By Kevin D. Williamson
Thursday, November 07, 2019
Kanye West is going to embarrass the Christians who have
recklessly embraced him as a mascot. That much seems inevitable. But that’s
okay: There are worse things than embarrassment, and Kanye West is an
embarrassing guy — needy, arrogant, compulsive. His insecurity is as epic as it
is perplexing in a man who by all appearances has everything. He is fabulously
rich (though not quite as much so as his wife’s half-sister, Kylie Jenner, a
billionaire at 22), and he is married to a woman who is widely considered (de gustibus, etc.) the great sex symbol
of her generation. They seem reasonably happy, and they have four children with
goofy celebrity names — North, Chicago, Psalm, and Saint. He sells truckloads
of expensive sneakers in collaboration with Adidas and has designed clothes for
Louis Vuitton. All that and a measure of artistic respect, too — his
musicianship and his verse both are deft and accomplished, widely admired even
among those of his peers not well disposed to him. And the people line up
behind the critics: Kanye has had four No. 1 hits, 17 in the top ten, and 96
songs on the Billboard Hot 100. He is
42 years old.
And he is kind of a mess.
Until West’s recent foray into MAGA politics and
evangelism, what people who are, let us say, outside of the
rap-music–reality-show–sneakerhead demographic knew him best for was being
married to Kim Kardashian and having been rude to Taylor Swift at an award
presentation, making “Imma let you finish” a meme and a catchphrase and leading
Barack Obama, who apparently had a lot of spare time on his hands as president,
to dismiss West as “a jackass.” It was not the first time West had done
something like that, in fact. After losing out at an earlier awards ceremony,
he threw a fit, concluding: “If I don’t win, the award show loses credibility.”
He is not shy about asserting his importance: He titled one album Yeezus (another one, Yandhi, didn’t make it out) and has
declared: “I’m unquestionably, undoubtedly, the greatest human artist of all
time.” Some readers of this magazine will know him mainly for his having stood
next to a very uncomfortable-looking Mike Myers at a fundraiser for victims of
Hurricane Katrina and announcing: “George Bush doesn’t care about black
people.” Some of that nonsense is self-conscious marketing, a kind of grandly
inflated version of the clickbait economy that keeps the gurgle churning,
assembling a hectomillionaire’s fortune a fraction of a penny at a time. And
that works: Kanye West’s Life of Pablo
went platinum in the United States and gold in the United Kingdom on the
strength of streaming alone, the first album to do so.
Maybe it is all part of a grand plan. Or maybe he just
says the first thing to come into his head — which, lately, has been: “Jesus Is
King.”
***
Jesus Is King,
Kanye West’s new Christian album, is a big deal. Within a few minutes of its
release, its songs took up nine out of the top ten spots on Apple Music. It
was, of course, all over the pop-music press, but it also was the top item on National Review Online and widely
remarked upon throughout the conservative and Evangelical media. Writing at
NRO, Andrew T. Walker, a senior fellow in Christian ethics at the Ethics and
Religious Liberty Commission, asserted: “West has the anthropology of C. S.
Lewis, the economics of Wilhelm Röpke, the cultural mood of Wendell Berry, and
the defiance of Francis Schaeffer. In Jesus
Is King and in interviews, we see a Kanye West upholding what Russell Kirk
referred to as the Permanent Things. . . . His religious conversion could spark
a revolution in morals, similar to what the conversion of 19th-century
abolitionist William Wilberforce helped foster in England.”
Closed on Sunday, you my
Chick-fil-A.
You’re my No.1, with the lemonade.
