“. . .do in not fret when men succeed their ways,
when they carry out their wicked schemes.” Psalm 37:7
In what seems like just a few years ago, the college where I teach celebrated its fiftieth birthday. I was up to my ears in it, traveling the length and breadth of this continent drumming up whatever enthusiasm I could. It was great fun, but I was glad when the gala over.
There would be no college here if its first President had never taken a call to serve a church here. His name was Bernard J. Haan, and he was a stemwinder. He made national news in the late 1940s by keeping a movie house out of town. At that time, to him and his denomination, movies—like cards and dancing—were what people used to call “worldly,” as in, “of this world," "worldly amusements."
I have a picture of him standing in front of the church where I now worship, holding forth, a young man, full of hellfire. That he loved the camera is obvious by the fact that he took up such a brimstone pose for a Time magazine reporter.
I need to come clean about my heritage. There’s a mean streak in me about movies that likely harks back several generations to grandfather clergymen of mine—two of them—who were probably convinced, way back when, that Hollywood was Babylon.
Their opinions lost currency eventually. I’ve watched movies my whole life; my son did some graduate studies—in film. That doesn’t mean I don’t have a touch of my grandfathers’ DNA because sometimes I think the entire world would be better off if a bit of that California cahuna earthquake, when it finally comes, tumbles Hollywood into the Pacific.
A couple summer’s ago, the box office biggie was a remake of an idiotic TV show from the 80s—the Dukes of Hazzard. It was stupid when it was on TV. If you listen to critics, Hollywood updated even more dopiness into the story—nothing but car chase silliness and constant deep-dive cleavage.
It made millions. A review in our paper gave it ½ of a star, out of a possible five. But it also gave the stupid flick most of a page to say that. It’s ink that counts, of course, the buzz. And buzz it had. That movie got more ink in last week’s paper than global warning. It’s no wonder Islamic radicals hate us. This is the freedom that’s God’s own gift?—the freedom that’s our gift to the world.
Don’t get me started.
I wonder if B. J. Haan was way wrong about Hollywood—that’s what I’m saying. In American culture today, among the most wicked (I know I’m being judgmental) are those who spew Hollywood offal. I know, I know—I’m sounding like an old fart.
This verse from Psalm 37, however, isn’t about my righteousness or Hollywood’s corruption. The command is “do not fret,” so forgive me my invective. I’m not listening closely. When the Dukes of Hazzard makes millions, I shouldn’t get in a huff—that’s what David says. When the wicked prosper, don’t scream or cry. It’s all a flash in the pan.
Besides, that summer’s most incredible sleeper was an elegant love story about devotion among, of all things, emperor penguins, not a car chase in two whole hours.
Fifty years after B. J. held forth, there’s a theater in town now, and it's no even all that busy. I’m not sure we’re better off, but I’ve been there myself, and I don’t fret.
Much.
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