Jesus Camp

As films go, I am a big fan of the documentary. It used to be I would encounter the genre solely in the classroom (a la history or science class) but as I've moved out of high school and through college, I've discovered the documentary to be a part of the mainstream. Perhaps it's only been because of my life's progression or because the genre is becoming more popularized by culture, but whatever the reason, I find the lens of the camera capturing frames of "real" life to often be relational and always intriguing.

Last night I had the opportunity to watch the documentary "Jesus Camp." The film's main focus is on a summer camp for Pentecostal children, but it also takes a brief look at the Evangelical right, homeschooling, and the megachurch movement.

To tell you the truth, I had been avoiding this documentary since its release two years ago. I knew the experience would not be a pleasant one, that I would see things on screen that I had been privy to for most of my life, and that I would enjoy it as much as getting my teeth cleaned. So, as opening credits rolled, I braced myself for the emotional undertaking.

An hour and a half later, I left with sordid emotions that I'm still working through. Many scenes were humorous, allowing for comic relief in the midst of a movie that found me more nauseous than anything. But after the sickness came a deep-rooted sadness that has lingered as I continue to unpack the implications of this piece of cinematography.

It would be unfair to say I was exposed to a faith of this intensity at such a young age, but suffice it to say, I could relate to many a scene in the film. I was prepared for this, but still appalled at the rawness of it portrayed on screen. More painful than their intensity was the sincerity of the adults as well as the children. Though the sincerity was there, the understanding was not.

I could go into how mindless Christianity has become in the last decades, how we are so set on being trendy or partisan towards a certain political party. It would be easy to complain about the us vs. them mentality that is permeating so many churches, and it would be relevant to the film at hand. But I wasn't so concerned with these broad themes as I was at the subtle fractures in the faith presented on the screen.

The documentary focused on the children who are being raised in this extreme environment. The manipulation of these kids and the pressure to conform to the ways of their peers and the adults who are leading them is enough to scare anyone away. It hinted at a version of Stockholm syndrome that I have felt in so many services. You go along with the niceties of church: the emotions, mouthing the words, standing and sitting when appropriate, et. al. Being under that pressure all the time has to come to a head eventually, and my mind kept wondering where those kids will be in ten years.

Will this next "great generation" be dogmatic in every aspect of their lives? Will they see people as opponents or allies? The world in black and white terms? Will their anger turn to bitterness? Will they even be able to reason and think for themselves? So many frightening questions.

We had a brief discussion following the film and it was mentioned that these kids are learning a form of religious terrorism, a sort of jihad. In fact, the film often mentions that Muslim children are being taught to defend Islam through military training. Using the same concepts, Evangelicals are equipping their children in a similar manner. If that concept doesn't scare the hell out of all of us, I don't know what would.

Despite all of the questions and issues and qualms the film raised for us, I am confronted with only one personally. As I've trekked closer to the edges of faith in these last years, I have attempted to move away from this "Christian" subculture. It hasn't been easy. Comfort lies in the crowd, not in the margins. When you begin to question the bread in your mouth, people get uncomfortable. But it's been necessary for me to step away from the Church as a building and revision it as a body.

One voice of truth and challenge that has been a catalyst for rethinking faith recently is that of Derek Webb. His music convicts the comfortable, and as I watched this film last night, all I could think of was his songs "My Enemies Are Men Like Me" and "Wedding Dress."

"Enemies" discusses pacifism and equality of men, no matter their nationality or religious tendencies. The political overtones of the documentary were clear on a Christian vs. Muslim division - us and them. Perhaps out of fear or out of bitterness, these people proclaimed their hatred toward Islam and it made me sad.

Derek's other song, "Wedding Dress" is probably one of the most convicting songs I've heard in a while. He discusses how we can put God on and take him off as easily as changing our clothing. "I am a whore, I do confess/ I put you on just like a wedding dress/ and I run down the aisle...." Doing church, doing faith, can be so easy to don and shed. Emotions, actions, habits can become so comfortable and we can be caught in that cycle of Sunday morning sacrilege. I am at fault, too.