Not exactly Augustine. And it would be too easy to simply
poke fun. But the song in question, “Closed on Sunday,” is of some interest. It
is a meditation on the Sabbath. (Chick-fil-A, a Christian-owned business, is
famously closed on Sundays.) In the song, West advises (hectors, really) the
listener to set aside social media and other technological distractions for the
day and to turn instead to family and prayer. That is not the usual feel-good,
milk-and-water, love-songs-to-Jesus style of pop-music Christianity. The
Sabbath is about giving things up as well as enjoying them. Sohrab Ahmari,
quondam antagonist of “David Frenchism,” has spoken wistfully about the
possibility of reviving the so-called blue laws, which forbade certain kinds of
commercial activity on Sundays. Taking the Sabbath seriously would represent a
genuinely radical development for American Christianity, an assault on
sensitive progressive cultural norms that would no doubt prove as controversial
as homeschooling and abstinence advocacy. The rest of the album is similarly
direct and uncompromising in its conception of Christian life and witness.
Is the album any good? It is the sort of thing you’ll
like, if you like that sort of thing.
In any case, West is not soft-pedaling his Christianity.
Walker was not wrong to write that “West’s first Christian album is arguably
more Christian than what most contemporary Christian artists could similarly
muster,” though it should be appreciated that blunt Christianity and strident
Christianity are not necessarily “more Christian” than other expressions of
Christian belief. You will not find very much Kanye West–style confessional
material in the deeply Christian poetry of T. S. Eliot, in The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe, or in The Screwtape Letters, and there are many who enjoy the
compositions of J. S. Bach without being even quite aware that they are
listening to Christian music. What there is in Jesus Is King and in the prefiguring single “Jesus Walks” is a kind
of plainspoken charm. Charm with its limits, inevitably.
The way Kathie Lee needed Regis,
That’s the way I need Jesus.
And here in a sense is where Kanye West’s political
coming out as an admirer of Donald Trump is linked, at least temperamentally,
to his newly outspoken Christianity, which follows what he describes as a
radical conversion experience. Both men are marked by a compulsion to say
things that are best described with an adjective that the partisans of the
counterculture used to admire above all others: “transgressive.” West is
critical of some of the Left’s sacred cows, from abortion to certain aspects of
identity politics. He believes that the political posture of African Americans
has served them poorly, and has attempted to say so — stupidly, with a
half-baked remark about how 400 years of slavery was a “choice” made by black
Americans. If you squinted at it a little bit, you could kind of see the point
that West seemed to be trying to make and would later elaborate on. “The reason
why I brought up the 400 years point is because we can’t be mentally imprisoned
for another 400 years,” he wrote. “We need free thought now.”
Kanye West needs to be talked about. He obviously enjoys
the feeling of being the one who is willing to say, heedlessly, what needs to
be said but others are afraid to say. That is an addictive pleasure, as many
political writers know from personal experience, and West has a natural
vulnerability to that which is addictive. The desire to punch through
“political correctness” is in fact a major force in American rhetoric and
discourse today, one that is probably more powerful, more pervasive, and more
animating than is political correctness itself. (The habit of mind and the
vindictive, homogenizing, repressive project that we call “political correctness”
takes its power from occupying a handful of important cultural chokepoints,
namely corporate human-resources departments and universities, whereas the
countervailing tendency is much more widely dispersed and popular.) The content
of Donald Trump’s tweets is not in and of itself very interesting: the
expression of a mediocre mind that is high on rage, petulant, and liable to
fall for conspiracy theories and flattery. The attraction of Donald Trump is
not so much what is in the tweets but in his willingness to go off — his
insistence on going off — half-cocked, sneering at and ignoring the
finger-waggers and tut-tutters. Those who are shocked that Kanye West ended up
being a Trump guy ought to ask themselves how on earth he would have ended up
being anything else. If ever there were two peas in a pod, they are they. That
much is certainly obvious to the conservative Christians who have embraced the
both of them.
