The windows are frosted or tinted in muted tones of sky blue, lavender, amber or pink. If there are stained-glass images, they are ultramodern in style, to match any art objects that make sense in this kind of space. The floors are covered with carpet, which explains why there are speakers hanging in the rafters.

The final product resembles a sunny gymnasium that just happens to contain an abstract crucifix, the Stations of the Cross and one or two images of the Virgin Mary.

“The whole look was both modern and very bland,” said Matthew Alderman, a graduate of the University of Notre Dame’s classical design program who works as a consultant on sacred art and architecture.

“It was a kind of beige Catholicism that was ugly, but not aggressively ugly … and these churches looked like they were in a chain that had franchises everywhere. It was that whole Our Lady of Pizza Hut look that started in the1950s and then took over in the ’60s and ’70s.”

The problem is that many Catholics believe that this look that represented an urgent response to contemporary culture — especially after Vatican II — has now gone painfully out of date.

Few things age less gracefully than modernity. However, few parishes can afford to “take a wrecking ball” to their sanctuaries. This is also highly emotional territory, since any attempt to change how people worship, whether they are modernists or traditionalists, will collide with their most cherished beliefs.

Thus, after years of studying intense debates on these issues, Alderman recently drafted a manifesto offering easy, affordable ways for make these sanctuaries “less ugly and more Catholic.” He posted it at “The Shrine of the Holy Whapping,” an online forum created by several Notre Dame graduates to host lighthearted discussions of serious Catholic subjects.

While some of his proposals are specific — such as removing carpeting to improve church acoustics — the designer said the key is for parish leaders to find a way to “bring a sense of tradition and beauty to their chancels and naves without having to break the bank.” His basic principles included these:

* Do everything possible to return the visual focus to the main altar and the tabernacle that contains the reserved sacraments, the bread and wine that has been consecrated during the Mass. This can be accomplished with a few contrasting coats of paint, stencil designs in strategic places, the rearranging of altar furniture, a touch of new stonework or even the hanging of colored drapes. In many cases a platform can be added under the altar to make it more visible or a designer can darken the lights and colors around the pews, while increasing the light focused on the altar and tabernacle.

* Reject any strategy that tries to hide decades of modernity behind a blitz of statues and flowers in an attempt to create “a traditional Catholic theme park,” he said. Too often, the result is “strip-mall classicism” that assumes that anything that looks old is automatically good.

“You don’t want something that looks like its fake and plastic,” said Alderman. “The worst case scenario is that you have bad taste stacked on top of bad taste, with some of the worst excesses of the old layered on top of all those mistakes that were driven by modernity. … This kind of schizophrenia is not a good thing in a church.”

* It’s important to “work with what you have, and don’t work against it” while focusing on a few logical changes that actually promote worship and prayer, he said. A chapel dedicated to Mary can appeal to those who are devoted to saying the Rosary. Candles and flower arrangements can focus attention on a statue of the parish’s patron saint.

In the end, argued Alderman, “You may not be able to turn your 1950s A-frame church into Chartres, but if you try to find art that harmonizes with its perhaps now rather quaint attempts at futurism, while at the same time seeking to reconnect it with tradition, the result may have a pleasing consistency. …

“While it may lack the grandeur of Rome or Florence, it can still become a beautiful, unified expression of the faith.”

   Send article as PDF to

Some people look at this piece of silver or gold jewelry in the James Avery line and they see fishing lures — period.

But other shoppers see the same item and they think of these words of Jesus: “Follow me and I will make you fishers of men.” This is especially true if they have completed a United Methodist Walk to Emmaus weekend, or some other renewal program inspired by the Catholic Cursillo movement.

“Most of our customers purchase and wear that for the religious symbolism,” said Paul Avery, executive vice president of the company that his father started in a garage. “But there is a group that has no clue what it means. … They just happen to like it. They like to fish or whatever.”

So one man’s ring of fishing lures is another man’s symbol of faith.

The key is that there is an element of mystery to symbols of this kind, said another veteran of this family-driven firm based in Kerrville, an arts-friendly community in the Texas Hill Country.

“It’s interesting that you would never find this in traditional church history, this symbol, but you would find the scriptural reference to being fishers of men,” said Howell Ridout, the company’s vice president of marketing and development.

This particular bracelet started out as a “grassroots thing that just happened,” he explained. Emmaus Walk veterans “actually started using fishing tackle from the hardware store” to remind themselves of the importance of this biblical passage. Now, this modern bracelet is one of the company’s most popular items.