It is so easy for me to condemn those portrayed in the film, to somehow place myself above them because I think for myself, I don't buy into the subculture, etc. etc. This is a dangerous mindset. I damn myself when I fall into that frame of mind, not only because I am a guilty but because they are my brothers and sisters and fellow humans. As much as I want to reject their mandates and versions of faith, I cannot ignore that they are seeking the same God I am. That may be the hardest concept to process right now.

It isn't enough to identify the problems in others because they are blatant in my life, too. As long as I choose to identify with Christianity, I must recognize the fractures in my own life, my inability to love purely and to speak unfragmented truth. I cannot deny my association with the church, either, because, as Tony Compollo once expressed, "The church is a whore, but she is my mother."

The Weight of Words

Conversations are interesting things. The more time I spend talking with others, the more convinced I am that words can be lifelines or nooses, weapons or hospital beds. We must choose wisely. You already know all of this...

While here, I've been compiling a list of quotes spoken by people in this community. Humorous, honest, callous, whatever, I am keeping them safe. Perhaps I'll share them or keep them to myself. I haven't decided yet.

This afternoon I collected another of these phrases, directed straight at me. My boss in the kitchen came up to me and said:

"Come here, I can't see you very well, dear." Flicking on the light switch:
"That's better! You're fucking beautiful."

I know some may have been offended by his blunt statement, but his words brightened me. The juxtaposition of crass and complimentary words blended to be a wonderful turn of phrase, more salve than searing, and exactly what I needed to hear at that moment. Who knows what his motivation behind the observation was, but it allowed me to surface out of this present blue phase I've been in, for a little while, and that's all that matters.

Honesty On A Screen

"The worst enemy to creativity is self-doubt." - Sylvia Plath

This quote resonates with the life I have led this last month or so. The intent for this time (roughly 4 months) was to be creative, artistic; to put down everything and anything, to have something to show for the time when it is over. But a third of the time has elapsed now, and I don't feel like I've grown much and I'm certainly not improving.
I believe it's because I carry this fear around, a fear of mediocrity, and a measure of self-doubt. Sylvia said it best, and may have diagnosed the symptom of stagnancy.
I find myself more uncertain as the days progress. I find myself failing at every turn.
I have heavy hands full of responsibility, fragile as infants, yet they feel empty, hollow, trembling.
My mind keeps returning to the place of doubt, questioning, second-guessing every action, bracing for the terrible reactions.

Because of this, I feel like a coward, afraid of life. Scared of everything. Like every movement towards normalcy, towards coping, has been shifted back to the beginning. I am no longer free of the feeling of inadequacy. Perhaps I never will be again.

I feel like Lady MacBeth in an endless attempt to wash failure from my hands, but never cleansing them of that damned spot.

For these reasons (and others) I am terrified and lower than I've been in a while.

"Perhaps when we find ourselves wanting everything, it is because we are dangerously close to wanting nothing." - Sylvia Plath

Every Day, A Line

I've been living in a musician's commune for about a month now. The experience has been as unique as it would seem from the outside, and my mind has been challenged to think about certain things differently. Though much of what we discuss here is not necessarily new to me, the concepts are so compelling and vital to revisit. Otherwise, my mind fails to engage the ideas behind them. The challenge has not come from understanding the concepts, or "getting it". Instead, I've struggled with becoming complacent with the ideas themselves and not applying them to my life.
One revolutionary idea that was mentioned this week comes from our "patron saint" in this community, Vincent van Gogh. Though a visual artist, van Gogh also communicated to his brother through a series of letters. He writes:
"Not a day without a line. By writing, reading, working and practicing daily, perseverance will lead me to a good end."
And I guess that's why I've taken this time. To get away, to reassess what lines I want to put down every day. How I can be more intentional about my life and where I go from each day on.