The name of the film is supposed to be the only thing he loved more than movies: "Life Itself". That seems a tad oxymoronic to me. How can someone love actual life so much when so intrigued by the fictional, exaggerated depiction of it? It was when I loved life the least that I loved movies the most. I suppose that he would say that good film highlights the best and worst of life for us to examine at arm's length, and thus live it more fully, but I highly doubt that is the experience of most people. I can point to no more than one movie in my thousands of hours of watching that I can unequivocally say benefited me deeply and blessed me greatly, and I well believe the same message could have been received in a number of other avenues. (I think the story may be similar with the educational value of things like historical fiction). I just think I was spending a lot of time watching stories on screens in those days more than trying to live out my own, and God used the occasion to get my attention. I am firmly in the midst of a strong re-evaluation of the role of media in my life, and a lot more has been going than staying. It feels good.
This conviction aside, let's grant him his enjoyment. One of the things I have wondered about guys like him is: Can they still enjoy a movie the same way? There's a saying that gets passed around, especially with professional types in the arts: "You don't want to know how the sausage is made." The implication is that enjoyment diminishes with intimacy. A sausage may taste delicious to the average patron of New York street vendors handing them out, but the reality is: It's made of the unmentionable parts of a dead pig stuffed in an intestine and slapped on a white bun with relish. It affects the experience. The more one becomes familiar with the trade, craft and inner-workings of what is designed to be an enjoyable, if not effective (and affective), and immersive experience, the less of all these it becomes. One might say that it actually increases, as someone may appreciate a film more after having seen a behind-the-scenes look, but I suspect the enjoyment either shifts from it's original intent of story-depth to acknowledgement of hard work (trading one joy for another brand) which may carry similar levels of satisfaction but which I suspect changes the nature of it, or that it actually has a more bell-curved relationship on the axes of enjoyment and familiarity, increasing the former with mild-to-moderate exposure of the latter, and noticeably diminishing thereafter. (Credit to Malcolm Gladwell's David and Goliath for opening my eyes to seeing these patterns more readily). A tour of the slaughterhouse may give you a newfound appreciation for the efficiency of the factory or the toil of the workers, but it will probably not aid in the enjoyment of your next picnic.
As I've mentioned in the blog previously, I used to play video games. When I was very young, I just played them. But as I grew, I learned, as do others, that one natural extension of enthusiasm leads into investigation. I spent a lot of time (and bit of money) trying to learn as much as I could about the hobby I loved. (This is where the Ebert dispute comes in: he famously stated that video games were not - and never could be - art.) It came to the place where I spent more time reading magazine articles, watching review videos, discussing details with friends, burning through podcasts and livestreaming conferences than I did actually playing video games. A lot more, actually. Now, I enjoyed the learning. But it seemed to (at least in part) defeat the very purpose of the exploration: the enjoyment of the game. Not only did I have less time, I found my user experience changed. I found that I cold never just play. I paid attention. I noticed the elements that artificially extended the game by making a goal or task longer than needed. I took note of how the creators integrated music into the experience. I noticed the invisible "tripwires" that triggered a cinematic event to give the in-game world more of a cinematic and wild feel. But noticing perfectly undoes this intended effect. There comes a place at which the enthusiast is denied the experience of the rest. They can't enjoy the ride like the rest because they are too occupied admiring the wheels (or scrutinizing the doors). It makes me wonder if Ebert ever envied the kid ahead of him in the theatre. I've thought it at least once.
Being the melancholic-bent introvert that I am, it can be at least a little depressing to think that one becomes more unhappy with the learning. In the world of Christianity, I fear there is a danger of this same pitfall. I think sometimes the Roger Ebert's among us treat the gospel like a dramatic narrative, and we become uncharmed with every page-turn. We learn the church service routines, the idiosyncracies of the preacher, the schedules of the elders, the Bible's stories and promises and we find that a sparkle is lost. I've even heard others express the same game they play in their heads during a sermon: figure out as soon as you can where the pastor is headed. If you can do it by the sermon title and scripture reading in the bulletin, you must certainly be a veteran. It is a kind of arrogance that believes, "I've heard this one before." We become like the Athenians in Paul's day: "(For all the Athenians and strangers which were there spent their time in nothing else, but either to tell, or to hear some new thing.)" -Acts 17:21 We only want to hear it if it hasn't been preached or written before. We become buyers and sellers of novelty of thought. I imagine the religious elites of Jesus' day were pretty good at that, too.
