Remembrance, Nostalgia, and Reinterpretation

I recently heard a good sermon on John’s little postcard of a letter to the church of Ephesus in the book of Revelation. Among the main points of emphasis was the call to remembrance, tied to John’s recording of Jesus’ assertion that the Ephesian church had forsaken their first love, his plea that they remember the heights from which they had fallen, and his own call that they repent and return to an earlier set of practices or behaviors. After reflecting on the passage and the sermon I was struck by the dangerous road Jesus was calling the church in Ephesus, and by extension those of us who follow after them, to travel: the road of remembrance. The passage down this road is definitely necessary for those who would attempt to pursue God. Throughout the Bible you see God calling those who would follow to remember what God had done previously as a means of building their faith. You see God claiming the history of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob, the deliverance from Egypt, and the maintenance of grass and sparrows as personal works that we should be drawing on as a means of knowing about and relating to the self-gifting God who is revealed through those acts. The call to the church of Ephesus to remember however seems a bit more personal, which is where the danger lies.

They’re not being asked to directly remember God, but to remember their expressions and experiences of their faith in God, which seems to be a variation on this theme of remembrance. To put it another way, they’re not being asked to remember the works of God, but the manner in which they expressed their faith in those works, and what that felt like. Some may see a danger here in the distance between experiential or “subjective” remembrance and historical or “objective” remembrance. While the nature of that danger, and even whether it’s a danger at all, would be an interesting discussion, I see a different danger here, the tension between remembrance and nostalgia. Often when I hear this passage referenced in messages or songs or in conversation the call to return to “the things you did at first” becomes a longing for an idyllic earlier time in a person’s life, or in our collective history. Attached is the notion that if we could only return there in some way then we would be able to re-embrace our first love. I would suggest this is dangerous to our faith in several ways.

First, nostalgia tends to put God in the box replication; that is it assumes that God must do now in our time and context what God did in a previous time and context in the exact same manner God did it in the past. Because it idealizes the past, nostalgia tends to view what occurred there as the norm. Thus any thing which deviates from the normative past in our present context is judged to be wanting. If this were the nature of reality, it would be a great blow to the freedom of God. I would suggest that just because God is “the same, yesterday, today and tomorrow” doesn’t mean the manner in which God chooses to interact with the world is limited to how it’s been done in the past. To see evidence of this one only need look at the difference between the manner in which God interacted with Moses, and the manner in which God interacted with John himself.

Second, nostalgia tends to prioritize our experience of God ahead of our interactive relationship with God. In short, it prizes the sentimental above the unflinching messiness of reality. When we attempt to return to an idyllic past, what we often really want to return to is an experience of closeness with God which often accompanies new faith. We in essence want to re-experience the exhilaration or joy or whatever emotional state marked our conversion because it is to us evidence of God’s existence and embracing of us. Jeremy Begbie writes of this sentimentalist phenomenon that, “The sentimentalist loves and hates, grieves or pities not for the sake of the other but for the sake of enjoying love, hate, grief or pity.” Here nostalgia has a greater interest in a “Deep Warm Sweet Interior Glowing” than in any “other”, be that God or neighbor.

Third, nostalgia tends to prize spiritual immaturity. When we place an inordinate amount of esteem on our early expressions of faith we can tend to devalue and under emphasize our present expressions of faith. I would suggest that as faith matures it expresses itself differently. Philip Yancey in his book “Reaching for the Invisible God” suggests that faith is akin to a muscle that must be exercised in order for it to grow. As alluded to previously, conversion, especially in many Protestant and Evangelical circles, is often accompanied by an emotional surge which fades with time. In that surge, where the converted experiences a strong sense of the presence of God, the muscle of faith isn’t severely taxed. It’s when that sense of God’s presence seems distant or absent that faith is tested and exercised. When we prize the idyllic past we in a sense treasure an immature expression of our faith and devalue the new things the Spirit has done in our lives since then, and has in store for us.