Then again, the current catalogue also contains the very first cross that founder James Avery designed in 1954, a variation on a classic Latin design. Some of the Christian and Jewish symbolism used in this jewelry is truly ancient, while other pieces offer modern variations on biblical themes — such as a bare cross made of nails.

In recent years, Ridout explained, religious items have made up 25 percent of the company’s line and about 25 percent of its sales. However, nearly 80 percent of all James Avery customers at one time or another purchase at least one item of religious jewelry. Clearly, these items are central to the company’s identity, he said.

For centuries, religious symbolism has been at the heart of some forms of faith. What is unusual about the James Avery story is that almost all of the company’s stores — there will be 59 by the year’s end — are in the Bible Belt and 49 are in Texas.

While its customer base includes a wide range of believers, the chain could not succeed in the region in which it is succeeding without appealing to Baptists and other conservative Protestants who for generations have viewed religious symbolism as too “high church,” if not too Catholic.

Then again, the Hill Country location is crucial. Its culture blends art elements from the American Midwest, from Germans settlers, from rustic ranches across the Southwestern and, of course, from Spanish influences. The result is a unique aesthetic expressed in stone, leather, wood and pounded silver.

“Texas is, geographically, a very unique area,” said Paul Avery. “You have the deep Hispanic culture that is so rooted in that Catholic base. Then you have more of the Protestant side of that, the non-Catholic. And there’s a blend of those two cultures that probably allows a lot of … natural evolution.”

These hills also are full of church youth camps, a network that exposed James Avery’s work to young seekers as the 1960s veered into the “Jesus Movement” of the 1970s, which led into an era of charismatic renewal in mainline churches and waves of changes in how many Americans worship.

These days, art and even elements of liturgy can be found in a wide variety of Protestant sanctuaries, Ridout said. Churches of all kinds are moving in a more visual, experiential direction.

It has become common to see Texans wearing crosses — or perhaps symbolic fishing lures — as they go to work, to school, to the grocery store or to church.

“I think there are some clues there, both as to what is acceptable and to what’s sought after and comfortable,” Ridout said. These changes symbolize “what’s meaningful to people, what truly motivates them.”

   Send article as PDF to

“I can still picture this doomed pact in its red frame, briefly hanging on the wall,” noted Peter Hitchens, in a recent essay published in The Daily Mail. “To my shame, I was the one who repudiated it, ripped it from its frame and angrily erased my signature, before recommencing hostilities. … Our rivalry was to last 50 years, and religion was one of its later causes.”

Under ordinary circumstances, a column in a London newspaper about a fractured relationship between two brothers would not warrant much attention among readers who care about matters of faith and doubt.

The Hitchens brothers, however, are not your usual brothers.

As an adult, Peter Hitchens regained his Christian faith, after years as an atheist and his new book is entitled, “The Rage Against God: How Atheism Led Me to Faith.” The title of this column was more conciliatory: “How I found God and peace with my atheist brother.”

Big brother Christopher, meanwhile, has become famous as an evangelist for atheism, a scribe who revels in stabbing sacred cows with his pen — as in his book, “The Missionary Position: Mother Teresa in Theory and Practice.” Then there is his bestseller, “God is not Great: Religion Poisons Everything.”

“There are,” he argues, “four irreducible objections to religious faith: that it wholly misrepresents the origins of man and the cosmos, that because of this original error it manages to combine the maximum of servility with the maximum of solipsism, that it is both the result and the cause of dangerous sexual repression, and that it is ultimately grounded on wish-thinking. …

“God did not create man in his own image. Evidently, it was the other way about, which is the painless explanation for the profusion of gods and religions, and the fratricide both between and among faiths, that we see all about us and that has so retarded the development of civilization.”

Hitchens the younger understands that logic, in large part because he once walked the same road. As a teen, he burned his Bible outside his Cambridge school. To his disappointment, “Thunder did not mutter.” He set out to rebel against everything that he had been taught was good and right and holy. This is what smart British boys of his generation were supposed to do.

Eventually, he stopped avoiding churches and great religious art — leaving him open to unsettling messages from the past. While gazing at one 15th century painting of the Last Judgment, he found himself emotionally and intellectually moved.