I heard something interesting the other day:
“It is not love that grows, but it is the knowing that grows and love simply expands to contain it. Love is just the skin of knowing.” -William Paul Young
I believe and affirm that the Bible is infinitely deep and wondrous, but by seeking only this, I imagine we shall miss it. The longer I am a Christian, I find that the most important lesson's I learn are really just an impressing of the importance of something I've heard a thousand times, posted on Facebook walls, emblazoned on placards, painted in hallways and yes, even preached from pulpits. This becomes a knowing. A true experiencing of a principle. But far beyond this is the knowing of a Person. "every one that loveth is born of God, and knoweth God. He that loveth not knoweth not God; for God is love." -1 John 4:7-8 To know God is to love. It follows also that to know God is to love Him. I think it is no coincidence that the term "know" was also a verb for sexual intimacy.
Jesus had one overarching desire for His disciples just before He left them in Gethsemane: "And this is life eternal, that they might know thee the only true God, and Jesus Christ, whom thou hast sent." -John 17:3 This cannot be any ordinary life, regardless of its length. It must be none other than that abundant life that Jesus promised to his own sheep.
Speaking of heaven, Ellen White once shared:
"There, immortal minds will contemplate with never-failing delight the wonders of creative power, the mysteries of redeeming love. There will be no cruel, deceiving foe to tempt to forgetfulness of God. Every faculty will be developed, every capacity increased. The acquirement of knowledge will not weary the mind or exhaust the energies. There the grandest enterprises may be carried forward, the loftiest aspirations reached, the highest ambitions realized; and still there will arise new heights to surmount, new wonders to admire, new truths to comprehend, fresh objects to call forth the powers of mind and soul and body.
May we begin here.
This conviction aside, let's grant him his enjoyment. One of the things I have wondered about guys like him is: Can they still enjoy a movie the same way? There's a saying that gets passed around, especially with professional types in the arts: "You don't want to know how the sausage is made." The implication is that enjoyment diminishes with intimacy. A sausage may taste delicious to the average patron of New York street vendors handing them out, but the reality is: It's made of the unmentionable parts of a dead pig stuffed in an intestine and slapped on a white bun with relish. It affects the experience. The more one becomes familiar with the trade, craft and inner-workings of what is designed to be an enjoyable, if not effective (and affective), and immersive experience, the less of all these it becomes. One might say that it actually increases, as someone may appreciate a film more after having seen a behind-the-scenes look, but I suspect the enjoyment either shifts from it's original intent of story-depth to acknowledgement of hard work (trading one joy for another brand) which may carry similar levels of satisfaction but which I suspect changes the nature of it, or that it actually has a more bell-curved relationship on the axes of enjoyment and familiarity, increasing the former with mild-to-moderate exposure of the latter, and noticeably diminishing thereafter. (Credit to Malcolm Gladwell's David and Goliath for opening my eyes to seeing these patterns more readily). A tour of the slaughterhouse may give you a newfound appreciation for the efficiency of the factory or the toil of the workers, but it will probably not aid in the enjoyment of your next picnic.
As I've mentioned in the blog previously, I used to play video games. When I was very young, I just played them. But as I grew, I learned, as do others, that one natural extension of enthusiasm leads into investigation. I spent a lot of time (and bit of money) trying to learn as much as I could about the hobby I loved. (This is where the Ebert dispute comes in: he famously stated that video games were not - and never could be - art.) It came to the place where I spent more time reading magazine articles, watching review videos, discussing details with friends, burning through podcasts and livestreaming conferences than I did actually playing video games. A lot more, actually. Now, I enjoyed the learning. But it seemed to (at least in part) defeat the very purpose of the exploration: the enjoyment of the game. Not only did I have less time, I found my user experience changed. I found that I cold never just play. I paid attention. I noticed the elements that artificially extended the game by making a goal or task longer than needed. I took note of how the creators integrated music into the experience. I noticed the invisible "tripwires" that triggered a cinematic event to give the in-game world more of a cinematic and wild feel. But noticing perfectly undoes this intended effect. There comes a place at which the enthusiast is denied the experience of the rest. They can't enjoy the ride like the rest because they are too occupied admiring the wheels (or scrutinizing the doors). It makes me wonder if Ebert ever envied the kid ahead of him in the theatre. I've thought it at least once.