So if Jesus is calling us to a sort of existential remembrance here, how do we read this postcard through those eyes, and not through the eyes of nostalgia? If we assume that nostalgia is a force that can be destructive to faith, then we must assume a non-nostalgic stance when interpreting the call to, “Repent and do the things you did at first.” This would mean that Jesus isn’t calling the church in Ephesus to a rote mimicry of their earlier practices, behaviors, and expressions of faith, but to return to a vital, first love-centric, renewed, and vigorous reinterpretation of their love and faith in their present context, remembering he “who holds the seven stars (the messengers of the churches) in his right hand and walks among the seven golden lamp stands (the seven churches mentioned in the Revelation)”, the one who is both the object of their faith and the template of self-gifting actions. I would suggest this is the road of remembrance and subsequently reinterpretation they’re being called on to travel.

Juno, Culture and Theology

It's been awhile since I posted, and as I'm graduating in 2 weeks, I'll have more time to post more, finally. In the mean time here is a paper I wrote for my Pop Culture and Christian formation class which fits the themes of this blog, so I figured I'd share it. It is a bit specific to the class, but I think works on its own to, even if its a bit dated. Enjoy.

The 2007 film Juno, directed by Jason Reitman, is an odd mix of genres, tones and emotions. It is a teen film, in that its focus is largely on high school students, yet it lacks the genre’s stereotypical raunch. It is a largely apolitical film that tonally achieves both pro-choice and pro-life moments. It is a comedy which is ultimately poignant and moving, perhaps even overtly and overly sweet, yet its sweetness grows out of the characters and story, and is not simply affixed for expediency. In addition to all of these peculiar juxtapositions the film somehow accomplishes the simultaneous engagement of sociological, ethical, and theological narratives surrounding teen pregnancy. What follows is a brief exploration of bits of those narratives, the manner in which they play out in the film, and how that might correspond to the lives of the adolescents who might engage this text.

Sociologically, and psychologically for that matter, Juno, the film’s protagonist, is a relatively typical high school student, though perhaps with a maturity and vocabulary beyond her years which can be overlooked for the sake of the willing suspension of disbelief. She has formed an identity along the fringes of popular culture, built around quirky, punk and alternative music, and slasher films.[1] Because of these chosen associations she experiences a degree of marginalization, which she in reality wears as a badge of honor, though as a result of her pregnancy she experiences an even further marginalization which she is less comfortable with, referring to herself as “the cautionary whale.”[2] In this tension the film recognizes the difference between the manner in which teens and people in general view themselves, the manner in which others view them, and the manner in which the individual either embraces or rejects other’s interpretations of him or her. Here Juno must grapple with what her pregnancy means to her identity. Does it irrevocably alter it, or can it be assimilated into the construct she’s already built? It’s into this social and psychological cauldron of ambiguity that the ethical and theological narratives are stirred, as Juno attempts to decide how to respond to her situation.

Juno’s first instinct upon learning she’s pregnant is to contact a local clinic, found in the Yellow Pages, which offers feminine reproductive services, asking how she might, “procure a hasty abortion.” She sets an appointment over the phone, but as she approaches the clinic there is a single protester outside, Su-Chin, who happens to be a classmate of Juno’s, with a sign shouting to nobody in particular, “All babies want to get borned.” This is the film’s first moment of inserting a theological and ethical narrative into Juno’s personal social and psychological narrative. As Juno walks past Su-Chin on her way to the clinic she is shouted after about her fetus’ development. She is told the fetus inside her has a beating heart, hair and fingernails. The last fact stops her in her tracks as she seems bemused. Upon entering the clinic she attempts light banter with the “emo” girl behind the counter who seems bored disinterested, addressing Juno in a cold, matter of fact tone. As Juno waits for her name to be called she can’t escape the sound of everyone either scratching, or tapping their fingernails, bringing to mind Su-Chin’s admonition. Juno eventually retreats from the clinic, running. As she sprints past Su-Chin, she shouts to Juno, “God appreciates your miracle!” Su-Chin is addressing Juno from her own theological narrative, which evidently sees a connection between God and some form of respect for life, and seems intended to be symbolic of the Christian pro-life position. Su-Chin’s narrative then disrupts Juno’s plans by disrupting Juno’s narrative.

In this theological confrontation, Juno’s latent theological narrative is never explicitly addressed, however the audience does witness her grappling with how these theological claims interact with the ethical decisions she is being forced to make, and how these correlate to her psychological and social contexts. This grappling however does not occur through the production of an easy moral, or even through a high moral tone, but is achieved through the film’s oddities and trivialities which in all reality end up replacing the high moral and correspondingly obvious theological tone with one which seems more akin to everyday experience, even though in Juno’s case this earthy tone is probably a bit wordier than most.[3] It is here in its banter, humor, and subsequent sweetness that the film’s theological engagement isn’t preached but is lived.

