When despair becomes self-indulgent
The great playwrights and poets often used drama to express aspects of the human experience not easily articulated. We see this in Shakespeare’s tales ofunrequited love, Maya Angelou’scaged birdmetaphor, and Curtis Mayfield’s interpretation of theghetto child’s cry. When done well, drama beautifully lends voice to emotions we struggle to understand and appreciate. It can endear people to us even when they might express their pain in unclear or unpleasant ways; it can uncover their dignity and compel our empathy.
Drama is also present in many forms of Christian worship, where deep-seated affection for God manifests in tears, dance, and shouts of praise. These forms of expression might not be appreciated in boardrooms or lecture halls, but they’re valuable nonetheless. Drama doesn’t have to focus on nuance or strategic next steps, nor does it have to defend itself on those terms. Its value lies elsewhere. God acknowledges the cries of his people, and drama can help us do the same (Ps. 116).
Yet as with any form of human expression, drama has its limits. What we feel isn’t always an accurate reflection ofreality,and we sometimes must be brought out of our feelings and desires for our own good.Drama can be a tool for expression, but it’s not the dwelling place for our public witness. The priest can use drama, but the dramatist ought not be ordained a priest.
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Poet Gwendolyn Brooks captures this truth in her poem “To the Young Who Want to Die,” urging the reader to “sit down. Inhale. Exhale,” because “you need not die today,” because “death will wait.” You can in fact stay “through pout or pain or peskyness” to “see what the news is going to be tomorrow.”
Brooks handles a serious subject with the caution and compassion it demands—and seems to realize this isn’t a moment to affirm feelings and double down on drama. She offers sobriety and encouragement, tearing down a shortsighted view of life to save a life.
The poem gently implies that a youthful lack of wisdom and patience is at least part of the source of this suicidal desire, for ending a life due to “pout” and “peskyness” is neither noble nor thoughtful. Brooks doesn’t condemn young people in pain but ushers them away from the ledge with correction and vision. Death will come eventually, but for now, she advises, simply live to see what’s coming.
Christians, too, are at our best when we’re inspiring and speaking life into others through Christ. And here too, though we may light the way through valleys or inspire joy, we can’t let emotion or desire be our god (Phil. 3:19).
Unfortunately, today extreme voices are dominating important conversations and using drama to make the most sensational opinions seem normal. Our political commentary concerning even the most serious civic issues is often overrun by a _Real Housewives of Potomac_ flair for the theatrical. Leaders of the Civil Rights Movement wisely dramatized their activism to put the injustices of Jim Crow on the nightly news in the living rooms of Americans nationwide. But today, we’re captivated by lesser forms of drama with all the amplification but little of the virtue of that era.
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Social media algorithms leave us craving worst-case scenarios, longing for another fix fromdramatic accusations hurled at our opponents. Any suggestion that an outcome is harmful but not definitively disastrous is held in contempt. And our rivals must always be viewed in the worst possible light. Social justice activism can’t merely be misguided; its patron saint Rosa Parks must be called afraud. Justice Amy Coney Barrett can’t simply have a wrong opinion; she must be dubbed awhite supremacist.
The more extreme the accusation, the more attractive it is for our embrace. The more provocative the accusers, the more “authentic” they are in our culture. We value contemptuous creativity over credibility or compassion.
And too often, the same sludge of performative outrage has seeped into the church’s discourse about politics and race. Not long ago, I spoke to a racially diverse group of Christians about the trials our moment presents. They were enthusiastic with me as I named threats and prosecuted the case against their political opponents. But when I appealed to the bright side and detailed how we could do better, I could tell I’d lost them.
Maybe part of the problem was my oratorical shortcomings—but their questions and comments told me they didn’t _want_ to be encouraged or hopeful. They’d bonded over grievance, found identity in despair and a home in the drama. As the novelist Tom Robbinshas noted, an “unhappy person resents it when you try to cheer him up” when the despair has become self-indulgent. At that point, keeping our narratives feels more important than solutions or even facts.
It’s easier, I realize, to scream that the sky is falling than to detail which parts of our democracy are falling apart and which are sound or map out the realistic circumference of our sphere of influence and work hard within it. Nuance and hope rain on a pity party, but they allow us to create a cogent plan of action and save us from tortured imaginations about our neighbors.
Drama can bring us closer to a truth or amuse us away from it. Today, Christians must choose sober discernment and joy over dramatics. That doesn’t mean downplaying America’s problems, but it does require us to acknowledge that we are better as encouragers than performers or accusers. When people need perspective and hope, reality is compelling enough. Stay here. The death of America will wait.