“These people did not appear remote or from the ancient past; they were my own generation. Because they were naked, they were not imprisoned in their own age by time-bound fashions,” noted Hitchens. “On the contrary, their hair and the set of their faces were entirely in the style of my own time. They were me, and people I knew.

“I had a sudden strong sense of religion being a thing of the present day, not imprisoned under thick layers of time. My large catalogue of misdeeds replayed themselves rapidly in my head.”

Then came the great oaths of his wedding rites, followed by the baptisms of his formerly atheistic wife and their daughter. A fellow journalist heard that Hitchens had returned to church and, with “a look of mingled pity and horror,” bluntly asked, “How can you do that?”

The twist in this story is that while Peter Hitchens has returned to faith, and Christopher has grown more and more outspoken in his crusade against faith, the brothers have gradually regained their affection for one another. And while many have urged them to turn their personal debates about God and the nature of moral truth into an intellectual traveling circus, neither of the brothers wants to do that.

“I am 58. He is 60. We do not necessarily have time for another brothers’ war. … I have, however, the more modest hope that he might one day arrive at some sort of acceptance that belief in God is not necessarily a character fault,” noted Peter Hitchens.

“I can only add that those who choose to argue in prose, even if it is very good prose, are unlikely to be receptive to a case which is most effectively couched in poetry.”

   Send article as PDF to

“Reeking of self-righteousness and moral reprimand,” spat Jeanette Catsoulis of the New York Times, a movie entitled “The Ultimate Gift” could be considered “a hairball of good-for-you filmmaking coughed up by 20th Century Fox’s new faith-based label, Fox Faith.”

Wait, there’s more, because this “cinematic sermon” makes sure that its “messages — pro-poverty, anti-abortion — are methodically hammered home.”

There were other reviews, good and bad. Still, the nastiness in strategic corners of the media caught veteran producer Rick Eldridge off guard, in large part because he truly thought that he was producing a mainstream movie, with mainstream talent, that was going to have a chance to reach a thoroughly mainstream audience.

What he didn’t count on was getting stuck with two dangerous labels — “Fox” and “Faith.” Those words can turn your average media insider into a pillar of salt.

That’s what happened to “The Ultimate Gift,” turning this quiet cinematic fable into a cautionary tale for others who want to make movies that can appeal to viewers in Middle America, including folks who frequent sanctuary pews.

“I really felt this story had strong values that would hit home with the general market,” said Eldridge, who is now pushing to promote the DVD of his movie. “I thought this was a moral-message film, but I was determined to make a movie that would speak to a wide spectrum of people. … Then we got pigeon-holed into this little ‘Christian’ niche that really limited who would get much of a chance to see this movie.”

The pivotal moment was when this 20th Century Fox project was moved to the new Fox Faith division, which meant “The Ultimate Gift” was sent to theaters with all kinds of faith-based strings attached. As the Fox Faith website bluntly stated: “To be part of Fox Faith, a movie has to have overt Christian content or be derived from the work of a Christian author.”

Thus, mainstream critics were determined to find those moral messages and make sure potential moviegoers were warned in advance. This also meant that mainstream performers such as Academy Award nominee James Garner, veteran character actor Brian Dennehy and the young actress Abigail Breslin of “Little Miss Sunshine” discovered that they were — surprise, surprise — starring in a “Christian movie.”

Crucial scenes were, as a result, seen through this lens.

The movie opens at the funeral of Howard “Red” Stevens, an oil tycoon who left behind both an impressive portfolio of good deeds and a bitterly divided family. The minister at the graveside, in addition to reading scripture, quotes the famous British journalist Malcolm Muggeridge as saying, “Every happening, great or small, is a miracle by which God speaks to us and the art of life is to get the message.”

At another pivotal moment, the prodigal grandson whose coming-of-age story drives the plot is shown in a Catholic hospital chapel, consoling a leukemia patient. The girl is thinking about butterflies, heaven and her stressed-out single mother’s future — while facing a large statue of Jesus with his arms open wide. “I don’t know much about God or Jesus, but I can promise that those arms are meant for you,” says the young man.

But the statement that upset critics the most is offered by the young mother, as she describes their struggles after the girl’s father abandoned them. The one thing she knows for certain, she says, is that her daughter Emily is the “best decision I ever made.”

There is no need to deny that the movie contains religious and moral themes, said Eldridge. But for generations, Hollywood executives made successful mainstream movies that contained these kinds of words and images. Those movies were aimed at a broad, mainstream market — not a narrow, political, sectarian, “Christian” niche.

