Wednesday, March 28, 2012

Are you experienced? : Excellence, Exclusion, and the Hollywoodization of Church

“Well, we’re really looking for someone with experience.”

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.

The church is not transforming Hollywood. Hollywood is transforming the church and making it after its own image.

Tuesday, March 13, 2012

Feminist resolves to give up getting angry as primary free-time activity

After much thought, consideration, and eye rolling from friends, Laurie Merten, 33, has decided to give up getting angry as her primary free-time activity.

"It was getting out of control," said Merten's best friend, Lindsey Seville. "We couldn't go out for a quiet dinner at the Olive Garden without Laurie bursting into a tirade about the portrayal of women as thought objects in the post 90s cinema of Wong Kar-wai."

Merten, also affectionately known to her family as "Ragey McRagerson," used to spend the majority of her free time penning feminist screeds or lecturing strangers on the metro about the differences between second and third wave feminism.

"Cultivating rage really took a lot out of me," Merten admits. "I spent so much of my time working myself into a state of righteous indignation that I really missed out on a lot that life has to offer."

Initially at a loss about what to do with her newfound free time, she has quickly turned to other forms of less violent entertainment, including yoga, knitting, and posting videos of cute animals to her friends' facebook walls.

"It seems to calm her," said David Li, Merten's live-in boyfriend. "She's already knitted five beanies and three scarfs for her nephew, Jason. He lives in Miami."

"It's really quiet around here," he added.

Merten, a marketing executive for a local company, first took up fury as a sophomore in college.

"The professor asked everyone who considered themselves a feminist to raise their hand. No one did. That's when I knew that becoming an angry bitch was my true calling."

"I was so naive."

Fourteen years later, Merten has relinquished her wrath. "I used to let every little thing bug me. Now, when a strange man gropes me on the street, I just shrug it off as a compliment."

Instead of burning her bra on the street corner every Sunday at 6am sharp, she has been spending an increasing number of hours on Pinterest.

"People don't tend to pin things that they're angry about," she explained. "I never see anyone pinning about child slavery or the the concussion her husband gave her for burning the cornbread."

Through Pinterest, she has already pinned over 30 popsicle stick crafts that she will never get around to actually making.

"It's amazing what you can accomplish when you're not spending your free hours haranguing against the patriarchy."

The road hasn't been easy. Merten admits that giving up rage has severely restricted her internet habits. She has stopped watching the news. When a co-worker starts talking about the republican primary, she puts her hands over her ears and starts singing loudly.

Recently, she found herself meditating vehemently in a bathroom stall after a male colleague was promoted after only six months in the same position.

"No, I don't think it has anything to do with gender. Men and women are basically equal in this day and age. They wouldn't have promoted him if they didn't think he was good at what he does. Would you like me to knit you a scarf?"

"I kind of miss the old Laurie," admitted Li.

"At least she would raise her voice when something was bothering her. Now I have to tiptoe around all the time."