My heart sank. These were the words I dreaded with all the dread of a combined $30,000 in student loan debt. Experience was exactly what I did not have as a recent grad.
What I did have were Hollywood dreams, a resume replete with low-level production jobs, and a working knowledge of literary theory.
Now, here I was, rejected from a volunteer, assistant position on a film that would never make money. I reacted the way most mature adults do when faced with rejection. I raged. I sulked. I griped to my friends. I half-heartedly contemplated quitting my dreams.
But most of all, that word “experience” hit me like a punch to the gut. I thought I was over it. I had mentally shrugged it off as no big deal.
I had tried once, unsuccessfully, to volunteer at a church I was attending. I wanted to get involved. I chose production arts because it seemed like the best fit for a wannabe filmmaker who happens to be an introvert and doesn’t particularly like directing cars or working with children.
I was emailing back and forth with a church staff member. He asked me what I wanted to do. I said I wanted to work behind-the-scenes. He asked about my experience. I described my involvement in making movies. Radio silence on his end.
I finally approached him at church and introduced myself.
“Oh. I had confused you with another girl named ‘M___’ who is definitely not qualified to volunteer for the production arts team.”
In the next 30 seconds, he must have used the word “experience” at least five times: everyone who volunteers for production arts needs to have experience, all the people who’ve signed up during the volunteer drive are supposed to have experience, the other girl doesn’t have experience, etc.
I froze. I dug around in the back of my mind. How could someone be so completely unqualified to run PowerPoint slides or wrangle microphones? I quickly surmised that she must have been born without thumbs. How tragic.
Everything hit me at once—my name in the emails (announcing my gender, my non-white racial status), my perceived lack of knowledge, my dubious credentials, and my strange kinship with this girl with missing digits. I felt naked and exposed, as if the letters of my name had shouted from the rooftops the deep unworthiness I had tried so hard to hide.
How had he perceived the truth about me? How had my name betrayed me so brutally?
I did what all writers do under these circumstances. I wrote what I knew was a reasoned, well-thought-out email explaining why what he said had bothered me. I was handling this in a grownup, rational fashion. I joked to myself, “Well, at least he didn’t tell me to go volunteer for the children’s ministry or the welcome team instead.” But at night my mind wouldn’t let go of that girl, that other girl, the one without thumbs. I kept thinking about her. I felt bad for her.
I knew it was nothing personal. What is church after all, amateur hour? You can’t just let anyone push buttons or run PowerPoint slides. These things take finesse, experience, maybe even some degree of talent.
God forbid a bad sound mix or a missed slide distract the churchgoer from the message of the gospel. It’s about excellence. And experience is the necessary precursor.
Excellence is hard to define, but I think we all know mediocrity when we see it. Rachel Held Evans calls out painfully amateur special music as one hallmark of the awkward church. As Christians, mediocrity embarrasses us. If it’s not good enough for the world, it shouldn’t be good enough for Sunday service. Mediocrity hurts us and makes us cringe, like watching your friend perform bad standup at a club with no guest list and a two drink minimum.
And so we are urged to give God our best: Quality. Excellence. Good production values. I don’t believe that God has a problem with any of these things. I don’t think your worship is any more pleasing to God because you have a crappy sound system or sing Keith Green songs off key.
Similarly, just because a movie has positive Christian values, spells out the gospel, or is produced by a mega church does not make it good. Au contraire says every “Left Behind” movie ever made.
I currently go to church on Hollywood Boulevard. We get our share of the homeless, the strung-out, and the downright crazy. Last Sunday, a relatively normal looking man rushed the stage in an attempt to join in as a backup singer for the worship team. He never made it that far. Security escorted him out, his hands still outstretched for a microphone.
I feel like I’m that guy sometimes—the grossly unqualified gatecrasher violating the sacred order of the liturgy with my flaws, my brokenness. It’s not that I’m not experienced. It’s that I know that no matter how much experience I have at living this life I will never be perfect.
If only you could see my heart—the hatred, the bitterness, the jealousy, and the pride—you would rightfully conclude that I should be forcibly removed as well. In the face of perfection, I am unworthy. We all are. We are all missing a few fingers, or in my case, probably a major limb.
To weave the connection between church and Hollywood a little bit tighter, consider this Hollywood value: The product is more important than the people.
If it is the quality of the end product that matters, the church too can justify exclusion on the basis of excellence. Are you experienced? Are you worthy? Will you make us look bad?
In the midst of my disappointment at my rejection from the film job I didn’t have the experience for, what hurt the most was realizing that a church was ready to reject me for the same reason—this ethic of excellence that expels and excludes.
Ironically, I HAD the right experience. But my name, my face, my body told a different story.
Ironically, I HAD the right experience. But my name, my face, my body told a different story.
The church is not transforming Hollywood. Hollywood is transforming the church and making it after its own image.