“I told the Fox people this movie was going to resonate with the Christian audience and that’s fine with me, because I am a Christian,” said Eldridge. “But I was worried that this movie would get tagged as a little ‘Christian’ movie, like that was some kind of Good Housekeeping seal for the Christian marketplace. …

“I think it’s obvious that this is what happened and that caused some people to distance themselves from this movie. There was no need for that to happen.”

   Send article as PDF to

Instead, the Eisner Award-winning cartoonist scribbles in his daily calendar — creating a bridge from the pew to his studio. The result is a pocket universe of character sketches, strange movie ideas and graphic “plot wheels” in which he works out the twists and turns in his stories.

These days, swarms of Kid Elves on flying logs bump into sketches of Bigfoot, next to rough ideas for a violent, at times profane graphic novel that TenNapel is creating about crime bosses, invading aliens and an inquisitive priest.

“I can write 10 of these stories a year, but I only have time to draw one,” he said. “When I see these things in my head, it’s like I’m watching movies. … But in the past they’ve been too far out for Hollywood.”

TenNapel is a cult figure with online fanboys who admire his work in cartoons, video games, television and, especially, his book-length graphic novels with complex plots and images that resemble movie storyboards. But things will change if his “Creature Tech” reaches movie theaters.

What is the graphic novel about? Publishers Weekly said: “It’s the story of the battle between the abrasive good-guy scientist Dr. Ong and the resurrected Dr. Jameson, a malevolent 19th-century occultist-mad scientist who sought to rule the world. Ong … returns to his hometown after being appointed to direct a research facility locals call Creature Tech. There, he opens a crate housing the Shroud of Turin. Things get complicated when the ghost of Jameson … steals the shroud, resurrects his own body and resumes trying to take over the world with the help of an army of conjured hellcats and a gigantic space eel.”

Wait, there’s more. Ong is also a seminary dropout and his father is a pastor who used to be a scientist. Then there’s the 7-foot mantis the U.S. government sends as a security team and the symbiotic alien parasite that clamps onto the hero’s chest and, strangely enough, makes him a better person.

This is a normal TenNapel plot.

It helps to understand that he grew up in rural Turlock, Calif., in a home that, during his childhood years, contained many religious influences — from atheism to evangelicalism. He studied art at Point Loma Nazarene University in San Diego and eventually took a TV animation job with “The Attack of the Killer Tomatoes.”

Then he moved into video games, leading to his 1994 hit “Earthworm Jim.” Two years later, Steven Spielberg hired him to create the “Neverhood” games for Dreamworks. TenNapel was a digital success, but he also spiraled into burnout. Then, in 2002, he created “Creature Tech.”

The key moment came when the blogger called “Moriarty” posted the following at the Ain’t It Cool (aintitcool.com) site for film insiders.

“There’s no doubt. It’s weird. … It’s also very funny, profoundly sweet and heartfelt, touching in a strange way, and serious about concepts like faith and family without being in any way preachy or corny,” he wrote. “Simply put, Creature Tech is the best American animated film since The Iron Giant. … Better than anything from any studio. … It’s a movie that just happens to be in print.”

Within minutes, studios started calling his agent. Regency Enterprises and 20th Century Fox won the bidding war and early work began on a live-action movie.

Part of the challenge, admitted TenNapel, is capturing his blend of fantasy and Christian faith. Some critics wish he would quit weaving sin, redemption, politics and science into his plots. Then there are church people who think he should be drawing evangelistic, “Christian comics” and avoiding his occasional blasts of sci-fi potty humor.

   Send article as PDF to

The opening number “When in Rome” was an edgy tale about lost souls trapped in a cold world where the doctors can’t heal, people burn books for heat and no one answers distress signals. By the time Thile reached the apocalyptic last verse, he was raising questions about life, death and life after death.

“Where can a dead man go? The question with an answer only dead men know,” he sang, briefly frozen in a stark white spotlight. “But I’m going to bet they never really feel at home, if they spent a lifetime learning how to live in Rome.”

The crowd rocked on. There were tattooed youngsters in the aisles, dancing next to hip home-schooling parents with their children. There were bluegrass purists offering whoops of praise, sitting near some NASCAR fans wearing Birkenstock scandals.

