Celebrity's Cult Following

The funeral may be but a memory, after weeks that saw the squeezing of every possible story angle from the life of a ditzy, promiscuous blond, Anna Nicole Smith. Blogger Mark Evanier wrote of the late starlet turned freak show, “Some people in this world are famous. Some people are famous for being famous. And Anna Nicole Smith was one of those who are famous for being famous for being famous.”

Evanier has put his finger on an increasingly absurd phenomenon in American culture, the ever-growing cult of celebrity. Not that it’s a completely new development in our history. One might argue that our national fascination with celebrity began with the invention of photography. Once the image of an individual could be captured on film, static and unmoving like an icon, it was but a short step to making the famous into icons themselves.

Someone will counter, and quite rightly, that at one time the famous were famous for having done something, usually something great. Take, for example, Charles Lindbergh. Though the story of his baby’s kidnapping gripped the nation, it’s hard to imagine the same attention fixed on a father who hadn’t been the first to fly across the Atlantic.

But greatness, like chemical photo-developing, is on the wane. In its place, we’ve substituted mere fame, itself increasingly short-lived. Forty years ago, pop-artist Andy Warhol predicted that everyone would be famous for fifteen minutes. With news gushing like a never-failing stream from every computer screen, TV set, and radio, with the line between news and entertainment blurred to extinction, that fabled fifteen minutes has shrunk to about five. Few receive fame that lives long after them. Most discover it to be an everlasting pursuit and a never-lasting possession.

“Fame! I’m gonna live forever!” That’s what those eager young dancers proclaimed in their musical. The great irony, however, is that the pursuit of fame leads not to immortality, but to a tomb. Few receive fame that lives long after them. Most discover celebrity to be what Solomon would call vanity and chasing the wind. Only death, such as the death of Anna Nicole, can stretch it further—a few days anyway.

Though the wages of celebrity are paid with frightening regularity, many are unwilling to see the connection between living in the constant glare of the lights—and withering therein. Try telling any of the young hopefuls on American Idol that the spotlight blisters even as it illumines. Try convincing the worst of the idol-wannabes they’re better off being quickly skewered by Simon than thrust into the limelight. Good luck. The celebrity cult feeds on itself, rejoicing in the destruction of the gods it has created, but, as the title of an old film suggests, the gods must be crazy. They don’t see the truth until too late.

Yet it’s a truth that won’t be denied. Lately, we’ve been subjected to one repulsive report after another. The tragicomic story of Anna Nicole came on the heels of the bizarre tale of a lovesick astronaut. And Smith’s drama ran concurrently with yet another surreal story—a fallen pop star checking into and out of and into and out of rehab, pausing just long enough in between to shave her head.

Why do the media insist on keeping these particular poor, befuddled wretches in its camera sights? After all, there are plenty of ruined souls walking the streets. If coverage of the dysfunctional and the bizarre is at a premium, why not position yourself with a camera at the nearest Wal-Mart? You’re sure to see plenty of slovenly moms and drug-addled floozies slouching out the door. Why pay attention only to fallen astronauts, singed singers, and alternately bloated and emaciated former Playboy models? The answer is chillingly simple: They’ve fallen from a greater height.

Or so we’ve been led to believe. But surely the ridiculous life and untimely death of Anna Nicole tear the mask off the lie: Those we elevate to celebrity status stand no taller than we. The emperor wears no clothes. There is neither power nor glory in fame alone.

This is hardly a new lesson. We might even regard a document written twenty centuries ago as a kind of textbook on the subject. I refer to Paul’s second letter to the Corinthians. Though he tied the ends of an empire to the Cross, and though we revere the apostle as second only to Christ, not many of his contemporaries thought much of him. Included in those critics were people enamored with religious celebrities, the “super apostles” mentioned in 2 Corinthians chapters 11 and 12.

Luke’s record in Acts states that Paul had lived well over eighteen months in Corinth (Acts 18:11; cf. v. 18), teaching the word of God. He’d put his heart and soul into that new church. After he left, certain charismatic preachers moved in. It must’ve galled him to hear of their sponging off the people while scorning his apostleship. Eugene Peterson paraphrases their contempt for Paul: “His letters are brawny and potent, but in person he’s a weakling and mumbles when he talks” (2 Corinthians 10:10, The Message). How could Paul hope to compete with the cult of celebrity?

In his stimulating exposition of the letter, N.T. Wright explains Paul’s strategy of response. Instead of touting his personal accomplishments and honors, instead of trying to fly higher than the super-dupers, he stoops lower:

Students of 2 Corinthians will remember Paul reminiscing about being lowered in a basket down the wall to escape a tyrant (11:33). In a lecture given a few years ago, Wright added an interesting historical footnote. He said it was customary for returning conquerors to climb the wall of their city, mimicking their victory. Notice Paul’s gleeful subversion here. He turns everything upside down. The Corinthians want him to play the hero, and he plays the fool. By the time Paul gets to talking about power being perfected in weakness (12:9), he has already dismantled their ideas about both. It’s a brilliant response to the Corinthian’s wayward ideas—and the only sane answer to the cult of celebrity.

I remember a man who was never a celebrity. As a matter of fact, I don’t think I ever heard him use the word. With his grade school education, he may not even have known what the word meant. He worked hard—ten, twelve hours or more in a garage, six days a week. The one time he was on TV, when a local reporter interviewed him about some forgotten local matter, he was so nervous it hurt to watch. The only time I ever heard him sing was in the car as we traveled to Grandma’s. He sang softly and well, but never in public. He was often in pain. He suffered from arthritis in his spine and neck. He died too young. Today he’s remembered by a couple dozen people, if that. One of them is me, his only son.

I remember Homer Robinson giving one of his brief, halting meditations at the communion table in my boyhood church. He said, “Jesus and heaven are all I’m livin’ for.” He said it in a gray sport coat with the sun shining through stained glass. Never was a man less colorful, and yet that day he was bathed in color. Perhaps it’s strange to revere a man of whom the world took no note. And yet I know the eye of God, more beautiful than the most awe-inspiring nebula, was upon him. And I know that he was known—by the One whose glance is glory.

Fame? Make no mistake; Homer’s going to live forever. And thanks to him, so, I believe, will I.

Gary D. Robinson is preaching minister with North Side Church of Christ, Xenia, Ohio. He once came dangerously close to being a TV celebrity, but was rescued by being broadcast at 3 a.m.

N.T. Wright, For All God’s Worth (Eerdmans, 1997).

Roberto Rivera, “Ordinary People,” Boundless, 15 March 2007.

Roberto Rivera, “Presentado,” The Point, 21 March 2007.

Roberto Rivera, “Status Anxiety,” The Point, 9 January 2007.

Travis McSherley, “You Who?” The Point, 18 December 2006.

Stephanie Bennett, “MySpace - The Final Frontier?” BreakPoint Online, 12 January 2007.