What is the purpose of art?
What is the purpose of enjoyment?
What is the purpose of humans?
Wait, I’m getting ahead of myself.
Last week, while on spring break, I faced a dilemma common to those of us interested in filmmaking: I started watching a TV show I didn’t agree with. Normally, when this happens, the differences in belief are manageable. Different worldviews. Different personal values. Different lifestyles. But this show pushes it further. This show, by the very nature of its premise, categorically opposes the most basic doctrines I believe as a Christian.
A show where hell is good and heaven is bad.
I feel like a heathen even saying that.
My reasons for starting the show were simple. Incredibly well-written, the storyline dives into complex and under-discussed places, demonstrating incredible compassion and hope for groups of people usually swept under the rug. It is a show that revolves around the necessity of kindness, forgiveness and redemption for even the worst of sinners. For a while, that heartfelt centerpiece was enough to shut up the uncertain voices in the back of my mind. For a while.
The purpose of art. The purpose of enjoyment. The purpose of humans.
As someone studying the arts, I have thought about the first question a lot. Obviously, I want the art I make to mean something, even if it doesn’t always have to mean something. I want it to touch people, even when it doesn’t always have to touch people. I want others to enjoy it, even when they don’t always feel joyful after it.
During this spring break, I watched a show that meant something when it needed to, that touched people at the right moments and that brought me a ridiculous amount of enjoyment. It did everything I asked of it. It made me think, empathize and laugh. It proved itself to be well-made and well-meant. It left me respecting the team behind it and understanding the fandom around it.
Yet, in spite of all of that, it still left me feeling dirty.
When author and singer/songwriter Andrew Peterson came to Asbury University a few years back, he was asked at a Q&A whether he thought it was better for art to ask questions or answer them. He answered that all worthy art should carry both “grace and truth.” Art with grace is beautiful. It is well-made, appealing and layered. Without grace, even the most honest of art is merely propaganda. But without truth, the most graceful of art is a beautiful lie.
And there’s nothing more dangerous than a beautiful lie.
It has often been said in Christian circles that the purpose of man is to glorify God, and I believe that’s true. I believe that in everything that we do, from creating art to washing the dishes, we are called to glorify God. When I watch a show that states, point blank, that heaven is more evil than hell, I can’t convince myself that I am glorifying God. Deep down, I know that I am elevating my love of art above my love of God. I am embracing a beautiful lie.
It’s easy to tell ourselves that it is okay to consume the sorts of things we would never create. I would often agree. It is valuable to understand the way that others view the world, just as it can grow one’s faith to wrestle with perspectives that oppose our own. But what we need to watch out for is when that is no longer our motive. Are we really strengthening our values and beliefs through the art we engage with, or are we merely expanding our apathy in the face of the untrue?
That’s one question no one else can answer for you.