The Nickel Creek crew — guitarist Sean Watkins and his sister Sara on fiddle, along with Thile — are hard to label and so are their fans. One reason for that is the band’s Grammy Award-winning fusion of bluegrass roots with rock attitude. Nickel Creek often veers from Bill Monroe traditionalism to MTV Nirvana without blinking, with stops in John Coltrane and Beach Boy territory along the way.

But there was another reason the crowd in War Memorial Auditorium was unusually diverse. Nickel Creek offers a unique mix of old faith and modern doubts.

The trio has been together 16 years, beginning as children in devout Christian homes in San Diego. Early on, they recorded a gospel-bluegrass album called “Here to There” before heading into the mainstream with the help of superstar Alison Krauss.

It’s crucial that bluegrass is one form of music in which artists are allowed to sing about Sunday morning as well as Saturday night. Thus, the members of Nickel Creek have been candid about their beliefs, while staying light years away from the prison called “Contemporary Christian Music.”

Faith isn’t an artistic curse if it stays honest, said Sean Watkins, who has written most of the trio’s songs that wrestle with religious issues. It’s interesting that old hymns are often more candid and searching than today’s gospel pop songs.

“I’m so sick of sugar-coated songs from the Christian perspective,” he said, in his online journal. “One of the most comforting and inspiring lines to me is from the last chorus of ‘Come Thou Fount’ where it says, ‘Prone to wander, Lord I feel it. Prone to leave the God I love.’ Not many un-watered-down songs make it through the filter of the Christian music industry mafia these days.”

But honesty is a two-edged sword.

That’s why Thile — at the ripe old age of 24 — was standing in a harsh spotlight singing songs about death, despair and divorce. One of his new songs is called “Doubting Thomas” and includes these poignant lines: “Can I be used to help others find truth, when I’m scared I’ll find proof that it’s a lie? … I’m a doubting Thomas. I’ll take your promise, though I know nothing’s safe. Oh me of little faith.”

Thile said he hopes to live his life as if death is not the end, struggling to “keep one foot in this world while sticking one foot out of it, just to get ready.” At the same time, it’s hard to avoid the kind of burned-out, shopping-mall confusion that leads so many young people to feel alone and disconnected, even while they crave relationships that will last.

Thus, this Nickel Creek concert closed with the trio sharing one microphone, gently singing this lullaby: “Why should the fire die? My mom and dad kept theirs alive.”

“We are tempted to distance ourselves from the things that are truly powerful and beautiful in life,” said Thile. “Faith is certainly one of those things. Faith is huge, and so are friendships and our family relationships. …

“Anything that is truly worthwhile is both powerful and dangerous at the same time. Anything that is truly beautiful and lovely can also turn twisted and ugly. But we can’t hide from all of that. That’s what is real.”

   Send article as PDF to

This show would not feature digital vegetables and Vischer playing a big, red, silly tomato named Bob. It would not be a VeggieTales show produced under the Big Idea brand he created a decade ago. It would sink or swim on its own.

This felt exhilarating and terrifying.

“That was the whole thing with VeggieTales,” said Vischer. “It was wonderful, but everything we did had to end up as a digital-animation video product. We had a studio to protect and everything had to feed that franchise. …

“What if you had an idea for a live-action movie? Too bad! How about new characters? Too bad! How about new children’s books? Too bad! Maybe an old-fashioned animated movie? Too bad! What if we went back and did a puppet show? Too bad! We had to stick to Veggies.”

The good news, said Vischer, is that he is now free “to chase all these creative bubbles” wherever they go. The bad news is that he is free to do so because Big Idea Productions crashed into bankruptcy last year after losing an $11 million lawsuit about a verbal contract with a distributor, only 10 years after releasing the first Veggie video called “Where is God When I’m S-Scared?”

VeggieTales started with Vischer and Mike “Larry the Cucumber” Nawrocki, two wisecracking puppeteers who exited Bible college because they were in trouble almost as often as they were in chapel. Vischer learned computer graphics, Nawrocki wrote silly songs and a dream was born.

At its peak, Big Idea was a 210-person animation studio in the Chicago suburb of Lombard. The reorganized Big Idea, Inc., has downsized and moved to Franklin, Tenn., just outside Nashville. The new owner is Classic Media, which controls Lassie, Rocky & Bullwinkle, the Lone Ranger and other wholesome products.

Nawrocki and a circle of others made the move. Vischer did not, but agreed to keep providing the voice of Bob the Tomato and legions of other characters. He will write one of three Veggie scripts each year and consult on others. “The Lord of the Beans” is just around the corner.