***
And so it is that many American Christians — with white,
Evangelical-leaning, traditionalist Christians prominent among them — have
elevated Kanye West for approximately the same reason they elevated Donald
Trump: He is, in their view, a useful (and amusing!) ally who cuts a very
substantial figure in a public square that is not exactly jam-packed full of
advocates for their cause. “Kanye West is cracking the cultural code,” says
Donald Trump Jr., approximating a thought. No doubt there are many men and
women of similar outlook who see West the same way. On the other side of the
great cultural divide are black critics, including Christians, who are
skeptical of West’s embrace by “white Evangelicalism,” a phrase that ought to
be without meaning but is not. West’s religion is, unhappily, inescapably bound
up with his politics, and both of them are of course racially inflected, a near
inevitability in this race-haunted country. Because of the way in which the
black church was central to the civil-rights project, for West to lean so
heavily into his Christian identity while allying himself with President Trump
is, to many black observers, wildly offensive. But West’s conception of himself
is very large and cannot be contained by black solidarity — or, indeed, by any
solidarity.
(Given his estimate of himself, it is surprising that
Kanye West joined a religion rather than starting one.)
It is not only West’s politics that lean (or seem to
lean) in a conservative direction. His theology, to the extent that he has a
theology, seems to skew conservative as well.
Prior to the release of Jesus Is King, Kanye West toured the country with a series of
“Sunday Service” concerts, invitation-only affairs at which he tried out some
of his new material and his new message. (West has performed his Christian
music at other prominent venues, including an Easter concert at Coachella with
a gospel choir.) To these pop-culture events, West brought along the pastor who
has been leading him in Bible study and who advised him throughout the making
of Jesus Is King: Adam Tyson, of
Placerita Bible Church, in California. (West flew him back and forth between
California and Cody, Wyo., where he was holed up working on the record. Some
kinds of missionary work are more pleasant than others.) Tyson is not a goo-goo
New Age celebrity evangelist but is instead part of the intellectually rigorous
conservative Reformed tradition, which puts a heavy emphasis on scripture and
its inerrancy. Placerita Bible Church, according to its doctrinal statement,
“is deeply committed to the absolute authority of the Bible. We are convinced
that the Bible is the only trustworthy standard of what we should believe and
how we should live. Our ultimate priority is to glorify God by faithfully
proclaiming the truth of His Word so that people can clearly understand it and
practically apply it to their lives.” That is the kind of Christianity in which
West is being instructed.
West is ecumenical: He was married by a Pentecostal
minister, while his wife and his children have been baptized in the Armenian
Orthodox Church (at the Etchmiadzin Cathedral, in Vagharshapat, Armenia). And
he does seem to be taking the moral part of his Christian instruction
seriously, with occasionally comical intensity: He is said no longer to permit
profane language in his presence (which is going to constitute a challenge in
the rap world), and he apparently asked those working on his album to abstain
from premarital sexual relations during the course of the work. Like that of
the recently reformed Justin Bieber, whose conversion led him to the
celebrity-friendly Hillsong Church, Kanye West’s catalogue is going to be a
fraught testament to what came before — and one that cannot be easily set
aside. Not that it should be.
There are indeed second acts in American lives, and third
acts, and encores. Especially for celebrities. Celebrity is a kind of
electricity — it does not matter what you plug into the outlet, the juice is
the juice. Among conservatives who (rightly or wrongly) feel themselves pushed
to the margins of popular culture, and especially for cultural and religious
conservatives, any association with celebrity, however wan and moldy, is met
with rapture. The misadventures of Ted Nugent in Republican circles are too
well known to require revisiting here, but also consider the partial
resurrection of Scott Baio and the zombie celebrity of minor has-beens and
never-quite-weres suspended in the aspic of the right-wing chicken-dinner
circuit. The worry among some of West’s admirers — among Christians who
genuinely mean him well and care about carrying their faith into the culture —
is that he is going to end up being the Ted Nugent of early-21st-century
Evangelical Protestantism. The kind of celebrity that Kanye West has is the
real thing; cleverly weaponizing a much less concentrated version of it
launched Donald Trump to the White House. The power of pop-music celebrity unleashed
can be awesome to behold. There is a reason that when young William Michael
Albert Broad embarked on a career of simultaneously mocking and personifying
the object of worship at the center of the Dionysian rock-god cult, he took the
name “Billy Idol.” He knew what he was doing.