Ideally this is the manner in which the arts operate, according to Mattias Caro, inviting its audience, “to live and to examine the tensions life produces. It encourages us to remember there is more than mere political and moral posturing out there.”[4] In dramatically moving through these tensions between formation and ethics, theology and identity, and sociality and morality the film allows the issues to be holistically and incarnationally engaged in a manner which reveals their inherent inter-connectedness. Thus not only do the characters in the film end up engaging in Juno’s lived tensions and the disruption of her own theological narratives, but the film embodies these tensions in such a way that at the very least the audience emotionally engages these tensions as well.

This same pattern of engagement is at play as a second theological narrative is brought to the table, theodicy itself. As with all of the narratives engaged in the film theodicy is engaged with lightness and humor as Juno’s step-mother, Bren, asserts, “Someone’s going to get a special blessing from Jesus in this garbage dump of a situation.” This is theodicy viewed from above, through faith and with a spoonful of levity. Hers is a faith which evidently trusts that any situation can be redeemed as she attempts to make sense of why this difficulty is occurring to and in her family. It is of note that this faith is given to Juno’s step-mother’s character who only inhabits that role because of the dissolution of Juno’s parent’s marriage. Thus she embodies both the need to ask and the impulse to answer the question. But this question is not only asked by her, but in all actuality hangs over the entire movie as film critic D.G.D. Davidson observes, “This is a story of young people who have to find their way through the debris of institutions their elders have destroyed…”[5]

In their negotiation of this systematic brokenness the films characters all tend to attempt to reconstruct the heart of these institutions without resurrecting the institutions themselves, recognizing that sharing blood relations doesn’t necessitate family, but that the family an individual chooses isn’t necessarily dependent upon blood.[6] In this they are engaging theodicy and attempting to overcome it, though again perhaps not in an overtly theological manner. Thus Bren is revealed in some measure to have had a well placed faith as the adoption allows Vanessa, the adoptive mother, to realize her long pursuit of motherhood, and it allows Juno to complete her childhood.[7] Here the question of theodicy is not answered, but if the audience pauses they may be able to experience the mystery at the heart of the answer, which is perhaps all that can really be expected.

[1] Dan Morehead. “Film – Lions for Lambs, Charlie Wilson’s War, Juno.” 1 January 2008. Available at http://americasyoungtheologian.blogspot.com/2008/01/film-lions-for-lambs-charlie-wilsons.html. Internet; accessed 1 April 2009.
[2] Ibid.
[3] Gavin Richardson. “Juno – The Richardson Family Take.” 28 January 2008. Available at http://www.gavoweb.com/hit_the_back_button_to_mo/2008/01/juno-the-richar.html. Internet; accessed 1 April 2009.
[4] Mattias A. Caro. “The Artistic Dialogue of Juno.” 21 February 2008. Available at http://www.ajustsociety.org/press/forum.asp?nav=publications&cjsForumID=1091. Internet; accessed 1 April 2009.
[5] D.G.D. Davidson. “Movie Review – Juno.” 26 January 2008. Available at http://www.scificatholic.com/
2008/01/movie-review-juno.html. Internet; accessed 1 April 2009.
[6] Peter Quinn. “Juno.” 8 February 2008. Available at http://www.thinkingfaith.org/articles/
FILM_20080207_2.htm. Internet, accessed 1 April 2009.
[7] Ibid.

The Sound of Music

It’s been awhile since I’ve posted. I hope to become more regular soon, but I’m also working on my Master’s Thesis, which I’m finding to be very time, energy, and imagination consuming. I evidently find it difficult to write several things at once, at least in this instance. At any rate, I’ve had this rattling around in my head for a bit, so I figured I’d share it. At a Bible study going through the book of I Peter a month or two ago we were asked what we were grateful or thankful for in the context of the second chapter of the book. The first thing that popped into my head, though I have an overabundance for which to be thankful, was the ability to participate in music. To put this in context I’ll have to share a little history, so please bear with me.