“I’m trying to tell the stories that God is putting into my head,” said Vischer, pausing. “And I’m still trying to learn how to let go. But it’s good to let go. It was killing me, trying to run a studio and be creative at the same time.”

The late Bob Briner would have agreed, 100 percent. Throughout the 1990s, the president of ProServ Television used “Roaring Lambs” and his other books to urge believers to stop cranking out predictable products to sell to the converted.

Briner was a big VeggieTales fan. Yet, weeks before dying of cancer, he offered sobering media insights that would soon become highly relevant to the Big Idea story. Briner said that when he started paying attention to the Christian marketplace, he feared that the artists didn’t have what it takes to make competitive, mainstream products. This was not the case.

“We have people who can tell stories, write songs and be funny,” he said, in April of 1999. “We have lots of talented people. I’ve decided that this isn’t the problem. Our biggest problem is that we don’t have enough people who know how to handle the money so that the talented people can do what they need to do.”

Vischer found that out. He said he started out telling stories and ended up “chasing the Walt thing” as he tried to build a corporate brand that could compete with the Walt Disney Company and the rest of the industrial entertainment complex.

In the end, it was hard to tell funny stories. The pressure was too great.

“I wanted to do as much good as I possible could as fast as I could,” he said. “I mistakenly believed that the bigger we got, the more opportunities we would have to do good. What I learned was that just the opposite was true.

   Send article as PDF to

All together now: There’s too much sex and there’s too much violence. Amen.

Then a strange thing happened. An evangelical named Randall Wallace wrote “Braveheart,” which a Catholic named Mel Gibson turned into an Oscar-magnet about freedom, faith, sacrifice and truth. It was bloody violent and its wedding was followed by a nude wedding night. Many conservative believers cheered and began to have second thoughts about their R-rating phobias.

Then Gibson made “The Passion of the Christ.”

“A movie comes along that is, in the words of one Los Angeles critic, ‘a two-hour execution,’ and people of faith everywhere are embracing it and being moved to compunction, repentance and spiritual renewal,” said screenwriter Barbara Nicolosi, speaking at a global cinema conference last week in Valencia, Spain.

“What we are learning from all this is that the problem is not with violence on the screen. It is meaningless violence that is wrong in entertainment. The Passion reconnects violence to its source in rebellion against God. It never objectifies the subject of the violence, nor does it dehumanize the perpetrators of violence. It shows the effects of violence in all its horror.”

Aftershocks continue in the marketplace and in churches, while Gibson’s epic keeps climbing toward the $370-million mark at the U.S. box office. Meanwhile, Hollywood is trying to learn how to mine this bizarre demographic Gibson has discovered — Middle America.

Nicolosi has argued that the big lesson is that masses of the faithful will buy tickets when a talented, name-above-the-title superstar finances, produces and directs a theologically sophisticated movie. But there’s the rub. How many celebrities make that A-list?

Meanwhile, debates about the Passion may help traditional believers learn more about the craft of making movies for the modern marketplace, she said, in her written text. Questions about the film’s shocking use of violence were highly symbolic.

“This movie will challenge future filmmakers to make the violence in their films just as meaningful,” said the former Catholic nun, who leads the Act One screenwriting project. “It will also open the people of God to a broader artistic sensibility. … My young filmmaking students are very concerned about the place of the artist in the world. They want to talk about an ethics that would go along with the power of the mass media.

“They want to know what is good for people to watch and what might harm people to watch. This is very good.”

Anyone can make violent movies, she said. It takes talent, skill and vision to show violence that means something. The same thing is true of sexuality, after 40 “shameless years” in which “cinema has shown us every possible permutation of two naked bodies writhing around.” The same thing is true of symbols and themes of faith and spirituality.

There are signs of change in Hollywood. Nicolosi called it the “Don’t Show How Things Look, Tell Us What They Mean” movement. Are religious leaders paying attention?

Nicolosi is not the only conservative arguing that filmmakers must stop assuming that safe, squeaky-clean predictability is the same thing as artistic quality.

Even Christian consumers would rather watch “Spiderman” than “Left Behind — The Movie” and they would choose “Toy Story” over another “Touched By and Angel” rerun on a family cable channel, according to Dallas Jenkins, president of Jenkins Entertainment. He created the company with his father, Jerry B. Jenkins, who is best known as co-author of the bestselling “Left Behind” novels.

