This essay was originally published at Imagining Jesus.
by Ben Howard
For a few months during my sophomore year in college I went to a stereotypical evangelical megachurch complete with pseudo-hipster praise band, husband and wife “teaching” pastors, and a vaguely spiritual abstract noun in place of a church name or affiliation.
If it's not obvious from my depiction, this church was never really my scene and I basically went there for a girl. The phrase “for a girl” provides the impetus for a number of my questionable life choices. In order to cope with my growing cynicism toward the worship performance, I began to imagine that Jesus was sitting beside me in the service soaking it all in. And let me tell you, imaginary Jesus thought these worship services were hysterical. We'd share amused smirks during the sermon and try to stifle giggles during the elongated altar calls/praise-band deep cuts.
It turns out that imaginary Jesus felt the same way about megachurches that I did. In fact, it turns out that the Jesus in my mind is an awful lot like me in most ways. He's sarcastic and ironic, but simultaneously sensitive and caring. He's prone to emotional outbursts, but makes a concerted effort at stoicism. Basically, Jesus looks a lot like me, but with better judgment and fewer dickish qualities.
Until I sat down to write this essay I'd never really connected those dots. I'd never placed myself alongside my conception of Jesus long enough to wonder, “Gee, those two look awful similar.” To be honest, I was a bit disappointed with myself for what appeared to be quite a bit of blatant narcissism. I mean, who else would the incarnate God be like if not me?
In a turn that can only be considered ironic in retrospect, that narcissistic conceit was going to be the center of this very post. I could see the universalization of my own self-flagellation unfolding in my mind; a vicious screed against all of us, the self-indulgent first-worlders re-envisioning Christ in our own image. How dare we! I'd probably even end with a pithy statement about how we rob the “I am” of everything but the “I.”
It might have been good, but it would have been wrong.
Not only would it have focused on a twisted version of the Christian faith which renders God impotent in the face of our almighty misconceptions, it denigrates and apologizes for the kind of similarity and commonality between divinity and humanity that should be celebrated.
Because I really should see myself in Jesus. It's one of the most beautiful parts of the incarnation. I can see myself in God because God is like me.
I'm sure I'm still projecting a lot of my emotions onto Jesus. I'm sure I place too much weight on his scathing indictments of the Pharisees or view him too much through the lens of his temple cleansing antics. Those are the parts where I cheer him on and the parts I turn to when I want a righteous defense for my own indignation.
But I also don't imagine a Jesus exactly like me. The Jesus I see is much more peaceful, more open to people, more willing to see the truth rather than merely the answer. And, since I can see myself there through those other stories, maybe there's a chance I can learn these traits too.
I don't think I'm alone here. I think we all do this to one extent or another. We project ourselves onto Jesus, exaggerating one trait while diminishing another. We all end up with a Jesus that looks astonishingly like us, but without the rough bits.
That's good. We should imagine that Jesus looks like us. Because if that's the case, then there's a good chance we'll start to look a bit more like him in return.
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. If you'd like to support what we do, you can donate via the button on the right of the screen.
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| Oooo...pretty. |
by Ben Howard
They used a red, white and blue ball. It was weird, and it was popular. This
decision did not come about because of market testing, or intense analysis, or
even any type of vigorous conversation. No, the guy in charge of the league had
bad eyesight and couldn’t see the typical brown ball as it bounced around the
poorly lit fieldhouses and gymnasiums that served as the home of basketball in
the 1960s.
Also, America.
Those are the reasons that the American Basketball Association, better known
as the ABA, used a red, white, and blue basketball. It’s the same ball that you’ll
see if you ever watch the three point contest at the NBA All-Star Game. It’s
called the money ball.
Unless you’re a diehard fan of basketball history, or have been an avid
basketball fan since somewhere around 1970, you probably don’t know much about
the ABA. So let’s start there.
The ABA was founded in 1967 as a competitor to the NBA. Even to say that it was
“founded” is assigning the act much more planning and forethought than was
actually the case. Better to say that the ABA “began to exist” in 1967. Their
players were essentially NBA rejects, their games poorly attended, and their
finances were…interesting.
Despite these limitations the ABA eventually found enough success to force a
lucrative merger with the much larger and far more stable NBA. So why did the
ABA exist for 10 years (arguably 9 ½ years longer than it should have)?
The red, white, and blue ball. Or, to be more specific, what the red, white,
and blue ball symbolized: a willingness to be innovative.
In addition to the colorful basketball, the ABA also introduced the three
point line, the slam dunk contest, and turned halftime entertainment into an
art form (here's the story of Victor the Wrestling Bear).
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| We need more afros. |
The ABA made itself the league of flash and flair. It made superstars out of
creative, high-flying athletes like Julius Erving and David Thompson.
There are a lot of similarities between the ABA and the megachurch model of
evangelical Christianity. Both have found popular success through a willingness
to innovate, a willingness to modernize, and a willingness to try absolutely
anything in a perennial quest for attention (one ABA team famously hosted
halter top night in 1975).
If you've read my blog, it’s no surprise that I think the megachurch model of Christianity is
ultimately flawed, much like the ABA. The movement has no historical roots, and
combined with the quest for popularity, which very quickly turns into a shallow
desire for aesthetic satisfaction, the model simply seems unhealthy and
unsustainable.
However, the flaws don’t diminish the lessons that other traditions can
learn from the megachurch model. This model of evangelical Christianity has re-imagined
the aesthetic sensibility of the church with its use of artistry and media.
Traditionally, the church has been known as a great patron of the arts,
however, in recent times that idea of the church as a locus of aesthetic
sensibilities has been on the decline. Even when the church does value art now,
it values high art, not the kind that is able to be enjoyed and discerned by
the masses.
Megachurches have done fantastic work utilizing media, graphic design and
modern music to re-engage the aesthetic sensibilities of the masses. Granted,
the content of this art is sometimes vapid and shallow, but that does not diminish
the form.
Additionally, megachurches have done an excellent job of energizing their
congregations. Unfortunately, much of the time that energy is directed into
growing the churches popularity and/or coffers, but the act of energizing a
community to some mutual purpose is a noble act.
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| Awesome. Just awesome. |
These are the things mainline churches can learn from the megachurch model
in the same way that the NBA had lessons to learn from the ABA.
The ABA never had the ability to conquer the NBA. The NBA had history,
financial stability, and a fan-base, but it did force the NBA to try something
new. The NBA adopted the three point line, the slam dunk contest, and started doing
more to entertain their fans. The NBA didn’t replace substance, but it added
style because sometimes it’s necessary to have a bit of flash.
The ABA didn't make the NBA, but it made the NBA try. Sometimes all you need
is someone to push you, to annoy you, to force you to think about things you
forgot long ago.
Peace,
Ben
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