She was preparing for some big show that was, apparently, to take place in the middle of said desert. A stage had been built for the performance; it had been constructed completely out of sand and modeled after a Greek temple. Across the top of the structure, a sculpture of the singer's head resting on her arms made clear who, exactly, was being worshiped in this gathering.
As we talked, Miss Spears told me that she knew it ought to bother her that she was building temples for herself in the desert. She knew that something was wrong with the whole thing - most especially the fact that none of it bothered her at all. Really, she told me, she felt lost, apathetic and dry.
Spiritually and emotionally, she was parched.
Near us was a fountain. Though it, too, was made completely of sand, water flowed out of it into a pool. A tiny turtle sat at the water's edge. I wanted to steer the conversation away from the desparing tones it had carried thus far and toward possible solutions. So I invited her to drink from the fountain. Perhaps quenching a physical thirst in the desert would make it easier for her to see how God offers "Water" for our souls and hearts in even the driest seasons.
Britney declined, apparently afraid that the middle-eastern water was not safe for drinking.
Some thought in the back of my head, presumably from the time I spent in Africa, told me there was nothing to worry about in the desert water. So I bent down to drink some. Behind me, my friend Steven quite magically appeared and made it clear that he wanted a drink of the "unsafe" water, too.
Suddenly, and equally as magically, we were in Portland, Oregon, at a small venue where Britney's concert was well underway.
Only a hundred people or so were there; and among them were members of the youth group from the church I attend. These youth were hoping to show solidarity and support of Miss Spears as a person by attending her show. Somehow they knew her from a time before fame had gotten the better of her.
Despite their love for the artist, it was clear that they felt unsupportive of -and even awkward and uncomfortable about- many of the goings-on at her concert.
The end result was thus: A larger group occupied the space directly in front of the stage, thrashing and grinding and dancing and soaking in the laser lights and thumping beats. A smaller group of "Christian kids" stood off to the side of the stage looking very unhappy and creating a tension that soured the mood of the whole event.
Steven approached me, complaining that he was bored. I figured that my presence wasn't accomplishing anything either; so we left.
We ended up at some dive, eating questionably-prepared ethnic food washed down with some generic brand of soda in a styrofoam cup. After we'd eaten, talked and loitered for some time, I suggested that we return to the concert. Steven was unwilling, citing again the awkward boredom. I insisted that we'd outstayed our welcome in the diner; and, standing up to leave, I pulled my jacket off the back of my chair. For some reason, that act caused me to wake up.
What struck me about this dream was not that the storyline was weird; every dream that I've ever remembered upon waking has been bizarre. Truthfully, I enjoy the some of the strange ways my thoughts arrange themselves into a narrative. What struck me was that I was dreaming about Britney Spears at all. I had never dreamt about a celebrity before, nor have I since.
Celebrities are not something I give much, if any, thought to; so it's perplexing to me that one of them could so imprint herself on my mind that she should make a very personal appearance in my sleep.
I don't care who's breaking up or getting married or cheating on their fiance. I don't care about who's having a mental breakdown in Tinseltown. (In fact, I care more about the fact that that sentence rhymed than who shaved their head this week.) I don't care if this soap opera has been cancelled or if that TV show is celebrating its twentieth season. I don't care; and more importantly, I'm annoyed that so many other people seem to care so much.
With that annoyance, I find myself forced to admit to a certain amount of judgment. I hold childishness against the celebrities who can't seem to pull themselves together, even as I preach the unconditional grace and love and faithfulness of a God who's never held my ugly nonsense against me. I mock mindless fans who worship idols of the American flavor, even as I worship idols of what I like to pretend is a more sophisticated line. (For instance: When I admire a cruel man because he is clever and ridicule a loving person because they lack learning, isn't there something wrong with me? Am I not placing intellect over Love? Is that not "idolatry" in its own right?)
Here's the thing: There are two ways of dehumanising a person.
You notice how the antics of an actor become legend, much as the amorous shenanigans of Zeus are still discussed today?
When a friend says something important and wise, we just tell him he's "so smart!". A verbal pat on the head is as far as we usually go. If, however, Morgan Freeman lends (or is even alleged to have lent!) his soothing tones to a cause, we plaster his thoughts across the internet with reckless abandon. Here, we dehumanise celebrities by making them "superhuman". Pedestals like that are tall, skinny and structurally unsound.
