The Rob Bell Experience

Posted by parkejladd on Dec 13, 2009 in Featured {Article} | 11 comments

Whom Do You Applaud?

The stage was set, the audience ready.  8pm and still no sign of commencement.  Nothing elaborate or spectacular on the platform in front of us.  No extreme demonstrations of wealth or entertainment scattered about like something from a political campaign or Hollywood movie set, just a larger than life projection screen waiting to be brought to life.  A large crowd had gathered, somewhere around three thousand.  They filled every available seat, quickly adapting to each other, interacting and sharing life, anticipating an engaging experience, waiting to be brought to life.

The crowd was overwhelmingly composed of middle-class, middle America, white people who all seemed to know a lot about church, each other and Jesus.  No obviously homeless people in the crowd, no outwardly disheveled, hungry, shoeless, or dirty attendees.  You had to have an $18 ticket just to watch.  This was not a show for the economically broke Christian.  There were no easily identifiable affluent folk in attendance either.  As far as I could tell, no one rolled up in a Bentley or left VIP style through a door into a back alley after the show.  People didn’t really attempt to draw attention to themselves like they tend to do at certain other venues, simply showing up to see and be seen.  The crowd knew each other.  I talked to my neighbor for fifteen minutes prior to the opening.  He would occasionally wave to people in the balcony and all across the room as he simultaneously held a conversation with me.  There were pastors and college students, young adults and grandparents, babies and teenagers.  A lot of plain t-shirts, trendy sweaters, jeans, tattoo sleeves and black ear ring studs.  I was surrounded by people, twenty to thirty years of age, a large majority of them constantly pulling out their iPhones, snapping photos of all the other twenty to thirty something’s, snapping photos of them.  I didn’t mind.  I am one of them after all.

The diversity in the crowd was unapparent to say the least.  Welcome to the church.  I promise we’re not all white, popular and well kempt all of the time in all places.  Trust me on this one.  Everyone was settled in, nice and comfy, boxed in and buffered from the winter freeze occurring outside along with the rancid stench hovering in the city air.  The crowd was ready to be entertained, ready to see something spectacular, ready to hear something that would make them feel alive or at least better.  Welcome to the  church.  I promise we’re not all about listening and feelings.  At least not most of the time.  And then, at about twelve minutes past 8pm, without announcement, without a dimming of the house lights, a slightly excited and barely noticeable murmur began to spring up in the back of the theater, slowly and subtly overtaking the small talk and chatter still occurring amongst patrons between the middle and front of the theater.  People’s heads started to turn toward the rear of the room.  Many people even started to point fingers, wave, and laugh in response to their possibly having caught a glimpse of the one whom they had come to see.  The excited murmur grew exponentially as the energy strengthened from a trickle at the rear to a full fledged flood of yelling, hollering and enthusiastic applause throughout the entire theater.  And then, as the wave of applause crested and rolled onto the front of the room, a single man with dark, buzzed hair; thick, black glasses; gray, finely tailored shirt, and skinny, black designer jeans, appeared in the aisle.  At this point even the middle aged portion of the crowd pulled out their Blackberry’s and began videoing and photographing this man dressed in black, ala Johnny Cash, as if they had never before seen or been in the presence of a man just like them except from Michigan, slightly cleaner and a tad bit quirkier.

