What Flannery O’Connor Might Say to Christian Moviemakers, Musicians, and Artists

Counting Curse Words

When I was a kid, my family subscribed to a newsletter from Focus on the Family called Plugged In. It featured reviews of media popular at the time and a sense of whether their content was appropriate for Christian youth. It was a helpful tool for parents in making decisions about what content to expose their children to; while parents might make a variety of choices, I can imagine most would agree they’d at least like to be informed about what their children will encounter through a given film or album. And busy parents need this data assembled in a concise way. Common Sense Media, a website without religious affiliation, performs essentially the same function.

Unfortunately, for a very long time I struggled to move beyond the mere counting of curse words and enumerating of sex scenes, to think of media and art in broader ways. I had trouble growing up. As the Apostle Paul writes, “When I was a child, I talked like a child, I thought like a child, I reasoned like a child. When I became a man, I put the ways of childhood behind me” (1 Corinthians 13:11 NIV). Plugged In did some of this broader thinking, but since it had limited space and was focused on helping parents discern for kids, it tended to major on pointing out objectionable content. I thought of media in terms of “clean,” which was “good” or “profane or explicit,” which was bad.

Of this kind of thinking Catholic writer Flannery O’Connor (whose Mystery and Manners I recently devoured on vacation) writes, “Catholic readers are constantly being offended and scandalized by novels that they don’t have the fundamental equipment to read in the first place, and these are often works that are permeated with a Christian spirit. It is when the individual’s faith is weak, not when it is strong, that he will be afraid of an honest fictional representation of life” (“The Church and the Fiction Writer,” Mystery and Manners, 151). She also writes, “Many Catholic readers are overconscious of what they consider to be obscenity in modern fiction for the very simple reason that in reading a book, they have nothing else to look for” (“Catholic Novelists and Their Readers,” Mystery and Manners,” 188). That was me.

Through my college English classes, all taught by Christians who had a broader, more expansive view of art than I came in with, I began to change, but slowly. But a few years later, the discovery of one writer proved a turning point for me.

I still remember the moment, in my twenties, in seminary, when I discovered Christian film critic Jeffrey Overstreet’s blog, Looking Closer (its current iteration can be found here). I was seeking guidance on whether to watch the latest Anthony Hopkins film, The Human Stain. In Overstreet’s review, I found a frank acknowledgement that the film included strong nudity in one scene (that much I expected from a Christian writer), but then I found a deeper engagement with the themes of the film and why they were worthwhile than I would normally see a Christian writer discuss. I ultimately went to see the film. And yes, that nudity scene bothered me, but what stayed with me was an interesting, engaging film that had a lot to say about our nature as human beings and about race as well.

After that, I never looked at film and television and music the same again. I still don’t like nudity and explicit sexuality. I still wince when someone takes Christ’s name in vain. I cover my eyes if sex scenes get too explicit. (Not just because I don’t find it edifying to fill my mind with other people having sex, but also because so often the entertainment industry exploits people to get those scenes.) So, sue me. Call me a prude. I honestly don’t care about that.

But what I have learned is that when I am willing to engage with the great stories of our time, the great art of our time, and muddle past some of that content, I can find amazing, engaging gems. I can find artists who, in the words of Flannery O’Connor, see: “The writer should never be ashamed of staring. There is nothing that doesn’t require his attention” (“The Nature and Aim of Fiction,” Mystery and Manners, 84).