I, on the other hand, err in the opposite direction. I often treat the famous as subhuman, desiring only that their messy lives would stop inconveniencing mine. I have wished that their sorrows and joys would stay out of my conversations.
When one of them dies, I am not saddened, but impatient, because I know what's coming: for the next few weeks, they will be discussed with a reverence they never earned in life. Their books or movies or CDs will go on sale; and there will be the mainstream folks who will pretend to have always loved them and the hipsters who will pretend to have never liked them at all.
In the meantime, I won't be able to speak to a person without the recently departed writer/actor/singer coming up. I'll have to hear about every sad thing and ever inspirational moment in that person's history. I'll have to listen to people who'd never given a second thought to the person before bemoan the empty spot that person will leave in the entertainment world. And I just don't care. Basically, I put myself on the tall, skinny pedestal.
Sometimes, I wonder if I'll ever learn.
I remember the day Michael Jackson died. Well, that's not really true. What I remember distinctly - what will stick in my head until my own dying day - is the morning after Michael Jackson's death.
I arrived at work for an early shift pulling carts for the world's largest retailer. Donning a yellow vest and hanging a rope across the back of my neck, I approached my supervisor to "check in". My boss and I got along pretty well; and we'd talked enough - and I'd taken time off for missions often enough - for her to know about my faith.
The first thing she asked me was, "Did you hear about Michael Jackson?" When I nodded she, looking somewhat concerned, asked, "Did you love MJ?"
She said it like that, too: "Emjay."
Honestly, I'd never been a fan of his music; and, while I like the effect he had on modern dance in general, I was never impressed with his videos. Like so many others, I was somewhat disquieted by his lifestyle and the mental instability evident in the desperate attempts he made to erase his heritage from his appearance. Then there was my ugly distaste for celebrities. I answered truthfully, "Not really."
"You gotta' feel bad for the guy, though. 'Cuz he's facing Judgment right now." She pointed upward to make sure I knew the "Judgment" we were discussing was, indeed, spelled with a capital "J".
She wandered off to attend to some other work while I stood there, dumbfounded, for a moment. Intentionally or not, my supervisor had "called me out" in a huge way. I'd been blindsided with my own self-absorption. This wasn't about how I felt about his music; this was about a real person who was face-to-face with Someone bigger than either of us. This was about an artist that Someone had created to make music and dance. This was about a haunted man that Someone loved.
I felt like scum. It's funny (Or, really, not funny at all) how often the best lessons I learn make me feel that way at the start.
I needed yet another healthy dose of Getoveryourself to make clear to even my high-horse-riding eyes that all these people I've treated as ridiculous inconveniences to my life had lives and, more importantly, VALUE of their own.
God loved MJ, even if I never got around to it.
God loves Johnny Depp and Bradgelina and Bennifer and The Donald. He loves people who name their kids "Apple" or "Pilot Inspektor" and jump on couches and buy military Humvees. He keeps up on the Kardashians and watches over Dog as he bounty-hunts. He wants to help people who lose their way, even if it's the sort of lost that lands them with cement handprints.
In the desert, Britney Spears appeared to my sleeping mind as a real girl with real thoughts and worries. She had conflicting feelings and desires. She was thirsty, but unsure about how safe it was to drink. My subconscious mind hoped that she would find answers and even wanted to offer her help. Yet, I cannot be bothered to care once my head leaves the pillow?
I like to imagine that, one day, we'll all pull our heads out of our posterior orifices and realise that all the most famous people in the world are just that: people.
We'll start treating them like all the other people we never meet. If something tragic happens, we'll pray for them and show the concern and love that we should show everyone in hard times. If something awesome happens, we'll be glad to hear of it and then move on with our lives. No more daily checkups on Charlie Sheen's "winning" blunders. No more pages dedicated to rating the summer's best and worst beach bodies.
That day feels pretty far away; so maybe I should just start. Maybe I should love the shiny folk in magazines the same way I have learned to love grimy folk on Skid Row. Maybe I should rehumanise Hollywood and move from there.