When Salt Loses Its Saltiness

As the man took the stage, the applause continued.  Many people even stood from their seats and whistled at the coming into their presence of this man with dark glasses and a microphone.  I looked around, still seated, unable to understand what was happening.  People were smiling, pointing and laughing with childish glee.  I knew nothing about this man, but it became obvious very quickly that I was alone in my ignorance.  He slowly and methodically ascended the stairs from the aisle of the theater onto the stage with great purpose and an abundance of confidence.  He raised his hands into the air, far above his head, and the applause became even louder.  He beckoned us to clap our hands even harder as his hands, held high above his head, began to flap in a manner reminiscent of a professional athlete urging a stadium to cheer even louder.  Our clapping wasn’t enough; the standing ovation upon his entrance was not yet enough.  He needed more clapping, more yelling, more energy.  The cameras rolled; the spotlight hot and bright upon his face, yet he perspired not.  There was nothing nervous or frightened about his demeanor.  There was nothing convicting about his appearance, and he didn’t look like someone who had come to convict an audience.  He seemed nice, yet strangely so.  The stage was set.  The audience was alive; ready to sit, listen, watch and absorb.  Welcome to the church.  I promise we are not all about sitting and watching all of the time in all different places.  Obviously, from the way the crowd reacted, this man was of great importance.  Something about him–the way he looked, carried himself, walked across the stage, and interacted with his audience–commanded their awe and reverie.  There was no denying his influence, his power, his wide scope of attention.  Now fully acquainted with the stage and somewhat awkwardly comfortable with the onslaught of attention and praise, he continued to seemingly bask in the waves of energy and excitement being cast upon him and his big screen like someone sitting on the beach, absorbing rays of sunlight in hopes of obtaining the perfect tan.  The cameras rolled.  The audience gave off a vibe unlike anything I had ever experienced, as though it was bound and determined to be a part of something meaningful in the presence and captivity of a man who was about to inspire them, help them, encourage them, and leave them longing for more.  They were in the company of someone greater than themselves, and so their applause grew and grew and grew, and I uneasily sank further and further into the back of my squeaky, velvet seat.

“This Too Shall Shape Me”

It is an eerie yet fascinating interactive and social experience when one man can draw such attention and such a crowd to a single place, most all of them gathering in hopes of hearing something inspiring, impactful or even meaningful.  It is a tricky and interesting dilemma when the Jesus follower comes face to face with fame, financial expectations and book sales.  The man spoke eloquently, but the hopeful essence of his message was lost–at the very least blurred–amidst his self-imposed noise, art, and easy to swallow, mind-bending, creative-centered theology.  Art and creativity are some of the most exceptional of undertakings and traits known to man, but throughout the evening they were used as a focus rather than majestic, complimentary pieces meant to guide us toward foundational truth and good news.  The artistic and innovative drive encompassing his performance, accompanied by his eloquent words and smooth, backward stepping choreography, were excellent and colorful, but they left me with a sense of utter incompleteness.  Something was drastically missing.  The severely masterful artistic culture of it all served not as flattering facets of an underlying, foundational truth but instead served as the truth and underlying obligation on their own.  In short, I left longing to hear about Jesus.  O that glorious name…Jesus.  Paint it.  Carve it.  Spell it out.  Put it in a video.  Photograph it and drop it in slow motion, but whatever you do please don’t forget the name…Jesus.

“God Is Screaming With Me,” But I’m Not Sure I Understand What He’s Saying

Of course, maybe this was the point.  Maybe I was supposed to leave feeling incomplete, slightly lost in a room full of people seemingly content with suffering for refinements sake, not knowing where to turn next or even who to turn to.  I won’t speak for the entire room, however.  These thoughts may be mine and mine alone.  Regardless of our similarities and differences, I don’t pretend that all or even most people think the same way as I .  Maybe I wasn’t supposed to leave knowing where to turn, where to go, whom to run to, or what questions to ask next.  Maybe, as the man with dark glasses and a microphone stated at the start of his presentation, the Bible and life itself is like a movie that ends abruptly with an audience hoping the credits are not yet ready to roll.  “Who would follow such a movement as that,” he asked.  And maybe that’s exactly what he was attempting to get us to gaze upon, to reach for.  He was, I assume, attempting to leave his audience longing for something more, something which he decidedly did not want to provide.  He, for whatever reason, did not want to substantially incorporate the gospel, did not want to overwhelm us with Jesus, and did not want to go too deeply into where we go with our suffering, why we suffer, for whom we suffer, or what we do when we suffer.