At some point, religious critics must humbly study the art in films such as “Taxi Driver,” “Traffic” and “Pulp Fiction” as well as criticize their moral content, he said. It is even more important to study edgy films that combine personal storytelling with issues of faith, such as “Schindler’s List” and “The Pianist.”

“Why can’t we make movies like that about our faith? … Great films, no matter how specific their subject matter, have universal appeal,” said Jenkins, writing in Relevant Magazine.

“Where are the thought-provoking, morally important rated-R films? Every year there are dozens of big, successful family films, but only two or three landmark, important films for adults. Can’t at least one be made by a Christian?”

NEXT WEEK: Hollywood struggles to understand the church.

   Send article as PDF to

As usual, the charismatic singer pulled some girl out of the crowd to cavort with Mister MacPhisto, this devilish alter ego. On this night in Wales, his dance partner had her own agenda, Bono told the Irish Times.

“Are you still a believer?”, she asked. “If so, what are you doing dressed up as the devil?”

Bono gave her a serious answer, as the music roared on. “Have you read ‘The Screwtape Letters,’ a book by C.S. Lewis that a lot of intense Christians are plugged into? They are letters from the devil. That’s where I got the whole philosophy of mock-the-devil-and-he-will-flee-from-you,” replied Bono, referring to U2’s ironic, video-drenched tours in the 1990s.

Yes, the girl said, she had read “The Screwtape Letters.” She understood that Lewis had turned sin inside out in order to make a case for faith.

“Then you know what I am doing,” said Bono.

It’s highly unlikely Mister MacPhisto will make an appearance when U2 rocks the Super Bowl XXXVI halftime show. During their recent “Elevation” tour, U2 performed on a stage shaped like a heart and Bono opened the shows by kneeling in prayer. He began the anthem “Where the Streets Have No Name” by quoting from Psalm 116 and shows ended with shouts of “Praise! Unto the Almighty!”

But whatever happens Sunday in New Orleans, U2’s presence almost guarantees that people will dissect it in church coffee hours as well as at watercoolers. Plenty of believers remain convinced Bono’s devil suit was more than symbolic.

“I think they have been clear — for nearly 25 years now — about the role that Christian faith plays in their music. They’re not hiding anything,”said the Rev. Steve Stockman, the Presbyterian chaplain at Queen’s University in Belfast, Northern Ireland. He is the author of “Walk On: The Spiritual Journey of U2” and hosts BBC’s “Rhythm and Soul” radio program.

“At the same time, they have always left big spiritual questions hanging out there — unanswered. That is an interesting way to talk about art and that’s an interesting way to live out your faith, especially when you’re trying to do it in front of millions of people.”

Stockman has never met the band. Still, there is no shortage of source material since Bono, in particular, has never been able to keep his mouth shut when it comes to sin, grace, temptation, damnation, salvation, revelation or the general state of the universe. Two others — drummer Larry Mullen, Jr., and guitarist Dave “The Edge” Evans — have long identified themselves as Christians. Bassist Adam Clayton remains a spiritual free agent.

The key, said Stockman, is that U2 emerged in Dublin, Ireland, in a culturally Catholic land in which it was impossible to be sucked into an evangelical subculture of “Christian news,” “Christian radio” and “Christian music.” The tiny number of Protestants prevented the creation of a “Christian” marketplace.

Thus, U2 plunged into real rock ‘n’ roll because that was the only game in town. U2 didn’t collide with the world of “Contemporary Christian Music” until its first American tours. Then all hell broke loose.

While the secular press rarely ridicules the band’s faith, noted Stockman, the “Christian press and Christians in general have been the doubters” who were keen to “denounce the band’s Christian members as lost.” Many have heaped “condemnation on their lifestyles, which include smoking cigars, drinking Jack Daniels and using language that is not common currency at Southern Baptist conventions.”

It’s crucial that most U2 controversies center on lifestyle issues. But Stockman is convinced that deeper divisions center on what Bono and company are saying — in word and deed — about the church’s retreat from art, media and popular culture.

The contemporary church “has put a spiritual hierarchy on jobs,” said Stockman. “Ministers and missionaries are on top, then perhaps doctors and nurses come next and so on to the bottom, where artists appear. Artists of whatever kind have to compromise everything to entertain. Art is fluffy froth that is no good in the Kingdom of God. What nonsense.”

   Send article as PDF to