Theme Park: A Sermon for Labor Day Weekend

Popular artist Banksy is in the news again. How could he possibly top the buzz generated during his month-long residency in New York? Well, he’s done it. He has opened a pop-up dystopian theme park in the United Kingdom, a lovely little spot known as Dismaland. Moving beyond conception and creation, Banksy has also curated, bringing together the work of dozens of international artists, including Damien Hirst, whose work sells for millions.

Banksy challenges us, our values, the surveillance state. He pokes at our consumerism, the temple of capital. Lines blur, and you can’t always find the borders, the points where art and reality diverge. This is nowhere more clear than in the film “Exit Through the Gift Shop,” which might be a failed documentary in which the camera-shy Banksy turns the camera back on the documentarian, or might just be a complete send-up. It is all sort of meta, the way Banksy uses the system to subvert and challenge the system.

And how many of us have exited through the gift shop? You cannot go to any special exhibition without facing the gauntlet of t-shirts and coffee mugs. The same is true of theme parks, Banksy’s latest target. Get off the ride, and exit through a retail maze that includes ride photos. No one does this better than Disney, where so many of us happily wear tracking devices euphemistically called “Magic Bands.”

I should tell you, I never buy the ride photos. As I am plummeting into the abyss, I am rarely smiling. I’m not a screamer, really… more of a grimacer…

Now I’ll ride most rides, and I do enjoy them, despite the looks of desperation. But this was not always the case. As a young boy, I had no love for roller-coasters. I was shamed and bullied and cajoled until I would relent and get in line. Somewhere, during the slow clanky climb of that first hill, I’d regret it. Strapped in, high in the air, the summit in view, I would question my judgment, my sanity. But it was too late. And, some few moments later, I’d exit through the gift shop, more or less in one piece, only to find myself on yet another scary ride within the hour.

I remember one particular trip. I must have been about ten at the time, and we were having one of the very few encounters I had with my much older half-sister and her aerospace engineer husband. And as we hurtled through turns that were clearly designed to throw all sixty pounds of me out of the car, dashing my brains against the concrete, all he could say was “Don’t worry. The centrifugal force will hold you in.”

Even at ten, I knew some words of power. The only thing that kept me from using them was the fact that I wasn’t breathing.

Sometimes, on life’s journey, you want to use words of power. Sometimes you’re strapped in and things are about to accelerate, and you are having some serious regrets.

Oh well.

Just think how Abraham and Sarah must have felt. They acted “by faith” the author of Hebrews tells us. By faith to get up and head off into the unknown. Maybe God did tell Abraham where to go, but I’m sure Sarah had a few words of power to say along the way. Then there was circumcision, not of a bunch of infants, but of grown men. More words of power.

By faith. It is a big claim for big things. I don’t cook dinner by faith. “Yesterday, by faith, Fred went to the dry cleaners.” Not so much.

We might better say “Using questionable judgment, Sarah and Abraham immigrated to an unknown country. Using questionable judgment, Abraham informed all of the men in his household that they were getting the chop.”

We have been told again and again that faith is completely rational. The hubris of modernity, the shell-game of systematic theology. We should be able to reason our way to God and understand that the actions of biblical figures made perfect sense, that God spoke to them and they had clear instructions. But if what they were doing was logical, then they wouldn’t need faith. Faith is not doing what makes sense, is not gently sliding into what is easy.

Faith is doing the insane and uncomfortable. Faith, real faith, is not some fairytale about prosperity and a conforming comfort now and pearly gates later.

Faith, my friends, is a roller coaster. Best to be strapped in so you don’t have time for regrets.

Those who change the world do not look before they leap. They commit, then ride it out.

The infallible, omnipotent and utterly false Jesus doesn’t need faith, is in total control of events. The real Jesus rode a donkey into Jerusalem, and things just got faster and fast. Up to the passover feast, up to the Mount of Olives, down into the city, up to the Temple Mount, down the Way of Sorrows, up on a cross and down into a grave, only to rise up yet again.

And if we are honest, we can see that his followers recorded his anxiety and doubt. But he was strapped in.

We have no time to hedge in this life. Our time is short, and while we are standing there considering our next move, the universe expands, the world turns, and we get one step closer to our end. Jesus does not negotiate terms with Peter and Andrew, James and John. Follow me. And they do. The cripple does not do a thorough analysis. Roll up your mat. And he does.

Think and analyze and second-guess and nit-pick. None of this has anything to do with God, with faith.

Faith is risk. Faith is, as scripture tells us, running up the steps of a burning skyscraper. It is heading down to the Gulf Coast, where you will find decaying bodies, toxic mold, a feral abandoned dogs. It is leaping before you look, and trusting that there is enough of the divine with you, enough of the divine in you, to construct some wings that may not be beautiful, may not be perfect, but that are good enough.

The ride may be long or it may be short. There are going to be twist and turns and terrifying falls. By faith, insanely, pull down the bar, fasten the belt, and get ready. Take risks. Go big. The ride may be long. It might be short. Then, when it is all over, exit through the gift shop. What is waiting is better than any Starry Night coffee mug.

Amen.