He chose to stay on the fanciful yet almost too comfortable fringes of love, grace, gospel and Jesus rather than diving into the depths of mercy, compassion and good news.  His goal, seemingly, was not to challenge or change his audience.  Rather, he seemed to want to let us know that, “It’s all going to be okay.  Suffering on your Friday?  Well, your Sunday is coming soon.”  His attempt was to inspire people, when in suffering, to create something from that suffering which  is better and more beautiful than they could have ever imagined.  “With imagined being the key word.”  Yet to me, imagined was not the key word; rather, his key word seemed to be “me”.  His whole message seemed to be based upon what I can do or accomplish.  I can create something beautiful.  I can pull myself from suffering.  I can make an incredible sculpture, even a rabbit figure, out of a bar of soap.  I can pull myself out of this misery and laugh in the face of “cocaine addiction” or the terrors of “cancer.”  I can laugh, tilt my head back and roar, in the remembrance of drug addiction, the perils of a loved one trapped and tortured by it’s binding and all consuming grasp.  I can laugh hilariously in remembrance of losing loved ones to cancer.  I can laugh!  I can do it because I am not alone in my suffering.  Right?  There are thousands of others going through it as well.  Right?  And they are there for me.  Right?  The church is there for the broken and hurting and addicted.  Right?  The church cares about the disfigured and flawed.  Right?…Right?

Welcome to the church.  May I take your order please.

Throughout the man in black’s conversation, I found myself longing for him to simply say:  Jesus.  Jesus is the greatest source of imagination and creativity and strength in the entire universe, and there is nothing we alone can do to pull ourselves out of our suffering or heal our broken hearts.  It is only through him and his love and grace by which we can be saved and relieved from the pain afflicting our broken, shattered hearts.  We are not guaranteed a life of comfort.  Jesus is the only way to a truly fulfilling, peaceful and joyous life, regardless of suffering or comfort, pain or ease of living.  Trust in him; not in people or yourself alone, but fully in Jesus.  Pursue Jesus.  If you suffer, do so for him.  If you don’t suffer, do so for him.  Either way, whether you suffer or not, live for him. It’s as if he, this man with dark glasses and a microphone, understood suffering but forgot to integrate the most articulate and thoughtful and creative artist of all time, Jesus, into the story.

I had hoped for an ending completely consumed with following Jesus.  I didn’t get it.  The speaker chose not to lead us there, and for whatever reason, I will probably never know.  Despite my qualms about his efforts and his lack of Jesus throughout, he did inspire conversation, and he did inspire my heart to dive more deeply into what I hold most dearly to, and he allowed me to see suffering in its most present, middle class, American form.  I love the man in black for that.  There is no doubt about it.  I know that our conversations would be full of hope, peace and innovation.  I think we would probably be good friends.  I don’t accept everything I hear just because everyone stands and applauds, however.  It’s just not who I am.  On the other hand, the man with dark glasses and a microphone is captivating people, and I hope that he uses that attention to urge people toward Jesus.  It’s difficult to do with a growing population of followers, but it is what we are all called to attempt no matter how much suffering or pain is involved.

Selling Because You Have Our Attention—Is This Creativity?

The man left the stage to a standing ovation.  It was loud.  People cheered and reached for him, to touch him as he passed, exiting the theater the same way he had entered hours earlier.  He was completely cool and unnerved, and I think he was alright with that.  He shook a babies hand, hugged a woman’s fiance, and took picture after picture with little kids and old adults alike.  He signed autograph after autograph after autograph, and I stood and watched.  I absorbed how he interacted and spoke and smiled and the way in which he signed those autographs.  There was something almost rhythmically pseudo-artistic yet deeply saddening about the whole scene, sublime yet not satisfying, cool yet too comfortable, smoothly open-ended yet disconcertingly uncommitted.  I don’t think he noticed me standing there watching him.  I’m glad that he did not.  He had far too many books to autograph.

There is Hope for those who suffer, and His name is Jesus.