One thing that has been constant in my life is a deep love for music. I can remember being 5 years old and really paying attention to what I’d hear on the radio, or what my Mom or Dad would play. I remember my mom really liking Barry Manilow and Billy Joel. I still really enjoy Joel’s music… Barry, not so much (sorry Mr. Manilow, it’s nothing personal). I remember taking note of songs on the radio, and have always had favorites. I also remember my dad taking me to see live classical and choral music. He even took me to the opera, which was largely spectacle to my pre-teen eyes. I still remember the record player I received for my 11th or 12th birthday, and the first album I received with it, Billy Joel’s Greatest Hits. The first album I ever actually bought myself was a-ha’s “Hunting High and Low”… and I’m not ashamed of that at all… no, really. Music was escape, therapy, and prayer. I would spend hours in my room just listening to new and old records.

I knew I wanted to be a part of making music because I just felt it so deeply. I figured the easiest and most natural outlet would be singing. I couldn’t play an instrument, and was too lazy to learn. I have a lazy streak, that I fight to this day, that drives me to try things as long as I can master them quickly and without looking awkward in the process. So learning piano, or guitar was out of the question because it just took too much work. I had tried to pick up clarinet in elementary school, and actually flunked out of it (which is really impossible to do). I remember at the elementary school Christmas concert, not really blowing, or knowing what to play because I just never practiced. Something similar happened with singing. To say it didn’t come naturally to me is an understatement; at least that’s what I’m told by those who had to listen to me sing. I sang with conviction and passion, but without actually hitting the correct notes, which unfortunately for me was one of the key elements of singing. So after several debacles in church where I really just embarrassed myself, though I didn’t know it at the time, I decided I had to learn something else music related. I had to be involved in making music somehow… which is when I decided to learn the drums.

I had rhythm, and there were no notes involved, it seemed like the perfect fit. I had seen other drummers play and knew how drums sets were set up, and decided to try to learn by playing with all my records and CD’s in my room, where I spent so much time listening to music. I would arrange pillows on the corner of my bed for toms, and boxes for high hats and snares and would play with CD’s from The Choir, U2, a-ha, R.E.M., Pink Floyd, Deliverance, Barren Cross, Altar Boys, Billy Joel, Tears for Fears, Mr. Mister, everything from swirly rock to pop to alt to metal. I learned single handed to play syncopated beats from Steve Hindalong of The Choir. When I got to college I purchased an old, small Slingerland jazz set for somewhere around $250 and proceeded to play rock music on it with friends and play very loudly. At any rate that’s when my journey as a musician started and being able to play has meant the world to me every step of the way.

Now I understand how self important and melodramatic much of this sounds, and for that I apologize, at least for the negative parts, but if I’m going to be honest with myself there is always a certain amount of self importance in writing something in a blog for public consumption anyway… but that’s a subject for another day. But part of the reason for sharing a bit of my history is to share the roots of my passion, the roots of what I’m experiencing when I hear music, and when I play music.

I’m thankful I have the opportunity to play drums because I get to experience first hand the beauty and transcendence I sense when I listen to music. There are times when I listen to music that I experience God. Often words are insufficient to describe what happens in those encounters. I’ve come to think that these moments may be the purest form of joy I’ve come to encounter. When I play I feel that joy even deeper at times because I get to participate in the music. I’m also thankful I get to play because I love being a part of creating an atmosphere where that encounter or experience may occur for someone else. Perhaps it’s someone else I’m playing with, or someone listening to what we’re playing, but for God to possibly use our encounter (my encounter with God) to possibly encounter another person humbles me when I truly contemplate it. I’m thankful I get to play because playing has become a language that God and I share. It has become a way that I can speak to God, offering my body, my motion, my mind, my heart in this one act. I’m not one to dance or even raise my hands during worship, but my body is free, in fact at its freest in service to God when I’m behind a drum set. I can be pretty self conscious in certain circles, but all of that leaves me when I play. In short playing music and even more specifically drums often becomes for me an ecstatic experience. So this is what is happening at my best moments when I play, so if you see me behaving strangely behind a drum set you now know at least a little of what might causing such odd behavior. It is behavior for which I am ultimately thankful to God for the opportunity to exhibit.

The image above is from: www.superstock.com/.../1491R-1078970