A star left in another world
Published by J. M. Adkison under on 5:17 AM
Being in Italy is just like reaching the end of the rabbit hole, finding the other side of the looking glasss, getting tossed out of a magical twister, and reaching that world left of the north star and straight on till morning. Even though I am still existing on the same dimensional plane as America, I feel as if my home is another world away-and it basically is.
It is funny what Americans hang on to when they go overseas. I feel safe when I see that McDonalds on the side of the road, or sip that coke in the cafe, or see Charlize Theron's face on a billboard. We find comfort in the advertisements and propaganda and cultural icons of our homeworld -because they are the things that we have seen since we were too young to feed ourselves.
As Americans, we worship Hollywood as our pantheon of gods-yearning to see them, to touch them, to hear them say our names. And when they walk down the street, even when we don't particuarly like their movies or songs, we still scream their name. The tabloids are our holy scriptures, songs about partying all night, getting crazy, and single ladies have become our praises to wild life and fame. Our prophets sit in front of video cameras in suits and heels with tanned skin and too much eye-shaodw, sharing gossip and rumors and critisizing clothes. Our myths are not passed down by word of mouth or written in ancient tomes, but are put on the big screen, as long as you pay $6 to $12 for admission. We don't really want culture, we want pop-something to make our lives seem gilded and golden, like stars (but not the beautiful ones God created in the heavens). And when one of those stars falls, we want drama, we want gossip, we want excitment-we do not want to know that the stars really gleam as bright as we want them to. Whereas true stars gleam because they themselves choose to.
But to say that this is America is fiendishly revolting-because America is not pop, glitz, glam and cosmo girl. Those are invaders that wormed their way into culture by taking advantage of love-sick American girls. But my world is more than a giant logo atop a hill in L.A., it is the family living in ordinary suburbia that have dreams of, not grandeur, but reality. We dream to be among the true stars, the ones that shined all on their own and were not frivolous fads with the latest hit song. Instead, we have dreams of being nurses and saving lives, of being teachers and making sure the next generation is ready for life, of being biologists and discovering the plethora of little worlds that exist in everyday, of being writers and leaving behind words on a page that is kept within the nooks and cranies of dusty bookstores. We want to be the stars that don't need others to tell them that they are stars.
Living in the world of Brunelleschi, Leonardo Da Vinci, Galileo, Michelangelo, and countless others who decided that they were goinhg to be true stars, and now shine for near-eternity. America is still too young to contains those long-shining stars, but I think we still have a lot to offer the world, whether Europe likes it or not. And so here I am, trying to be a star, but the kind that does not shine on silver screens or billboard charts, but the kind that can tell God "I lived a story I am proud of, that changed a life and glorified You." In a world of strangers and strange places, God (who exists simultaneously in all worlds) loves to make the stars that love Him shine the brightest. And while the brightest might not be as well remembered as the David, God puts a whole lot more stock in them.
It is funny what Americans hang on to when they go overseas. I feel safe when I see that McDonalds on the side of the road, or sip that coke in the cafe, or see Charlize Theron's face on a billboard. We find comfort in the advertisements and propaganda and cultural icons of our homeworld -because they are the things that we have seen since we were too young to feed ourselves.
As Americans, we worship Hollywood as our pantheon of gods-yearning to see them, to touch them, to hear them say our names. And when they walk down the street, even when we don't particuarly like their movies or songs, we still scream their name. The tabloids are our holy scriptures, songs about partying all night, getting crazy, and single ladies have become our praises to wild life and fame. Our prophets sit in front of video cameras in suits and heels with tanned skin and too much eye-shaodw, sharing gossip and rumors and critisizing clothes. Our myths are not passed down by word of mouth or written in ancient tomes, but are put on the big screen, as long as you pay $6 to $12 for admission. We don't really want culture, we want pop-something to make our lives seem gilded and golden, like stars (but not the beautiful ones God created in the heavens). And when one of those stars falls, we want drama, we want gossip, we want excitment-we do not want to know that the stars really gleam as bright as we want them to. Whereas true stars gleam because they themselves choose to.
But to say that this is America is fiendishly revolting-because America is not pop, glitz, glam and cosmo girl. Those are invaders that wormed their way into culture by taking advantage of love-sick American girls. But my world is more than a giant logo atop a hill in L.A., it is the family living in ordinary suburbia that have dreams of, not grandeur, but reality. We dream to be among the true stars, the ones that shined all on their own and were not frivolous fads with the latest hit song. Instead, we have dreams of being nurses and saving lives, of being teachers and making sure the next generation is ready for life, of being biologists and discovering the plethora of little worlds that exist in everyday, of being writers and leaving behind words on a page that is kept within the nooks and cranies of dusty bookstores. We want to be the stars that don't need others to tell them that they are stars.
Living in the world of Brunelleschi, Leonardo Da Vinci, Galileo, Michelangelo, and countless others who decided that they were goinhg to be true stars, and now shine for near-eternity. America is still too young to contains those long-shining stars, but I think we still have a lot to offer the world, whether Europe likes it or not. And so here I am, trying to be a star, but the kind that does not shine on silver screens or billboard charts, but the kind that can tell God "I lived a story I am proud of, that changed a life and glorified You." In a world of strangers and strange places, God (who exists simultaneously in all worlds) loves to make the stars that love Him shine the brightest. And while the brightest might not be as well remembered as the David, God puts a whole lot more stock in them.
2 comments:
John Mark, this may get confusing... I set up my google acct... under your name.... :) so it looks like you are following yourself... so sorry, it was an accident. :( love the blog. Keep living the story, definately bringing God glory! That's what you were created to do.
luvu~mom
John Mark! I agree with you almost completely---the America that is on the surface is definitely sickeningly obsessed with the glitz and glam of Hollywood, but the real America is what you said---families and people living out their lives and dreams.
It's also, though, broken homes and drug addicts and the homeless and people drowning in their own greed and hunger for wealth. It's a world that needs light, and I feel like that part of America---its soul-sickness---can't be ignored either.
Just a thought :-)
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