Being the melancholic-bent introvert that I am, it can be at least a little depressing to think that one becomes more unhappy with the learning. In the world of Christianity, I fear there is a danger of this same pitfall. I think sometimes the Roger Ebert's among us treat the gospel like a dramatic narrative, and we become uncharmed with every page-turn. We learn the church service routines, the idiosyncracies of the preacher, the schedules of the elders, the Bible's stories and promises and we find that a sparkle is lost. I've even heard others express the same game they play in their heads during a sermon: figure out as soon as you can where the pastor is headed. If you can do it by the sermon title and scripture reading in the bulletin, you must certainly be a veteran. It is a kind of arrogance that believes, "I've heard this one before." We become like the Athenians in Paul's day: "(For all the Athenians and strangers which were there spent their time in nothing else, but either to tell, or to hear some new thing.)" -Acts 17:21 We only want to hear it if it hasn't been preached or written before. We become buyers and sellers of novelty of thought. I imagine the religious elites of Jesus' day were pretty good at that, too.
I heard something interesting the other day:
“It is not love that grows, but it is the knowing that grows and love simply expands to contain it. Love is just the skin of knowing.” -William Paul Young
I believe and affirm that the Bible is infinitely deep and wondrous, but by seeking only this, I imagine we shall miss it. The longer I am a Christian, I find that the most important lesson's I learn are really just an impressing of the importance of something I've heard a thousand times, posted on Facebook walls, emblazoned on placards, painted in hallways and yes, even preached from pulpits. This becomes a knowing. A true experiencing of a principle. But far beyond this is the knowing of a Person. "every one that loveth is born of God, and knoweth God. He that loveth not knoweth not God; for God is love." -1 John 4:7-8 To know God is to love. It follows also that to know God is to love Him. I think it is no coincidence that the term "know" was also a verb for sexual intimacy.
Jesus had one overarching desire for His disciples just before He left them in Gethsemane: "And this is life eternal, that they might know thee the only true God, and Jesus Christ, whom thou hast sent." -John 17:3 This cannot be any ordinary life, regardless of its length. It must be none other than that abundant life that Jesus promised to his own sheep.
Speaking of heaven, Ellen White once shared:
"There, immortal minds will contemplate with never-failing delight the wonders of creative power, the mysteries of redeeming love. There will be no cruel, deceiving foe to tempt to forgetfulness of God. Every faculty will be developed, every capacity increased. The acquirement of knowledge will not weary the mind or exhaust the energies. There the grandest enterprises may be carried forward, the loftiest aspirations reached, the highest ambitions realized; and still there will arise new heights to surmount, new wonders to admire, new truths to comprehend, fresh objects to call forth the powers of mind and soul and body.
All the treasures of the universe will be open to the study of God’s redeemed. Unfettered by mortality, they wing their tireless flight to worlds afar—worlds that thrilled with sorrow at the spectacle of human woe and rang with songs of gladness at the tidings of a ransomed soul. With unutterable delight the children of earth enter into the joy and the wisdom of unfallen beings. They share the treasures of knowledge and understanding gained through ages upon ages in contemplation of God’s handiwork. With undimmed vision they gaze upon the glory of creation—suns and stars and systems, all in their appointed order circling the throne of Deity. Upon all things, from the least to the greatest, the Creator’s name is written, and in all are the riches of His power displayed.
And the years of eternity, as they roll, will bring richer and still more glorious revelations of God and of Christ. As knowledge is progressive, so will love, reverence, and happiness increase. The more men learn of God, the greater will be their admiration of His character. As Jesus opens before them the riches of redemption and the amazing achievements in the great controversy with Satan, the hearts of the ransomed thrill with more fervent devotion, and with more rapturous joy they sweep the harps of gold; and ten thousand times ten thousand and thousands of thousands of voices unite to swell the mighty chorus of praise." -The Great Controversy, pages 677, 678
We are not doomed to eat Divine Sausage. We have the privilege of both knowing and enjoying, the one increasing with the other throughout eternity in the light of God's presence.May we begin here.