And if Kanye West has been careful with that Bible study,
he must know, too.
***
‘Christianity will go. It will vanish and shrink. I
needn’t argue about that; I’m right and I’ll be proved right. We’re more
popular than Jesus now; I don’t know which will go first, rock-’n’-roll or
Christianity. Jesus was all right but his disciples were thick and ordinary.
It’s them twisting it that ruins it for me.” Excepting the sung ones, almost
every word that ever came out of John Lennon’s mouth was insipid and banal. And
some of the ones he sang, too: Is there a modern pop song as willfully stupid
and indefensibly trite as “Imagine”?
But in the arrogance, shallowness, and titanic egotism of
his pronouncements, Lennon was only a faint precursor to Kanye West.
Christian works were, in the not too distant past, deeply
embedded in the main stream of popular culture rather than contained in ghettos
exterior to it. Films such as Becket
and A Man for All Seasons (two King
Henrys, two martyred Thomases) were frankly and emphatically Christian (and, in
those two cases, unreservedly Catholic) but were not culturally loaded
happenings in the way The Passion of the
Christ was. Even something as slight as A
Charlie Brown Christmas could segue into a reverent reading from the King
James Bible. (As Lee Habeeb later told the story in National Review, CBS executives tried to bully Charles Schulz into
mutilating the now-beloved program.) Christianity was not weird — it was life.
But maybe it should be weird. It asks of its adherents
that they believe a story that is, on the merits, very unlikely. It asks them
to live according to an ethical code that is at odds with a great many
permanent human instincts. It asks them to take up their crosses and follow Jesus.
And a surprising number of unlikely men and women have done that: Pontius
Pilate’s wife and the centurion, according to legend; Saul of Tarsus; et al.
Kanye West says he is committed, “even if I take this walk alone,” but he is
far from alone and is not the first pop star to go down this road: Bob Dylan
walked the path long before him. And if Kanye West’s spiritual questing is from
time to time cringe-inducing from the lyrical point of view, it is not any
worse than George Harrison’s, Cat Stevens’s, or Krishna Das’s. It is bolder and
more interesting than Madonna’s trite efforts to eroticize Catholic imagery
while reliably failing to account for the eroticism that already was there.
In many ways, West’s story is conventional and
predictable: He is in the mature (it would be unkind and possibly untrue to say
late) stage of his career and is not
long removed from a mental breakdown precipitated by drug abuse, in this case
opioid painkillers to which he took habitual recourse following a liposuction
procedure. (West comes from a comfortably middle-class background, and it shows
even in his vices.) But not every conversion story is interesting from a
literary point of view. Kanye West needed Jesus Christ, and found Him. He once
was lost but now is found. Ordinary grace is amazing enough.
Of course he wants to talk about it, as converts do.
But combining the convert’s zeal with Godzilla-scale
celebrity presents spiritual dangers of its own, not only to Kanye West but
also to those who look to him for inspiration and, unwise as it is, for an
example. Jesus stumbled three times on the way to glory — we should expect a
few missteps from Kanye West, too. Yes, he is rich and famous and insufferable
and a little bit bananas. But his cross is as heavy as anybody else’s, and
Christians are called to bear one another’s burdens. The temptation will be to
set him up as an idol on Tuesday in order to enjoy the sport of knocking him
down on Wednesday. He is going to need excellent spiritual direction. The scope
and weight of his fame will ensure that his slips and errors will be covered
like the Hindenburg disaster. Going
it alone would be dangerous for him.
“I am not ashamed of the gospel,” Saint Paul wrote, “for
it is the power of God for salvation to everyone who believes.” Kanye West is
not ashamed of the gospel, either, and he has the tracks to prove it. You can
fault him for a goofy Chick-fil-A line every now and then, but you can’t fault
him for lacking boldness.
His boldness is a blessing. For now.
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