Through the Eyes of Christian Celebrity
A Glimpse Into the Strange World I Inhabit
I was looked at, but I wasn’t seen — Albert Camus, The Misunderstanding
Let’s establish first that I am a minor celebrity at best. That’s not false modesty. It’s a modifier I feel must be added so that I am not thought of as grandiose.
I read a great deal of nonsense that, if slightly more self-aware, might recognize itself for the axe to grind clearly on display. They might, you know, try to hide it better.
It’s come to my attention more clearly in recent years that people need a boogeyman to rally against, and one of these is anyone who falls under the category of being well-known.
I’ve ignored it for years, but the tension has amped up here recently, and since there’s never any pushback, I figured I would offer some. Specifically because those writing missives are not, themselves, on the inside but are on the outside looking through frosted windows and wearing fingerless mittens.
The accusation is this, simply: Christian celebrity is suspect. That’s it. Point blank. If more than five people know you, you’re a heretic. Not sure where in the Bible it says that, but it simply isn’t true. Heresy comes as a result of what you believe and not the fact that your work has reached beyond your quaint little town.
You can be a total false teacher back in the woods of Alabama where you mumble to yourself inaccuracies from scripture or be orthodox and sincere with an audience into the millions.
It’s not to say, of course, that there are not many bad apples in the bushel in the wide world of Christian celebrity. Yes — there are. I wish to cover the reasons for this in a future post but spent the last two days eating cheese pizza which nearly always knocks me out, so it will have to wait.
But here, I peel back the curtain and reveal a peek at what goes on backstage.
I can’t be your hero or villain. Or your role model. Or who you think me to be. I am incredibly lonely. I have a small gift, this tiny offering held as a bouquet of baby’s breath in my hands.
I don’t know how it makes you feel.
It goes forth and is amplified by acoustics, carried on sound waves resounding into the atmosphere.
Appearing big when really, it is small.
I am even more diminutive.
Very often scared.
Wondering what the hell I am doing here.
Much like Thom Yorke’s vantage point in the Radiohead song Creep, I feel horribly out of place and strange, looking out on the sea of faces.
I am enveloped by the theatre for the few minutes I am standing there addressing the crowd before retreating, my words etched into pixels and digital dashes, ones, and zeroes.
My whole life is expected to be a machine in production of the moments that I give for free, blowing thoughts as dandelion seeds from my hands. Wisdom emanates as ooze from my pores, allegedly.
And when I can’t be that, people become angry. Scary, really. I cannot be as open with individuals as I can with an audience.
No one who comes closer realizes that a musician does not play symphonies every moment. They practice scales endlessly. They go over movements until they achieve mastery.
And then they rest.
The performance is comprised of rundowns and perfected technique.
Afterward is time spent off the clock. Socializing. Relaxing. Letting down their hair. No garden blooms 24/7. Nor should it.
I am not allowed to play.
I am a bird in captivity.
I am not permitted to make mistakes nor may I talk out of turn.
I can’t disappoint you in any way.
I must not cross invisible lines that won’t be communicated to me beforehand but which I will surely be punished, and that, without mercy.