yourself too seriously. It makes people like you.

What about the times when we should be offended? What about the jokes that we shouldn’t take part in? What are we supposed to do when our desire to do right is more important than our desire to be liked? What then?

Fun with anachronistic weapons!

Last week I wrote about the Djesus Uncrossed sketch on Saturday Night Live and I was making the same argument for institutions. It’s easy to be offended, but if you take a little time to dissect what’s being mocked, maybe you can join in on the joke because it just might be worthy of mockery. The Djesus skit made fun of the relationship between the peaceful Jesus of the Bible and the military ideology of the Religious Right. That is a thing worth mocking.

Was that the really the joke they made? Or is that the joke you wanted to see because it validates your worldview? Did they say something profound or did you interpret something from it that wasn’t there? And if it wasn’t there, what did you really see?

Sometimes we’re wrong. Sometimes we should just join in on the joke.

And sometimes we’re still wrong, and we just haven’t realized it yet.

Peace,

Ben 

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

Contact us at onpoptheology [at] gmail.com.

Why I Pay Attention to The People From Twilight

by Ben Howard

In the past few weeks I've clicked on at least three stories about how Kristen Stewart cheated on Robert Pattinson. Well, it might be more like 5...or 10. I can't really explain why I'm interested in the personal life of this celebrity couple. I'm not even a fan. Combined, they've made one movie that I actually liked (the first half of Water for Elephants and the second half of Snow White and the Huntsman).

So why do I care? Why does their personal life intrigue me? Why do I find it “humanizing” when Stewart offers what seems to be a heartfelt apology (in public) or when Pattinson goes on The Daily Show and shares some melted Ben and Jerry's with Jon Stewart? These aren't rhetorical questions. Seriously, why do I care?

The concept of celebrity and society's response is entirely fascinating to me. One of my favorite authors, Chuck Klosterman, had an interesting series of thoughts on this topic in his book of essays, Eating the Dinosaur. He argues that we turn celebrities into icons of meaning, essentially living metaphors, and then use these metaphors as cultural currency.

Everyone understands the cultural weight and value of a Kristen Stewart, or a Britney Spears, or a Lebron James. We use them to communicate. Klosterman actually argues that this is why celebrities deserve the money they make, not because they entertain us, but because we purchase the metaphorical meaning of their lives. If Britney Spears doesn't make millions and millions of dollars, we might feel bad when we use her to represent whatever negative stereotype we feel like discussing.

The same thing happens in politics. Mitt Romney and Barack Obama are no longer human beings who want to be president, they exist as a constellation of ideas and positions; ideological proxies with far less control over their own meaning than they're probably comfortable with.

So what exactly is a Christian response to this kind of celebrity culture? A culture that twists people into characters and turns reality into a warped version of a stage? The easy answer is that Christians should avoid this kind of culture, but that seems naïve. It smacks of the fearful, simplistic response of those who argue that being “in” the world and not “of” the world means little more than running away in terror when the ugly parts of reality rear their heads.

In fact, the more I consider the issue, the more I'm convinced that Christianity and its subcultures are deeply enmeshed in this culture of celebrity. Doesn't the Christian culture create it's own celebrities and line up behind them for our ideological grudge matches? How many people respond to Rob Bell as an embodiment of theology instead of as a person? Or John Piper? Luther? Augustine? Paul? Peter? Jesus?

In Orthodox theology, the incarnation of Jesus is essential. God became human. Yes, he was a great teacher. Yes, he died and was resurrected, but first and foremost, God became human...like us. St. Athanasius says that, “God became man so that man might become God.” The idea of Jesus is beautiful, but we need the human Jesus even more than the idea. In Jesus we have the intimate connection between humanity and divinity.

That's what we strip away when we turn people into celebrities and movements and ideologies and iconography. We dissolve humanity into meaning as if humanity has no meaning in and of itself; no value apart from what it portrays or represents. It does. Our humanity is what connects us with the divine.

Remember that next time you watch a movie or sports or TV. These are people, much like you, some talented and some less so. And remember it when you read a book or go to church. Whether the author or preacher is wise or simple, brilliant or stupid, they are human and humanity is made in the image of God. Jesus was human. Just like the actors in Twilight.

Peace,
Ben

When he isn't deconstructing the entire premise of his blog about the meaning of pop culture and those involved in it, Ben is trying to think of philosophical work-arounds so he can write something about the “essence” of Taylor Swift. You can follow his mental gymnastics @BenHoward87.

This I Pray

“Our lives begin to end the day we become silent about things that matter.” - Martin Luther King Jr.

“Mankind must evolve for all human conflict a method which rejects revenge, aggression, and retaliation. The foundation of such a method is love.” - Martin Luther King Jr.

by Ben Howard

If you've been following the news at all for the last few months you'll be familiar with the Jerry Sandusky scandal at Penn State. There is no defense for the actions committed by Sandusky or for the coverup allegedly perpetrated by Penn State officials including head coach Joe Paterno. It is nothing less than a tragedy and it should be recognized as such.

It's only natural in circumstances like these to feel a profound sense of injustice. Even if the perpetrators are punished to the fullest extent of the law it will seem a hollow victory. The crimes in question are too horrific, the violation of trust too deep and too painful. The emotion of the crime and subsequent coverup overwhelms the limits of punitive justice and it isn't fair, it won't be.

In this search for an elusive justice and a sense of catharsis it becomes easier and easier to embrace hate and assign blame. In the Penn State scandal in particular there is no shortage of possible villains, yet in this hunt for retribution we, as a society, run the risk of dehumanizing those we condemn.

We hope to find peace in destruction. We hope to find release in revenge and retaliation. Maybe if one more person is held responsible, maybe if one more lawsuit is filed, maybe if one person serves time behind bars, it will somehow fill the void. I fear, however, that all they bring us is the emptiness that comes from trying to fill the hole of our injustice with the pain and sorrow of others.

I don't know what to say to the victims. I can't begin to understand the pain, isolation, confusion and frustration that comes with something as horrific as this. I can't say it'll all be better. It's senseless and brutal and wrong and I do not know what will make it better. I can only pray that with love and time redemption is possible in all things.

I pray the same thing for those responsible. I can't begin to understand the reasons for such actions, but to quote one of my favorite songs, “Not to undermine the consequence, but you are not what you do.” The divine spark still exists and God is a God of redemption and hope in the midst of the depths.

I pray for reconciliation and redemption, for love and the ability to heal, for peace and for hope.

Peace,

Ben

You can contact me on Twitter @BenHoward87, email me or just leave a comment.